by Janine Grey
Her best friend Charlotte laughed down the phone line a couple of days later when Eliza mentioned that she’d need to work.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Elle. You’ve got good old George desperate to get a ring on your finger. Problem solved.’
It was true. Marrying George Westland, heir to the Marchant hotel empire, would solve her financial problems, but she suspected it would create a whole lot of others. They had been dating for five months and already she was bored to tears.
‘I don’t love him, Lottie,’ she said. ‘Not like that.’ Not like her parents had adored each other.
George was a bit of a labrador, good-natured and lazy. But who wanted a drooling, tail-wagging pet as a lifelong partner? He’d had it too easy, she thought – and so had she. Sure, she’d studied hard and had a degree in arts/law, majoring in art history, but her graduation had coincided with Angela’s death, and then her father had needed her around the house so much that she’d never done more than occasional volunteer work for the Historic Homes Foundation.
Years ago, when she’d been perhaps nine or ten, she’d had a dream of taking over from her mother at KinSearchers. For a short time, she’d pestered her mum to go to work with her during school holidays and had proudly sat at the end of her desk, pretending to answer the phone and listening avidly to business conversations she didn’t yet fully understand. True or not, she had vague memories of her mother glancing at her, a smile of pride on her face – a look that had dimmed somewhat in later years.
By the time Eliza had reached her late teens, all her friends had been talking about jobs in the media, culture and fashion, and Eliza’s interest in history had led to dreams of a museum career. Managing a business had seemed dull in comparison.
Still, on her mother’s insistence, she had earned some spending money by working at KinSearchers in uni breaks.
The work had mostly been menial – filing and other admin tasks – but at least Eliza now had an idea of how offices worked. And she had contacts, didn’t she? Someone would find a place for her.
‘George is such a sweetie. Okay, so he’s not the most exciting guy, but at least he’s easygoing,’ Charlotte pointed out, cutting through Eliza’s thoughts. ‘Once you’re married you could do whatever you liked, as long as you showed up for the annual Marchant ball and produced a couple of babies. And his family would just be relieved to have him settled.’
And what then? Eliza thought to herself. What the hell do I do for the rest of my life? She’d have security: a whole easy life laid out for her, free from want – or challenge or excitement. In her head, her life yawned out like a black hole of boredom, and suddenly she knew it wasn’t for her. It probably never had been, except she’d been too blind to see it before.
As she ended the call to Charlotte, Eliza felt a rush of energy. It sliced through the fog of disbelief that had smothered her since her father’s suicide and the grim funeral that had followed soon after. She was twenty-six, healthy, educated and reasonably intelligent. Thanks to her mother’s foresight, she had a roof over her head. She had more than most, and it was time she put her life to some use.
The rush of energy turned into a whirlwind and she tore through the next two weeks. The day after her conversation with Charlotte, she called off her relationship with George Westland as gently as possible. They just wanted different things, she told him, and his disappointed acceptance suggested that he’d expected it almost from their first date.
With that burden off her shoulders, she’d asked the letting agent for the keys to the Rushcutters Bay flat and paid her first visit. Deliberately, she’d kept her expectations low and the flat proved to be a pleasant surprise. Sure, it could hardly compete with Edenholme’s classical beauty, but the rooms were large and square with high ceilings, and it retained enough of its art deco heritage to lend the place some character.
Within three days, she’d given it a fresh – if inexpert – coat of paint, and had found a handyman to fix a jammed window and refinish the scratched wooden floors. She winced at the dent the costs made in her dwindling bank account, and knew she simply couldn’t afford to shop for new furniture. She would have to salvage what she could from Edenholme.
In the end, Christie’s left little behind: hardly surprising given the villa had been furnished by generations of Mayberry money and good taste. She did take great-grandmother Edith’s wedding chest, rejected due to its broken hinge, as well as her own bed, and a table and chairs that had been the housekeeper’s.
The sole bedroom of her flat had a small built-in closet. Only about one-third of her wardrobe fitted inside it, so her cocktail dresses had had to go – sold for a fraction of what they were worth.
Charlotte donated an unwanted sofa and rug that were nearly new. Nothing matched, but against the refinished floors and fresh pale walls, and with the last lavender she would pick from the Edenholme gardens crammed into glass bottles, it looked homely. There was even a sliver of harbour view from the tiny kitchen balcony, if she stood on tiptoes and craned her neck hard enough.
Each time Eliza’s energy flagged or she thought of her father’s stiff, lifeless face, she reminded herself how fortunate she was, and tried not to think ahead to the ‘day of dread’, when she would have to hand over the keys to Edenholme.
Time stops for no one, though, and has a habit of speeding when we would prefer it to slow. When the day came, Charlotte offered to go with her to Lincoln Bassett’s, but Eliza just thanked her and shook her head. She needed to take this final step alone.
With a heavy heart, she deliberately parked several metres away, wanting to experience the full impact of Edenholme’s grace and grandeur for the last time. She walked up the gravel driveway, lined with mature magnolias, and admired the pale sandstone façade with its wide portico. Unlocking the door, she wandered through Edenholme’s vast, empty rooms, one by one, tilting her head up for a last look at the magnificently detailed ceilings and the long, stately windows. Out in the garden, she gazed at the lush plantings. The clematis was sending out new growth; in a few months it would be a mass of mauve. The gardenia, too, was budding, and the towering November lilies were shooting up. How she loved this garden.
With her mind full of memories, she said her goodbyes. Then, she shouldered her bag, walked quickly back through the house and shut the front door for the last time. She drove away without looking back.
At the lawyer’s offices, Lincoln Bassett seemed to realise how desperately she was trying to hold on to her dignity and kept the procedure matter-of-fact. She gave him the five sets of house keys for the agent to deliver to the new owner, and dutifully signed the paperwork he placed in front of her.
‘Well,’ she said as she signed the last page. ‘I suppose that’s it, then.’
He nodded his head and she thought she saw his lower lip quiver. God help them both if he started to cry!
‘There’s just the matter of the business,’ he managed, after swallowing a few times.
Eliza sighed. She’d hoped he hadn’t uncovered more debt or other problems. ‘I thought the business was gone.’
‘Well, the name KinSearchers is still registered. We’re in the process of winding everything up but it will take some time until we can finally close the books. Nothing for you to worry about, except that one last client I mentioned, Mr Weaver.’
‘What about him? Surely he can find someone else to take his case on.’
‘Well, it seems not. I spoke to him and explained your situation, at which point he became quite agitated. He’s quite elderly, from what I can gather. He and your father apparently did some business together some years back, and Hugh had promised to help him.’
‘There’s nothing I can do. I don’t know a thing about probate investigation.’
‘Perhaps you could – no, never mind,’ the lawyer said. ‘I’ll speak to him again. Poor man. He was quite distraught to hear about your father.’ His voice was husky as he took her hand in both of his, clasping it warmly. ‘If
you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate.’
Eliza managed a wan smile. ‘Thank you, Lincoln, for your kindness and guidance, and for handling everything for me. I’m sure it’s been a difficult time for you too.’
His ruddy face drooped further as he held the door open for her. ‘Sad business all round.’
Eliza was halfway out of the room when she stopped and turned. She had enough troubles of her own right now but the thought of Mr Weaver, an old man blindsided by a friend’s death, made her uncomfortable. Didn’t she at least owe him a personal phone call?
‘On second thoughts, I will speak to Mr Weaver,’ she said. ‘Do you have a number for him?’
‘Better than that, I had his case file pulled before I spoke to him.’ Lincoln went to a filing cabinet, plucked out a folder and handed it to Eliza.
‘Okay, I’ll call him and recommend another firm.’
‘I would suggest Probate Professionals. That’s where most of KinSearchers’ remaining clients ended up.’
‘Thanks.’ Eliza gave him a quick hug and hurried out of the building. This would be the one last thing she did for her dad.
Finding paid work was a chicken-and-egg situation, Eliza soon discovered. Experience was required in order to get employment, yet you could only get it with a job. She had started with the Historic Homes Foundation, which welcomed her back as a volunteer with open arms, but the foundation’s non-profit status meant they had no spare cash to take on additional paid employees. They did promise a reference if she ever needed one, which was looking distinctly unlikely. Eliza had now applied for twenty-eight entry-level office jobs and received exactly zero responses, bar one ‘thanks but no thanks’ email.
Worse, this afternoon she’d arrived home to find a bill for council rates in the mailbox. Sooner rather than later, the electricity bill would arrive and then the strata fees would be due. Plus there were groceries to buy each week. And petrol. The list was never-ending! How did people do it, month after month?
She laughed self-deprecatingly. Welcome to the real world!
Before she’d even taken off her coat, she realised she might have to sell her car if she was going to stay solvent. The zippy little Renault had been another present from her father, but if she didn’t get paid work in the next few weeks she would have no choice but to sell. What happened after that, she had no idea. There was nothing else to sell, except the flat.
Feeling deflated, she sat down at the dining table and stared at the rates bill, but it got no smaller with the passing minutes. Eventually, with a groan, she took it and tossed it onto the kitchen bench to deal with later, and found herself looking at the case folder Lincoln had handed over the other day. She still hadn’t contacted Mr Weaver and, as today couldn’t get much worse, she thought she might as well deal with it now.
There was scant information inside, just a phone number and a few hastily written notes that were almost illegible, as though someone had never really intended to follow up. She could make out the words ‘McLeod’ and ‘Coffs Harbour’, but little more. She’d hoped there would be an email address so she didn’t have to actually speak to the man. No such luck.
The phone rang for a long time before a rather tremulous voice answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Weaver, this is Eliza Mayberry.’
‘Who?’
‘Eliza Mayberry. I’m Hugh’s daughter. Mr Weaver, I believe you spoke with my father’s lawyer recently so you’ll know that Hugh died a few weeks ago.’ Eliza paused. ‘I’m so sorry but his business KinSearchers has closed down, so you’ll need to find another firm to represent you.’
After a minute of silence, Eliza said, ‘Mr Weaver, are you there?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to come here, then. I’m at 23 Watson Grove, Randwick. Come for tea on Tuesday.’
‘Mr Weaver, I’m afraid —’
She got the dial tone. He’d rung off. A day she’d thought could not get any worse just had. She groaned and let her forehead drop to the table. Maybe she could just call it quits and go to bed now before the roof of her apartment caved in or the car blew up.
In the end, she made a toasted sandwich, and googled McLeod and Coffs Harbour, which produced nothing relevant. She did get some hits for Ernest Weaver, including grainy photos of an older man who apparently had dealings in the gem trade, but the articles were only from industry publications that mentioned his attendance at this or that trade fair.
Well, it didn’t matter. She had done her duty and spoken to the man. There was no obligation for any further involvement, none at all. Eliza snapped her laptop shut, telling herself to stay focused on her priorities, and promptly went to bed. If tomorrow was going to be another day from hell, she needed some sleep.
Watson Grove was a long row of dark-brick terraces from the turn of the twentieth century, and number twenty-three was at the far end, half-hidden behind an unruly hedge. Even now, not quite sure why she’d changed her mind and decided to talk to Ernest Weaver face to face, Eliza hesitated and glanced at her phone. It was three on the dot; perhaps, though, Mr Weaver’s teatime was at four, or maybe he’d meant morning tea. She could withdraw to a café at the busy Randwick intersection known locally as the Spot to reconsider whether this was even a good idea and, if she decided it was, she could return at four. However, that would be tantamount to prevarication and, like her mother, she’d always found that behaviour intensely irritating.
So she lifted the heavy knocker and rapped twice. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. Eventually she heard the shuffle of elderly feet and the door opened a crack.
‘Who is it?’ The thin and raspy voice was the one she’d heard on the phone.
‘Mr Weaver, I’m Eliza Mayberry – Hugh’s daughter. We spoke the other day.’
‘Yes?’
‘You invited me to tea.’
‘Yes, yes. You’re early but you’d better come in.’ Ernest Weaver abruptly opened the door wide and Eliza stepped through the doorway into a dim and echoing foyer with a decor that was decades old. Her eyes adjusted to take in the dark wood and peeling wallpaper before she was ushered into a large study piled high with books and papers. The air smelt stale, as though it, too, lingered from the previous century.
She followed the old man in. He hunched over a polished walking stick that seemed to be the only thing holding him up. ‘I really don’t know how I can help you —’
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mr Weaver interrupted, indicating a lumpy chaise. He tottered to a worn armchair and levered himself down tentatively.
‘There’s no tea,’ he said abruptly. ‘My help’s gone for the day.’
‘Don’t worry about tea, Mr Weaver.’ Eliza tried a smile, wondering what on earth this brusque old man and her gentle, charming father could possibly have had in common. ‘I understand you knew my father, and that you were a KinSearchers’ client. As the business is being wound up, I have some recommendations for other probate investigators you may wish to talk to.’ She took a list of recommendations from her bag.
‘One doesn’t entrust strangers with one’s dirty laundry. That’s why I went to Hugh.’ Ernest Weaver’s voice and hand might have been shaky but his stare through wire-rimmed glasses was stern.
‘Probate Professionals has a fine reputation in the area. I’m sure you can rely on them for discretion. The others on the list are smaller but equally reputable.’
Mr Weaver ignored the list as she handed it to him. ‘It’s my great-nephew, you see. Connie’s grandson.’ It was as if she should know the people he named. ‘I need to find him.’
Eliza wondered for the first time why he’d hired KinSearchers. Probate investigators were usually called in by solicitors handling the estates of those who had died without leaving a will. Though frail-looking, Ernest Weaver was very much alive. But asking questions would involve her more than she already was and she had enough worries of her own.
‘You should hire another company, a pr
ofessional organisation,’ Eliza repeated, leaning forward to hand him the list.
‘I have two months, maybe three.’
Eliza froze. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered eventually, pulling back her hand and returning the list to her bag.
Weaver waved an arm. ‘Rubbish,’ he snapped. ‘Why should you be? You don’t know me and, in any case, I’m eighty-two. Quite right I should die.’
‘Mr Weaver, I —’
‘Your father promised to help me.’
Hugh promised a lot of people a lot of things, always with good intentions. ‘But —’
‘This must be confidential, you understand. No briefing this person or that person. I told him I was prepared to pay, and I’ll offer the same to you. Hugh said the fee for his work was two per cent of the value of my estate. That’s what I’ll pay you if you bring the boy to me before I die.’
‘I don’t —’ she started to tell him that she had little knowledge of the business and no track record when it came to finding people, but the old man again interrupted.
‘It’s a considerable sum. At least thirty thousand dollars.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Eliza was stunned.
Weaver hauled himself to his feet. Holding on to the furniture, he tottered to his desk where he sat, breathing heavily. He rummaged in a drawer, pulled something out and wrote carefully on it. A minute later, he held out a cheque to Eliza.
She walked over to the desk and took it from him. It was for ten thousand dollars.
‘An advance, to be deducted from the full fee. Bring the boy to me and you’ll get the rest.’
‘And . . . and if I don’t? I could take this and just disappear.’
Ernest Weaver frowned as he looked her up and down. Eventually he seemed to find something that met his approval because he nodded. ‘You might. But I don’t think you will. You have your mother’s eyes. She was a fine woman – knew how to get things done.’
