“Because I value your opinion. I trust it.” He took a bite of pie, eyes never leaving Charlotte’s. The need to flee dissipated under his unwavering gaze and warmth worked its way from her toes up. To give herself time to think, she put pie in her mouth, hardly tasting it as she chewed. The corners of Trev’s mouth turned up as though he was quite aware of what she was doing.
“Do you want my professional opinion or personal?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable giving.”
“My observation of him at Palmerston House is that he is very respectful... of Elizabeth. I have little to do with him.” Is that enough? She waited.
“Okay. See, he was pretty rude to Jess this morning. She’s a kid. Sat himself out here with his own bottle of water, which he tossed onto the ground mind you. She offered him coffee and he got nasty.”
“Do you know where the bottle is now?”
“Probably in the bin. Why?”
Charlotte smiled. “Now you’re saying it. He didn’t hurt her though?”
“I wouldn’t still be here if he had. Have you seen any sign of this sort of behaviour?”
“As I said, I’ve not had much to do with him at Palmerston House. He’s out with his cameras most of the time. Apparently doing some sort of coffee table book on the region. Elizabeth is quite excited.”
The way Trev stared at Charlotte unsettled her. As if he could read between her carefully constructed lines. See past her literal responses. Stop asking me about him. Any more of his level gaze and she’d cave. Spill everything and then ask him to forgive her for not being honest earlier. Would he? Or were his ethics so strong he’d lose any respect he had for her?
“Charlie? Why so sad?”
“I’m not. I’m okay. I have to go.”
“Finish lunch. No more talk of Bernie, okay?” As if it were agreed, he took a bite of pie. Charlotte forced her muscles to relax, to regulate her breathing until the slight tremble in her hands abated. He’d be more suspicious if she ran. Again.
***
Martin let himself into the studio. One by one he opened the windows, then the skylights, relishing the warmth flooding in. Enough to air the place and bring the temperature up a bit. Christie must have come in to do her thing. The bin was empty and the small fridge was freshly stocked with bottled water. He smiled at her need to look after him, something that once would have driven him away. Now the little touches pleased him.
He only had one painting underway at the moment and it needed finishing before the wedding. He stood before the sheet-covered easel.
The sheet was straight. He had a way of covering paintings. Left side slightly longer. This was even. Perfect. But Christie respected his insistence on keeping his paintings to himself until he was ready to share. She’d never lift a sheet. With one motion he pulled the sheet away, dropping it onto the floor.
If Christie had seen this she would have told him. The subject matter was intense and personal to them both. This would have distressed her, the things she didn’t know from that night. I thought I’d lost you both. Martin dropped his head, hands clenched as gut-wrenching anguish tore at him. She blamed herself enough for nearly losing Randall so how could she ever know how devastated he’d been in the shallows? His dog. His sweetheart. So nearly taken by the sea.
Except they weren’t. Martin forced the emotions down. The purpose of this painting was to expel the demons. And it was doing that, bit by bit as he mixed colours and turned them into powerful images. But what was meant for him, as a kind of therapy, was not for her eyes in this unfinished state. If it ever was.
“You in there, son?”
Before Thomas stepped through the door, Martin scooped the sheet up and tossed it over the easel. Randall raced in, tail wagging furiously. With a delighted whimper, he threw himself at Martin, who sank into a squat to pull the dog against himself. He held Randall’s head with both hands, smiling into his soft eyes. “I missed you too, dog.”
“What about me?” Thomas held his hand out and Martin stood and gave him a hug instead.
“What about you. I’m surprised you returned my dog.”
“Martha made me.”
Martin released Thomas. “He wasn’t a burden, was he?”
“The opposite. She’s concerned one day I’ll forget to give him back. Not that she’d mind, considering she’s the one insisting he share the bedroom with us.”
“Not in with Christie? Would you like some water?”
“Please. Well, he starts in there and gravitates to our room during the night. Probably because she gets up so early and he likes his sleep.” Thomas followed Martin to the fridge and accepted the offered bottle. “Thanks.” He lowered himself to the sofa and opened the lid. “She missed you.”
Martin perched on the arm of the sofa, opening his own bottle. “She fell out of the attic, Thomas.”
“Thought she might keep that to herself.”
“There’s a bruise all the way down her hip and leg. Why would she keep it from me?”
“In case you got cross.”
“I don’t get cross. I did tell her it was dangerous and could have been a lot worse.”
“Like I said. Anyway, Charlotte sorted her out and between them they got the trunk down.”
“Beside the point. She should have waited for me. Why would you encourage it, Thomas?”
“Son, I was in Green Bay and had no idea she’d decide to surprise me. Didn’t know she’d fallen either, not until after Charlotte visited days later.”
“Meaning?”
“Charlotte came to check on her. She assumed Martha would know. Drop it. Now, Angus requests our presence at Palmerston House tonight. Elizabeth is doing dinner and he’d like to discuss the reason for his return to Melbourne. Something about Dorothy’s estate.”
“This isn’t going to affect Christie?”
“Dunno. Angus says not, but something’s not right. Not right in town and now this.”
“Granddad?”
“Don’t granddad me. Just have a feeling.”
Randall tore out through the door and a moment later, Martin and Thomas laughed as a rabbit streaked past the window with the dog in pursuit, losing ground in seconds. He stopped, the tip of his tail wagging a little as he watched the rabbit disappear into a burrow. Despite the light moment, Thomas’ words repeated in Martin’s head.
Chapter Nineteen
A bit before seven, the four wheel drive backed out of the cottage driveway, spluttered a bit, then rattled across the railway line, its headlights missing the SUV parked down the siding on the far side of the abandoned station.
Bernie waited a few moments in the dark, then started the motor and pulled back onto the road. He drove past the cottage to the spot he’d parked in last time, hidden from the road by dense bushes.
Backpack on, he cut across the paddock to the back garden of the cottage. He slipped through a gap in the fence, and pulled a torch from the backpack.
Tonight he’d find the key to the door and then, as everyone slept, he’d make his way down to the cellar. His heart lifted. Soon, Harry, soon your legacy will be with its rightful owner. For now though, he needed to get inside.
Bernie circled the cottage, testing each window. All locked and with stupid old-fashioned clasps he couldn’t open without breaking. The doors weren’t much better, so he helped himself to a ladder from the unlocked garage. He opened it to its full length and leaned it against the wall. A moment later he’d opened the attic window.
Inside the attic was an old chair. Workbench. Nothing else. He opened the access hatch, pushed the sliding ladder down and lowered himself into the hallway.
The trunk was on the dining room table, its curved top closed. And no key. But it was unlocked so he opened it and read the carved words in its base. London 1840. What now? This was the trunk from the diary and there should be a key with it. Think!
By the back door was the customary rack for keys and other items. But only a letterbox key on it. He wan
ted to scream. Set fire to the place and let the whole damn thing go up in smoke. In a minute his head would explode. Except Harry left clues behind. Clues in the diary and one he must have missed. Bernie retraced his steps, ensuring he left the cottage the way he’d found it.
On his way through the paddock to his car, Bernie remembered. There was one more place the key might be. Harry only made a brief reference in the diary to the pond and he needed to reread it in context. Things might still be salvageable.
***
Dinner at Palmerston House was finished, and now everyone sat in the front living room as coffee and tea was poured. Angus settled onto a comfortable armchair with a grin. “My goodness, you all look so expectant, and I really don’t have much to tell.”
“You’ve kept us in suspense for hours!”
“And you are still such an impatient young woman, Christie.”
Christie glanced at Martin for backup but he was quiet. As he’d been all evening. He briefly met her eyes and squeezed her hand.
“You mentioned there’d been some sort of challenge to Dorothy’s will?” Elizabeth prompted from her spot beside Martha and Thomas on the sofa.
“Jacob Bright – her solicitor, you might recall meeting him, Christie – received a letter from a person suggesting they were a member of the Temple family.”
Thomas straightened. “There’s none left. Not according to George anyway.”
“This person claimed otherwise. Stated they are the direct descendant of Henry and Eleanor Temple through their daughter. It’s a fairly convoluted ancestry with a couple of gaps in the records along the way, but this person certainly believes themselves to represent the line.”
“But even if they are a Temple, what would it have to do with Dorothy?” Martha frowned. “She had no relationship to the Temples.”
“No, but your family once owned this beautiful home. This challenge concerned the exchange of ownership of Palmerston House from Harry Temple to Eoin Ryan.”
“Oh, do you mean the poker game?” Christie leaned forward.
“Yes. The person asserts Eoin Ryan illegally and immorally tricked Harry Temple into wagering the family home.” Angus stopped to sip his tea.
“Even if so, what does any of this have to do with Dorothy’s estate?” Martha wound her fingers around each other until Thomas put his hand over them. “Palmerston House was sold many years ago. It formed no part of her will.”
Martin picked up his cup of coffee. “Presumably, if this person is correct and able to prove Palmerston House was unlawfully obtained, they expect to claim to be its true owners.”
“Exactly. They don’t care at all about the money or Miss Dorothy’s Toorak home or the cars. They wanted Palmerston House.”
Elizabeth gasped.
“They presented no proof. Not one shred of evidence other than some photocopied extracts from a diary allegedly kept by Harry Temple. When Jacob requested access to the entire diary to verify its authenticity, the claim was withdrawn.”
“But who’d come up with such a thing? And if it were true, would they really have the right to take... take...” Elizabeth’s face paled and Angus reached across to pat her leg.
“I didn’t wish to alarm you. Jacob thinks not and besides, whoever is behind this has backed down.”
“Who is this person? Maybe Martin and I should pay them a visit.”
“No need, Thomas. We never met with him, but he signed everything as William Temple. Jacob’s enquiries into him led nowhere. Quite an odd situation, but not one you need worry about, Elizabeth.”
“Where do things stand, Angus?” Martin asked.
“There’s been no contact from this man for more than a week, despite Jacob making several attempts to finalise things. He thinks it was a fanciful exercise and expects nothing more to come of it.”
“Too many odd things going in River’s End.” Thomas squeezed Martha’s hand. “I suggest we all keep our wits about us and treat strangers with suspicion.”
***
Annoyed to see the four wheel drive, Bernie walked around the outside of Palmerston House and let himself in through the back door. Even from here, laughter and chatter reached him and he scowled. They’re in my house. Sitting on his furniture. Enjoying their privileged lives as if nobody else mattered.
Was Lottie with them? He inched closer, thinking up excuses if anyone found him listening.
“Did I see Trev here earlier?” The speaker must be the new guest.
“You did, Angus. He was looking for one of my guests.”
“The one with the SUV?” Another voice he didn’t know. One with an edge to it.
“Bernie. The photographer.”
“Humph.”
“What’s wrong, Thomas?” Another male voice, younger.
“Like I said earlier. Treat newcomers with suspicion.”
“But he’s a nice young man. Tidy, quiet. Likes to talk about Palmerston House.”
Good on you, Elizabeth. Maybe I’ll let you stay in one of the guest rooms.
“Then why’d Trev want to talk to him?”
“What are you doing?”
Bernie jumped, then glared at Charlotte who stood partway down the staircase, arms crossed. “Are you eavesdropping?”
All hope of hearing Elizabeth’s answer disappeared and Bernie stalked to the foot of the stairs. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.
“Getting coffee. Why are you listening to their conversation? If they wanted to include you, they would.”
“Are you planning on running over and telling them? Maybe you’re the one who set the copper on me.”
“Oh, what did he have to say?”
“It was you.” Bernie advanced up the steps until eye level with Charlotte, grinning when she flinched.
“It was not. You’re responsible for any police visits so don’t blame me. And stop lurking around.”
“I’d be very careful, Lottie.” He joined her on the same step, intruding on her personal space and, although she didn’t move, he relished the fear in her eyes. “Little girls shouldn’t mess with things they don’t understand.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Take whatever you want from it. But stay away from me.”
He brushed past her and ran up the stairs. Once in his room, he locked the door and threw his bag on the floor. Now he’d never know what Elizabeth said. Bernie dragged the diary out and, not bothering to remove his shoes, lay on the bed and opened it.
Chapter Twenty
1853
Harry hid behind the stables, waiting for dusk. The Ryan family themselves had yet to arrive but, all day, drays filled with furniture had come up the driveway. He recognised Eoin Ryan’s timber workers, pulled off their normal duties for the apparently more important job of wiping all traces of the Temple family from Palmerston House.
The last dray left and Harry climbed up to the second story, finding hand and footholds in the limestone and dragging himself upwards. The furthest bedroom window was unlocked as he’d prayed it would be and in moments he was inside.
The trunk wasn’t in his daughter’s bedroom and new furniture filled the room he and Eleanor once decorated together. No more laughter. No soft footsteps running from here to the master bedroom for a little girl with a big smile.
“Damn you.” He slammed the door behind himself, not sure who he was damning. He sat at the top of the staircase, built to his specifications from Eoin Ryan’s timber. Below, the foyer mocked him with memories. Music from the string quartet he’d brought all the way from Melbourne. Women in billowing gowns danced with suited men. His friends, all here for the house warming of the century, barely two years ago.
Where were those friends now? All turned their backs on him the moment he asked for help. And one of them probably housed his wife and child with no word to let him know they were safe. His life was a failure.
***
“I can’t be related to you.” Bernie shut the diary and swung his feet o
ver the side of the bed. Instead of feeling sorry for himself, why wasn’t Harry doing something? Like looking for the trunk and its key.
He got up and paced the room. The key from the trunk also opened the lock to the hidden room. Harry only had one, according to everything he remembered from the diary. Short of blowing the door off its hinges – which rather appealed to him but would draw too much attention – he needed the key.
Bernie noticed a note on the floor inside the door. He must have walked over it. Elizabeth’s elegant handwriting told him Senior Constable Trevor Sibbritt had dropped by earlier. There was a phone number. Nothing else.
This could spoil everything if he didn’t handle it properly. He needed to remain in Palmerston House. Work it out later. With a sigh, he scooped up the diary and took it to the table. Outside, people were leaving. Good riddance. How he wished he’d heard the rest of the conversation without Lottie’s interference. Although, the effect he’d had on her was almost worth missing Elizabeth’s answer.
***
1853
After a few moments feeling sorry for himself, Harry lit a lantern and went searching. The trunk was in the front parlour. He slid the key into a pocket with a satisfied sigh, but there was no time to enjoy the moment, for the distinctive sound of more drays filtered through the window.
He hurried out of the parlour and toward the back of Palmerston House, startled by the sound of a key in the front door.
Before he reached the end of the hallway, light from Eoin’s lantern flooded into the foyer. “Who is it? Stop!”
Harry ran until he reached the back door. Cool air met his face as he burst outside. Heavy footsteps followed and he dropped the lantern and sprinted down the rough path into the night.
“Wait! Come back here.”
Harry threw himself behind a tree. As lights approached, he pulled the key out of the pocket. He couldn’t be found. Not with this on him. Jail was not an option and he’d be heading there if Eoin or his men got hold of him.
“Boss, think he went this way.” A voice called from the other direction and Harry held his breath until he heard Eoin tramp back along the path and out of earshot. He stepped from behind the tree. Almost straight into the back of one of Eoin’s men.
The Secrets of Palmerston House Page 12
