Ill-Gotten Gains

by Evans, Ilsa

  ‘Saturday. No, Friday.’

  ‘Friday. Of course. Anyway she was near useless. All mixed up. She said that after the fight there was a big scandal because the woman ran off with one of the blokes. Hopefully she picked the live one, eh!’

  I was frowning. ‘But if it’s the woman I’m thinking off, she married the original James Sheridan. So she didn’t run off anywhere.’

  ‘Told you she was useless. According to her, our nan used to say “like mother, like daughter” after she told the story. But I think she just makes things up. Bernie, that is. For instance, she said Nan had all these cats but she only had two. Or maybe it was three? No, I remember it was two because one was white and one was –’

  ‘Are you ready, Mum?’ Ruby had returned and was jingling her keys.

  ‘Yes. Thank you so much. Oh, and Grace? I don’t suppose you remembered where you’d heard the story?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes I did. It was Betty here. She told me.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Well thank you both. I’ll see you next Monday, rain, hail or shine.’

  ‘Most probably rain,’ said Betty. ‘They say we’re in for a nasty spell early next week. Or was it later?’

  Ruby and I made our escape, striding down the street and around the corner into Sheridan Lane. The workmen were now singing along to ‘The Gambler’ by Kenny Rogers. Perhaps I could use their voices to bargain the price down. I twisted as we drove back past the shops, having a last look, then I moved myself to face Ruby. I was on a roll. ‘So, what are your plans then?’

  ‘Go back to work, I suppose. Unfortunately.’

  ‘No, I meant your long-term plans. What’s next?’

  She frowned. ‘Do we have to talk about that now?’

  ‘Given we’re always surrounded by other people, it seems a good opportunity.’

  ‘I just don’t want a frigging lecture, Mum.’ She pulled up at the traffic lights but continued to stare ahead. ‘I know I’ve ballsed everything up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said, although it was fairly accurate. ‘Anyway, some people take longer to work out what they want to do, that’s all. Why not start with what you don’t want? Like working for your grandmother.’

  ‘God! You can say that again!’

  ‘Okay, so retail is out.’ I stiffened as the car jerked forward. ‘And taxi-driving.’

  ‘And hospitality. She keeps sending me to work in the cafe and I hate it! I want to do something I enjoy. That I get up every morning and look forward to.’

  I watched the frustration tighten her face. ‘Rube, I don’t think there’s a job anywhere that’s enjoyable every single day. Sometimes work is just work, and sometimes it’s what you make it.’ I paused for a moment. ‘What worries me is that you seem to have incredibly high expectations. I just don’t know if they’ll ever be met.’

  ‘Thanks a frigging lot, Mum. That makes me feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘Don’t be so sensitive. I’m trying to help.’

  Ruby reached into the console and fished out a stick of chewing gum. ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘Do I take it then that you have no plans?’

  ‘Well … I do have one idea.’ She flicked a glance at me and then stared at the road. ‘A friend of mine is doing it this year and she says it’s amazing.’

  ‘What is?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Um, volunteering abroad. And before you say anything, hear me out. It’s organised through an aid agency.’ Her voice sped up, probably to prevent me interrupting. ‘Totally legit. You go over to one of those Third World places for a year and –’

  ‘And you have to pay for your travel expenses. How are you going to do that?’

  ‘By selling my car. It’d be worth it because it’d give me a chance to work out what I want to do while I’d be seeing the world and doing some good. Making a difference.’

  We had pulled up in the driveway by now, behind the police car. I stared ahead at my broken fence and then closed my eyes for a moment. ‘Look, Ruby, I just –’

  ‘No, don’t say anything now. I have to get back to work anyway. Just think about it and we’ll talk later. I’ll send you the website if you like.’

  ‘Okay.’ I leant over to give her a clumsy hug, my collar bumping against her shoulder. Then I got out of the car and watched as she reversed out onto the road and then took off, gravel spitting against the letterbox. My roll had just come to an abrupt halt. Would there ever be a time when I had all five daughters sorted? Or had I lessened those chances when I had kept propagating willy-nilly? One would have been simple, two manageable – but five was just masochistic. Then again, I knew people with just the one child who kept them awake at night so perhaps it was more about personality than numbers. Like mother, like daughter popped into my head and I smiled ruefully.

  The surly young policeman nodded as I passed the car. I wondered if he even knew it was me; no doubt he thought all middle-aged women looked the same. If it had been one of the others, Matthew or Amber, I would have offered coffee but he didn’t bring out the hostess in me. I continued into the house and came to a halt in the hallway, thinking. What if Betty Rawlings’ cousin Bernie wasn’t totally useless? What if she had simply got two stories mixed up, the one about Kata and another about Matija? Like mother, like daughter. My eyes widened as I accompanied this thought along a path that rapidly smoothed out. In a town with far more men than women, an eighteen-year-old Matija, particularly if she took after her mother, would no doubt have been a source of much admiration. It would have been surprising, in fact, if she hadn’t had a couple of men vying for her affection. Perhaps she became engaged to young James because it was what her family wanted, but her heart had lain elsewhere. And perhaps she had found she simply could not go through with it, running away instead with the man she really loved. Marrying him, taking his name and effectively vanishing. All of which meant we just needed to find out who he was in order to find her. Simple.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I think all this invisibility rubbish is exactly that. I am perfectly visible to those who matter in my life. Who cares about the rest?

  It was a picture-perfect winter night, crisp and cloudless with a moon that was just a sliver from full. Trees were silhouetted against the charcoal sky like cardboard cutouts, without the slightest breeze, and the flat black of the road was like a typewriter ribbon. If such things still existed.

  Fortunately the unpleasant young policeman had taken over from Matthew at midnight so I had no compunctions about leaving him to guard an empty house while I strolled up to meet Deb by the highway. Also fortunately she had been prompt, because it was extremely cold. For the first time since the accident I was wearing my hat, even if it did combine with the collar to give me a monochrome mushroom look. I was also wearing black pants and a long black coat, Matrix-style, and rather fancied the appropriateness of my outfit. Deb, on the other hand, had just gone with jeans and a puffy, noisy ski jacket.

  We reached the traffic lights outside Majic at precisely three am. The town seemed eerily frozen, not a breath of life, a flicker of movement. Instead the landscape had a tranquillity that was almost tangible. Deb turned off the main street and Sheridan House loomed before us, rising from the earth like a gothic movie set. The turrets, the gables, the soaring inscrutability were made for this time of the night. Apart from some filtered light from the odd window, no doubt for security, and the distant glow of streetlights along the highway, the only illumination was the swollen moon and a scattering of stars. Any moment a grim-faced Hugh Jackman would stride purposefully across the car park, sword in hand. One could only hope.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Deb, casting the building a glance as she skirted the car park.

  I frowned. ‘Hang on, where are you going?’

  ‘Just around to the back. It’s more private.’ She turned into the rear car park and pulled into a close proximity of where Sam’s car had been. Within minutes of turning off the engine, the temperature bega
n to plummet. Deb rubbed her hands together, her jacket rasping noisily. ‘You’re sure Petra’s coming?’

  I nodded. ‘She’s always late. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, while we’re waiting I’ll show you this.’ Deb’s sleeves rustled as she pulled a sheet of paper from her bag. ‘I was going to leave it till Petra got here, but …’

  She flicked the glove box open and a light came on. I saw a printout containing a newspaper advertisement and a column of handwritten dates: 1885, 1886, 1887, 1888. I leant towards the dashboard to read.

  Missing friends, Messages, & c.

  JULIUS BURGER, Your wife arrived per Pemptos. Communicate at once with William Crosby & Co., 14 Queens-street.

  MISS M. SHERIDAN, The door is always open. All will be well. J.S., Majic.

  WILLIAM WHITBY, Esq., of Maryborough, Queensland, please wire your address to ERNEST J.W. CHAMBERS, Solicitor

  ‘It’s from the Argus, a newspaper that was published from 1848 till 1956. The same ad was printed in February each of those years,’ explained Deb, pointing to the handwritten dates. ‘They were the only mention that Lew could find anywhere with either surname.’

  ‘God, young James didn’t give up easily. Took him four years.’

  ‘Yes. It’s rather sad.’

  I was still staring at the paper. ‘So is the fact that Julius Burger’s wife seems to have been abandoned. William Crosby and Co sound a little peeved.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Burger. Maybe her second marriage was to someone called McDonald and her future was assured.’

  ‘Apart from the clogged arteries.’

  Deb closed the glove box and took the sheet back, folding it in half. ‘But this means James may not have been aware of a second guy. He calls Matilda Miss Sheridan.’

  ‘Or maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to use that name. Anyway, he probably knew that if she read the paper at all, she’d look under her maiden name as well.’

  Headlights flickered from around the corner and Petra’s car eased into view. With a crunching of gravel, she parked next to Deb and leapt out to tug my door open. ‘Come on, it’s freezing! Good god, are you dressed as a cat burglar? You do realise your collar glows in the dark?’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. I hit snooze once too often.’ She slapped her gloved hands together. Her breath came out in puffy plumes. ‘Come on, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Well, first, not to make too much noise.’ Deb slung her bag over her shoulder and waited until I got out before locking the car. There was enough reflected light to see our way to the rear door. Deb got out a heavy set of keys and sorted through until she found the right one. The door opened with an effort, scraping teeth-jarringly over the flagged threshold, and we stepped through into a dark recess behind the stairs. She pushed the door closed and the lock engaged automatically. A cold, cavernous silence enveloped us.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, how illegal is this?’ asked Petra. ‘And how long have we got?’

  ‘At least two hours and it shouldn’t take us nearly that,’ replied Deb, ignoring the first question. ‘Will’s been getting here early but never before six. I’d like to be out by five.’

  Our eyes were already beginning to adjust to the near-darkness, which was itself alleviated as we rounded the corner and started up the stairs. The only sound was Deb’s jacket, which sounded like two canvas tents trying to mate. At the third floor we paused.

  ‘I’ll go guard first,’ I said, mainly because I needed to use the bathroom anyway.

  Deb nodded. ‘Okay, half an hour sentry duty each. That should do us.’

  They continued down the hallway to the Historical Society room, and Deb unlocked the door. I turned to scout my position. A small alcove between the bathroom and the passage contained a window that looked out over the main car park, together with what would normally be a wonderful view of the valley. At the moment it was dark, with just smudged streetlights in the distance. I couldn’t see the rear car park but was less worried about that direction as it was seldom used and, besides, I was confident that even from upstairs I would hear the rear door being used. In fact, I could probably hear it from my house.

  It was during a flurry of emails yesterday afternoon that I remembered Leisl Akermann mentioning a database with past inhabitants of Majic. This, we had rapidly realised, was our best chance of finding the man Matija had eloped with, if indeed that was what had happened. At the very least, it was an avenue that needed to be closed. We were working on the assumption that they married at some point during or after 1885, resulting in a name-change that removed both Matija Majic and Matija Sheridan from the records. This meant that every eligible male in 1885, and then working backwards, needed to be checked against a genealogical site that Lew had provided. It would have been easier to download or print the records, and then go through them at our leisure, but apparently the database was protected and the printer coded. So we were stuck at the centre and Lew was stuck at home, sitting by their computer and waiting for his share of names. We were anticipating quite a few.

  I checked the car park and then used the bathroom, bruising both shins in the darkness, before settling myself on the window ledge and wrapping my coat tightly around me for warmth. Star light, star bright, I wish I had this wish tonight. I put one hand on the window, starfish-like, and felt the chill seep into my skin. I simply could not imagine Ruby providing community aid in a Third World country. I couldn’t even imagine her providing community aid in a First World country. This was a girl who struggled to provide aid in the kitchen. Scarlet was the one with a strong sense of social justice, while Lucy was the one who was brimming with altruism. Ruby was my sporty one and, later on, my restless one. Flitting along in her older sister’s shadow and trying to find her own place in the light. I wasn’t sure that selling her only viable asset and running away for a year was going to do it.

  ‘Psst, my turn,’ hissed Petra. She grinned when I jumped. ‘Great guard you are.’

  ‘I was watching the car park.’ I yawned and then adjusted my collar as I rose. ‘What’s the time? Oh, and how’s it going?’

  ‘Ten to four, and boring. No luck yet. Shit, it’s freezing!’

  I left Petra briskly rubbing her arms in the alcove. As soon as I opened the office door, I realised why she had felt the temperature so keenly. It was toasty warm in here, with two small electric heaters glowing fiery red. Deb, now jacket-less, was in front of a computer in the corner but was busily keying into her smart phone. She was wearing her red-framed glasses. I walked over to examine the monitor. It contained a complex spreadsheet of names and dates and numbers.

  ‘Okay.’ She turned and gestured towards a nearby chair. An iPad sat on the desk. ‘I’ve got the database on this computer but we don’t want to use any others in case someone checks the history. So we’re using our own devices to check the names. Lew’s got the computer at home, I’m using my phone and you’ve got the iPad. Make sense?’

  I nodded as I slipped off my coat and sat down. I used some books to build a stand for the iPad, bringing it up to my impeded line of vision. Henry Cornwallis was the last name that had been checked. A black-and-white photo showed a gloomy-faced man with an equally gloomy-faced wife and a pair of gloomy children. Fun times at the Cornwallis household.

  ‘Not all have photos,’ said Deb, glancing at the iPad. ‘Anyway, the site is loaded so you just key in the name and check the information. If there’s no record, or not enough details to rule him out, then write him down here.’ She slid a notepad across and opened it to a page with about eight names. Then she flicked it back to the first page. ‘I’ll write the names to be checked here, and you cross them off as you go. Ready?’

  I nodded again and got started. It was slow and tedious work, particularly as the site reloaded itself with each new name. Even more annoying was the fact my iPad kept slipping from its stand, causing Jeremiah Eastermann or James Titchfield or Henry Dore to go spinning from horizontal to vertical and then
back. A headache formed slowly in the base of my skull and worked its way forward to my temples. Every so often Deb’s phone would buzz and she would relay a fresh list of names to Lew. He seemed to be working quicker than either of us.

  After half an hour, Deb loaded the notepad with names to be checked and then took her turn at guard duty. Petra swept into the room and went straight to the heater, holding her hands over the glowing bars.

  ‘We’re never going to find this guy,’ I commented, taking a moment to stretch.

  ‘I no longer care,’ said Petra. She sat down in Deb’s chair and picked up the smart phone, then put it down again. ‘I thought espionage was supposed to be exciting. And less frigging cold.’

  ‘I’m thinking of buying Dad’s old shop. Turning it into a townhouse.’

  ‘Really?’ Petra stared at me. She frowned, thinking, and then nodded. ‘Actually, I can see that. Great location, too. No, I think that’s a great idea! When did this happen?’

  ‘I only looked at them yesterday. I rang the real estate agent who’s handling them and got some prices. The problem is that I’d really like both, but they’re a bit higher than I want to go. I think the owner wants to recoup the architect costs, for starters. But he should be flexible. They’ve been on the market for over a year, the motel across the road should make a difference, and he’d be getting rid of both at the same time. So I was thinking …’

  ‘You want me to make some inquiries?’

  ‘Yes. Because you’re used to this sort of thing. I can’t do it if the price isn’t right, because I have to allow for actual renovations.’

  ‘No problem.’ Petra lapsed into silence for a while. ‘Do you remember those carcasses hanging out the back? I hated them. They used to give me nightmares.’

  ‘I’d forgotten those. Don’t ruin things.’