by Morgana Best
No one responded. A heavy silence descended over the room, broken only by the swishing of Lord Farringdon’s tail. Mr Buttons finally stood up and crossed back to the throne chair in front of the secretaire. “Let’s look through these old records once more. I know it’s tenuous, but it’s all we have to go on.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Cressida and I leant over Mr Buttons’ shoulder while he scrolled through all the newspaper reports of the robbery, and then Bradley’s sentencing. My eyes felt dry and tight, and when I rubbed them, an eyelash curled over and dug into my eye. “I’ve got something in my eye,” I said urgently. “I’ll just go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I raced out the door and nearly barrelled right into the non-French chef. I quickly closed the door behind me. “Were you listening in on our conversation?” I said in an accusatory tone. I expected him to deny it, and I was surprised when he didn’t.
“Yes,” he said. “I wanted to know if Cressida was going to give me my notice. I thought she might be discussing it in there with you and Mr Buttons.”
“I’m sure Cressida has absolutely no intention of giving you your notice, but she might if she knows you’ve been snooping around doors.”
He scurried away. If only I could remember whether he had been in the room when Bradley looked shocked. For some reason, that made me think of mangoes. I hurried after him. “Chef Dubois, please don’t worry. Cressida won’t sack you. Your job is safe.”
He looked so relieved that I felt mean for admonishing him for eavesdropping. “There’s something that’s been bugging me, and I don’t know why,” I told him. “It’s about the mangoes.”
He raised one eyebrow. “The mangoes?”
I nodded. “Remember that on the day that Bradley Brown was murdered, you had a box of mangoes on the front porch?”
“Yes, mangoes aren’t in season yet,” he said. “I did take a risk on one box. I bought some frozen ones from a fruit truck that does the Brisbane to Melbourne run. They looked fine on the outside, but when I opened one, it was horribly unripe. I’m from Queensland, you see, so I’m not used to this climate. Still, mangoes won’t even be available in Queensland for weeks yet, so I shouldn’t have taken the risk on the box. I put them on the porch to thaw. Unfortunately, the forensics team took them all. It will be weeks before I get mangoes again.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you want to know?”
I shook my head. “I can’t quite remember, to be honest. It’s just something that’s been bugging me. You know how something is just on the tip of your mind and you can’t remember what it is?”
He nodded. “I don’t like it when that happens.”
“So did you eat any of the mangoes?”
He chuckled. “There’s no way anyone could have eaten one of those unripe mangoes. They were white-green inside. They wouldn’t have been ripe for ages.”
I remembered seeing the body, not a pleasant memory, but I did recall that the mango stuffed in his mouth was a strange pale green, not the usual vibrant golden colour. I thanked the chef and left. When I reached the bathroom, I realised the eyelash had worked its way out of my eye, and my eye was no longer stinging. Nevertheless, I dabbed some water on it for good measure and then returned to the room.
Cressida ran over and grasped me by both shoulders. “Sibyl! Mr Buttons and I think we’ve made a wonderful discovery! We’ve broken open the case.”
I gasped. “You know who the murderer is?”
Cressida’s face fell. “Well… no. Still, we’ve made a wonderful breakthrough.”
“Tremendous, tremendous,” Mr Buttons muttered to himself. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Come, Sibyl, you must see this!”
I hurried over and looked at the screen. “Isn’t that the photo we saw earlier?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes, but that’s not all!” Cressida pointed to the screen. “Show her, Mr Buttons.” Before he could do so, she yelled, “Stop! I haven’t shown Sibyl the woman.”
“What woman?” I asked her.
Cressida tapped her finger on the screen, but Mr Buttons objected. “Cressida, my dear woman, I must inform you that not only is this a touchscreen, but I have just cleaned the screen, and so touching it is not advisable.”
“Sorry,” Cressida said meekly. She pointed to the photo on the screen, making sure not to touch the screen this time. “Who is she?” I asked Cressida.
“We don’t know, but she’s in a lot of photos,” Mr Buttons said. “Have a look at this.”
It was then I noticed he had about fifty or so tabs opened on the laptop. As he went through each one in turn, I saw that they were all photographs, and indeed, the woman was in the background of each one of them. I expressed that aloud, but Mr Buttons said, “We did find several photographs that did not feature her, but we thought there was no point showing them to you.”
I nodded. “That makes sense. You don’t have any idea who she is?”
“We don’t know her name or where she lives, but she was clearly someone important to Bradley. She’s in the background of photos of all his court appearances, both inside the courtroom and on the street when the police are taking him away.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Didn’t we find out that Bradley didn’t have any family?”
“That’s right.” Mr Buttons pointed towards the screen. “And if he did have any family, then the police would have soon found out. I suspect this woman was his girlfriend, because if she was his wife, then of course the police would know about it. Maybe this woman is the one with all the cash from the robbery.”
“Now all we have to do is find her,” I said dryly.
“She lives in Little Tatterford,” Cressida said.
Mr Buttons jumped and I gasped. “You know her?” I asked her.
Cressida shook her head. “No.”
“My goodness gracious me,” Mr Buttons said. “Out with it, woman! Please refrain from keeping us in suspense in this unseemly manner.”
“In one of the photos, she was holding a brown paper bag that had the words Five Goats Soap stamped on it.”
“What photo was that?” Mr Buttons asked in a disbelieving tone.
“Hop off the chair and I’ll show you.” Mr Buttons did as he was asked, and in no time at all Cressida had found the photo. She dabbed her finger on the screen and then turned to Mr Buttons. “Sorry. But there it is. Look.”
I peered at the screen. Sure enough, Cressida was right. “What does that mean?” I asked her.
“Five Goats Soap is a local Little Tatterford business,” Cressida said. “It’s been going since the mid 1980s. I occasionally run into the owner when I’m having my eyebrows waxed. She goes to my beauty therapist.”
“Well done, Cressida,” Mr Buttons said, beaming from ear to ear.
“I hate to be the one to throw a dampener on this happy party,” I said, “but it doesn’t mean that this woman still lives in Little Tatterford.”
“Oh, yes she does,” Cressida said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I often see her at the local supermarket.”
I was struck speechless, but Mr Buttons apparently was made of stronger stuff. “Well, why didn’t you tell us so, woman?” he bellowed. “All this conversation as to whether she was in Little Tatterford or not, and you knew all along that she was.”
Cressida smiled, as if Mr Buttons had been complimenting her. “Yes, I did,” she said cheerily. “I recognised her. I know she’s one of those people who live out on the Surrender Road, on one of those big, unproductive farms. They’re all ferals out there,” she added with a shake of her head. “They’ll shoot you as soon as look at you.”
“And I suppose you’re going to suggest that we go and visit her,” Mr Buttons said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Cressida’s smile grew wider. “Yes, that’s right.”
Chapter 18
I had no desire to visit a gun-toting woman who was possibly the accomplice of a notorious criminal, and worse still, might be sitting on his ill-gotten
millions. At first I thought I was quite safe, given that Cressida only knew the general location of the woman’s farm. I thought she’d never find out the woman’s address, and even if she did, it would probably take weeks. Sadly, I wasn’t reckoning on the Little Tatterford rumour mill.
Mr Buttons and I were sitting in Cressida’s car, while Cressida was showing the photo she had made Mr Buttons print to one of the local hairdressers. “Do you think the hairdresser will know where this woman lives?” I asked Mr Buttons.
“I certainly hope not!” he said fervently. “I really don’t want to visit this woman. She sounds dangerous, by all accounts.”
“I’m with you, Mr Buttons.”
Cressida returned to the car, waving the print-out at us. She jumped in behind the steering wheel. “Cheryl knows her address!”
Mr Buttons and I both groaned. “Please tell me that hairdresser doesn’t do the woman’s hair?” Mr Buttons said. “And if so, please tell me her hair doesn’t look like it did in that old photograph. Her hair style was most indecorous.”
Cressida laughed. “Of course not. The mysterious woman is called Bertha Ward. Cheryl said that Bertha doesn’t go to any of the hairdressers in town.”
“I’m probably going to regret asking this,” I said, “but how does Cheryl know anything about Bertha, if Bertha isn’t a client?”
“Cheryl’s husband, Tom, has pig dogs, and he goes out shooting with Bertha most weekends, of course.”
“Of course,” Mr Buttons muttered. “Where are you going?” he asked in alarm as Cressida started the car.
“To Bertha’s.”
Mr Buttons leant over to look at me in the back seat. His face had gone white. “Say something, Sibyl,” he said in alarm.
“Cressida, I don’t think we should go out there, given that we’re unarmed and everything.” I heard my voice come out as a squeak.
Cressida laughed at me. “She won’t hurt us. She might be rude and unfriendly, that’s all.” She pulled the car out into the traffic and headed south on the highway.
“Do you know how to get out to Surrender Road?” I asked, hoping she would get lost on the way.
“Everyone knows how to get to Surrender Road,” Cressida said. “Ferals live out there.”
“So you said.” I looked in my handbag for my phone. Maybe I should tell Blake where I was going, so he could send reinforcements. “Cressida, you do realise this woman could very well be hiding millions of dollars, and so she won’t take kindly to us going out there. She could easily shoot us all,” I added for clarity.
“Oh, do you really think so?” Cressida said calmly, as she turned right onto Queens Road. “This road runs into Surrender Road after about twenty five kilometres.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you would turn around and go back if we both pleaded with you?” Mr Buttons said.
Cressida laughed as if he had made the most hilarious joke, and accelerated. It seemed like an age before we reached Surrender Road. The scenery along Queens Road was rather boring, big granite boulders and bush giving way to long, low paddocks full of sheep. We hit dirt as soon as Queens Road became Surrender Road. The red dirt seeped in through the car, causing no end of distress for Mr Buttons.
After half an hour or so, Cressida slowed the car. “Now keep a lookout, both of you. The property name is Wallaby Run.”
“I can’t see anything through all this dust,” Mr Buttons spluttered.
Moments later, my head just missed slamming into the back of Mr Buttons’ seat as Cressida suddenly applied the brakes. “We almost passed it,” she said. “Wasn’t it lucky I spotted it!”
Mr Buttons and I remained silent. Cressida swung the car hard right and pulled up in front of a derelict gate. A sign, with the words Wallaby Run roughly scrawled in what looked like a marker pen, was propped up against the wooden post which had seen better days.
“I’ll get the gate,” I said. It took every last bit of my strength to drag the gate open. I wondered if Bertha Ward was injecting herself with cattle steroids. When Cressida drove through, I managed to drag the gate shut and then hook the wire loop over a steel post to secure it. My biceps and triceps were burning from the effort. I coughed as the dust kicked up by the car eddied around my face and into my mouth.
When I got back in the car, I said, “I suppose we should have thought how we should approach this on the way here.”
“I had lots of thoughts,” Mr Buttons said, “but none of them were good.”
“Leave all the talking to me,” Cressida said. She took off, a little too fast for the road which was filled with potholes, some so big I wondered if we could lose a tyre.
“How far to the house?” Mr Buttons said after we had been going for five minutes.
Cressida did not need to answer, because we rounded a bend, and there was the house. Cressida slowed the car, and parked in front of the house. “I don’t think we should knock on the back door,” she said. “We don’t want to frighten her.”
“Maybe we should all stay in the car and wait until she comes out to us,” I said.
Soon, any thoughts of getting out of the car were put to rest by the pack of dogs that suddenly appeared, all barking ferociously and showing their fangs. I instinctively locked my car door.
The dust cleared, and in front of me I saw a large rifle. It was being held by a hefty, burly woman. She was wearing a floral print dress and knee length gumboots, and a wide straw hat. It’s a wonder I even noticed that, because the rifle was pointed straight at us. The dogs stopped barking and all ran to stand behind her.
Cressida got out of the car, despite our protests. “Hi, I’m Cressida Upthorpe from the boarding house in town,” she said in a loud voice. “Bradley Brown was murdered on my porch.”
I shook my head. Of all the things to say to a gun-toting woman on steroids!
The woman remained silent, which I took as a good sign. She had not shot at us yet. Cressida must have taken the lack of gunfire as encouragement, because she added, “I’m here with Mr Buttons, who is my permanent boarder, and Sibyl, who rents a cottage from me. They’re good friends of mine, and we’re concerned that our lives might be in danger. The three of us are investigating Bradley’s murder, because the detectives are worse than useless.”
The woman lowered her gun marginally, and slowly walked over to us. She was walking in the same way that she would stalk a wild animal. She jerked the gun. “Get out of the car, you two.”
I took a deep breath and got out of the car. Mr Buttons did likewise. Bertha edged around. “The three of you stand over there,” she said motioning with the gun. She glanced inside the car quickly. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Cressida Upthorpe. Bradley was doing odd jobs for me.”
Bertha walked over to Cressida. “Yes, he told me. Can you vouch for these two?”
“Absolutely,” Cressida said. “They are dear friends of mine.”
Bertha lowered the rifle to her side. “Were you followed?”
“No,” Cressida said. “We haven’t seen a car in miles.”
Bertha nodded. “Well then, you’d better come inside for a cuppa.”
My knees went weak with relief.
Mr Buttons and I clutched each other and fell in behind Bertha and Cressida, who were striding towards the house. The house looked like any other in these parts—low, wooden, and tired, with a wraparound porch, and painted in an unattractive and unremarkable shade of pale blue.
Gumboots were strewn all over the porch, and various Siamese cats were curled up, asleep. Bertha must have seen me looking at the cats, because she said, “They’re my pet cats. The farm cats don’t come up to the house.” She pointed out towards the closest barn, where several cats were curled up in the sun, asleep. One of the big black and white dogs had followed us onto the porch. A Siamese cat stood up, arched her back, and hissed at him. The dog put his tail between his legs and ran away, scattering the chooks in all directions. “My Siamese cats are
vicious,” Bertha said proudly. “Come in. No need to take off your shoes.”
I was expecting the interior of the house to match the exterior, but I was mistaken. The door opened onto the foyer, the floor of which was covered by even more gumboots, and from the pegs on the walls hung various oilskins and coats as well as a stockwhip. The foyer in turn opened onto the kitchen, and that was a surprise. Every manner of stainless steel European appliance graced the room. There were two dishwashers, a huge double door fridge, a very expensive coffee machine, and various other appliances. I found it rather incongruous, because the old bench tops were made of laminate, and a Formica and metal table from the 1950s sat in the middle of the room. At any rate, I could easily see where some of the bank robbery funds had gone.
Bertha poured water into the jug. “I’ll put the billy on,” she said. While the jug was boiling, she opened a plastic container and tipped a large pile of biscuits onto a plate. “Anzac biscuits—I made them myself.”
She was still eyeing us warily, but her manner was friendly enough and she was no longer threatening to shoot us. I could feel the tension slowly leaving my body. She poured us all a cup of black tea and then sat at the kitchen table with us. “Now why have you come to see me?”
Mr Buttons and I shot Cressida a warning look, but either she didn’t see us, or she didn’t care. “We think Bradley hid the robbery money at your place.”
I gasped, and judged the distance from Bertha to her rifle, which was propped up next to her refrigerator. “We don’t care what you do with the money,” I hastened to add. “It’s just that we think you might be in danger if you’ve got it. We’re also worried that we’re in danger, because whoever murdered Bradley must be looking for the money.”
To my enormous relief, Bertha kept her seat. She pointed to Cressida. “Bradley told me if anything happened to him, I could count on you. He said you gave him a chance when no one else would. You were always good to him.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
