by Téa Cooper
Sitting, head bent, at her desk, a quill in hand, Mrs Atterton made a pretty picture.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Captain.’ When she glanced up the strange amber flecks in her cool green eyes caught the light. ‘I was in the throes of writing you some instructions.’ She leant forward and he caught a faint breath of something metallic, not unpleasant but unexpected. ‘Unfortunately my men have already left for the Hawkesbury. They won’t be returning for another two weeks at least.’
That was a pity. Having seen the horses, he’d set his heart on leaving as soon as possible to track down Bishop. He’d like to combine the trips. ‘Instructions for what?’
‘Why, instructions to meet up with my men in the area where I source my artefacts. I presumed you wanted to visit since you have procured horses.’
Was nothing a secret in this town? ‘That is my intention. I have an invitation to visit the Wiseman properties.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed! I am impressed by your unprejudiced interest in our society. Government House one day, an emancipist’s family the next.’ The corner of her mouth twitched, robbing her words of offence. ‘My suggestion is that you should take the steamer up the Hawkesbury River to Wiseman’s Ferry. Once there …’ She pulled a map from the desk drawer and laid it on the table and stabbed at a spot north and inland of Sydney. ‘Once there you could easily travel to St Albans. There is a remarkably good hotel called the Settlers Arms. My men will meet you there.’
‘I intend to call on someone on the Macdonald River. A Mr Bishop. I don’t have a mind to take the steamer.’ And what of Bert and the horses? He’d taken rather a fancy to them, and the boy. The trip from England had more than used up his interest in shipboard travel, he’d rather see something of the countryside and travel the paths the Baron had taken.
‘Then it is the perfect answer. My men will be in St Albans in three days and will meet you and your manservant.’
‘I don’t have a—’
‘Young Bert.’
Three days later, Stefan, and a much scrubbed and smartly attired Bert took the road out of Wiseman’s heading for St Albans. Bert tipped his hat back from his face and leant forward in the saddle to remove a speck of dust from his highly polished boots. ‘How d’you know this Mr Bishop?’
‘I don’t. He has an item in safe keeping and I intend to retrieve it.’
‘How did he get it?’
‘It’s a long story. A mineralogist—’
‘A what?’
‘Someone who is interested in metals and minerals.’
‘Aw you mean like them gold diggers.’
‘Exactly like that, Bert. Yes, a far easier way to explain.’
‘He’s got some gold for you?’ An almost fanatical fervour lit Bert’s eyes.
‘No, not gold but something possibly quite valuable. An uncut gemstone, perhaps an opal.’ Hopefully the man still had the specimen and would be prepared to part with it. The offer of money would surely be far more tempting than a dubious rock sample.
‘And you’ve come all the way just to get it.’
‘Not just to get it. I’m also completing the Baron’s travel diaries.’
‘And you want some of them stuffed animals too.’
The lad would make an excellent diplomat with the nose he had for intrigue and gossip. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned the opal. He would have to ensure that Bert understood the importance of discretion; until it was authenticated it was better kept quiet. ‘Australian flora and fauna are unique.’
‘Flora?’
‘Plants.’
‘Then fawns’d be the animals. We call ’em little roos joeys, you know. Why not just get ’em from the Curio Shop?’
Why not indeed? Some insatiable need he had to see everything in its natural habitat. The Baron’s enthusiasm had first sparked his interest and now, as they rode through the landscape, he’d come to understand his fascination with this strange land. ‘According to the instructions Sladdin gave me, Mr Bishop’s property should be a little further along here. There’s a horseshoe bend in the river and we should see the house from the road.’
‘If Sladdin says so, it’ll be there.’
They rode on for a few more minutes along the track, the verges full of daisies, yellow buttons, clematis and a wonderful purple creeper.
‘There it is. Over there.’ Bert stood tall in his stirrups pointing his finger towards the wide sweep of the fast-flowing river. Surrounded on three sides, the house stood tall amidst a vast patch of grass, greener than he’d seen anywhere else in this dry country. There was a complete lack of any adornment to the grounds, just a winding dirt track that led to the large two-storey sandstone house which would have been more suited to Macquarie Street.
‘Take the horses down to the river and get them watered, let them graze for a bit. I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t intend to be long.’ He dismounted and threw the reins to Bert. Not only were the horses excellent specimens, they appeared very well trained and happy to stand and wait.
He made his way up the track imagining an avenue of stately eucalypts delineating the edges. Two massive urns marked the steps leading to the front doors, which were shut tight. He bounded up and rapped sharply then turned to survey the view. With the backdrop of the Hawkesbury River the gardens could be magnificent. The colonial herd was so busy establishing its place in this strange society they paid little attention to matters of the soul.
‘Come in, come in.’ A small man dressed in a rough jacket and dusty boots held the door wide and ushered him through into a wide hallway.
‘I’d like to speak with your master, Mr Bishop. Is he available?’
A rumbling noise eased its way out of the man’s mouth and he stuck out his hand. ‘At your service.’ Stefan found his hand grasped in a firm, calloused handshake.
‘I beg your pardon, I …’
‘Think nothing of it. What can I do for you?’
More what he could do for Bishop; the Baron’s promissory note glowed warm in his inside top pocket. The house, though solid, lacked any form of decoration; perhaps the rooms behind the doors were better equipped, however he had a suspicion some additional money might not go astray. ‘My name is Stefan von Richter. May I come in and explain the reason for my visit?’
The man’s woolly eyebrows took a leap up his forehead and a touch of colour flushed his cheeks. ‘Come and sit down.’ He led the way into an equally sparse sitting room. Two high-backed chairs in front of an unlit fire. The saving grace was a set of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a spectacular view across the river to the sandstone cliffs.
He settled himself into one of the chairs. ‘Baron von Hügel sends his greetings and thanks you for your kindness.’
‘Kindness?’
‘I believe you have, in your safe keeping, a metallurgical sample, sent to you by Professor Menge.’
The stain on the man’s cheeks deepened and he cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes. I did receive it.’
‘And I am here to collect it.’
The high colour then leached from man’s face. Perhaps Menge had offered something more than payment. He stood up and reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the promissory note he’d tucked there for the very purpose.
Bishop shot to his feet as though affronted and stalked to the windows, hands clasped firmly behind his back, and stood rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘I can’t take money.’ He ground the words out. ‘The stone’s not here.’
‘You have it in Sydney then.’ Rather a wasted journey but not the end of the world. He placed the promissory note on the table.
Bishop swivelled on his heels and faced him, his face no longer red, more resembling blanched almonds. ‘I gave it away.’
‘Gave it away?’ Menge was convinced it was a true opal, and of far better quality than any found in Europe in hundreds of years. Gave it away. Gott verbieten. ‘To whom? And why?’
‘A man named Skeffingt
on. Lives in Sydney. It was Primrose’s last request.’ Bishop knuckled something suspiciously like tears from the corner of his eyes and sank once more into the chair. ‘She was right. Right all along and I didn’t believe her.’
There was more to this than he’d anticipated. Stefan perched on the opposite chair and waited while Bishop inhaled deeply, in a vain attempt to compose himself.
‘Mrs Bishop, my darling wife, Primrose, was killed in an unexpected house fire.’
As the Governor had told him. What did it have to do with the opal? ‘My condolences.’
‘I am entirely responsible. When the package arrived from Professor Menge my curiosity was aroused. Unpardonable but I opened it and what I saw took my breath away. The stone was not polished or presented in any way but it glowed with a life of its own. I was captivated, and sadly so was Primrose. She kept it on her person, fascinated by the way it changed colour in the light. I hold the stone entirely responsible for her demise.’ Bishop pushed himself wearily to his feet and stood staring out of the window into the meadow that led down to the river. Bert and the horses were nowhere in sight. ‘I brought her here, from Sydney and buried her where the primroses bloom.’
The poor man was distraught. But who was Skeffington and where would he find him? Before Stefan could open his mouth to speak Bishop continued in a sudden rush as though he wanted to get the matter out in the open air, dispel his misery. ‘Primrose was an avid reader and once a story had captured her fascination it would never leave her.’
That was the last thing he expected. Clamping his lips firmly together he waited. No matter what Primrose had read he needed to know the whereabouts of the stone. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack to find another and with Menge dead he wouldn’t even know where to begin.
‘Primrose acquired a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s novel, Anne of Geierstein. The story tells of an enchanted princess who wore an opal that changed colours with her moods. Primrose became convinced Menge’s stone was an opal. In the novel a few drops of holy water extinguishes the stone’s magic fire, and the princess is reduced to ashes. As was my poor Primrose.’
Not that old chestnut. Only a year after the publication of Scott’s book people began associating opals with bad luck until Queen Victoria became totally enamoured with the gemstones and the demand rebounded to such an extent the Hungarian mines as good as dried up. But none of that was relevant. He wanted Menge’s specimen, possibly the first opal to be found in this strange country. He’d made a promise to the Baron. The hairs on his forearms stood to attention. How ridiculous! Bishop would have him believing this fictional nonsense before long. ‘It is never easy to lose a loved one.’
‘After my wife’s death I could no longer see any meaning to my life …’
Which would account for the barren nature of the house. The lack of comfort both physical and emotional. He knew the ache of loneliness only too well. ‘And you gave the stone to this Skeffington fellow?’
‘Robert Skeffington, yes. And not gave exactly, more used it in part payment for this property. He resides in Sydney, is well known and thoroughly reputable. I am certain there would be no problem in reclaiming the stone.’ He handed back the promissory note. ‘In fact, I suspect he might be pleased. He has a very fine home in Potts Point, overlooking the harbour. Sladdin at the Berkeley can assist you if you are unable to track him down. He frequently attends the card games there.’ Bishop jumped to his feet, looking as though he’d shed a barrow load of concern. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.’
‘Of course, thank you.’
‘It’s very remiss of me. I’m not able to offer you accommodation, however there is an excellent inn not far up the road at St Albans. I apologise if you have had a wasted journey.’
‘No, not at all and no wasted journey. I am expected at the Settlers Arms this evening and intend to spend some time familiarising myself with the area.’
‘In that case …’ With a relieved smile Bishop held out his hand. This time the callouses made sense. Despite the impressive house the man was working his own property. Good luck to him. He had nothing but admiration for these kind of settlers, far removed from the toffee-nosed fools clustering around the false glow radiating from Government House.
Robert Skeffington. Potts Point. Surely the man couldn’t be too difficult to find.
And nor was Bert. He’d come to no harm, sitting down by the river, back against the tree munching on an apple, the horses unsaddled, enjoying a graze on the verdant river flats. Bishop might think he’d been haunted by bad luck but he’d snared himself a patch of paradise.
‘D’you find what you were looking for?’ Bert jumped to his feet, picking up his saddle.
‘No. Not exactly. No matter. I can deal with it when we return to Sydney.’ If the beliefs about opals and bad luck had infiltrated the rest of Sydney society, it would be to his advantage. He had no doubt Skeffington would be more than happy to hand over the stone in exchange for the money Bishop owed to him.
‘What is this opal biz, Capt’n? Only Opal I’ve ever ’eard of works down at the Rose and Crown at the Rocks and what she’s got on offer ain’t worth a pinch of shit, never mind that lot you got stashed in your top pocket.’
‘Do you know what an opal is Bert?’
‘Told you, only one I know is—’
‘Yes, yes. An opal is a precious gemstone, a little like a diamond or a ruby.’
‘And these things, they’re worth money?’
‘There’s quite a market for them. The Queen’s very fond of them.’ Despite whatever ridiculous notions might be bandied around.
‘Our Queen. The Queen in England?’
‘Yes, your Queen. Victoria.’
‘Who’s the Queen of Austria then?’
‘We don’t have a queen. Just princes and a profusion of minor aristocracy who spend their time squabbling.’
‘Don’t hold much wiv all that politic stuff.’ Bert pulled off his hat, wiped his forehead and wrinkled his freckled nose. ‘So why don’t you forget about this ’ere opal and go and dig up some more and give ’em to the Queen. Wouldn’t that make you ’specially important-like and you could set yourself up a treat.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. And I am going to have to ask you to keep this matter to yourself.’
Bert puffed out his chest. ‘Secret-like?’
‘Indeed. To the best of our knowledge this is the first opal to be found in Australia. It’s important that it is tested and its quality and authenticity verified before the world gets to hear of it.’
‘And the man who knows first will have a headstart like. Be the first in the business and make himself a nice little pile.’ Bert spat on his palm and held it out. ‘Better shake on it then. Here’s to sealed lips.’
Without a second thought Stefan grasped Bert’s hand, then clapped him on the shoulder. Educated or not this lad had his head screwed on. He was a lucky find and it was highly unlikely he’d regret his decision to give him a chance. ‘Sealed lips and secrecy.’
‘You sound like one of them toffs at Government House. Do they speak English-like in Austria. Don’t they have something different—like the natives do here?’
Stefan let out a bark of laughter. Bert was going to be an entertaining travelling companion. ‘Steh gerade! Schau mir in die auge.’
‘Cor that sounds like you’re throwing your weight around. What’s it mean?’
No, he didn’t miss a trick. ‘It means stand up straight and look me in the eye like a man. The Baron used to shout it at me all the time.’
‘So where do you fit into all that then? And how come you speak proper-like? Like an English gent.’
Bert’s mind skittered around like a rat on hot coals.
‘My tutors were English.’
‘Chewters?’
‘Teachers. Many years ago Professor Menge was one of the Baron’s tutors, that’s how they knew each other.’
‘And he carked it before
he could give the Baron the opal.’
‘That he did Bert, that he did.’
Nine
Sydney, NSW, 1919
‘Oh my dear!’ Mrs Lyttleton grasped both Fleur’s hands. ‘It’s a matter of acceptance. We all feel like that when we lose someone. It will come with time.’
It wouldn’t. She’d had all the time in the world. Weeks aboard ship with very little to do other than scan the face of every man aboard hoping against hope she’d see Hugh’s blue eyes. ‘I didn’t receive a telegram, there is no proof that Hugh is not coming home.’
‘There was no telegram, my dear, because, after the death of his brothers, the army believed he had no next of kin, which is why Mr Lyttleton was notified. We will receive his personal belongings and his certificate of commendation.’
She didn’t want a certificate. She wanted Hugh, or some tangible proof that he wasn’t coming home. ‘What about his identity disc?’ She knew all about those—one of the soldiers on the ship had explained. Two tin discs worn around the neck. One green and the other red. Red for blood, to identify the dead soldier’s personal belongings, and one grass green to be buried with the body.
‘I’m sorry Fleur. I don’t have his personal possessions, or his identity disc.’
‘Then you don’t know that he’s dead.’ Her heart almost took flight. She’d known all along.
‘I am in no doubt Mr Lyttleton’s advice is correct. He moves in some of the highest circles which is why he was able to contact Mr Waterstone at the Ministry of Information.’
Fleur tried to pull her fingers away from Mrs Lyttleton’s grasp but she held tight.
‘I’m sorry there’s no doubt. Hugh died in France. Give it time, my dear this denial is often the first reaction to hearing such dreadful news.’
Fleur dragged in a deep breath. First Mr Waterstone and now Mrs Lyttleton. Nothing would convince her. No telegram, no body, no personal belongings. ‘Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake?’ How could she believe Hugh was dead? It would be a betrayal of their love, their dreams, his promises. ‘How do you know what Hugh wanted?’
