by Téa Cooper
Stefan felt the colour rise to his cheeks. Sladdin’s timing couldn’t have been worse. ‘Leave it outside, thank you.’ Wretched man sticking his nose into everyone’s business. How he wished Philpott would restrain himself until Sladdin left the room. Bert would have the sense to keep his mouth closed but Philpott didn’t know that Sladdin and Cordelia appeared to be acquainted.
‘I think that is sufficient evidence to prove the presence of arsenic. Now to confirm my suspicions and get hold of a bottle of tonic.’
‘Would you be referring to the tonic from the Curio Shop?’
Philpott’s head came up with a snap and his eyes drilled Sladdin.
The man didn’t miss a beat. ‘I recognise the green paper.’ He picked up the paper from the lozenge which had fallen to the floor. ‘Most efficacious in the case of minor irritations of the throat.’ Sladdin held out a cup and saucer to Stefan. For some incomprehensible reason Stefan took them. He wanted to bundle the man out of the room and slam the door in his face, not have him serve coffee.
Philpott had no such concern. ‘What do you know of this tonic?’ His words echoed like gunfire in the confines of the room and a slight smile tipped Sladdin’s thin lips as he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know that the lozenges are available from the Curio Shop and as I said are most efficacious.’
‘And poisonous. Deadly in sufficient quantities. Manufacture of such items could be construed as …’
Sladdin gave a simpering smile. ‘I doubt the arsenic was incorporated during their manufacture. If they come from the Curio Shop they are bound to contain traces of arsenic. I expect every item on the premises does.’
Whatever was the man talking about?
‘The shop was originally a taxidermist. They still sell many specimens. You’ve seen them yourself Captain. Intend to purchase some, I believe. Arsenic is used to preserve the skins of the specimens otherwise they’d be disintegrating before your very eyes, eaten away by moths and insects. And besides, anyone can purchase arsenic. It’s hardly a crime. Just go down to the pharmacy on the corner and sign the poison register. I use it myself to keep the rats at bay in the cellars.’
Stefan couldn’t stand it a moment longer. Sladdin was the last person he wanted involved. ‘That’ll be all. Danke.’
Sladdin handed Philpott a cup of coffee and then busied himself cleaning up the trolley and wheeled it, squeaking from the room.
‘Remind me of the initial symptoms of arsenic poisoning, Philpott.’
‘Headaches, sore joints, dizziness, lethargy.’
A tugging at his jacket sleeve caught his attention. ‘Sounds like the way Miss Della felt. Maybe Sladdin’s right. The whole shop’s full of the stuff. Won’t catch me going in there again.’ Bert gave a dramatic shudder and closed the door behind Sladdin.
Stefan’s heart gave a lurch. The symptoms were identical to those suffered by Della when they first returned to Sydney. Thank heavens she had recovered. ‘Do I remember you saying that in small doses a tolerance can develop?’
‘That’s right. A fatal dose varies. It is in the range of one grain per pound of body weight per day. I mentioned it’s used in the treatment of syphilis, the dose must be gradually increased.’
Syphilis was the furthest thing from his mind. Della’s safety and security was paramount. ‘What do you intend to do next Philpott?’
‘Unfortunately there is a possibility that Sladdin is correct, and the presence of arsenic could simply be coincidental. It rather depends on the quantity. We really do need a bottle of that tonic.’
‘Well, let’s go and get one.’ Bert reefed open the door.
‘Not so fast, Bert. Not so fast.’ Stefan’s eyes lit on the folded piece of paper lying on the table where Sladdin had left it. He picked it up and turned it over, revealing the Governor’s crest. He unfolded it and grunted in satisfaction. ‘Excellent.’
‘Wot’s excellent?’
‘The Governor has returned from Parramatta and requests my attendance at eleven o’clock.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘If I leave now I shall have time. Philpott, can you manage here? Bert will give you a hand. I might be able to procure you a bottle of tonic on my way to Government House.’
‘How’re you goin’ to do that?’
‘I’ll worry about that. You stay here and help Mr Philpott pack up and I’ll let you know if I need anything else.’
Thirty-One
Sydney, NSW, 1919
Fleur picked up the final opal ledger and took it over to the light and ran her finger down the list of names Otto von Richter, Carl von Richter and Clemens von Richter. A family business, except for Bert Burless, and there was no mention of Hugh, or Hugo. Quantities, weights and what might be a description: Black, Boulder, Crystal, White. Halfway through the book in July 1914 the records stopped, just before the outbreak of war.
The ledgers did little more than link the Attertons and the von Richters, something she already knew.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled to attention. Glad said the shop had been closed for donkey’s years before the depression in the ’90s yet the last date in the Noble Opals ledger said July 1914. Someone must have put it there. Someone must have been inside the Curio Shop long after it was boarded up. How had they got in there? She was missing something, missing something important.
Turning back the pages, she traced her finger across the list of place names Kip had mentioned—Lightning Ridge and Broken Hill—as well as Coober Pedy and Andamooka. Where were they? They sounded like names in a storybook. And what was it in the ledger that had made Kip storm off? She simply didn’t understand what had happened. It had been two days since he’d marched out of the shop and she missed his companionship.
Locking the Curio Shop, she pocketed the key and walked down the road towards Lyttleton & Sons.
‘Vera, I’ve got a few questions to ask you. I wonder if you’d mind.’
‘I am a little busy. As you can see I’m beginning to make headway. I must do something. It seems unlikely Mr Lyttleton will be back for another three or four months.’
Fleur’s stomach sank. So much for her idea about waiting until Mr Lyttleton arrived home to ask questions. She had to decide what she was going to do; in the meantime maybe she could find out how she had upset Kip. ‘I won’t take very much of your time. It’s about Kip. He worried me.’
Vera’s head came up with a snap and her eyes narrowed. She let out a long sigh. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s perfectly all right most of the time. I really thought he had got past the worst and this sudden interest in the Curio Shop has been so good for him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Shell shock, my dear.’ Vera lowered her voice and leant in conspiratorially. ‘Shell shock. So many of our boys suffer from it. They look right as rain on the outside then for no reason they go off like a rocket. He had such a bad war.’
‘What do you mean go off like a rocket?’
‘The most random event can spark the symptoms.’
‘What are these symptoms?’
‘Loss of memory, insomnia, terrifying dreams, attacks of unconsciousness, convulsive movements resembling an epileptic fit, obsessive thoughts, usually of the gloomiest and most painful kind, even in some cases hallucinations and delusions …’ She rattled off the list like some kind of medical specialist.
None of them seemed to apply to the Kip Fleur knew. It was only when they’d found the opal ledgers he’d become upset.
‘We’ve been doing all we can for the poor boys. Mr Lyttleton has something of a soft spot for Kip. He’d worked for us on and off before the war. He was such a happy-go-lucky boy, always keen to please, full of love and laughter. We took him in when he came home but he’s different now. It’s as though he left a part of himself behind.’
‘He wasn’t physically injured?’
‘No, nothing you can see. He worshipped the ground his brother walked on and is convinced he took the bullet intended for him. Simply fell a
part right there and then. He was shipped back to England, they did that to all our boys. Gave them a few days off and sent them back to the trenches. Archer Waterstone and Michael have been friends for years. Goes back to the African War. They got Kip an early discharge and we offered him a place to stay. He uses the spare room out the back; he’s been acting as a sort of nightwatchman while we moved into the premises. He can’t face his mother you see. Convinced she would never forgive him for letting his brother die.’
How could she be so blind, so inconsiderate? No wonder he’d rushed off. Her ranting and raving about the von Richters must have been too much for him to bear and brought back all kinds of terrible memories. If only she’d realised. ‘Then he’s been here since he left the Curio Shop?’
‘Now you mention it I haven’t seen him. He very much comes and goes as he pleases. I don’t like to be too demanding if he’s going through a bad patch.’
‘Actually, there was something else I wanted to ask. I hope you don’t mind. Hope you don’t think I’m being too intrusive. We—Kip and I—found some old ledgers in the Curio Shop. They go way back to London in the early nineteenth century but also there’s a more recent one. I don’t understand—both you and Glad said the shop had been boarded up for years.’
‘Glad?’ Vera’s eyebrows raised, making Fleur’s face flush beetroot. Now she might have to explain her failed attempt to climb over the fence.
‘The woman who lives next door to the Curio Shop. She said the place had been boarded up for as long as she could remember, well before the war. The last date in the opal ledger I found is July 1914. And that means someone must have been into the shop relatively recently.’
‘I don’t see how anyone could have been into the shop. Opals did you say? They’ve never attracted me very much, milky, soft-looking things. Some of those miners made a fortune. Sold their pickings to the German traders.’ Her hand covered her mouth. ‘You don’t think that’s the connection. Is that what set Kip off?’
‘There’s no doubt about the connection between the Attertons and von Richters. However, there’s one other thing, the only thing I can think of. The name Bert Burless. I wondered if it rang any bells.’
‘Oh!’ That silly high-pitched girlish sound Vera made, however did Mr Lyttleton put up with it? Vera shook her head and pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I have no idea my dear, no idea.’
‘As soon as he saw the name he slammed out of the shop and disappeared. I feel dreadfully guilty, but I have no idea what I have done.’
‘Oh my dear. That’s Kip, and so many others like him, so touchy. You might never know what it was that set him off. If you want to set your mind at rest why don’t you go around and have a word with Kip’s mother, Mrs Cassidy. I usually pop in once a week to let her know how he’s getting on, and to be truthful I have been negligent.’ She gestured at the pile of boxes and files spread on every surface, such a stark contrast to the neatly piled ledgers in the Curio Shop. ‘Maybe Kip’s found the courage to face his mother.’
‘I might just do that.’ She couldn’t help but feel responsible for what had happened. Kip had spent so much time with her, helping her, it was the least she could do. ‘And I have one more question. Do you know the name of the tailor who leased the shop?’
‘I have no idea. Maybe somewhere in this …’ She gestured to the floor.
‘Never mind, I’ll take up your suggestion and go and see Mrs Cassidy. Do you have an address?’
‘Twenty-six Argyle Place, Millers Point.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘I’m sorry, I keep forgetting you don’t know Sydney. You seem to have settled in so well, as though you belong. Down to the end of Hunter Street turn right onto George Street, immediately left onto Margaret Street then into Kent and right again at the Lord Nelson. It’s not too far.’
‘Are you sure it will be all right? I don’t want to make matters worse.’
‘No, no.’ Vera buried her head in the nearest box mumbling about files and legal ramifications, none of which seemed to have anything to do with Kip.
Fleur straightened her hat and pulled down her sleeves and set off down the street.
Less than half an hour later, with the overwhelming stench of beer and tobacco choking her, she gazed up at the three-storey sandstone façade of the Lord Nelson Hotel. The last thing she wanted to do was go inside and ask for directions so she ducked across the road behind a large Clydesdale pulling a dray packed with barrels, and spotted a street sign saying Argyle Place.
The crowded street was a far cry from the Berkeley Hotel and the buildings in Macquarie Street, more like the back alleys of Islington. A group of grubby children clustered around one of the doorways while two older girls battled it out on a hopscotch grid marked out on the pavement, their cheerful cries belying their drab, colourless clothes and pinched faces.
‘What d’you want?’ A boy with a cloth cap four times too large for him sidled up to her.
‘I’m looking for 26 Argyle Place.’
He flicked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Down there a piece.’
‘Thank you.’
The little girl nudged the boy in his ribs. ‘She ain’t home.’
‘Any idea where I might find her?’
‘That’s her there.’ She pointed across the road where three women stood nattering, propping up a dilapidated front fence.
Fleur crossed the road, plastering a bright smile on her face, aware of the women’s eyes following her every move. ‘Good morning. I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Mrs Cassidy.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘My name’s Fleur, Fleur Richards.’ She held out her hand, which they all ignored. ‘Vera Lyttleton said I might find her here.’
Vera’s name worked a treat. A thin woman, in a faded paisley apron, straightened up. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Mrs Cassidy? I wondered if I could have a chat with you. It’s about your son, Kip.’
‘What’s he done now?’ All three of the women ran their eyes over her midriff, making her realise her mistake.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. He’s been helping me and I …’ Her voice petered out. She didn’t want to discuss Kip in front of all these women. She had no idea who they were, if it would be some sort of betrayal.
It seemed Mrs Cassidy was of the same mind. ‘Come with me.’ She took off across the road and pushed open the door of a small house that smelt of sweat and stale bodies. The plaintive cry of a hungry baby and the sound of children squabbling drifted down the stairs. ‘I rent out the top. It brings in a little bit. Now what’s all this about Kip?’
Still standing in the hallway, Fleur dropped her voice. ‘I’m worried about him. He took off and I don’t know where he’s gone.’
‘He’s a grown man, even though he mightn’t act like one.’
‘The thing is, he’s been helping me with some old records and I think we found something that may have upset him.’ She swallowed; she didn’t want to appear intrusive. ‘I thought it might have brought back memories of the war.’
A shuttered look crossed Kip’s mother’s face. ‘I don’t want to hear anything about the war. Those Germans have done enough damage to last a lifetime.’ She held the door open. ‘Get out.’
‘Not all Germans are responsible for the war. Some of them simply got caught …’ The words dried in Fleur’s mouth. What was she saying? This woman was simply repeating everything she believed and here she was defending the von Richters.
‘Responsible in my mind. Killed my eldest son and sent the youngest back a raving lunatic. Turned family against family. They should never have let them set foot in the country in the first place. Even the internment camps were too good for them.’
Internment camps? Mrs Lyttleton hadn’t mentioned those when she was talking about the von Richters. Fleur hovered on the doorstep. ‘I don’t wish to cause you any further grief, rather prevent it. I’m concerned for Kip.’ Surely the woman must c
are about her son, her only living son. ‘I’m worried he saw something which upset him and I feel responsible.’
Mrs Cassidy’s shoulders dropped and she dragged a breath in through her pale lips. ‘What did he see this time?’ She sank down on a rickety chair pushed against the wall in the hallway.
‘Can we go and sit down somewhere more comfortable? Perhaps I could make you a cup of tea?’
The silence stretched out and Fleur was about to leave when Mrs Cassidy dragged herself to her feet and shuffled down the hallway.
‘The war’s bad enough. I lost both my boys. Kip might as well be dead for all the good he is to me now.’ She glanced up at a well-worn photograph on the mantelpiece above the stove. Two boys, grins as wide as their shoulders, sat in some sort of billycart, a man with an over-large moustache behind them, arms folded, eyes staring into the distance. She got the distinct impression he’d rather be somewhere else.
‘If it wasn’t for the Germans I’d still have a family.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
At a loss for words, Fleur busied herself filling the kettle and lighting the range.
When the kettle whistled Mrs Cassidy shrugged. ‘There isn’t a family around here who hasn’t lost someone and now we’ve got influenza on our doorstep.’ She gave a long slow shake of her head. ‘What’s all this about Kip?’
‘As I said, Kip was helping me go through some old family records.’ Where had that come from? Family? ‘In the Curio Shop,’ she added, determined not to let herself be side-tracked. ‘I was wondering if any of these names mean anything to you.’
‘Names?’
‘Otto, Clemens and Carl von Richter, Bert Burless …’
If Mrs Cassidy had paled before she now looked like a milksop. Not a vestige of colour in her face, and her eyes wide and staring. ‘Burless, you say.’
