by Téa Cooper
‘Let me do that.’ Fleur picked up the first. It fell open in her hands revealing a series of knives and sharp shiny instruments that looked more as though they belonged in a hospital than in this old shed. ‘What are these?’
‘Tools of the trade. Taxidermy.’
She paused for a moment, running her finger along the ivory handle of a particularly evil-looking blade, and shuddered. ‘Taxidermy. Stuffed animals and the like.’
‘That’d be it. And that white powder you were about to help yourself to might’ve made you into a rare specimen.’
‘What was it?’
‘Arsenic.’
‘Arsenic—that’s poisonous. Deadly.’ She had some vague memory of Mum buying it to kill the rats that made a trip to the outhouse a life-threatening experience.
‘Good rat poison. Good for lots of things. Preserving skins. Killing more than rats.’ He stopped with his hand resting on a pile of moth-eaten animal hides. ‘See, if you want your specimen to survive you’ve gotta give it a going-over with arsenic. Used to make a soap with it, wash the skins then dust the specimens off with the powder. Nasty stuff if you swallow it. Knock you over in no time.’
‘So this is a taxidermy workshop.’
‘Once. Long time ago now.’
‘And everything’s still here?’
‘Place hasn’t been lived in for years.’
‘How well did you know Hugh?’
The sadness clouded his eyes again. ‘Let’s find that billy.’
Fleur followed the old man under the covered walkway. The overgrown creeper swiped at her face and shoulders, the scent of the flowers mingling with the fragrance of the trees. It reminded her of the soldier on the ship. She picked up a eucalyptus leaf and crushed it between her fingers. ‘Do all gum trees smell the same?’
‘What? Nah! Thousands of different smells. It’s the oil. On hot days it gives off a haze you can see for miles. That’s how the Blue Mountains got their name, from the haze, from the oil in the air.’
The gloom of the interior contrasted with the bright sun outside, failing to mask the sense of neglect and the smell of mildew, however the pot hanging over the fireplace was already boiling. Blackened and dented, it dangled from a tripod affair over a small fire, steam billowing. It was almost as though he’d expected her. ‘Did you know I was coming?’
He threw his hat down on the chair next to the fire and winked at her, creasing the deep laughter lines around his eyes. ‘Been watching you for a while. Wasn’t sure you were coming here but there’s not much else along this track unless you fancy another three-hour walk.’ He lifted the lid on the pot, threw in a handful of tea leaves from a tin on the hearth and snatched the gum leaf from her fingers and threw that in for good measure.
‘Do you live here?’
‘Some and some. You wanted to tell me about Hugh.’
Not exactly. She wanted to ask him about Hugh but maybe this was the best way to go about it. ‘Hugh and I married in London some months ago. He promised me we’d come and live in Australia when the war was over. He told me all about Mogo Creek. I think he saw it as some sort of haven and the memory of it helped him get through the war.’ She picked up the cup he’d placed in front of her, an oddly out-of-place china cup with a faded floral pattern, and sipped at the scalding black brew, steadying herself. ‘I received a letter from the Ministry of Information in London; they told me he’d died and left everything to me, a fortune. I don’t believe he’s dead.’
His head came up and he stared at her. His curiously unnerving glare seemed to drill right inside her, as though he could read her every thought. ‘Yeah, well it might not be as fortunate as you might think.’
‘They said they’d sell everything and deposit the money in my account if I didn’t come. I’m not entitled to it. I came to see if I could find out who might be.’ It was too foolish to add that she believed she might find Hugh. She stared out through the sunlit window; a parrot flashed by, vivid red and blue, bright against the dark leaves.
‘You came here from London. To sort out Hugh’s estate?’ He put down his cup and rocked back in the chair. Arms folded, head nodding. He made her feel as though she’d gone up in his estimation, encouraged her to go on.
‘The solicitor’s wife in Sydney is having difficulty tracking down the paperwork. I was tired of waiting …’
‘So you took matters into your own hands.’
‘Something like that. Hugh had told me all about Mogo Creek. He wanted us to live here. Promised me life would be different after the war—better.’
He shook his head. ‘Did they give you his papers, his tag, his personal belongings?’
‘No. At least not yet. You see Mr Lyttleton, the solicitor, is involved with the repatriation of the troops and his wife is holding the fort. They’ve just moved offices and she doesn’t seem …’ She didn’t want to be rude about Vera, she was the nicest woman but it was driving her mad that she’d managed to come all the way from London only to reach this stalemate.
‘To have her wits about her.’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.’
‘Well, there’s not much anyone can do then is there until they sort it out.’ He picked up his tea and the light went from his eyes as he stared at the wall, hands clasped around his tin mug. ‘Right then, that’s that. Drink up. You’ve got a long walk back to St Albans.’
No! She didn’t want to go. She had hundreds of questions she wanted to ask. ‘Are you related to Hugh? Do you know of anyone I should try and contact? There must be someone.’
‘Nope. There’s no one. Come back and see me when you’ve got it sorted. Check his personal belongings carefully, very carefully. You’re looking for a family heirloom. And don’t waste any time. You’re a kind girl. Well-meaning. Wouldn’t want anything to happen.’ He pushed out of the chair and held the door open, dismissing her.
With her mouth still gaping and the flurry of questions circling in her head she made her way back to the road. Flocks of white cockatoos took flight at her approach, their screeching cries adding to her sense of unease.
It was only when she was a good mile down the road back to St Albans she realised she hadn’t asked his name.
Nineteen
Mogo Creek, Hawkesbury, NSW, 1853
Della’s heart pounded like an anvil. Cordelia had sanctioned the raids. She was responsible for the trouble Jarro’s family had suffered—the stolen spears, dilly bags and woomeras, the injuries and the disruption. The killings up Wollombi way. Cordelia was behind it!
Unaware of her thoughts, the Captain sat there, legs stretched out, his back resting against the wall of the building, his eyes half closed and the sun highlighting the golden stubble on his chin, looking for all the world as if he was attending a picnic. How could she be certain he was telling the truth? What was a foreigner, with boots as expensive as his, doing cavorting around the countryside with one loud-mouthed stable boy and Gus and Dobbin?
On cue Charity appeared, all of a lather, carrying a piping hot damper and pat of butter as though they were the crown jewels. She’d dug out Ma’s best china, dumped her mob cap and braided her favourite red ribbon through her hair.
She placed the platter on the table then produced a tablecloth and cutlery from under her arm and proceed to lay the table! Lay the table. Since when … she then executed some sort of a curtsey and sashayed into the house, almost sending the poor boy toppling off the verandah.
‘Bert, come and sit down.’ The Captain moved along the bench and reached for the tea cup, which looked ridiculously small and dainty in his large, long-fingered hands. ‘Drink this!’
‘Thanks.’ The boy, Bert, took the cup, leaving the saucer in his hand, and tossed the tea back in one gulp then sighed loudly and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Blimey. Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’ He eyed the damper and licked his lips.
‘Would you like a piece now while we wait for the stew?’ Della broke a chunk of
f the warm bread, put it on a plate and passed it and the butter to the boy. ‘Captain von Richter?’
‘I’ll wait until we’re all sitting down.’
‘Sorry, Capt’n.’ Bert dropped the bread and sat on his hands, his eyes never leaving the plate.
Whatever was Cordelia up to? She had to find out more. She’d been so busy feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her misery, that she hadn’t given a second thought to Cordelia and Sydney. She’d presumed that life, the shop, Pa’s work would continue as it always had. It sounded as though Cordelia had made big changes she knew nothing about.
‘Will you return to Sydney immediately, Captain von Richter?’
‘If we may impose on your hospitality, I’d very much like to remain in this place tonight.’ His English was just short of perfect; it carried the slightest lilt that she couldn’t place, practised rather than natural. ‘The horses need to rest. I intend to travel back to Sydney via the Simpson Pass and then stop at Wiseman’s, and there’s the matter of the weapons.’ His eyes snapped with anger, revealing a strange contained energy.
Bert shot to his feet. ‘Scheisse! I’ve left them in the stable.’ He took off down the steps three at a time and disappeared across the yard.
‘The weapons?’
‘Bert had the foresight to remove the men’s weapons. I intend to take them to Sydney to show the Governor, as some form of proof of the attack.’
So, he’d taken on Gus and Dobbin and got their muskets. She couldn’t imagine either of them giving up without a fight, which might well account for the gash on his temple.
‘You’ve a wound on your temple.’ She reached out her fingers to lift the fall of hair, then pulled back in a flurry of embarrassment, colour flooding her face.
‘It’s nothing.’ When he raised his hand to brush back his hair, his sleeve rose revealing a neat bite mark near his wrist.
The imprint of her teeth. ‘I am so sorry. I jumped to a very incorrect conclusion. I held you responsible when I should have known Gus and Dobbin were behind the raid and the pot shot at Tidda.’
Her words were met with a dazzling smile, which turned his eyes to the brightest blue. He rubbed his thumb across the mark her teeth had made. ‘I consider this a reminder of our serendipitous meeting.’
Della swallowed the lump in her throat. She had no idea how to respond; instead she turned to look out across the paddocks and down to the creek, unable to shake the thought that Gus and Dobbin might appear.
‘Where do you want these, Capt’n?’ Bert held out the two muskets. There was no doubt about it, she’d recognise them anywhere. Dobbin’s had an irregular row of notches carved in the butt. She shuddered. Notches representing what?
‘Can I see them, please.’ She took one of the muskets from Bert. It was definitely Gus’s—he’d taught her to shoot with it when they’d first come from Sydney. Said she and Charity needed to be able to protect themselves from the savages. The irony made her want to scream.
‘You said there had been other attacks.’
She put the musket down against the bench and choked back the sour taste coating her mouth.
‘Yes. In the Wollombi and Yarramalong districts. Not only Jarro’s family, other camps, other people. There is so much misunderstanding about the Darkinjung and with the growing number of land grants they find it increasingly difficult. For thousands of years they’ve managed the land, they have their own beliefs—the Dreaming. Stories that explain the creation of life, of all the animals.’
‘I wasn’t aware they had a religion.’
‘They have no priests, no idols, no symbols, but they have a very structured system; everyone has a role to play. The trouble is the settlers have no respect for their way of life. We have replaced their traditional hunting and farming grounds with cultivated fields and paddocks full of cows and sheep, and when they kill an animal for food, because their traditional hunting grounds have been replaced, they are rounded up like dogs and shot.’
Della ran her hand over the butt of Dobbin’s musket feeling the notches. What Gus and Dobbin were doing was far worse than stealing food. They deserved to be punished.
Charity plonked the camp oven down in the middle of the table. ‘What’re you doing with Gus and Dobbin’s muskets?’ That sealed it. Even she recognised the firearms.
Della shot a look at the Captain. What would he say? Charity would be all in favour of killing the Darkinjung, she reckoned they were vermin.
‘I’m taking them back to Sydney for repairs.’ He swallowed and his eyes shot to one side. Somehow she’d imagined he’d be a smoother liar; he was probably worried Bert would say something.
‘Are we going to eat that stew?’ Bert’s mind was on other matters; he ran his tongue around his mouth and groaned.
The Captain gave a relieved laugh at the change in subject while Charity lifted the lid of the pot and ladled a serve onto everyone’s plate. She’d even seasoned the stew with herbs which the night before she hadn’t bothered to pick.
It was a bit early for lunch, however the plate of steaming stew made Della’s mouth water. It had been an unusual morning: she’d sewed up a man’s shoulder, and a handsome Captain had landed on her doorstep. She dashed a look at him from beneath her eyelashes and a heady warmth washed her cheeks as he met her gaze.
‘I’m sure there has been some mistake, the shop appeared to be very successful. I doubt Mrs Atterton is aware of Gus and Dobbin’s activities.’
She wasn’t so sure, something didn’t ring true. The meat turned to paste in her mouth. Pa had made her promise she’d keep the shop running, said it was her inheritance and asked her to look after Cordelia. What a nonsense. Cordelia was obviously doing a very good job of that on her own. How had she managed to snaffle an invitation to the Governor’s? Everyone knew Sir Charles’s views on emancipists. The days of sponsorship and support vanished with Governor Macquarie; now it was all about rich English settlers and what they could bring to the country. Pa had brought the family to Australia to make Cordelia’s sentence easier, not to have her take over the shop. That hadn’t been his plan.
She pushed her plate to one side. She couldn’t eat. All she could see was the gaping great hole in Jarro’s shoulder and anguished faces of the women and children. The crack of the long bull whip Dobbin always carried echoed in her mind. He would have ridden in and rounded them up like animals.
Except that Captain von Richter had stalled them. She had to talk to him alone, away from Charity and Bert, and quiz him about Cordelia.
She lifted her head and found his eyes still on her face, as though he could read her thoughts.
He placed his knife and fork down on the plate. ‘Thank you, Charity. That was the most delicious mutton stew I have ever tasted.’
Della doubted mutton appeared on this man’s menu very often. She certainly couldn’t imagine it on the Governor’s table; that would be all about oyster patties and pigeon in aspic.
Charity beamed like an overblown sunflower and lifted the lid, and her eyebrows.
‘No really, no more for me, thank you.’
Bert, however, had other ideas. He simply held his plate out while Charity filled it full to overflowing.
Della couldn’t sit still a moment longer. ‘Would anyone like more tea?’ Without waiting for a reply, she leapt to her feet.
Once off the verandah her breathing settled and she stood for a moment gazing up at the ridge, letting the fresh air blow away her terrible thoughts. How she hoped Gus and Dobbin hadn’t tracked the women.
‘I thought perhaps you’d need the teapot.’ The Captain appeared at her shoulder and headed for kitchen.
He could read her mind, she was certain of it. She scampered after him.
‘I felt there was something you wished to ask me. Some more information about the attack perhaps? To the best of my knowledge none of the women and children were seriously injured. There was only one shot and they disappeared into the scrub. Gus didn’t have time to reload be
fore Bert got the muskets.’
She liked him for that. He’d called them women and children, not savages or blacks. She drew her hair back from her face; she had no idea where to start. ‘Yes, yes I would. I do. Oh, for goodness sake I don’t know where to begin.’ She wiped her damp palms down her skirt and filled the kettle. ‘What you have said disturbs me deeply. Cordelia must know Gus and Dobbin are behind the raids on the camps. Surely she didn’t think the Darkinjung would hand over their weapons and tools in a gesture of friendship.’
‘There is a possibility she thought they were trading. That’s what she told me.’
That was true enough, and maybe she was jumping to conclusions, but coupled with the changes in the shop, something felt wrong. It wasn’t what Pa had intended and why hadn’t Cordelia mentioned the native curios in her letters?
She should have paid more attention. Too busy feeling sorry for herself. The time for mourning was over. She owed it to Pa and Ma, to Jarro, to the Darkinjung people. ‘I need to return to Sydney.’ But how? She and Charity had travelled with Gus and Dobbin in the wagon. ‘I don’t know how I can organise it.’
‘I would be more than happy to escort you.’ He offered a sharp bow and clicked the heels of his boots which she found almost as attractive as his broad shoulders and handsome face.
‘I can’t leave Charity here alone.’
‘Could she perhaps stay at the inn at St Albans?’
Della’s mind spun in circles. That would work but she had no money to pay for a room for Charity and besides she’d never agree. She wanted to go back to Sydney.
The Captain pressed the tips of his fingers together and peered over the top of them at her as though deep in thought. ‘Allow me to assist you. We have three horses. I would happily escort you to Sydney. I have a room booked at the inn, perhaps Charity could wait there for your return.’
Not only was the man handsome, he had an answer for everything.
‘As I said I must call in and see the Wiseman family but that is simply one night’s stop. We could easily make the trip in a few days.’
