by Morgana Best
It took me an hour to find the key.
It was in my hand the whole time.
Chapter 18
I’d promised John I wouldn’t go back to Baker Creek Falls, but I hadn’t promised him that I wouldn’t go back to Hillgrove. I know that was splitting straws and he wasn’t happy about it, especially as I had refused to let him accompany me, foolishly as it turned out.
I was tired, actually exhausted, from all the events of the previous days, so had only gone to Hillgrove to take photos and look for information about local ghosts for the magazine article. If I stumbled across anything about the evil entity while I was there, all well and good. After the attempt on my life, I needed a few days’ break before I looked into the matter of the murderer too closely.
I was trying to process everything that had happened to me, and that was mentally tiring. Nevertheless, as I wandered around Hillgrove with my car well and truly locked this time, I became distracted and ended up focusing on Hillgrove itself. It was hard to imagine that this peaceful, little town had once been a bustling city. It seemed pretty much deserted. A coffee shop would have helped.
I decided I should question the photographer, Williams. After all, the murdered man had been pretending to be a photographer. Maybe they knew each other. I'd already googled Ethan’s address and it hadn't come up. He did have a Facebook page, but the last entry was from five months earlier. All he posted were photos of wildlife. He didn’t seem to have any relatives, at least not on Facebook. There was no café where I could ask so I drove around town hoping to see a local. I was in luck. I saw a postie on his bike delivering mail.
I pulled over. "I was speaking with a local photographer, Ethan Williams, the other day and he said I should visit to see his photos of snakes."
The postie laughed. "Ethan sure likes those snakes."
I laughed too. "The thing is, Ethan was so excited showing me photos of some snake he found that he forgot to tell me where he lived."
The postie didn't appear to be suspicious in the least. "He rents a cottage out of town. You head back out of Hillgrove, take the first turn to the left, then turn left again at Ted's woolshed and Ethan’s house is at the end of that road.”
"Um, I don't know who Ted is," I said.
The postie looked confused. "Oh." He scratched his head. “Well, turn left at the first woolshed you see." He shot me a wide smile before taking off on his bike, leaving me somewhat confused in turn.
I would have to do my best. I drove off, following his instructions. I drove away from Hillgrove, past the turnoff to the cemetery, and kept going until I saw a dirt road to the left. I wondered if this was it. I turned into it, hoping for the best. I had only driven about a kilometre when I saw a woolshed. I had no idea if it belonged to Ted, but I turned anyway. If it wasn't the right road, I could come back and look for another woolshed.
Light rain was falling, just enough to make the dust from the road turn to mud on my windscreen. I pressed the button for the windscreen wash, but nothing happened. What a time to run out of water! I slowed to a crawl, peering through the glass. After a moment, the light fall turned to proper rain and washed the mud from the windscreen.
The road proved to be a dead end. There was a cattle grid in front of me and a small white wooden house directly in front of it. If this wasn't Ethan’s house, then surely the inhabitants would know where he lived.
I drove over the grid and parked the car. No dogs ran to meet me, which was unusual for the country. I opened the door a little and waited. Still no dogs. I shrugged and sprinted for the front door. I was drenched by the time I got there. My hand was raised to knock when the door flew open.
To my relief, Ethan was standing there. "I'm so sorry to arrive unannounced," I said, "but I couldn't find your number anywhere."
He looked rather put out but forced a smile. "That's fine. Please come in." He ushered me into the house. The house was as neat as a pin and rather minimalist. That is, if you didn't count the walls. Photographs covered every available space on the walls. "Wow," I said.
His shoulders relaxed a little. "Do you like them?"
"They're really good," I said honestly. As to whether I liked them, the answer was a resounding no. They were all snakes. "How did you get so close to that snake’s fangs?" I asked him.
He laughed. "Very carefully. Actually, that snake had already been milked, so I wouldn't have died if it bit me. That was taken at the Australian Reptile Park. Milked is the process by which they extract the venom."
I nodded. I knew that much and I didn't really want to know any more.
"Yes, that was an Inland Taipan," he continued. "The Inland Taipan is the most dangerous snake in the world. Actually, someone did survive a bite from one, a man from Ballarat."
"Imagine that," I said with a shudder.
"He was lucky," Ethan said. "One drop of the venom is enough to kill a hundred people."
I wrapped my arms around me. "You don't think that local snake you saw was an Inland Taipan, do you?"
"No, they're not usually seen this far east," he said. “It's the general and respiratory paralysis that causes the problem. Even when people are given large amounts of antivenom, they still usually die. I don't know if you're interested, but the venom contains potent presynaptic neurotoxins."
I tried to look interested. "Imagine that!" I said again.
"They usually keep to themselves, which is why they don't bite more people." He grinned. "That should make you feel relieved."
"Oh yes, yes, I'm quite relieved now.” I continued with the fake smile.
"Still, it's a fierce snake," he continued. "It usually holds onto its prey until the prey dies."
"So, do you photograph any other animals?" I asked hopefully.
"Do you mean apart from the Inland Taipan?"
"Well," I began, but he interrupted me.
"I have plenty of pictures of brown snakes. The eastern brown snake is the second most deadly snake in the world.” He laughed. "And, of course, the Sydney funnel-web spider is the most deadly spider in the world, and we do have those locally."
I was feeling more uneasy with each moment. "Oh," was all I could say.
“I have photos of them," he said gleefully. "Come with me.” He led me into his kitchen and gestured to framed photos of funnel-web spiders covering the walls. "I took those at the Australian Reptile Park, but that one I took in the wild." He pointed to a picture of a funnel-web spider that was poised to strike. "I tapped a stick in front of it to make it strike at the stick and then I took a wonderful photo.”
"It didn't jump at you?" I asked him.
He scratched his head. "They don't jump."
"My grandfather always said that they did."
"Well, that one didn't jump at me or I might not be here today." He laughed again.
I wondered if he was the murderer. After all, who in their right mind would be happy preparing a meal while surrounded by photos of the deadliest spider in the world? And funnel-webs weren’t attractive spiders, either. They looked every bit as deadly as they were.
I clutched my stomach as a wave of nausea hit me. I thought I had better bring the matter back to hand. "So then Ethan, you must have known that photographer."
"Which photographer? He managed to drag his eyes away from a picture of a redback spider and turned his attention to me.
"The dead one."
“The body they found over the cliff?”
I nodded.
"He wasn't a photographer," he said.
"But he was found with a camera…" I began, but he interrupted me once more.
He made a strangled sound at the back of his throat. "No, a photographer isn't simply someone who can take a photograph. Anyone can take a photo these days with their smart phone. I'm a photographer, a professional photographer. That dead person was just a tourist."
"So you'd never met him then?" I said.
He opened his mouth and then shut it. After a few moments, he said, "I did happ
en to see him up at Baker's Creek Falls a day or two before I saw you."
"A day or two before his body was found, you mean?"
Ethan narrowed his eyes but nodded. "He was interested in local Aboriginal legend. He was English, you see," he added as if that explained it.
"International visitors are usually interested to hear about indigenous legends," I said, hoping my words would encourage him to continue.
"Yes, and they’re usually fascinated by the fact that many things in our country can kill them," he continued with relish. "I had some good photos on my camera at the time and I showed him some deadly brown snakes. I explained at length how their venom would kill someone."
"He must have been fascinated by that."
My sarcasm seemed to be lost on Ethan. "Yes, he was absolutely fascinated," he said. "And I had plenty of pictures of redback spiders. I explained about the old stories about them being under the toilet seats in those dunnies like the one out at Baker's Creek Falls."
"So he was probably too scared to use that one at Baker's Creek Falls."
Ethan shrugged one shoulder.
I wondered why he hadn't asked me why I was there. Should that make me suspicious? I wasn't sure. "I already told you I work for a paranormal magazine, and they sent me to do a story on that man. Like I said, the magazine I work for is paranormal, so they want to know if there could be any ghosts in town."
Ethan burst out laughing. “You said that before, and I told you there are no ghosts here in Hillgrove. At least, I've never seen one."
"Well, I'm also covering that man’s murder," I said. "You met him. Was there anything suspicious about it?"
"Suspicious?" Ethan parroted. “The police said it was an accident.”
I rubbed my forehead. I'd forgotten that. "Yes, but my magazine is taking the angle that he actually was murdered," I said. "Work with me, Ethan. I've just been put back to part-time and I’m finding it hard to make ends meet. If I can give them a really good story, then maybe I'll get more hours."
"I see," he said slowly, although his tone suggested he didn't. "I don’t think I can be of any help to you, sorry. He seemed fairly normal. He had an English accent and he wanted to know about Aboriginal legends."
"Anything in particular?" I asked Ethan.
"I told him to go and see the Elders in Armidale.”
"Yes, that was good advice.” I was beginning to think I had wasted my time with Ethan. He hadn't told me anything useful. His house looked innocent enough. He hadn't been expecting me, given that I had arrived unannounced, and there was no sign of anything occult or arcane in his house. Still, when I had driven up I had noticed a granny flat behind the house. "So, is that your studio out the back?" I asked him.
He nodded. "I'm sorry I can't show you out there. It's where I do all my work and I don't allow anyone out there, not even my mother." He laughed, a high-pitched nervous laugh.
"No, that's fine. I'm sorry to take up your time. And I'm sorry I arrived unannounced."
"No, that's all right." Ethan couldn't wait to get me to the door. I noticed beads of sweat dotted on his forehead. Why did I make him nervous? Did he have something to hide?
And what's more, he hadn't even offered me a cup of tea and that was highly unusual in the country.
Still, bad manners didn’t make him a murderer or an evil-spirit wrangler.
Chapter 19
There was a car parked in the only shady spot outside the Hillgrove Museum, so I drove around the corner and parked under the shade of a spreading pine tree. As I walked in the door, I startled Samuel Groves, the curator.
He gasped and almost dropped the donation box. Waves of stale tobacco and whiskey hit me in the face as I approached him.
Had I caught him with his hand in the proverbial till?
He clutched the donation box to his chest. "I was just counting the money," he said.
I was fairly certain he had been doing more than that, but I wanted to keep on his good side so I could question him.
"Yes, it must be hard. I imagine some people sneak in without paying.” I looked in my purse, produced a two dollar coin, and dropped it in the box.
He put the box down on the table. "Yes, a lot of people don't pay. Are you here alone?"
What sort of a question was that? It occurred to me that his surprise upon seeing me might not be surprise to be caught looking in the donation box but rather surprise I was still alive after he had tried to kill me.
I would have to tread carefully. "Can I ask you some questions?"
He frowned deeply. "What about?"
"I've told you I work for a paranormal magazine. Do you know any local legends? I wanted to know if you knew anything about ghosts here, or maybe aboriginal spirits."
He looked around. I wondered if he was expecting someone. "I don't know anything about spirits or ghosts or any of those things," he said. "I mind my own business. People who mind their business tend to get on better in life."
I ignored the jibe. "I'm only doing my job," I said. "That tourist who was murdered—had you ever met him?" In case he thought I suspected him, I hastened to add, "I'm trying to find out as much as I can about him for the magazine."
"But I thought you were writing about ghosts.” He folded his arms over his chest and glared down at me.
"He died, didn't he? So now he’s a ghost.”
He shook his head. “I can’t be of any help to you."
I pressed on. "Has anyone in town ever mentioned ghosts?"
He scratched the stubble on his chin. "Not to me, they haven't."
"And I don't suppose you’ve ever seen a ghost?"
"No. I don't believe in ghosts."
"I imagine most people don't until they see them," I said, wondering how to bring the subject around to the evil spirit. I took a deep breath and launched straight into it. "So you don't know anything about indigenous spirits like bunyips, or anything like that?"
"Bunyips aren’t spirits. They’re creatures," he said.
I found that a little suspicious. He said he didn't know anything about indigenous spirits, but he knew enough to know a bunyip wasn't a spirit. I waited for him to keep talking, but he didn't. "So, do you know much about bunyips?" I asked him.
"No."
I wasn't getting anywhere. "And you didn't know the murder victim? You'd never met him?"
"No."
I was thinking of something else to ask him when he brushed past me. I looked out the door as he got in his car and drove away, leaving a trail of dust.
I certainly hadn't got anywhere with that interview.
I walked back into the museum and looked at all the displays again. The museum was fascinating, but I wasn't here for entertainment. I could still sense the children who had been in the schoolhouse over a hundred years earlier, but I was certain I should have sensed them more strongly. Was something keeping the spirits of the deceased at bay? Perhaps frightening them?
I decided to walk out into the grounds behind the museum and perhaps sit at a picnic table so I could concentrate and think things over. I soon changed my mind and headed for my car.
I parked on the corner of the road that ran up to the Hillgrove museum to take a photo of the sign detailing the former police station, when Gerald Wakefield drove up. He waved enthusiastically out the window and parked his car next to mine.
“Hi Misty, it’s good to see you again.”
"Do you know much about the curator?" I said by way of greeting.
Gerald frowned so hard his brows formed a unibrow. "What curator?"
"The curator of the museum, Samuel Groves."
He continued to frown. "I don't understand what you mean."
I waved my arms expansively. "Surely you know the curator of the museum?"
“But the museum curator is in France at the moment," he said, "and his name isn’t Samuel Groves. You don't mean Samuel Groves who drives the beat-up, old blue Ford?"
I nodded. "Yes, he told me he was the curator of the mus
eum."
Gerald rolled his eyes. "No, Samuel is a most unsavoury fellow. He's been in a lot of trouble with the law."
"Murder? Attempted murder?" I said, shocked.
Gerald looked startled. "Oh, I don't think anything as serious as that. More like petty theft, public nuisance, that type of thing."
"I caught him with the donation box just then. He said he was counting the money."
"Oh dear." Gerald ran one hand over his brow. "I’ll have to tell the real curator when he gets back from France.”
"You don't think Samuel would be likely to murder anyone, do you?"
Gerald hesitated. "Well, I wouldn’t think so, but he has been involved in some pub brawls. He’s got a bit of a reputation. Samuel gets riled up pretty easily once he’s had a drink. He had a terrible argument with that poor photographer who fell to his death."
My blood ran cold. "He did?"
Gerald nodded. "If the police hadn’t found it was an accident, then I would have been certain Samuel was responsible for his death. Still, it was an accident, so I can't blame him."
"What was the argument about?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "I wasn't close enough to hear. Samuel had him by the shirt and was about to punch him, so I had to intervene. While I was asking the guy if he was all right, Samuel stormed off. I never did find out what it was all about."
"Did you tell the police?" I asked him.
He looked surprised. “No, why would I? It wasn't up to me to press charges."
"Of course not." I kept forgetting that the murder had been covered up. Of course, he would only have told the police if it was a murder investigation.
“Anyway, I was going to call you this afternoon. I have some very exciting information for you.”
I smiled, despite the fact I didn’t trust him. I waited for him to continue and when he didn’t, I asked, “What is it?”
“I was looking through my historical records, as I promised you I would, and I came across my great, great grandfather’s letters. Several of them mentioned people being attacked by a malingee.”
