The Naturalist's Daughter

by Téa Cooper

  Concentrate.

  Methenwyck.

  Handwritten manuscript or print?

  Book cover.

  Something. Anything to narrow his search.

  Images of Tamsin bent over the sketchbook kept drifting into his mind. Her hair slipping out of the pins no matter how hard she tried to restrain it, her tooth worrying her bottom lip when she concentrated, the look on her face when he’d opened the tin, like a child at Christmas. He groaned and stood up, taking a long gulp from the beer bottle.

  Methenwyck. It was handwritten, faded. On a page full of lines and columns.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. What was his father up to? Squatters’ rights! The whole thing was becoming more and more contrived. How much money had he sunk in these investments? He could smell a rat and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be involved and he certainly didn’t want to have to tell Tamsin that Mrs Rushworth intended to sell the sketchbook. Why hadn’t he come clean in the first place?

  Methenwyck. Methenwyck.

  He pushed aside the pile of books he still hadn’t looked at. It wouldn’t be there. Then his eyes lit on the smaller pile tucked on the seat of the chair. Larger books, foolscap, thin. The ones he’d dumped last night. He picked them up and sat back down in the chair, the pile on his lap, and opened the cover. Paul Whitehead, Steward. Medmenham Abbey. It sounded like something out of a penny dreadful. A Gothic thriller. He turned the pages. Just columns of numbers and figures, dates, provisions, something to do with alcohol, and lists of names.

  Find the name. Methenwyck, Methenwyck. He ran his finger down the spidery writing, more dates and more names, then others. He scrubbed at his eyes and squinted down at the faded print.

  Methenwyck.

  He opened the ledger wide on the table and stared down, blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. It was there. Methenwyck. There could be a hundred Methenwycks in England, any number who might have taken passage to Australia.

  An insistent rapping on the door brought him from his reverie.

  Dumping the armful of books on the table he eased his way to the front door and threw it open. ‘Tamsin.’

  Wishful thinking.

  ‘That could possibly be a compliment bearing in mind the difference in our ages.’

  ‘Mrs Rushworth.’ What was she doing here? ‘Have the solicitors had an answer to their advertisements?’ In some strange way he hoped they had, then at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the woman’s irritating demands.

  ‘No, they haven’t. And that is why I am here.’ She took a step closer and peered around him. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’

  That was the last thing he wanted to do. ‘I’m not really set up for guests. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow at the offices?’ Besides he had no idea whether Father had told the Rushworths of his title deed search.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Before he had the chance to reply she barged past him and marched down the narrow hallway.

  He skittered after her steadying boxes as her shoulder thumped against first one stack and then another. ‘Straight ahead. The kitchen I’m afraid.’ At least that way there’d be enough space for her to sit. He brushed past her and pushed the pile of books into the centre of the table. ‘Sit down.’

  She perched on the edge of the battered bentwood chair, her fingers rubbing at a groove in the scarred tabletop.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I won’t beat around the bush. Have you found a buyer yet?’

  He gazed up at the peeling ceiling. ‘No, I haven’t. I’m still trying to establish the provenance. It could make an enormous difference to the price.’ Especially if Tamsin was correct about the importance of Winton’s research. ‘And there is a question over the will.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. The sketchbook belonged to my mother. No matter who inherits Will-O-Wyck the sketchbook forms part of my mother’s personal possessions. No one else knows about it and no one has made a claim to it. We’ve been over this before. I want the sketchbook, now.’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  Her eyes bulged. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s safe under lock and key at the Library.’

  ‘You had no right to give the book to the Library. It belongs to me, my mother’s possession. I shouldn’t have let your father talk me into dealing with you. Get it back.’

  It was an interesting angle and probably depended very largely on how the will was worded. Except the Library knew about it because of Mrs Quinleaven’s letter. ‘As I said before there is little or no point in putting it on the market until the provenance is established. I have made some headway in establishing authenticity. I …’

  ‘Provenance be damned. I want it—need it—sold now. To the highest bidder. No one can prove it didn’t belong to my mother.’ She reached out her fingers clawing at his shirtsleeve. ‘I am sure you are aware of our financial issues. Your father stands to lose if the quarterly loan repayment is not met. Selling the sketchbook for a slightly lower amount will ultimately reap a higher financial reward.’

  ‘This would be far better discussed in the office. I have said I will collect the sketchbook at the beginning of the week. The Library have every right to evaluate it especially after your mother’s letter.’

  ‘Where is this letter? I presume you’ve sighted it.’

  No, he hadn’t. He’d taken Tamsin’s word for it.

  ‘Shaw, please.’ She lifted her gaze to him and he noticed the tell-tale sign of tears pooling.

  He couldn’t stand tears.

  She gave a delicate sniff and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. ‘No one needs to know that the sketchbook was part of Kelly’s estate. We can say she wasn’t in her right mind when she wrote the letter, that she’d forgotten she’d given me the book. Isn’t possession meant to be nine-tenths of the law?’

  Oh no. He wasn’t going down that path. He was trying to establish his reputation, not destroy it.

  ‘When the time comes to dispose of the library at Will-O-Wyck you might like first refusal.’ She dangled the bait in front of his nose like a seasoned fly fisherman and he was tempted, sorely tempted. ‘I know there are several more books that you expressed an interest in. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement. Payment doesn’t only have to be in the form of a commission.’

  For a split second he wavered. She was right, there were more than several books he’d give his eyeteeth to own but they weren’t hers to give. Might never be. Nor was the sketchbook and besides now he’d discovered more about Rose Winton he wanted to solve the mystery of Winton’s disappearance from the world of science and why he had never been given credit for his discoveries.

  ‘I can’t do that.’ He turned back to face her. ‘I’ve told the Library they can keep the book until next week.’

  She rolled her eyes and picked at the binding on the book on the table in front of her. ‘What are these? In fact what are all these books.’ She waved a gloved hand in the air. ‘The house is full of them. I thought this bibliophile label was just that; a label, not a fact.’

  ‘It’s my grandfather’s library. Shipped out from England.’

  ‘And these? She thumbed through the pages of the top ledger and he leapt forward and snatched them from her, unwilling to share his half-baked theories. He had to get her out of here.

  ‘Are you looking for something specific?’ She glanced at the floor where the random piles of boxes lay. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  No. Not even as a last resort.

  ‘I sent my driver away, he’ll return shortly. I may as well do something useful, perhaps I can convince you of my sincerity.’

  ‘I was just having a look at some old ledgers.’ He lifted the Cellar Book and a yellowed newspaper slid onto the table.

  She reached for it.

  His hand came down on top of it but she tugged it towards her. Terrified the page would tear he let go.

  ‘How quaint. 1820. The West Briton and Cornwall Advertiser. Did your
grandfather come from Cornwall?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know. Grandfather lived just outside Oxford. I intended to go to university there but it never came about.’ Because his bloody father had summoned him back to Australia to make sure he followed in his footsteps instead of reading Classics as he and Grandfather had intended.

  She shook her head. ‘I remember visiting Oxford—like something out of the dark ages, all those damp cold buildings and hushed voices.’ She gave a melodramatic groan. ‘I don’t think I ever visited Cornwall. Wasn’t that where King Arthur kept his Knights of the Round Table and the Lady of the Lake? I always particularly loved that story.’

  The Lady of the Lake. Dozmary Pool. Cornwall. The drawing folded in the back of the sketchbook. Every single one of the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

  ‘What time is it?’

  He pulled his watch from his pocket. ‘Eight-thirty.’ Hopefully time for her to leave. His mind was rushing in a series of circuits and bumps like one of those new-fangled air machines. He needed to make notes, write things down, order his thoughts. There were too many frail tendrils tantalising him.

  Mrs Rushworth let out a sigh and stretched out her legs in front of her. ‘And you’re not prepared to discuss the sale of the sketchbook until the will is resolved. I can’t convince you to change your mind?’

  ‘No.’ At some point during their earlier discussion he’d become even more emphatic.

  ‘In that case perhaps you could offer me a cup of tea while I wait for my driver.’ She turned in the chair and studied the disgusting sink packed with random cups and empty beer bottles. ‘You do have the facilities?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ He reached for the teapot and set it on the table. ‘Sugar?’ He turned to find Mrs Rushworth with her elbows on the table staring intently at the old newspaper. ‘Mrs Rushworth?’

  She lifted her head. ‘This is more than quaint.’ Her finger stabbed at the centre of the page. ‘“Calamitous Fire. Yesterday morning, a fire broke out at Wyck Hall.” That’s a coincidence isn’t it. Wyck Hall and Will-O-Wyck. Where does the word come from?’

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose again. Will-O-Wyck. Methen-wyck. Wyck Hall. Too much of a coincidence.

  ‘What does “wyck” mean? I didn’t pay much attention to the name of the house when I arrived in Wollombi.’

  More interested in the inheritance she believed had landed in her lap. ‘Haven’t got a clue. Wick of a candle?’ He grabbed at the paper and pulled it towards him.

  ‘Surely you have a dictionary amongst all these books. Look it up.’

  ‘In a moment, in a moment.’ His eyes raced across the page … the home of Lord Methenwyck that we fear has been productive of the most disastrous effects. The constables of Bodmin, Camborne and all the neighbouring parishes were called upon to protect the property, and by their exertions and those of the other persons present, it was hoped the principal front would be saved. The wind, however, afterwards changed, and when our informant left, great fears were entertained that the building would be entirely consumed. The origin of the fire was not known, and the damage is likely to be immense.

  He stretched out his arm and sent the teapot flying. ‘I’ll sort it out later.’ Thank God he hadn’t spilt tea across the paper.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  ‘That’s my driver.’ Mrs Rushworth stood. ‘Think about what I said. The library at Will-O-Wyck could house a goldmine.’ She raised her eyebrows in question. ‘I’ll come with you when you collect the sketchbook.’

  The library and the tea forgotten he escorted Mrs Rushworth to the door and waited while she drove off, then returned to the kitchen. Dozmary Pool, the additional picture in the back of the sketchbook. That tied it to Cornwall. No, it was a long shot. The drawing was tucked inside the back cover of the sketchbook; it could have been put there at any time.

  A faint light illuminated the windows when he picked up the last of the Cornwall Advertisers. He flipped through the pages until his eyes locked on the headline: Fire at Wyck Hall. The following is a more particular account of this disastrous event than the shortness of the time allowed us to lay before our readers last week. His eyes raced across the page, his heart rate keeping pace with his mounting excitement … flames spread, and speedily consumed the whole house … Lord Methenwyck and his heir Julian perished. Lady Caroline Methenwyck … taken the afternoon mail coach … with her guest, a Miss Rose Winton, visiting from New South Wales.

  He placed a piece of paper on the page where he’d found the article, almost as though he was frightened it might disappear, that it had been a figment of his overtired imagination.

  Lowering the paper to the table he stared down at the headline. Of all people Mrs Rushworth had found what he was looking for!

  Twenty

  Sydney, Australia 1908

  The hands on the clock clicked and Tamsin groaned. She’d achieved nothing all day, absolutely nothing. She’d spent the entire time working her way backwards and forwards through the sketchbook and Winton’s correspondence as if she could in some way absorb Rose’s story from the pages. Why had she gone to London? Had she taken the sketchbook with her? Why hadn’t Winton gone with her?

  ‘Tamsin I’m locking up. Time you went home.’ Mrs Williams stuck her head around the door. ‘Get some fresh air, you look as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘I’m just leaving.’ She threw her notebook and pencil into her bag and lifted the books from her desk. Perhaps the answer lay in the tin. Jenifer Trevan, the epitaph, the dates all wrong because she was listed on the muster twenty years after she had died. Why had she been sent to Australia? What crime had she committed? Shaw hadn’t told her that. Where was the tin? Not on the desk. Perhaps it was still in her satchel.

  No, nothing.

  ‘Come along.’

  ‘Just coming, Mrs Williams.’ When had she last had it? Not today. It must have been the first day she hadn’t pulled the daguerreotype out and looked at it. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  ‘Are you all right, Tamsin?’ Mrs Williams threw open the door.

  ‘Yes I’m fine. I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my tin.’

  ‘Oh! The biscuit people. When did you last have it?’

  ‘Yesterday!’ Oh God! She’d shown Shaw Jenifer Trevan’s name, to remind him. ‘Last night, when I was with Shaw. I might have left it in the café.’ Would they have kept it? Thrown it away? ‘I have to go.’ She pushed past Mrs Williams, took the stairs two at a time and flew out into the street.

  By the time she reached the Quay she was bellowing like a steam engine and she slumped against the lamp post outside the café trying to get enough air into her lungs to go inside and ask.

  She pushed open the door and glanced around hoping against hope Shaw would be sitting there. The table was empty. She’d half expected—no not half expected, hoped—he’d turn up at the Library today but she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. The old man turned from his flaming pans and nodded at her over his shoulder. She made her way to the counter.

  ‘Yes, missy.’

  ‘I was wondering if you found an old tin, last night.’

  ‘Old tin?’

  ‘We were sitting at the table over there.’ She pointed into the corner.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Ah! With Shaw. No, no tin. No Shaw.’

  Resisting the urge to stamp her feet and scream she nodded her thanks and made her way outside. She couldn’t remember having it in her hand when she’d left. Maybe Shaw had picked it up. Her panic eased a little. That’d be it. She’d been so absorbed by his news they’d hardly spoken a word on the way to the ferry. She’d jumped aboard and he’d disappeared into the sunset.

  She slipped onto the wharf just as the ropes were being thrown from the ferry. ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘Better be quick.’

  She jumped across the expanding gap of water and landed with a thud.

  ‘You’ve done that before.’

  ‘Just a c
ouple of times.’ She handed over her fare and sat on one of the seats outside enjoying the breeze in her hair. Mrs Williams was right, not enough fresh air.

  As soon as they docked she started to walk across the park and then stopped; instead of going home she headed down Blues Point Road looking for Shaw’s car. What had he said? Number 121. It could only be about five minutes out of her way and she wouldn’t sleep without knowing what had happened to the tin. Besides, she’d quite like to see him.

  She grabbed at her hair and tried to rectify the mess the wind had made then gave up. It wasn’t a social call just a quick knock on the door and … maybe he’d ask her in for tea, she wasn’t sure she’d accept beer. Her head had felt strangely fuzzy when she’d woken this morning, more likely the fact she’d barely slept than anything else, her mind on Mother and Father and life before the Islands for some strange reason.

  She couldn’t fault them for their missionary zeal but their parenting was another matter. Once she’d reached the age of ten they’d as good as washed their hands of her. Bundled her onto a ship with some other passengers returning to Australia who, following their instructions, had deposited her at the Sydney Ladies Academy under the guidance of the two Misses Green. And she’d never seen them again.

  All their promises about returning, taking her out of school, had never eventuated and with the news of their death two years later she’d become a permanent fixture remaining at school year in, year out. That became a double-edged sword seen by the other girls as privileged, seen by the Misses Green as a nuisance: she spent her entire time betwixt and between.

  By the time she reached eighteen she had more than overstayed her welcome and with their assistance had enrolled in the Women’s College at Sydney University intent on furthering her education, fulfilling Mother’s dream to see her daughter as one of the new breed of women—a doctor!