The Secrets of Palmerston House

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  As George opened the door to the back room, Bernie wandered off again. There was a grandfather clock in a corner. He stood a few feet away, admiring its design. Dark mahogany inlaid with gold, taller than his six feet and a bit. Its heavy pendant swung and he watched it go left, right. Left, right.

  “This one isn’t for sale, I’m afraid.” George joined Bernie.

  “It must be worth a mint. Surely, for the right price?”

  George shuffled forward and ran his hand down one side of the clock. “There is no right price, she belongs with me.”

  “Family heirloom?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “When was it made? It’s English.”

  “You know your clocks. She is, but there is really nothing else to say. I’ve put some rather interesting pieces on the counter, if you’d care to join me there?”

  Bernie scowled as George made his way to the counter. There was something about this clock. Something he needed to understand.

  ***

  All the way up the hill to the cottage, Charlotte replayed her brief conversation with Trev. He was all too good at seeing through people. Seeing through her. Much as she wanted to deny it, they had a connection.

  For now, her focus was Bernie Cooper and what he was up to. She hadn’t planned to follow him this morning, it just happened he’d left the house as she came downstairs and something made her run back up, grab her bag, and take off after him. He didn’t have his cameras, which made her suspicious. When he headed straight for George’s shop, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The only reason he’d have to see George was to ask questions about the past.

  The truth was she’d rather have accepted Trev’s offer of coffee. Sat with him in his small kitchen or wandered around his garden. He was a simple man in the very best sense. A person with strong values, who saw things as they were, without the cloud of suspicion and doubt colouring her world. He’d do anything for those he cared about and was strong, inside and out. A good man she’d love to know better. But you lied to him. What possessed her to say she was visiting Christie, of all people?

  She reached the road leading to the cottage and hesitated. This was a woman she admired on a lot of levels, but they weren’t exactly friends. Acquaintances who’d been through a bad experience. Bonded in an odd way. How would she explain her appearance on Christie’s doorstep? Charlotte glanced back toward River’s End. What if Trev asked about the visit? She didn’t want to keep lying to him. With a sigh, she kept walking.

  This was her first visit to the famed cottage. She’d heard all the stories about Christie inheriting it from her grandmother, coming for her funeral and falling in love with Martin. And she’d been here in River’s End when Christie’s ex – Derek Hobbs – damaged the yacht and almost claimed Christie’s life. What a way to get to know people!

  Charlotte turned into the driveway and stopped to admire the beautiful cottage. Freshly painted, the roof restored and an inviting path leading to a pretty front door, it was a picture. No wonder everyone talked about it. The garden celebrated the early signs of spring with new leaves on deciduous trees, jonquils and daffodils popping up everywhere, and, in what looked like a new birdbath, rainbow lorikeets taking turns washing themselves. How peaceful this is.

  “Aagh!”

  Thud.

  Charlotte raced to the front door and pounded on it. “Christie! Martha?”

  Nothing. She turned the door knob but it was locked. She peered through the glass panels. Randall stood over a jean-clad leg, his tail down. The rest of the person was around the corner.

  “Christie! It’s Charlotte!”

  Randall bounded to the door, whining.

  Charlotte raced around to the back of the cottage and onto the small porch. This door was unlocked and she pushed it open.

  “Christie?”

  There was a moan from the other end of the cottage and Charlotte followed the sound, met halfway along the hallway by a frantic Randall. “I’m here.”

  Her heart sank at the sight of Christie, lying motionless on the floor.

  Chapter Nine

  Charlotte dropped to her knees next to Christie. She breathed an audible sigh of relief to see her eyes open and recognition in them. Randall threw himself on the ground at Christie’s feet.

  “I want you to stay still for now. Can you speak?”

  Christie opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her face was pale and eyes distressed. Charlotte put a hand on her back and rubbed in slow, circular movements.

  “I think you’re winded. The air will come back but you’ve got to stop panicking. Now, little gasps, okay. You want the oxygen in a bit at a time to open up your lungs. Understand me?”

  With a nod, Christie began a series of small attempts at sucking air in. Charlotte kept rubbing her back, whilst taking her pulse with her other hand. “When you get some air, just shallow but longer breaths, yup, like those. Good girl.”

  Charlotte adjusted herself to sit cross-legged and Randall moved immediately to her side, dropping his head onto her lap. “Once you’re breathing okay we’ll sit you up, but take as long as you need.” She glanced up at the open access door. A shape was just visible, something like a large box. “You weren’t trying to lift something down on your own?”

  “Imp... important,” Christie managed to gasp.

  “Right. And what if it fell on top of you? And I wasn’t here? I think you are a bit more important.”

  “Sorry.” Her voice was a little stronger.

  “What would I tell Martin?”

  Christie’s eyes widened.

  “His bride-to-be was squashed under a box because she didn’t have the common sense to get someone to help her. Okay, let’s sit you up.” Charlotte supported Christie’s arm as she gradually sat upright, then leaned against the wall. For a moment her eyes closed and then she drew a normal breath, expelling it slowly. Randall wagged his tail at her, but stayed where he was.

  “Thanks.”

  “Better?”

  Christie nodded, prodding herself for damage.

  “I’m not about to tell you how lucky you are. Only winding yourself, not breaking bones or hitting your head. Mind you, I think a proper check-up is in order.”

  “No. I’m okay.” Christie grasped Charlotte’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “What’s so important about the box?”

  “It’s a trunk. The one I found Thomas’ letters in.”

  “I don’t know much about it, only about him losing Martha for most of their lives and then you reunited them somehow. Even so, if it’s been up there all this time, why try to manage it on your own now?”

  “Because Thomas finally wants to see it and I’d rather he doesn’t go climbing this old ladder.”

  “So, we’ll get it down between us. But safely.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and after gently moving Randall’s head, got to her feet. “I’m not leaving you alone at the moment so I might as well do something. But I want to see you steady on your feet, or we’re heading to a doctor.”

  “You’re a doctor.” Christie let Charlotte help her up.

  “I’m a psychiatrist, not a practising MD.”

  “But you have to qualify as one first.”

  “Stop arguing. Okay, are you dizzy? Any vision problems.” She watched Christie’s face closely.

  “Do you know how bossy you are?” Christie smiled. “I feel okay, just a bit sore where I landed. Thank you, Charlotte, I thought I was dying.”

  “Not nice being winded. Did it myself falling off a horse as a kid. Are you fine to come to the kitchen? I’ll get you a drink and keep an eye on you for a bit.”

  “I’m fine, really, but a coffee would be nice, if you’d join me?” Christie led the way along the hallway, her steps deliberate but steady. “Poor Randall, I seem to give him so many scares.”

  Randall padded along behind Charlotte.

  “H
e’s fine. You sit for a few minutes, please. Point me in the right direction and I’ll make us a coffee.”

  ***

  “Our grandson doesn’t have a passport, so it must be in Australia.” Thomas insisted for the second time, hoping the rather keen young man sitting opposite at the travel agents would listen this time. So far, almost every honeymoon destination in the world had been offered, except something suitable.

  “It won’t take long to get a passport, so how about New Zealand? It’s only a few hours away and Queenstown is gorgeous at this time of year.”

  Martha put her hand onto Thomas’ before he could get up, leaned forward a little and smiled across the table. “Dear, what about Uluru? Or perhaps Broome?”

  “Oh. I can look at those.” The young man clicked on his computer. “Here’s an idea! What about Lizard Island? It’s perfect for couples and there’s a special package... no?”

  “No. Not Lizard Island. Or New Zealand, Rome, Paris – which is very lovely by the way – nor Alaska.” Thomas kept his voice under control, aware of increasing pressure from Martha’s hand. “Now, as Mrs Blake suggested, what is available for Uluru or Broome?”

  A few moments later with a pile of brochures under Thomas’ arm, he and Martha stepped out of the travel agents. “Do they not teach young people how to listen these days?”

  Martha smiled and nodded toward a cafe across the road. “Perhaps we need some morning tea. I could use a coffee.”

  “Are you telling me I’m being grumpy?”

  “Never.”

  They crossed over and went inside. After ordering coffees and some delicious looking cupcakes, Thomas ushered Martha to a table near the window. “This shouldn’t be so difficult.”

  “At least we’ve got lots to look at. I rather enjoy brochures.”

  “Truth be told, they’d probably prefer to sail off down the coast.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re worried about Christie?”

  Martha nodded. “She doesn’t say anything but I feel she’s reliving that night sometimes. How terrified she must have been.”

  “How brave she was.” Thomas took Martha’s hand. “She’ll be right once she’s back on board. Not that the dog will leave land again, if I have my way.”

  “I wish...”

  “What, my love?”

  “I’m being silly.” Martha looked at the steam rising from her coffee. “I’ve lived two lives, it feels. Both matter.”

  “You miss Ireland?”

  “Probably all this talk of travel. So, if you were Martin, where would you whisk your new wife for a romantic honeymoon? In Australia.” Martha sipped her coffee, squeezing Thomas’ hand like a lifeline.

  “My cabin up the mountain.”

  “Oh dear. Any other suggestions?”

  “A long time ago, when Martin was off somewhere and before Randall came along, I went to Sydney. Stayed on the harbour and spent a few days exploring the art galleries. I think he’d like that.”

  Martha’s face lit up. “Perfect! We’ll find them a wonderful hotel with a view of the harbour and send them off to the theatre, or whatever might be on. Did we get a brochure?” She freed up her hand and flicked through the pile. “Might need to pop back in and see the young man again.”

  Thomas groaned.

  “Which I will do. You, my husband, can head off to the department store and start making a gift list.”

  He groaned again and Martha giggled. “I love you.”

  “Are you certain? Sending an old man gift shopping alone is not what I’d call an act of love.”

  “And I’ll be all of five minutes behind you. Or you could go back to the travel agents?” Martha’s eyes twinkled.

  “Shopping it is. But if I buy anything before you arrive, don’t complain.” He captured her hand again and lifted it to his lips.

  ***

  “I love the cottage, Christie. This kitchen is gorgeous.”

  “I had lots of help from Barry. Once he knew I wanted the old-world feel to remain, but with modern appliances and an improved view of the garden, he got going.”

  “Well, it’s a credit to you both.”

  “Thanks. Now poor Barry wishes he’d never met me.”

  Charlotte finished making the coffee and settled opposite Christie at the original kitchen table. “How so?”

  “I met with him this morning at my new salon. I may have scared him with my Zen concepts. Some rooms for private massage and personal beauty visits. Then, out the back I want a really cool area, a bit like a resort. Somewhere women can get together and talk, or just lay in the sun, or relax. Around a spa.”

  “Well, it sounds nice. I’m not really a spa sort of person, but they seem popular.”

  “I shall invite you to the VIP opening and you can try out some stuff. Then tell me you don’t do spas.” Christie grinned.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Wasted on me. How are you feeling now?”

  “Hurts a bit around the ribs, and where I landed on my thigh, but nothing bad. Promise. And if it gets worse, I’ll see a doctor. You know... a real one.”

  “Ha ha. I’ll remember that if you ever need psychiatric help.” Charlotte smiled to herself, finishing the coffee. Christie didn’t respond. Her thoughts were elsewhere and Charlotte watched her closely. “That was a joke.”

  “Oh, I know. But, would you see me that way. I mean, if I needed to talk about... concerns.”

  “Of course. Well, as a friend. Do you want to chat now?”

  “Now? No, but thanks. I’m not sure if I even need to but I trust you. If I do need to.”

  “Okay. Would you like a hand with the trunk? Before you answer... do you have a decent ladder anywhere?”

  ***

  By the time the four wheel drive turned into the driveway, Charlotte had been gone for an hour. As it turned out, bringing the trunk down was not a difficult task with two people working together and Christie standing partway up a new and very stable aluminium ladder. Charlotte refused to let her back into the attic, climbing up there with a confidence Christie found surprising.

  “Wanted to be a boy growing up.” She stuck her head down from the access hatch to grin at Christie’s expression. “Love climbing.”

  Five minutes later, the trunk was in the hallway, hatch closed, and the ladder back in the garage. Charlotte helped Christie carry it into the lounge room and place it in front of the fireplace. They stood back.

  “It’s very old.” Charlotte took her phone out. “May I take a photo? I know someone in antiques and she might be able to shed some light on its history... unless you’d rather I don’t?”

  “Go ahead. I’ve only seen it once before and have no idea where it came from or how it got up there in the first place. Now, I’m not even sure Thomas will be pleased with me.”

  Charlotte took photos from a few angles, then patted Christie’s arm. “He’d never be cross with you.”

  She thought about those words later, as Randall rushed to the front door to wait for it to open, his tail wagging. Thomas most certainly had been cross with her in the past, when she’d chased him along a country road and virtually demanded he return with her to see Martha after almost fifty years. He didn’t know her then, didn’t love her the way she knew he did now. But what if this trunk stirred up too many painful memories?

  “Hello!” His voice called through the front door. “Left my keys behind.”

  Christie hurried to open the front door, blinking at the pile of brochures he had in his arms. “Whatever—”

  “Going to Paris and Ireland gave me the travel bug.” He winked as he stepped aside to let Martha in first.

  “Oh, Thomas.” Martha chided him gently and he grinned. “I could use some tea,” she told Christie in a tone of voice that made her wonder what they’d been up to.

  “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Thank you, dear. I might change my shoes.”

  “And I might find a spot to put these.” Thomas comme
nted a bit loudly. “Can you close the door, dog? No?”

  Almost at the kitchen, Christie glanced over her shoulder with a smile. Randall sat at his feet, head tilted to listen. Martha had vanished. She refilled the kettle and flicked it on, then took three cups out. It was a day for hot drinks and conversation, so it seemed.

  “Oh my!”

  Christie frowned at Martha’s exclamation, and peered into the hallway. Martha stared into the lounge room, her hands on either side of her face. The trunk. She hadn’t moved by the time Christie, and Thomas – who emerged from the dining room – reached her.

  “What is it?” Thomas put his hand on her shoulder then followed her line of sight. “Christie. Is that what I think it is?”

  Chapter Ten

  Bernie threw himself into his car and slammed the door. Then reopened it and slammed it again for good measure. With a scowl, he tried to ignore the appearance at the window of a startled woman inside the shop he was parked outside. A real estate agency. He drove off as she stepped onto the footpath. He glanced in his rear vision mirror. Didn’t she know how stupid she looked at her age with red streaked black hair and too tight clothes? He wanted to yell at her. Yell at George. Yell at the thieving Ryans.

  Instead, he gripped the steering wheel and followed a narrow road up a hill. Calm down. It was bad enough Lottie was against him. At least she’d behave herself. Keep her thoughts to herself. Did she believe he’d go back to Queensland and harm her mother? He quite liked her mother, more than Lottie. No opinions or demands.

  He found himself at the top of the cliff outside Martin Blake’s house. The motor off, he sat and watched the ocean. Decades ago, his ancestors arrived here on this ocean, disembarking only a few hours away. With hope in their hearts, they’d settled in River’s End, hardworking people who’d made this town what it was today. And been ruined for their effort. Everything stolen by Eoin Ryan.

  The grandfather clock was a tangible link to Harry and Eleanor. He needed to read the diary again to understand how it got into the hands of George Campbell’s family. Was it a gift? Or another theft? The old man had clammed right up about it so Bernie had backed off because he wanted to photograph it, take a much closer look. Keep everything nice until he’d done so.