The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Also by Jennifer Scoullar

  Tasmanian Tales Boxed Set

  The Tasmanian Tales

  The Tasmanian Tales

  Fortune's Son

  The Lost Valley

  The Memory Tree

  The Wild Australia Stories

  Brumby's Run

  Currawong Creek

  Billabong Bend

  Turtle Reef

  Journey's End

  Wasp Season

  Wild Australia Stories Boxed Set

  The Wild Australia Stories

  The Lost Valley

  The Tasmanian Tales 2

  Jennifer Scoullar

  To David Fleay and Crosbie Morrison, pioneering Australian naturalists

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Hobart, 1929 —

  Mr Robert Abbott, close friend of the Premier and Hobart’s most prominent businessman, was forty-one-years old when he took a rifle and shot his wife in the head. He then turned the gun on himself.

  Robert had planned his crime. The twins away at boarding school. Staff with the night off. A very special 20th wedding anniversary celebration at home with Helen, just the two of them. Crystal vases stood crammed with roses. A silver ice bucket held his wife’s preferred brand of French champagne. They feasted on oysters and poached salmon in the garden as the sun went down.

  After dinner, they danced in the drawing room to a carefully arranged play-list. A mix of their favourites, up tempo at first. Putting On The Ritz. Happy Days Are Here Again. Helen loved Charles King. Then a little jazz and ragtime. He showed off his moves, and her face flushed with pleasure as he swirled her about in her lilac dress. How beautiful she was. His wife could still foxtrot with the best of them, although her Charleston lacked some of its former, youthful energy. Helen’s breath came in little pants and her generous bosom heaved as he stopped to change the record.

  As the night wound down, the music grew slower and more tender. ‘I love you, Robbie,’ she whispered, as they waltzed cheek-to-cheek to strains of Don’t Ever Leave Me and Gershwin’s Feeling Sentimental. It was an unseasonably warm evening for a Tasmanian early spring. The heady scent of jasmine wafted through the open window, so evocative of a lifetime spent together in this house. Robert breathed in a great draught of sweet air. This was as fine an evening as had ever been. So fine, he almost changed his mind.

  Chapter 1

  Ten-year-old Tom Abbott and his brother Harry walked in slow motion down the aisle of St Mary’s cathedral. Tom had never liked churches, and he especially hated this one. With its frightening frescoes of frowning saints, booming organ music and those twin coffins at the front that, according to Reverend Russell, contained his dead mother and father. Which was which? The coffins looked the same, and neither he nor Harry had been allowed to look inside. Tom desperately wanted a chance to see his parents again, especially Mama. What if she wasn’t dead in there? What if she needed help?

  The long, black boxes, engraved with crosses, bore heavy brass handles and were strewn with flowers. Tom couldn’t stop staring; couldn’t stop worrying. Mama was scared of small spaces and Papa? He was so tall, surely he’d hit his head?

  The boys came to a halt, causing a traffic jam of mourners. Mrs Boyle nudged them forward. Harry tried to escape down the aisle while Tom ran up to the first coffin and struggled to raise the lid. A man pulled him away, handing him back to his scolding governess.

  Grandma Bertha hurried over, chins wobbling, large nose turning red. ‘Control your charges, Mrs Boyle. This is a funeral, not a playground!’

  ‘I want to see them,’ yelled Tom, squirming free. ‘I want to see my parents.’

  Grandma Bertha grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. She shoved Tom and Harry along the front row and pushed them into their seats. ‘Stay here and don’t move,’ she hissed. ‘We are in God’s house. God is all-seeing and all-knowing. He will punish you boys severely for any further misbehaviour.’

  Tom looked at his brother and an understanding passed between them. Grandma’s threat was an empty one. If Mama and Papa were dead, hadn’t God already done his worst? Tom started to cry.

  Chapter 2

  Isabelle Abbott approached St Mary’s with shaky steps. The imposing, sandstone cathedral, built in the gothic style, was too grand, too public for her personal sorrow. A gloomy sheet of cloud lay over everything. Raindrops dripped down her veil and off her nose. She loved rain in the ranges, but here in Hobart? It just emphasised the tragedy of the occasion. Mothers should not bury their sons.

  She stumbled as a wave of anguish stole the strength from her legs. This ordeal was almost beyond her. Isabelle steadied herself and searched the crowd, hoping to spot Thomas and Henry, Robert’s twin boys. She hadn’t seen them for six long years, but the children were nowhere in sight.

  Isabelle had insisted on coming to the funeral alone. That was a mistake. She suddenly longed for a friendly face, someone to share the burden of her grief. Robert’s father was dead and her daughters lived in England. None of the Abbotts would welcome her; far from it. Not the black sheep of the family. Not the dishonourable woman who’d abandoned her husband to run off with the fabulously wealthy Colonel Lucas Buchanan, the undisputed love of her life. He’d died two years ago, breaking her heart. Leaving Isabelle alone at Binburra, their beautiful but remote estate in the Tasmanian highlands, with only a yard man and housekeeper for company.

  And now her son and daughter-in-law were gone too, laid to rest together at this shared funeral, as requested in a recent caveat to Robbie’s will. Isabelle had spoken to the police. An intruder, they’d said. A mysterious intruder, bursting into Abbott House and blasting the life from her beautiful Robbie and his wife. But Isabelle knew better. That open verdict returned by the coroner? A cover-up to protect the reputation of the Abbott name.

  Robbie had confided something on that last visit home, the first in years by her estranged son. Such a fine-looking man. Intelligent brown eyes. Tall, with even features and a proud bearing, just like his father. They’d sat in those woven wicker chairs on the verandah, beneath the scrambling mountain blueberry vine. Drinking tea. Taking in the view of Binburra’s wild ranges. For the longest time nobody spoke. Robert seemed to be gathering courage for something.

  ‘Wall Street,’ he’d said finally. ‘The crash. What do you know of it?’

  ‘I read the papers,’ said Isabelle. ‘But I don’t pay too much attention.
’ He bowed his head, like when he was a little boy and something had confused him. ‘Why should I, Robbie? New York is so far away.’

  He surprised her by leaning over and briefly squeezing her hand. ‘You don’t understand. It’s a new world, Mother, a global economy. Everything’s connected these days.’ She studied his face. Robert had always been hard to read, so it shocked her to see open anguish in his eyes. ‘The stock market was booming for years, with investors making money hand-over-fist.’ He gazed into his cup and frowned, as if he was reading the tea leaves and didn’t like what he saw. ‘I got caught up in the excitement, I suppose. Over-borrowing against my assets. Buying on margin, just ten percent down.’

  ‘On margin?’

  ‘The new economy – buy now and pay later. Everyone jumped on the bandwagon, but now …’ Was that a tear? ‘My shares are worthless. I can’t repay the loans.’ His voice broke. ‘My house of cards is tumbling down around me, Mama. I’ll be wiped out.’

  Mama. He hadn’t called her that since he was fifteen years old.

  She tried to reassure him. ‘You have the mine, Robbie, and the timber mills. The shipyard, the sheep stations. Surely you can trade your way out of trouble?’

  ‘Not with a depression looming.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  His face hardened. ‘Do you really think I’d take the Colonel’s money?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robbie. It’s my money now, and anyway he’d want you to have it.’

  Robbie shook his head and it pained her to see the hurt on his face. She started to protest, but he shushed her gently and rose to leave. To Isabelle’s surprise he kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ve always loved you, Mama, in spite of everything. I’ve always loved you.’

  Her heart leaped with hope, convinced these words marked the beginning of a reconciliation. A fresh start with her son. A chance to see her grandchildren.

  She’d never understood Robbie. A month later he was dead.

  * * *

  If she’d grasped the significance of that final visit. If she’d done something, maybe this nightmare wouldn’t have happened. Loud organ music soared through the grand cathedral doors. Lost in the anonymous sea of mourners, grief threatened to overwhelm her.

  A woman approached and laid a consoling hand on her arm. Isabelle didn’t recognise her at first, not until she lifted her veil – Bertha Barr, Helen’s mother. They’d never been friends, far from it, but she recognised the sorrow in those hollow eyes. It was the same as in her own. The sorrow of a mother who’d lost a child.

  ‘My dear Isabelle.’ Bertha couldn’t conceal the cry in her voice.

  Isabelle’s mouth went dry and a terrible guilt shook her body. Did Bertha know that Robbie had killed her daughter? Did she guess?

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ said Bertha. ‘How dreadful that this dark day should be the one to bring us together.’ She hooked her arm into Isabelle’s and together they entered the church.

  So many people. Even in this cavernous cathedral, some wouldn’t find a seat. Bertha led her past the other mourners to the front row. A mutter rose from those nearby as Isabelle sat down, loud enough to be heard through the organ music. Some disapproving shakes of the head followed. To hell with them. Robbie was her only son. Who had more right to be there than she did?

  Bertha touched her arm and pointed down the row. Isabelle drew in a quick breath. Two boys. Thomas and Henry.

  * * *

  A choir led endless hymns and a minister boomed out bible readings. They were supposed to comfort – all that talk of dwelling in God’s house and the resurrection of the body – but they meant nothing, said nothing about who Robbie was. Isabelle didn’t listen to the worthless words. Instead she focused on the splendid stained-glass window above the altar, flooding the cathedral with beauty and light. Robbie had an eye for architecture. He’d approve of the design. The five, elegant lancets depicting scenes from the scriptures. The exquisite tracery.

  At last the service was over. Isabelle glanced across to where she’d seen the boys, but they’d vanished. She rose unsteadily to her feet, determined to slip away before disappointment and sorrow entirely stole the strength from her legs.

  Bertha laid a supportive hand on Isabelle’s back. ‘Come with us to the cemetery.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Come to the house then, later.’ Something in Bertha’s expression gave her pause. ‘Please, Isabelle. The rest of the family will be attending a private wake. It will just be the two of us. I’ve an important matter to discuss with you.’

  * * *

  Abbott House. Isabelle shuddered as she passed through its heavy oak door. The stately Victorian home hadn’t changed; the façade still ugly and overly-ornate, the atmosphere inside still cold. She and her children had lived in this house for the final years of her marriage to Edward Abbott. Years of misery. Years of enduring Edward’s lies and infidelities and addictions, until she’d found the courage to free herself. Until Luke had swept back into her life.

  Bertha led her to the drawing room, called for tea and indicated a chair. Isabelle perched herself on the edge, preparing for a swift exit, ready to express her condolences one more time and escape. Bertha fiddled with her spectacles as the room grew increasingly claustrophobic. Isabelle couldn’t stand it. She didn’t need to be cooped up here with another mother’s grief. She had enough of her own. Why ever had she agreed to this?

  Isabelle rose to leave.

  ‘It’s about the twins.’

  She sat back down.

  ‘I don’t know how much you knew about Robert’s financial affairs …’ The hesitation and raised inflection said that Bertha knew a great deal. ‘It seems they were complicated; a lot of money tied up in the stock market. In the meantime, well, the twins have outstanding school fees and can’t return to Scotch College until the estate is settled.’ Bertha leaned forward. ‘I’d love to have them, of course, but they can be a handful and with my health …’ She affected a cough. Isabelle remembered why she didn’t like Bertha. ‘I wondered if they might stay with you in the country for a while?’

  Isabelle swallowed hard. Had she misheard? For years she’d been desperate to see her grandsons and be part of their lives. The whole Abbott clan, including her own son, Robbie, had thwarted her at every turn. She wasn’t a suitable influence, apparently. She might warp their tender moral fibre. Yet now? The twins were being offered to her like a pair of unwanted puppies.

  Bertha seemed to mistake her shocked silence for reluctance. ‘Only for the time being, my dear Isabelle. Until Robert’s money comes through.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘There’s really nobody else.’

  Isabelle watched Thomas and Henry climb from the back seat of the great, grey Buick; a hulking car that looked out of place beneath the graceful blue gums lining Binburra’s driveway. The boys shuffled their feet and stole sideways glances at her. They looked older than she’d expected, with their pressed suits and neat Scotch College haircuts. Like little men instead of children.

  Rex and Shadow, the resident Newfoundland dogs, trotted up and inspected them. The children shrank back.

  ‘They’re perfectly friendly,’ said Isabelle. Thomas and Henry did not look convinced. ‘I’ll put them away. Until you get used to them.’

  When she returned, the driver was taking two small suitcases from the trunk.

  ‘Is that all they have?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, madam, apart from this.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘A letter from their governess.’ And with that the car lumbered away.

  The twins weren’t identical, but looked very much alike. One of them smiled at her. Taller than his brother, hair lighter, dark blonde. He pointed to the letter. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Miss.’

  She felt a stab of shame. Was that Thomas or Henry? It had been such a long time since she’d seen them. She couldn’t very well ask. What sort of grandmother doesn’t know her own grandchildren?

  Isabelle
put the letter in her pocket. She’d have to guess. The odds were fifty-fifty after all.

  ‘I’m your grandmother, Henry, and you don’t need to call me Miss.’

  ‘I’m Tom.’ He pointed to the other boy. ‘That’s Henry.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Henry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground. ‘Papa calls me Harry; everyone does.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘How long do we have to stay here?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry,’ said Isabelle. ‘Some weeks I think.’

  ‘What do we call you, then?’ asked Tom. ‘We can’t call you Grandma. We already have one of those.’ He made a face. ‘One’s enough.’

  Isabelle stifled a laugh. ‘Call me Nana.’

  The boys exchanged an unreadable look. Harry had sharper features than his brother, his skin a shade darker, his eyes wary and watchful.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother and father,’ she said, knowing how inadequate her words were. She was grateful, in that moment, for the lie Bertha had told them about the manner of their parents’ death. A violent intruder was heartbreaking, but it was something a ten-year-old could understand. Nobody, let alone a child, could understand one parent murdering another. Yet the rumours would undoubtedly be swirling around town. At least here in the remote Binburra Ranges, more than a hundred miles from Hobart, the boys would be shielded from that ugliness.