They followed the constable back to the hotel. Gulliver met them at the door, his brow creased.

‘When are you going to get this matter finished? The guests are not happy and I have a business to run,’ he said in a low, angry voice. Seeing Caleb, the scowl deepened. ‘Every time I see you, there’s trouble.’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ Maidment said.

Gulliver jerked his head at the door to the parlour. ‘They’re all in there. I’ll get Mrs Gulliver to rustle up some tea for you.’

They were greeted by a furious clamour of voices as the detained coach passengers demanded to know when they could resume their journeys. Russell held up his hand and raised his voice, requesting those passengers who had not been on the Melbourne coach to leave the room.

Alone with only the Melbourne passengers, he introduced himself, Sergeant Maidment and Caleb, and in the sort of voice he probably used to keep his five children under control, informed them that the sergeant would be taking their statements. Once the formalities were complete, the passengers could resume their journeys.

Caleb’s gaze swept the room. The Italian couple would be members of the large Italian community of woodcutters who had made a settlement a few miles out of Maiden’s Creek along the Thompson River, supplying wood to the mines for props and the insatiable boilers. They were both young, very young. They sat close together, holding hands. The Sale lawyer had a long, sad face, emphasised by a drooping, shaggy moustache and thick glasses. He certainly looked like he would be happier behind a large stack of precedents than being stuck in a remote hotel parlour answering questions.

That left the Englishman. A man of about Caleb’s age with sandy hair and a neat moustache, he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, clad in impeccably tailored trousers and highly polished, but now dusty, handmade boots. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the newcomers.

‘This isn’t good enough,’ he said, his perfect vowels betraying his class. ‘I have important business in Maiden’s Creek.’

‘And if you are cooperative, you will be there in the morning,’ Caleb snapped.

The Englishman rose to his feet. ‘And who are you to speak to me in such a tone, sir? If I want to leave, I will damn well leave.’

‘You are welcome to walk,’ Caleb said. ‘The Maiden’s Creek coach is not leaving until the sergeant and Mr Russell, as Justice of the Peace, says it can leave. It is not my decision.’

The Englishman’s lip curled. ‘I thought this was an English colony,’ he said. ‘Since when have we let Yankees think they can dictate to English gentlemen?’

That old, raw wound—the insult of being called a Yankee—rose in Caleb.