The sound of stilted breathing broke the clinical silence of the morgue. Dr Harvey looked sombrely down at the young man lying on the gurney in front of her, unusually perturbed.
"I don't care much for many of the policemen at that station. I am sorry to see him here. I thought he was one of the good ones," she said quietly, eyes downcast, regarding what was visible of the corpse that was covered from below the shoulders by the same plain, white sheet to grace all the bodies that came through that cold, empty room.
Mattie gasped again, trying desperately to breathe normally. Lucien, his tightly arm around her shoulders, blinked back tears. "Yes. Yes, he was. One of the very best," he agreed, his voice wavering from its customary strength.
The young nurse moved closer to the head, slowly on shaking knees. His face was all wrong, yet unchanged. He could be sleeping, almost. His eyes were closed and his handsome face void of expression, void of life. His skin had always been pale, but it looked waxy and discoloured. "Oh, Charlie," she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek, landing on his forehead. She raised her hand as if to wipe it away, but couldn't bring herself to feel his cold skin. "I never saw him asleep," she mused quietly. "I wonder if this is how he looked."
His hair, still neatly parted at the side and held in place with product was slightly mussed. Gently, she smoothed some of the misplaced strands back into the ordered waves he favoured, one tight curl resiting. It kept springing back, reaching the spot between his brows. Mattie patiently worked back into place, her breathing regaining an even rhythm as she concentrated, though tears leaked from her eyes.
"Were they… involved?" Dr Harvey asked in a murmur, now close to Lucien's side. Despite her low volume, walls seemed to magnify the sound and Mattie looked up from her task.
"No, we… He didn't ever… Not really, no," she answered, ignoring the look of pity the doctors sent her way. She walked back around the table to stand at his side. She forced a trembling hand up, resting the fingertips on his bare shoulder, cringing at the lack of warmth, though she expected it. After a moment, she bent down, placing the ghost of a kiss on his cheek. Against her lips, only the very slight stubble served as a reminder that she wasn't kissing a rock, something that had never been alive in the first place. She held her breath, not wanting to know if he smelt like the same soap, aftershave and pomade combination as ever.
When she straightened, she kept her eyes closed, wishing that when she opened them, he would be alive again, unwilling to accept that it was impossible.
"His family's been informed. His mother is coming up from Melbourne to collect the body. The funeral will be held there," Alice said to no-one in particular.
Mattie let out a quiet sob, and then Lucien was leading her out of the room. Alice drew the sheet back up over Charlie Davis' face.
"Mrs Beazley," Lawson prompted gently. His own eyes looked a little watery, his whole demeanour darkened by the tragedy. Sergeant Hobart sat beside his commanding officer, also having the decency to look saddened. Despite his relationship with the doctor and some differences in perspective, Bill had always felt strongly the bond between fellow policemen and took the loss of Sergeant Davis to heart. He had felt a particular affection for the younger sergeant, away from his hometown and family, but determined to do his job.
Jean dabbed her bloodshot eyes and took a laboured breath. Her voice was weak, but she pressed on. "I was making scones. Lucien, Charlie and Mattie were all off working. There was a knock at the door, so I answered it…"
A knock at the front door broke through Jean's concentration as she methodically prepared the dough for baking. With a frown, she withdrew her hands from kneading the scones, wiping them on a rag. The person at the front door knocked again, thumping against the wood.
"Yes, yes, I heard," the housekeeper muttered to herself as she strode along the corridor. She swung it open, to be greeted by a tall, muscled man standing before her, chest heaving, looking absolutely livid.
"Where is he?" he all but whispered, belying his wound-up demeanour.
"I'm afraid I don't–" Jean began.
"WHERE IS THAT BLOODY BASTARD THAT GOT MY BROTHER LOCKED UP?" the man bellowed as he shoved her aside and barged into the house. It was then that Jean realised that this must be Oscar Meadows, the twin brother of the man Lucien had helped to prove guilty of a double murder just last week.
He cast wildly about the front few rooms of the house while Jean moved away from the wall, hand smoothing her clothes. "Mr Meadows," she said forcefully, "If you believe you have evidence that will help exonerate your brother, then you should take it to the police, instead of coming in here and–"
He cut her off again, whirling on her as he drew a pistol from somewhere inside his clothing, pointing it at her face, waving it as he spoke. "Tommy would never hurt a fly. He knows his family needs him. His brother needs him." With this, he gestured to himself with the gun. "He wouldn't leave us like this. He can't." Mr Meadows shook his head tearfully.
Taking advantage of his distraction, Jean took a few calculated steps towards the phone in the kitchen. Oscar noticed. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, striking her across the face with his free hand.
"Oi, what do you think you're doing?" came a strong male voice from the front door. "Put the gun down," it ordered.
Looking up from her place on the floor, she saw the outline of a man in a police uniform and cap standing in the doorway, silhouetted dramatically by the bright summer's day beyond. She could see the cinched waist and broad shoulders of the police jacket, but not the details due to the comparatively dim hallway. The voice, however, steady with just a hint of roughness on some words, belonged to same man who usually used it to respectfully offer help of politely ask about her day, showing a sweet boyishness in his genuine interest that had remained masked when he first arrived in Ballarat.
"Mrs Beazley, are you alright?" Charlie asked hurriedly.
"Yes, I'm fine," she responded briskly, though she felt sure she would develop a bruise.
"You think you could put that gun down, mate?" he said to the intruder, adopting his classic pose, arms outstretched, one towards the gunman, ready to leap into action if any sudden movement was made.
Oscar seemed to consider it, then shook his head vehemently. "Nah. Reckon I'll hold onto it until Blake gets here," he said, a mad glint in his eye.
The young sergeant swapped his focus to Jean, now leaning against the wall between the two men. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and took a breath to speak.
The sound of an engine entering the driveway set the madman into a rage once more. "I'LL KILL HIM!" he screamed and made for the door.
Charlie stepped in front of him, hands outstretched, but Jean darted into his path, closer than the policeman. "Lucien Blake is a good man, and if you think…"
"OUT OF THE WAY!" he yelled, raising the gun.
"…that I mean to let you…" she continued, increasing her volume.
"Jean? Jean are you alright?" Lucien called from the front yard.
And that was what did it.
Sergeant Davis must have seen it in the man's eyes. The bloke was too far gone for reason, and he couldn't get around Jean in time to wrestle the gun from him before it went off.
Charlie was nearly a head taller than her, strong and broad-shouldered. He wrapped his arms around her and turned one hundred and eighty degrees, spinning Jean bodily around with him. He probably would have thrown them both to the ground or the side had he had the time.
Two deafeningly loud gunshots. Jean felt the horrific force wracking through the solid form protecting her. For a moment, then, everything was still. Jean was encircled in Charlie's embrace, then his arms went slack, and he slid to the ground.
The sight of a man shot twice in the back by his own hand seemed finally enough to break through the cloud of rage in Meadows' mind. The gun fell the floor, shortly followed by its owner, who simply stared in disbelief, muttering 'oh no' over and over.
Lucien ran into the house, stopping short at the sight before him. Charlie lay unmoving on the floor, on his side, a growing pool of blood behind him. Jean noted idly that it was going to stain the rug that largely covered the hardwood floor.
"Charlie. Charlie?" he called, falling to his knees in front of his lodger. "Jean call an ambulance, he's still breathing," he ordered. While they waited for the arrival of the paramedics, they worked to stem the flow of blood. Charlie's breathing was shallow and laboured, and he seemed to have lost consciousness.
Jean stopped to blow her nose of a handkerchief Lucien had given her, mostly soaked in tears now. "Apparently he… died on the way to the hospital. Not blood loss, though. I think one bullet punctured a lung…" she trailed off.
The female constable stepped forward to rub her consolingly on the back. She subtly wiped away a few stray tears herself, touched by the harrowing story or the passing of the favourite policeman of the female constables, it was impossible to say. Apart from being arguably the most attractive of the young men in the station, Davis was the kindest and most respectful to the women of the force. They would no doubt mourn the loss too.
"Thank you, Mrs Beazley," the Superintendent said soberly, nodding at the constable, who then led the housekeeper away gently.
Just outside the interview room, Lucien and Mattie were waiting. The women embraced, feeling the loss together.
A little less than two weeks later, the trio stood in a cluster of police officers, family friends, and the Davis clan themselves. His mother sobbed openly, and the array of brothers stared shell-shocked at the grave where their eldest brother, their father figure and protector, would lie from now on.
Mattie noted the similarities between the behaviour of Mrs Davis and Jean, wondering how much she had come to view the sergeant as a son. She suspected that she had, quite so, in the time that he had lived with them. His room now stood empty, having handed two small boxes containing all of his possessions to his mother when she had come briefly to Ballarat. She hadn't stayed long, and said barely anything. Perhaps she blamed them for his death.
Mattie also saw a few other young women her age in the mourners. She wondered how many of them had felt a romantic link with Charlie. She didn't even know if he had had a sweetheart. She doubted it, but she couldn't say for certain. Even though he was lying in a coffin, a brief surge of jealously coursed through her. She tried her best to ignore it. Assessing just how she felt towards the dead policeman wasn't likely to bring her any measure of happiness, only regret. She would cherish his memory, though, once she had healed enough to think of him properly. Another tear rolled down her cheek as the coffin was fully lowered into the grave.
"Goodbye, Charlie," she whispered to herself and to him.