by Ray Smithies
‘Agreed,’ I replied, staring at this vast area of worship.
Situated on Bridge Street, St Patrick’s encompassed around one and half hectares of surrounding lawns and gardens. In addition to its grand cathedral, a series of smaller buildings ran parallel to the rear of the site, including a resident presbytery and community hall. A tarred roadway carved its path down the left side of the church, where a car park lay in wait for parishioners and clergy alike. In terms of a possible tunnel entrance, I was beginning to think we might as well flip a coin as to where our search would commence. Like Hamish, I groaned at the mere thought of some excavation team going about their business of demolition and unearthing possible access to the subterranean passageways. This would indeed be a difficult site to address and one that time would hopefully dismiss. Besides, I couldn’t see the church taking kindly to some hypothetical whim that would result in this sort of disruption.
Continuing our walk a further block down Bridge Street, we crossed the road and stood in front of the Regency Nightclub. This establishment represented a somewhat cut-and-dried situation. A solid sandstone two-storey building stood wedged between an insurance company and a retail furniture store. The only visible entry was by way of a large front door. Windows were blacked out to deny any visual intrusion and a sign beside the entrance provided operating hours, including a telephone number for general enquiries. The building covered the entire site where access would need to be left for the police to inspect. We quickly decided to disregard the Regency and press on to the next landmark.
With the remaining sites spread further apart, Hamish suggested we return to the car and park near O’Riley’s Inn, maintaining it would be more central to the last four destinations. I couldn’t resist the opportunity.
‘And you call yourself a farmer, Hamish. Your fitness should leave me for dead.’ I grinned at the Irishman’s poor attempt to walk the distance.
‘Fair suck of the sav, Tom, I’ve already walked twelve blocks.’
‘Four, to be precise,’ I quickly corrected my friend.
As a result of Hamish’s persistence we parked our car at the top end of Finch Street and then proceeded toward our next port of call, the wholesale grocery outlet of Broadbent’s. Situated in Covert Road, we stopped opposite to study the warehouse layout.
Again we were looking at a site which appeared to be entirely covered by building, unless there happened to be exposed land to the rear of the premises. A raised roller door provided a view through to a sizable interior. I was rather surprised at the sheer depth of the building. To the front a loading bay served to assist couriers or small trucks with arrivals and deliveries. The remaining front section comprised of an office which ran to the edge of the property. It appeared to be in every way a typical warehouse layout. If Broadbent was to become a serious contender I could envisage a jackhammer working overtime.
I was becoming frustrated with the amount of landmarks that sat on a concrete base. The three-pointed star may have provided the intended sites, but it didn’t pinpoint the precise spot at the nominated address. By using Broadbent as an example, the authorities couldn’t simply front up and start breaking up the entire floor. This would surely be challenged by the tenants and most likely upheld in a court of law. No, something was telling me we were going about this the wrong way. We ultimately had to find the clue surrounding points one, two and three, concentrate on these alone and eliminate the remaining six sites. Although an unlikely candidate, I couldn’t dismiss the warehouse altogether. As with previous landmarks, this also required police intervention if it were to be seriously considered.
At this point in time I couldn’t help but think the guesswork had far outweighed anything constructive. Becoming pessimistic about the whole affair, I envisaged progress would be slow in discovering this unlocked secret unless the police, through manipulative authority, could uncover something by way of a thorough search. I kept reminding myself we had to soldier on and not dwell on disappointments. To this point our overall progress had been highly creditable and I wasn’t about to throw in the towel. Looking at Hamish, whose expression summed up my current feelings, I decided to at least brighten up our attitude and continue to give this puzzle our best shot.
‘Three sites to go, Hamish, and who knows what we might find,’ I encouraged.
‘Yeah, more concrete and jackhammers,’ he responded, sounding disheartened.
‘Come on, a bit of optimistic adventure, mate. We’ll head over to the market and see if we can uncover something.’
‘Stop with the bullshit. An Irishman never gives up,’ Hamish said with a broad grin.
In a surprise move he immediately sped up his footwork. Hamish had come to life for his steps were now bordering a canter. I was promptly left behind with his sudden lease of life.
‘Hang on! Are you on a mission or something?’ I called out.
‘Yeah, I smell an entrance.’
‘You’re bloody hopeless, Hamish.’
The aptly named Market Street stalls were closed on this particular day, which would allow Hamish and me to explore the area without the public’s irritating presence. The Pedley Market had historically occupied this site for more than fifty years. Open only on Wednesdays and Sundays, the market offered a variety of produce and horticultural lines, in addition to arts and crafts for those in search of a tempting bargain. It stood on a hectare of vacant land, where lines of trestle boards were erected on appropriate days. The ground was generally level and offered no indication of some hidden passageway.
Perhaps the one and only noticeable exception was a public convenience building situated on one side of the marketplace. It was a drab grey brick structure erected beside a group of silver birch trees. As I studied the toilet block, its size was reminiscent of some of the structures at the caravan park. I tossed around some ideas in my mind on the basis of a hypothetical situation. If this was indeed one of the three landmarks, why wasn’t there evidence of some structural damage caused by the unstable ground it sat on? No, this building was very sound and offered little to get excited about. I dismissed this site as being the least likely of all.
A little over a block away and still on Market Street, the sight of O’Riley’s Inn came into view. The hotel had a Tudor theme that looked both smart and inviting. Situated on the corner of Finch Street, it offered all the amenities to lure a good cross-section of the community. The main building was a two-storey structure where the entire first floor accounted for accommodation and a central lounge providing satellite and computer access. The ground level offered both a public and sporting bar, in addition to a restaurant and gaming-cum-TAB facility. A large beer garden was situated to the rear of the hotel and a drive-in bottle shop was conveniently located on the corner. Locals and visitors alike generally concluded that O’Rileys was Pedley’s premier facility.
I looked over the hotel wondering if it was indeed a prime candidate. There were numerous areas to be considered including the beer garden and rear grounds. To be expected, the property had an abundance of concrete pavement but I didn’t allow this to detract from the possibilities. The hotel would undoubtedly have a basement and I could foresee the police conducting their comprehensive search of the total site. Although only working on a hunch, I couldn’t help but think that O’Riley’s had strong claims. After all, my intuition was generally correct.
The land covered a vast area full of possible locations and the property stood unusually high when compared to its neighbouring market site. It was as if a huge mound of earth had been brought in to create its own individual hill. Considered prime real estate, it boasted incredible views overlooking the township and nearby Sapphire Bay. I could envisage the authorities in those early days erecting a stone house on this elevated site to maximise the splendid scenery.
Yes, all the ingredients were here. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced O’Riley’s was a front runner in laying claim to one of the subterranean passageways. If I’d been a bet
ting man I would have placed my money on this site. I turned to my Irish friend to see a reassuring nod of approval.
‘Um ... quite possible, don’t you think, Hamish?’
‘Yep! I’d like to know what’s under that bloody hill,’ he responded.
‘Okay, one site left my friend - the vast area of the Botanical Gardens.’
We both groaned at the sheer magnitude of the parkland. This would undoubtedly become the biggest challenge of all. The pride of Pedley was set on approximately eight hectares of winding gardens and foreshore. Gravel footpaths wound their course among an abundance of gums and deciduous trees. Manicured gardens with a small array of winter flowers provided a half reasonable backdrop to this tranquil setting. The parkland in places was undulating, leveling out when nearing the foreshore.
The sound of breaking waves could be heard as they repeatedly crashed against a distant rock pool. It was quite understandable why so many people frequently visited the Botanical Gardens to idle the hours away.
Hamish and I stood and looked around at this vast area before us. From an underground passageway perspective, it would be anybody’s guess as to where to start searching. Small mounds of earth scattered throughout the park contributed to the undulating effect. I guess it was feasible to assume that the ground could have been deliberately formed this way to accommodate such an entry. Garden sheds, possibly four or five, were strategically placed throughout the parkland. Some were erected in stone from a nearby quarry, while others were slapped together in what appeared to be treated pine. Maybe these small granite sheds were further possibilities to consider. We then spotted a gardener going about his business, raking together a large pile of oak leaves. I decided to seize the opportunity and question this fellow about some of the parks structures.
‘Excuse me. Could we have a moment of your time?’
‘Yeah, sure. What’s on ya mind?’ he replied.
‘My friend and I are doing some research on these gardens and we have a couple of questions if you don’t mine.’
‘Fire away.’
‘With these mounds of earth you see throughout the park, do you have any idea how they came about?’ I asked.
‘Remember it well. The council commissioned Crompton and Betts with the job of unloading all the landfill.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Seven years ago. The Botanical Gardens was given a grant to improve the place. The rest of the money went towards trees and plants and some timber sheds. The white gazebo you see in the middle of the park was given a facelift.’
‘What about the stone sheds?’
‘Oh those, they’ve been here for years, long before my time. They would’ve been built decades ago.’
‘Any chance of looking inside one?’ I asked.
‘I’m a bit pushed for time, but I guess one won’t hurt.’
We proceeded towards the closest shed. Our guide produced a ring of keys and the three of us entered the small confines. The area was no bigger than a four-metre-square room filled with gardening tools and a ride-on lawnmower. A narrow bench ran down one side and electricity was provided for overhead lighting. Everything sat on a concrete slab and the interior didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Assuming the other stone sheds were of similar makeup, logic told me our search would need to be concentrated elsewhere. We thanked the gardener for his time and proceeded toward the foreshore.
We walked past the striking architecture of a well-maintained gazebo. The large structure provided a three-step entrance to all four sides. In line with the gardener’s facelift comment, a fresh coat of paint had been applied within the past twelve months. The gleaming white structure looked majestic on the wide expanse of lawn.
A little further on a stoned toilet block suddenly came into view. The granite used was consistent with that of the shed we had been privileged to view. On a closer inspection of the building we realised there was little to get excited about. A concrete base was to be expected, but like its smaller counterpart, there were again no irregularities that warranted further explanation. Despite its sheer size, the parkland offered very little with respect to a possible subterranean entrance.
In reaching the foreshore, Hamish and I decided to walk the length of the bay that was exposed to the Botanical Gardens. The route offered a mixture of sand beaches, rock pools and seaside scrub primarily made up of leptospermum ti-tree. I looked across at a sharp cliff edge toward the far end of the parkland. A car could be seen ascending a gravel road that wound its path toward the peak. I could envisage the splendid views this vantage point would offer. It was probably the local courting spot to take your partner to on one of those ideal sunset evenings.
On completing our bay walk, I suggested to Hamish that we run through our nine options on offer. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got after that runaround.’
I studied the landmarks that had been noted down. In my own mind I had four possibilities that weren’t necessarily shared by Hamish. They were only hunches after all, with no hard evidence. It would require the constabulary to pursue these sites more thoroughly. Still, there had to be a start to all of this and my preferences had at least some merit. I decided to run them past Hamish for a second opinion.
‘Okay, Hamish, let’s work on a process of elimination. I believe the least likely are to be the Pedley Market, the Caravan Park and Botanical Gardens. I’m of the opinion a building of some sort holds more sway than open land because a structure, by its very existence, has greater opportunity to guard a secret. Something like the parkland is more vulnerable to the unsuspecting person, meaning there is more chance of someone stumbling across a hidden clue.’
‘But your caravan park contains a number of permanent buildings,’ insisted Hamish.
‘Nonetheless, I still can’t accept this to be one of the three sites. Let’s look at the remaining landmarks. Both the Advertiser and the Regency Nightclub sit entirely on their respective blocks. There is no exposed ground to speak of
‘That’s irrelevant. Previous buildings on these sites may have been half the size.’
‘But the excavation and foundations to support buildings of this size, which are erected on the entire land, would surely have uncovered something.’
‘Perhaps.’ Hamish sounded unconvinced.
‘No, I believe the likely candidates are the RSL Club, O’Riley’s Inn, St Patrick’s and Broadbent’s.’
‘I agree with O’Riley’s, but why the others?’ challenged Hamish.
‘Because they conjure up a number of possibilities.’
‘Oh, and what might they be?’
‘For God’s sake Hamish, do I have to spell out everything? Look at the facts. All three establishments have been around for decades, meaning there’s been little or no disturbance to the land that may have unearthed some mysterious passageway. Chances are all three contain a basement of some sorts and there is the likelihood -’
‘Okay, okay!’ Hamish didn’t appreciate being corrected again.
‘Despite all this, I can’t help but think that we are overlooking some fundamental understanding to points one, two and three of the star.’
I decided we had had enough of this merry-go-round for one day. Our next point of call would be to enlighten Forbes of our newfound discovery. Still concerned about Arthur Simpson’s whereabouts, I asked Hamish to accompany me on a visit to the pensioner’s 63 High Street address. Arthur’s wellbeing was starting to play on my mind and it was now time to put these anxieties to rest.
Arriving at his triple-fronted residence, my immediate perception was that of normal surrounds. The house appeared secured and the garage roller door was shut. Arthur’s Humber was parked in the driveway, which was the norm. He once told me the old relic was often left there in case a quick trip was warranted.
A knock on the front door brought no sound of approaching footsteps. I looked at Hamish with a concerned expression. We were now into our second day without Arthur and it seemed out of character for the old
bugger not to contact us, considering our close association of late. I then wondered if he lay unconscious somewhere in the house. After all, Arthur lived alone and at his age these circumstances could well prove possible. It was time to notify the police and have this checked out.
~ * ~
I
n the early hours of the preceding morning a Nissan Patrol had quietly slipped into Pedley unnoticed by the local constituency. It was three am and not a soul stirred in this seaside hamlet. To be expected at this ungodly hour, the village resembled a ghost town where any sign of life was temporarily put on hold.
A winter mist had descended on Pedley making outdoor activity an undesirable venture. Five men in a 4WD inconspicuously patrolled and observed the local sites amidst a foggy landscape. The search for the Piedpiper had suddenly picked up momentum. Indigo and his four lackeys had arrived well prepared. The rear of the Nissan contained an arsenal of weaponry that was reminiscent of a terrorist’s armory. The sheer magnitude of this collection implied their intended business would be on a grand scale.
