Sept. 30, 1881

Adelaide, Australia

Roger shuffled his duffel from one shoulder to the other, waiting in line to disembark. In his hand he held a rather fat novel. He scanned the crowd waiting to disembark. Finally, settling his eyes on his target he threaded his way through the crowd to the pretty, young woman with the auburn hair. He felt a pang of regret that he had not made overtures toward her. Had he, he was certain his nights might have passed much differently. She had been clear enough of her openness to such a proposition. But one hundred days was a long time, and, while she was certainly a fine enough woman, he had no great desire to wive her; and in that length of time the consequences of seduction could force him into precisely that situation.

"Here," he said, handing her the book. "It was most enjoyable. Thank you for lending it to me."

"I'm glad to hear you liked it. You must have read it at least twice through in the time we have been at sea."

"Three times, actually."

"Three times! No wonder we saw so little of you. You are quite the reader, Mr. Bond. Though I never knew a man to favor romance novels so much."

"I found it quite a fascinating read; though the supernatural elements at the end were, perhaps, a bit out of place, given all else is so well accounted for."

"I suppose that is Charlotte Bronte for you. What is this?" The woman extracted an envelope from the pages of the book.

Roger snatched it deftly from her hand. "It is nothing for you to be concerned about. I do apologize."

"A letter from home. Aye, I have a few of those as well. They do make the distance a bit more bearable."

"Yes, one might say that," he said, slipping the tiny envelope into his waistcoat pocket. In a sense, the teacher was correct, the letter had made the journey more bearable. In fact, he was quite glad to put as much distance between himself and the writer of those neat little words as was possible. Even without looking he could see the narrow slant of the letters,

I thank you for your offer, it is most generous, but I fear I must decline.

Your friend,

Dinah

Perhaps it had been a strange sort of Biblical fealty that had possessed him to ask. That the intended of a man who was as much his brother as anyone could claim should be the responsibility of the next in line. And why should he not have made an offer? She was as beautiful and well-mannered as any man could wish with a keen mind checked by her own sensibilities. He had much to offer, certainly she would want for nothing. He would be a dutiful husband and she a fine wife. And she would know what he was. She had once consented to be the wife of a spy; why not again?

He should have known better. It was too soon. And she blamed him. Why should she not? It was his fault. He could see the accusation in her eyes whenever he saw her. It was his fault James had died. She would never go so far as to say it - she would deny she even thought such a thing - but it was there, just below the surface in all she did. Still, she was polite when he visited, kind, always eager enough to discuss the girl who had been their temporary ward. The poor unfortunate he had led down the Darent to escape her homicidal fiance and uncle. It seemed Dinah had adopted the girl for a friend, as Dinah had a habit of doing whenever there was a creature in need. She was kind; perhaps too generous with her kindness, for the "mad" daughter of the Moore family was not the wisest association to make given the reputation of both her father and her brother. But then, Dinah's twin brother, Quentin, was fond of the girl. How he could ever be so fond of that stubborn, willful, arrogant slip of a girl was beyond Roger's ken (he would never admit a certain soft spot that had kept him tethered to her bedside as she recovered), still, he was. Still, she made Quentin smile.

The idea that they might eventually be matched brought Dinah some private joy, for Quentin had responded to her fiance's death with a display of melancholy that rent her heart though she never could understand the depths of it. Despite their closeness since even before birth, she was unable to conceive of his pain. But Roger had seen it in the younger man's eyes as he had given the eulogy for a small box buried in an unmarked grave at the corner of the churchyard. He had loved James too, probably more than was proper. Certainly more than was prudent for a man of his position. That was a love for poets, for playwrights, not for preachers. Roger wondered if Dinah knew, if she suspected the truth about her brother. She had probably never even thought to notice it. The Moore girl was likely not to find a husband, particularly now that she had already once been abandoned, so why should they not be matched if they were tolerably fond of each other? Perhaps if her brother were married, Dinah would feel less compelled to martyr herself to the care of her father and brother.

It was not that Roger intended to renew his sentiments, for her love could never be his and his feelings were not enough to survive the humiliation of one rejection, but it seemed a sin to let such beauty go to waste. Or, perhaps, it was his own guilt that desperately wished to see her married. That he might not feel he had destroyed her one chance for happiness and banished her to a life of servitude in that tiny parish house as an old maid. Oh, for a Mr. Rochester to sweep her off of her pious feet! Though preferably minus the murderous mad wife - that would be most inconvenient. He smirked, letting his hand run along the course rope of the gang plank.

He was nearly the last to leave the ship aside from the crew. There, at the bottom of the plank, stood a handsome young man, not much more than twenty years, with an open face and auburn hair streaked blond by the harsh Australian sun. He was dressed in a full suit despite the already rising heat.

"Mr. James Bond?" the young man asked, extending a hand to Roger.

"Yes. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Agent Mick O'Lally of her Majesty's Secret Service," he drawled in that soft cockney twang of the native Australian.

"I assume Granger has contacted your office?"

"I've been ordered to turn you back the second you reached port."

Roger smiled in his most disarming fashion, still squaring himself in case the young agent decided to attempt to use force. "You must know that is not going to happen."

O'Lally just grinned, producing a thin file from behind his back. "I was hoping you would say that." His blue eyes almost twinkled as he handed the file to Roger.

"What's this?"

"These are the last notes of Agent Frank Norbert, I thought you might like to have them."

Roger opened the file with the words F. Norbert 16-11-1868 printed in black ink on the front to see the neat, uniform hand of his father written on the pages within. He ran his finger over the ancient paper. "You kept this all of these years?"

"Well, there was an order to send them back with the body, but I suppose they were misplaced."

"Is there a place we can speak in private?"

"I have a room at the pub jus' down the way." He indicated with his thumb toward a dirt road.

Roger lay his file out on the small table next to O'Lally's so that both covered the span of the wood.

"I've read the file through at least a dozen times," O'Lally stated. "Sounded like whoever this Chapman fellow was, Agent Norbert was bound and determined to track him down."

"He was easily the worst killer Blackpool had ever seen. He brutalized and murdered thirteen women in total before my father discovered him and he was forced to flee."

"Crikey!" The exclamation somehow made O'Lally appear even young than his twenty years. "Thirteen women? I'd never even heard of the case."

"You haven't for a reason. It's for the best they never sent this file. The mayor of Blackpool paid the then head of the agency to destroy all records of the murders in order that he might be able to maintain the image of his town as a safe place for tourists to holiday. He would certainly have intercepted these documents and sent them to the pyre as he had done the rest. It is only by good fortune my father firmly believed in keeping a personal record of his activities. I was able to find the hectograph copies of some of the more important case documents among the effects in his study. Not all, unfortunately, but enough. Are you certain you won't get in too much trouble for showing me this?"

"Nah, Granger won' suspect a thing, so long as we send you back in a week or two."

"That's not a lot of time."

"Well, we'll have to work fast, then."

"We?" Roger looked up from the file at the young man. "I don't mean to be rude but it would be best if I handled this case alone. It will be dangerous enough for myself, I would rather not have to worry about a greenhorn."

"You think there's a murderer lose in South Australia, sounds like Agent Norbert though' so too. Lookin' at his file, I'd agree. I'd rather not give the killer another go at it. 'Sides, you wouldn' know where to start. You ever been to Australia? From where I'm sitting, it's you who are the greehorn."

Roger had to concede O'Lally made a good point. It would be folly to attempt the investigation alone. He neither knew the land nor the natives. Even with his father's notes he would be lost.

"Agreed. I must ask, why do you believe that Agent Norbert was correct?"

"Look as this." O'Lally pointed to the death certificate. "It says the cause of death was from the bite of a Funnel-web spider. They found a dead spider and the fang marks and everything in the hut where Agent Norbert's body was found, righ'?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, but it says here tha' the body was recovered jus' north of Carawa near the border of the Great Victoria Desert. Funnel-web spiders don't live there, it's too dry."

Suddenly Roger stopped. On a plate was a photograph of his father, lying prone on the floor beside his desk in a tiny, one room hut; just behind a chair. It appeared as though he had fallen out of the chair while at work. A pen lay on the floor on the other side of the chair, probably having rolled off of the desk when its master fell. Papers were askew, one sheet having fallen upon his father's leg. There was a broken teacup, barely visible, on the floor at the far side of the desk. And there was his father's face. Discolored, strangely bloated, a thick line of white flowing from the mouth and down his cheek. Roger shifted his eyes to his father's hands. One was balled tightly into a fist while the other lay more loosely.

"Sorry. I shoulda warned you abou' tha'. Once we realized wha' he was, we made certain to document ev'rythin'."

Roger shifted the plate over to the other side, revealing an uncrumpled note in his father's hand containing only two words.

Wandana

Elouera

"What does this mean?" he indicated at the words.

"Well, Wandana is a place abou' thirty miles Northwest of here. The other is an aborigine girl's name, I believe. They found that bunched up in Agent Norbert's hand."

"Have there been any murders near Wandana?"

"Boundary Rider's daughter, not much older'n six. 'Bout four months ago. Her mother said she only took her eyes off of her for a moment, thought she must've wandered off into the outback. Aborigines found her body a few days later. They say it was the Yahoo."

"The Yahoo?"

"Righ'. It's a giant man-ape with white hair in Aborigine legends. We've 'ad a number of reports of Yahoo attacks from them over the years, takin' women and killin' 'em. The local office doesn' particularly take notice of the Aborigines or their superstitions; it was always jus' dismissed as an animal. But tha' girl... her hands 'ad been cut off." O'Lally paused. "Looked like 'e used a bowie knife." O'Lally unconsciously rubbed the silver cross that hung around his neck.

"Did he abuse the body?"

"Yeah, bu' we didn' tell the family the particulars. Wan'ed to spare 'em, you know."

"I'm surprised he didn't take them both. What did the mother look like?"

"She's pretty enough for a bush woman. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin brown and cracked as leather from the sun. No' much ta say, really."

"What about the child?"

"She was a right pretty little thing. Towheaded. Prolly woulda turned brown when she go' older. Same eyes as her mum. He posed her like she was sleepin', 'cept where her hands shoulda been there were only stumps." O'Lally was not gripping the cross tightly, Roger could see where a sharp corner impressed itself into the man's skin.

"Is it possible the natives might have moved her?"

"No. They refused to even touch her. Didn' wan' to anger the Yahoo. Perhaps he felt guilt over killing her."

"Remorse is not in Chapman's lexicon. You mentioned a number of reports of Yahoo attacks? How many?"

"Reported? Maybe ten. But that doesn't mean much, they don't usually come to us. They don't trust us. Not that I blame them."

"So there could be more?"

"I wouldn' bet against it."

"When was the child killed?"

"'Bout a year ago."

"It sounds like the child was found quickly."

"That's just the thing of it! She was found right by an Aborigine footpath. We'd been all over that area. One day there was nothing there, the next day they found her."

"Any tracks near the body?"

"Just ours."

"So he intended for her to be found."

"Why do you say that?"

"He covered his tracks. A man would not go to the effort to do that if he did not anticipate quick discovery and, I would assume, there are a number of places he could have put her where she would not be found at all."

"Honestly, even where he put her the Dingoes would have gotten to her before too long."

"How long?"

"An hour. Maybe two."

Roger hit the table, causing both the files and the young man across from him to jump. "Blast! He was so close and he still got away!"

O'Lally regarded the British spy with raised brows.

"Have there been any murders since the girl?" Roger demanded. "Strange disappearances? Anything?"

"Not that I've heard of. You'd have to ask the tribes, they'd know better'n me."

"No..." Roger said, thoughtfully. "No, he left the body where it would be found for a reason. He meant it as a taunt..."

"A taunt? Why would he want to taunt us? Wouldn' that make it easier for us to catch 'im?"

"Chapman is a perverse, deeply disturbed individual. But he is also highly intelligent. He feels the need not just to murder, but to have his intelligence recognized. He spent his entire life being deprecated as an idiot and an imbecile by the only authority he knew. Because of this, he feels that the only way to prove his genius to her is by outwitting the highest authority in the land. It is this, above all else, that completes the act for him. The murder is his bread and the game, his butter. But if he were intending to revive the chase he would have continued with increasingly public murders to keep your attention. And, in four months, you say not one more has occurred."

"None that I've heard of. Bu' like I said 'afore, that doesn' mean too much. It's big country out in Wandana and there are few out there who would come to us."

"No. He would make you pay attention. He's not careless; he would have planned his next move."

"Perhaps he's dead. Hundred things'll be more'n happy to kill you in the Outback."

Roger shook his head, such things were too much to wish for. "I think it's time we traveled to Wandana and paid this Elouera a visit."