The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  Bert tapped the side of his nose. ‘On me way over here I learnt something interesting.’

  ‘Eavesdropping again, Bert?’

  ‘Do you want to know, or don’t you?’

  The boy was far too canny for his own good. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘She and Sladdin were havin’ a right to-do.’

  ‘Mrs Atterton and Sladdin?’

  ‘Told you they were mates. She was jumping up and down about me nickin’ those lozenge fings and something about that Skeffington chap you was lookin’ for.’

  Stefan stopped in his tracks and grasped Bert’s arm, none too gently. ‘Is there somewhere we can go and talk?’

  ‘You mean somewhere no one will get wind of what I got to say?’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  Within ten minutes Stefan and Bert were parked in the darkest corner of a seedy-looking harbour-side pub. Bearing in mind the state of the premises he declined Bert’s suggestion of ale and settled on a glass of rum.

  ‘Right. Let’s have it.’

  Bert cast another look over his shoulder and slid up close. ‘Mrs Atterton, she was in a right fuss. Told Sladdin Mrs Skeffington was all of a to-do and that the doctor chap was coming back to talk to her.’

  ‘Is that so.’

  ‘Said she had business out of town and he needed to clear everyfing out.’

  ‘What kind of everything?’

  Bert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. She gave him the key to the Curio Shop.’

  ‘How do you know it was the key to the Curio Shop?’

  ‘You can’t mistake it. It’s got that bloody great raven on the top of it. Gives me the shivers every time I see it. They ’ave ravens at the Tower of London, you know. They peck the eyes out of the poor buggers that ’ang.’ Bert shuddered and pulled a face that would have sat well on one of the Tower’s gargoyles.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

  ‘Well, that’s what me mate says and he should know, ’is old man hanged there.’ Bert sat back with an injured look. ‘I ain’t lying. I thought you’d want to know seeing as how Miss Della is at the shop alone. I wouldn’t like to see her get into no trouble with that Sladdin fellow. He’s as bad as one of them ravens.’

  And if Cordelia was away from the shop then it was the perfect opportunity to have a look at the stone. He dug into his pocket and pulled out sixpence.

  ‘I don’t want your money. You’ve given me enough. I just wanna see Miss Della safe.’

  ‘Right you are, Bert.’ He pocketed the sixpence. ‘You better come with me. It’s always good to have a right-hand man.’

  With his chest puffed out like a bantam cockerel Bert shot to his feet, swallowed the rest of his ale in one gulp and made for the door. ‘Bloody hell!’ He swung around and grabbed hold of Stefan’s sleeve, dragging him back down onto the seat in the corner then dropped his head into his arms. ‘Keep your ’ead down. That Charity just walked in.’

  Stefan propped his head onto his hand and studied the pitted tabletop.

  ‘What’s she doin’ here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I thought she was in St Albans.’

  ‘Well, she ain’t.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

  ‘Course I am. Looks good all scrubbed up, ’specially with that ribbon in her hair.’

  Stefan lifted his head. Charity’s long hair hung down her back to her waist and she’d threaded a bright red ribbon into the braid. He had no memory of her wearing a ribbon in her hair but he didn’t doubt Bert.

  She hoicked herself up on the bar and leant over. The bloke behind the bar planted a large, loud kiss on her cheek which she returned with relish, then he rewarded her with an equally large glass of rum.

  ‘Reckon we could slide out now if we’re quick.’ Bert slithered under the table and reappeared at the door, tipping his head to one side.

  He had no intention of following suit. He wasn’t expecting to see Charity back in Sydney and it raised the question of Gus and Dobbin’s whereabouts. It might well be a good thing if they were here and he could get them in front of the Governor. But right now, he was more concerned about Della. He slipped through the door and out into the street, side-stepping a couple of argumentative drunks. ‘I’m not sure why it matters if we bump into Charity. I presume she’ll go straight to the Curio Shop to see Della.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. She might have other people she wants to see.’

  ‘I’m sure she has friends in Sydney.’

  ‘Cor! For a gent that had chewters you can be real thick sometimes. She and Sladdin are old mates, before Cordelia had her carted off to that Mogo place.’

  ‘And how was I supposed to know that?’ Stefan straightened his shoulders. Bert was becoming far too familiar. ‘Not so thick that I can see that this would be the ideal time to have a look at Della’s stone.’ And assure himself she had come to no harm. Bert’s reference to Charity and Cordelia’s friendship with Sladdin had, for some reason he couldn’t explain, made him uneasy.

  All Stefan’s concerns vanished the moment he opened the door to the Curio Shop and Della’s radiant smile greeted him.

  ‘Hello Stefan. Bert. You’ll never guess who’s here!’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Charity! She got a ride in a coach from St Albans. Oh!’ Her hand covered her mouth as though she said something she shouldn’t.

  He swallowed the temptation to mention the fact that he and Bert had seen Charity. ‘And?’

  ‘She traded the remaining days at the inn for a seat on the coach, and a new dress.’ Della opened the drawer of the desk. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Oh, but I do.’ Then she smiled again. ‘You might like to take a closer look at this. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bring it to you as I promised.’ She buried her hand in her skirt pocket and with a great deal of care deposited a rough, uncut stone onto the table.

  He carried it to the window and put it down while he removed his gloves then held it up to the light, turning it over in his hands. ‘If I have understood the description this may well be an opal. I wonder how it came to be here.’

  ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to ask Cordelia where she got it. She left early this morning and I’ve been busy, I didn’t want to close the shop again.’

  ‘Can I touch it?’ Bert’s hand hovered over the stone. ‘It’s real pretty but how can it be a jewel? It’s just a lump of rock.’

  ‘Cutting and polishing an opal is a great skill. The outer casing has to be removed with a diamond saw and then it is shaped. The Romans mastered the art thousands of years ago.’

  Della ran her finger over the stone. ‘Where did the name opal come from?’

  ‘From the Sanskrit meaning “precious stone”, and later the Greek derivative opallios, meaning “a change of colour”.’

  ‘You can certainly see that.’ She twisted the stone in the light and let out a small sigh.

  ‘So you have no idea how Cordelia acquired it?’

  ‘No, nor when. I’ll ask her when she gets back.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that.’ He took the stone from Della’s hand and turned it in the light. He was no mineralogist but the stone could well be an opal; whether it was the one Menge had sent to Bishop was another matter. ‘Pardon my inquisitiveness but I wonder if perhaps Cordelia keeps records of the transactions.’

  ‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that?’ Della walked around the desk and sat down and opened the drawer. The image of Cordelia on his second visit with her head bent over the ledgers flashed through his mind. There’d be a record, of that he was certain. Cordelia was not the kind of woman who would leave much to chance.

  The pages of the ledger flicked as Della ran her finger up and down the list of figures; it was as much as he could do not to snatch the book from her. Bert had wandered off and stood weighing a boomerang in his hand. ‘Put
that down. I don’t want a repeat of the lozenge nonsense.’

  Bert threw him an evil look, replaced the boomerang with the other artefacts and clasped his hands behind his back as if to prove he had his light fingers under control.

  ‘I think I’ve found it.’ Della lifted her head and stabbed at the centre of the page. ‘Just a few days ago. Mrs Skeffington. Account settled. Coloured rock—seek evaluation.’

  ‘Skeffington?’ He couldn’t help himself. He snatched the book away. Mrs Skeffington had lied when she said she had no knowledge of any stone.

  ‘I have Bishop’s word that he gave the stone to Skeffington and the ledgers confirm that it was used to pay Skeffington’s account.’

  ‘So we traipsed all the way to the Hawkesbury and the thing was sittin’ right here under our nose.’

  ‘Hardly a wasted journey, Bert.’ Much to his delight Della’s cheeks pinked. ‘I would appreciate it if you would keep our discussion private until I have had the opportunity to look at it under my magnifier. May I take it with me?’

  ‘That probably ain’t a real good idea, Capt’n.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ A few lessons in manners wouldn’t come amiss. ‘Explain yourself.’

  Bert strolled up to the desk, hands in his pocket, chewing his lip. ‘Look at it this way, if Cordelia finds out the stone’s gone she’s going to wonder why, and Miss Della might cop it.’

  ‘Then in that case I shall purchase it.’ He delved in his pocket and produced the Baron’s promissory note.

  ‘Says in that there ledger “seek evaluation”. Not right sure what that means but it sounds like she thinks it might be worth something and if …’

  ‘I take your point, Bert.’ Nobody’s fool, this boy. Nobody’s fool. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardise Della’s safety. ‘Very well.’ He pocketed the promissory note and handed the stone back. ‘I shall leave it in your safe keeping until I can return with my magnifier and examine it more closely.’

  ‘When Cordelia ain’t here.’

  ‘Thank you, Bert. That will be all.’ It was a conversation Stefan didn’t want to continue. Bert had a nose for anything underhand and he had no intention of discussing Cordelia and her meeting with Sladdin until he understood the implications.

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s just what I think. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.’ He threw Della a nod and took off, sporting a petulant pout.

  ‘Do you know if Gus and Dobbin returned with Charity?’ Stefan asked in an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘I presume not because she came on the coach. I expect they’ll be back soon.

  That he doubted very strongly. Gus would be lying low. ‘Would you care to take a walk, Della? We haven’t sampled one of those strawberry ices yet.’

  She uttered a wistful sigh and shook her pretty head. ‘I’d love to but until Cordelia returns I must stay here. I must keep the shop open.’

  ‘May I call tomorrow morning?’ He brought her hand to his lips, wished he could pull her into his arms, then clicked his heels, bowed and left.

  Twenty-Seven

  Sydney, NSW, 1919

  Vera pulled Fleur into the room at the front of the house where they’d met on the first day and fussed about puffing up cushions and bringing a small table between the two chairs. The petals had fallen from the roses and littered the floor in front of the empty fireplace, giving the room a desolate look.

  Fleur sat, her breath still rasping and her mind crowded with unanswered questions. She didn’t want to be here, she wanted to be back at the Curio Shop, back with Kip, some candles and his tool bag. The whole idea of the place had grasped her imagination. She was certain the answers to the Attertons lay there.

  Clearing her throat, Vera lowered herself into the chair. While they’d been away she’d run a brush through her hair and slapped on some lipstick. In her hurry she’d missed, and a little bit had smudged across her teeth. She placed a very large, fat folder fastened with a ribbon on the table between them.

  ‘Now my dear. I think I’ve found everything we need to put your mind at rest. I am so sorry it has taken so much time.’ She lifted her hands in the air, palms up. ‘I have no doubt you will be thrilled when I explain.’

  For goodness sake, would the wretched woman just spit it out.

  ‘It has been something of a cat and mouse hunt. You see I was looking, as we both presumed, through the files marked Richards. It’s quite a common name and Mr Lyttleton has a great many clients.’ She paused and leant over, patting Fleur’s hand.

  Fleur snatched it back, muffling a scream. ‘And?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘The papers had been filed under “V”.’ With her face wreathed in smiles Vera patted the folder between them. ‘Lyttleton & Sons was established back in the late 1850s by Mr Lyttleton’s grandfather. It’s been a family business ever since.’

  She didn’t want a potted history. She wanted to know what was inside the file. Her hand drifted to the table.

  Vera beat her to it and snatched up the file. ‘You see von Richter.’ She traced the name printed on the front of the buff-coloured envelope with the kind of look a grandmother gave a recalcitrant grandchild. ‘It was filed under “V”.’

  Von Richter? ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what this has to do with me.’

  ‘My dear. Your husband’s birth name was Hugo von Richter.’

  Hugo von Richter? She hadn’t married Hugo von Richter. ‘It’s a mistake. I’m Fleur Richards not Fleur von Richter.’ Von anyone sounded German, brought to mind Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, and those bloody planes. Worse than the zeppelin that had taken out half of Islington.

  What happened to Hugh Richards? She’d married Hugh Richards. An Australian. How else would he have acquired that cute accent and the sing-song way he had of making everything sound like a question.

  I love you, Fleur?

  No need to question it—if he loved her half as much as she loved him …

  A cold tremor seeped its way through her body, worked its way across her skin, stealing her breath, turning her blood to ice. ‘Hugh was a German?’

  ‘In fact I believe the family was Austrian. It’s nothing to be concerned about.’

  A dizzying wave of faintness washed over her and all the remaining warmth drained from her body. She hardly had the strength to draw breath, she was colder than she’d been since she’d left London. She rested her head in her hands, leaning forward trying to settle her breathing.

  Vera touched her elbow, her words lost in the buzzing in her ears. How could Hugh be German? He was Australian through and through, and proud of it, with his slouch hat and rising sun badge proclaiming him a member of the Australian military forces.

  It’s the best place in the world. Come home with me.

  Bile filled her mouth and she closed her eyes, forcing her will to overcome the shock.

  ‘There must be some mistake.’ Hugo von Richter? Not Hugh Richards. He wouldn’t have lied to her.

  ‘No mistake. Hugo was of Austrian–Australian descent. His grandfather was Austrian. His grandmother Australian. His father and mother were born in Australia, as were Hugh and his brothers.’

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and for a moment she could see nothing but the devastation the zeppelins had wrought on London, Mum and Dad, the wounded men on the ship, the horror of those long black days. She gasped and a wrangled sob slipped between her lips.

  ‘Breathe, my dear. Take deep breaths.’

  Fleur inhaled, and again and again.

  ‘That’s enough, otherwise you’ll become dizzy.’

  She leapt to her feet and stumbled to the window, gazing at the passing parade. Motorised vans, a horse and cart, a woman with a basket overflowing with brightly coloured flowers. Such a far cry from the grey drabness of London with its bombed buildings like gaping holes in an old man’s teeth, the rationing and the suffering. Sydney didn’t look as though it had suffered a moment’s hardship. Maybe t
hat was why this woman could sit there with a benign smile on her face and tell her the man she’d married wasn’t who she believed him to be.

  ‘Let me explain.’ Mrs Lyttleton walked around the desk and rested her hands on her shivering shoulders. ‘When the war broke out there were thousands of Germans and Austrians living in Australia, a well-established and much-admired community. Many of the sons and grandsons of those original migrants wanted to join up to fight for the country they’d made their home. As you can imagine anti-German feeling erupted and they became scapegoats.

  ‘And so many of them chose to use an anglicised version of their names to prevent harassment from the government and war-mad community, as did Hugo, when he enlisted. He is as Australian as anyone else. We all came here from another country. I have Hugo’s personal possessions here.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Hugo’s possessions.’

  ‘I don’t want them.’ She wanted Hugh, the man she’d married. Not some other man’s possessions. ‘I don’t want Hugo von Richter’s possessions. I have no right to them, no right to his inheritance.’ She reached out for the doorknob and stilled. If Vera had Hugo’s possessions, and Hugh was Hugo von Richter then he was dead. There’d definitely been a mistake … how in God’s name could she say this without sounding like a fool. ‘I married Hugh Richards. An Australian soldier. I am Fleur Richards, not Fleur von Richter.’

  ‘Oh tosh and nonsense! Hugh saw himself as an Australian. Changed his name so he could fight for the country he loved. I think you should take his belongings, my dear. One day, maybe not today, you’ll cherish them. We can talk about the other matters tomorrow or later in the week.’ Vera held out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘Take it. I won’t hear otherwise.’

  ‘No. Just no!’

  Fleur couldn’t remember leaving, or walking anywhere. All she could see was Hugh’s face, the sparkle in those robin’s-egg blue eyes, the shock of blond hair that he swept back from his forehead so he could see her better, and the smile on his face as they raced across Westminster Bridge and along the Embankment in the pouring rain.

  He’d picked her up and twirled her around and around until she became dizzy, dizzy with love for her handsome soldier, Hugh Richards—not Hugo von Richter.