As they sipped tea in a companionable silence, Nick looked around the study with an inner sigh of appreciation. It was exactly the type of office he could see himself having in a few years. The sage-green walls featured framed paintings of Australian landscapes by Fred Williams, Albert Namatjira, Hans Heysen and a few by Monica Baillie. A globe of the world sat next to a set of scales atop a rosewood cabinet. Arranged artfully next to the paintings were framed pictures of a younger Patrick with a dark-haired woman, and a mass of photographs of a young boy at different ages – obviously his son, Pip. A large framed photo of Don Bradman with a younger, beaming Patrick had pride of place.
Old sports trophies lined a shelf; noting Nick’s interest, Patrick admitted that he collected them from fetes and pawn shops and hadn’t won any himself in his youth. ‘I was always the swot in the school library,’ he confided, which made Nick warm to him even more.
Jaunty jazz music played in the background and Nick’s foot tapped along to the tune as he entertained a fantasy of buying a weekender in the mountains and renovating it. Patrick’s historic red-brick home, in the heart of Mount Bellwood, with its kauri and tallow-wood floors and verandah, its garden conservatory facing onto a neat yard filled with deciduous trees, would suit him perfectly. The spacious office was crammed with curios, antiques, and cabinets filled with bric-a-brac; there were thousands of fascinating books, both antiquarian and modern. An old-fashioned roll-top writing desk with its inkwell and fountain pens invited you to sit and compose a letter or leisurely plot a novel. There wasn’t a computer to be seen, unless Patrick had it cunningly hidden away. It was a gent’s office, Nick thought admiringly. A haven from nagging, neurotic women, where you could sip Scotch or port, read detective stories and pore over old maps.
He expelled a wistful sigh and Patrick nodded knowingly. ‘Good to hide away in here,’ he said. ‘Every man needs a room of his own. I imagine the women at the Nests are driving you mad. Ginger has aged – still a beautiful woman, but my God, she could talk underwater.’
‘Too right,’ Nick agreed treacherously, ignoring the great enjoyment he had been taking from Ginger’s conversation.
‘I have to admit, I miss the company of the fairer sex around the house,’ Patrick said. ‘My darling wife, Olive, died in the early seventies, and Pip is busy in town as a curator at Sydney University.’
Nick nodded, and decided to get to the point of his visit. ‘I’ve been listening to some of Ginger’s tapes about her time at Currawong Manor. It’s fascinating stuff. I hear that you were a visitor there?’
‘Only a few times,’ Patrick told him. ‘Any visitor from the town would be gossiped about mercilessly.’ He broke off, reliving some old memory.
‘Because of the Flowers?’ Nick probed, hoping for a juicy story.
‘They had quite a reputation, those girls. But any woman taking off her clothes and parading around naked – even for an artist – wouldn’t have been looked upon kindly in Mount Bellwood at that time. But it was more than that. The Ruins has long been considered an unlucky house . . . even more so after the Partridges’ cruel fate, of course. Some years ago I self-published a little book – really a pamphlet, I suppose – about the house, and sold a few copies through the Historical Society. Alas, it didn’t make enough to recover costs. Now, where did I put it?’ He rummaged through an old bookcase. ‘It was here the other day. Was it here? Nuisance. I know it’s here somewhere. When you want something, you can never find the blighter.’
Another five minutes passed with Patrick mumbling away to himself before he announced triumphantly, ‘I knew I had seen it over on this shelf! You’re welcome to borrow it, as long as you return it to me safely. I only have a couple of copies left. Which reminds me . . . I have no proof, but I suspect that Kitty somehow managed to steal one of my copies when she visited just before she died. I could be mistaken – the memory’s not as good as it was – but I thought I was missing a few things after she left here.’
As he spoke, he passed Nick a slim red book. The cover featured a black and white photograph of Currawong Manor and the title in lurid yellow letters: The Currawongs of the Ruins, the terror of Owlbone Woods and other Ghosts and Eerie Phenomena of the Blue Mountains. Nick took it and thanked him, privately thinking it could have done with a snappier title.
‘I’m interested in your impression about why people thought that Rupert could have killed Shalimar?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t like to speculate,’ Patrick replied, looking troubled. ‘The whole tragic affair shocked me. The few times I saw them together he seemed nothing more than a besotted father. She was such a beautiful little girl and so very imaginative. What a terrible waste of potential. Sadly, people like to believe in the worst of human nature – perhaps they didn’t like to consider also that a child as blessed as Shalimar could be the victim of a random accident. If their golden girl could drown, what chance in life did they have? Far easier, and perhaps more comfortable, to gossip her father had drowned her.’
‘The war might have totally unhinged him?’ Nick persisted.
Patrick shot Nick a shrewd look. ‘So that’s the tack you’re taking with your book? I can tell you he did have a nasty temper. We all witnessed him in action at an art show once in Mount Bellwood when I told him he couldn’t display his work. You only had to look at some of the so-called art he produced to see his mental state at the time; pornographic, childish and sensationalist would be understating it. He had very few technical skills and was happy to admit the fact. I can’t call that art! I believe the war must have unbalanced him . . .’
Nick flicked through the pages of the book, noting a few black and white photographs of the manor. Photographs made him think of Elizabeth. He wondered how she was spending her Monday. It was disconcerting how often Elizabeth crept into his thoughts and how much he missed her when she wasn’t around. He kept finding excuses for popping in to her Nest to discuss aspects of the book with her. ‘Did you take these?’ he asked Patrick, holding up the book to show him.
Patrick nodded, his eyes watering slightly as he looked at the page. His face was strained, as if reliving old memories had upset him. ‘I have a few more old photos around here somewhere of the manor, but I’d need time to locate them.’ He leant forward in his chair, frowning. ‘It was odd the way Kitty came here wanting the photos just before she died. I never would have thought of her as a person to care at all about history. She was such a pretty, flighty young thing once, it was terrible to see what the years had wrought. You’d see her in High Street, she’d keep coming up to the mountains as if she couldn’t keep away, mumbling to herself with her clothes soiled and reeking of the grog. When she came to see me, I’m ashamed to say I just wanted to get rid of her as quickly as I could. She died only a few nights afterwards.’
He paused, remembering. ‘Poor old Kitty was the prettiest of all the Flowers, and her nature was always so sunny. Most of the boys in town pined after her. She had a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, the sweetest, dimpled smile, and those long blonde curls. Tragic to witness what she turned into. All the local boys carried torches for the Flowers back then. Yes, Kitty was the prettiest, and Wanda was sex on legs, but I have to admit I’ve always been partial to a beautiful redhead.’
He drained his tea and frowned into the tea leaves as if reading something unpleasant in them. ‘There was always the possibility, of course . . . No. I don’t want to spread rumours. There’s been too much of that sort of thing as it is.’
And that was all Nick could extract from Patrick. Whatever he had remembered, he wasn’t ready to share. And Nick knew that if his new friend was anything like his uncle Ronnie, he’d never divulge anything until he was ready. Afternoon tea wound up over more chat about the atrocious Sydney real estate prices, and Patrick doing his best to entice Nick into giving a talk to the Historical Society. He offered Nick a guided tour of the Mount Bellwood Museum, to which Nick eagerly agreed. He followed Patrick out to the hallway and they put on the
ir coats and scarves.
‘Mrs Bellamy, one of Mount Bellwood’s loveliest ladies, is on volunteer duty today,’ Patrick said, ushering Nick outside. ‘She’s a trooper and the snow wouldn’t put her off. We’ll likely be the only visitors today so we should cheer her up. I work there on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays.’ He closed his bright red front door behind them and glanced at the icy conditions. ‘Hmm, probably easier to walk rather than drive. We’re most fortunate in Mount Bellwood in that we have no shortage of helpful ladies eager to assist the community. The majority of them are widows whose husbands have passed away. It was unfortunate my dear Olive proved to be in the minority in Mount Bellwood, dying before me.’ Patrick looked down, sadness flickering across his face.
The two men passed the line of shops in High Street, most closed or empty due to the weather. They turned left into long, tree-lined Wombat Avenue, where neighbours waved a greeting, out clearing their driveways or building snowmen. Patrick was obviously well regarded in the village. Curious stares were directed at Nick; he could imagine they were thinking what an odd pair they made – Patrick immaculate in his grey trench coat and trilby hat, and Nick in a beaten-up long black leather jacket and with a red beanie on his shoulder-length dark hair.
‘Can’t believe the snow, Patrick!’ an elderly woman called as they walked past.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it, Phyllis?’ he said. ‘The school will be closed again tomorrow. If it keeps going, we’ll all be snowed in!’
At the end of Wombat Avenue was the museum, a handsome Georgian-style sandstone building with a tin roof and chimney pots. As Patrick had predicted, it was empty apart from a heavy-set woman who sat at the front desk reading a Jackie Collins novel. When she looked up and saw them coming in she smiled, placed a bookmark at the page she was reading and closed the book.
‘Hello, Patrick,’ she said. ‘There’s probably more action at the local cemetery. I knew it’d be quiet, but I don’t like to let you down so I opened up anyway.’
‘You’re a treasure, Mrs Bellamy,’ Patrick said. Nick smiled to himself as Mrs Bellamy blushed like a schoolgirl. ‘This is my young friend, Nick Cash. He’s a Sydney writer, staying at Currawong Manor.’ Mrs Bellamy and Patrick exchanged meaningful glances.
‘Pleased to meet you, Nick,’ Mrs Bellamy said, shaking his hand. ‘I’d heard the Ruins was getting back on its feet again. Well, good luck to the new owners. They can but try . . . I’ll give them six months and it’ll be on the market again.’
‘Now, now, Mrs Bellamy,’ Patrick admonished. ‘I don’t think Nick puts much store in our old village superstitions.’
‘Outsiders don’t.’ Mrs Bellamy sniffed. ‘But that cursed place hasn’t earned its name for nothing. I wouldn’t go near it for all the tea in China.’
‘I’m just going to give Nick a quick tour,’ Patrick said. ‘Don’t you linger, dear Mrs Bellamy. Take yourself off and put your feet up in front of the fire. It looks as if the snow has set in for a few days.’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Mrs Bellamy said. ‘I won’t be long out of bed tonight with a hot water bottle. I’ve got some nice homemade soup I can warm up. I left you a thermosful, Patrick, in the back kitchen, if you want to take it home for supper.’
She gathered together her book, umbrella, coat, scarf and floral shopping bag, and slowly made her way to the door with one lingering glance back at Patrick before she left.
‘Dear lady,’ Patrick said to Nick. ‘They don’t make them like that anymore. Such a dependable woman, she comes here in all weathers, as you can see. When her husband died a few years ago, she became very involved in community work, the church and the museum.’
Nick privately thought that the dependable Mrs Bellamy had the hots for Patrick, and he wondered if Patrick was blind to it on purpose. Poor Mrs Bellamy had probably been sitting there all day hoping for a quick glance of him.
‘Here we are.’ Patrick waved an arm at the hall, its shelves crammed with displays. ‘You have a look around and I’ll see if I can locate the photos. Sing out if you need any help. Take your time.’ He headed to a tiny office behind a glass wall at the back of the room.
Nick gazed around, wondering where to start. The shelves were full of various artefacts donated by Blue Mountains residents over the years, everything from chamber pots to old medical equipment, war medals to children’s toys. Stuffed birds, skipping ropes, huge folders filled with photographs. An entire three shelves were devoted to cleaning equipment, including buckets, soap and a wringer washer. Somebody had even donated their cherished button collection. Nick noted vintage perfume bottles and shoes, pipes, stamp collections and kitchen equipment. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure everything was methodically labelled and displayed. You could easily spend weeks working through the collection.
There were a dozen or so heavy scrapbooks behind glass, in a tall wooden cabinet, all dated, and Nick went straight to the 1945 scrapbook and took it out. As he flicked through the yellowed pages, exactly as he had expected, he found a clipping from the Blue Mountains Weekly.
Tragic Double-deaths of Local Girl and Mother! a headline blazed. A grainy image of a pensive Shalimar was placed beneath one of a sinister-looking Currawong Manor – and a larger, disturbing shot of a small body covered by a sheet being carried from the manor on a stretcher by two policemen. In the background of this photograph, Nick could just make out three female figures, possibly the Flowers, supporting each other.
‘Here we are!’ Nick jumped at Patrick’s excited voice as the older man returned holding a large manila envelope. ‘I knew those photos were around here somewhere.’
‘These scrapbooks are fantastic!’ Nick said.
Patrick peered over at the page. ‘Yes, this is from the 10 November edition. So terribly sad. One of those moments you never forget. I can still remember the shock-wave through the town and it did make the Sydney papers. ‘Tragedy has struck the occupants of Currawong Manor,’ he read aloud.
Thirteen-year-old Shalimar Partridge was drowned in the waters of Mermaid Glen on the late afternoon of 9 November. Cause of drowning is yet to be determined. In a horrible twist, Doris Partridge, the child’s mother, was killed the same night by the Sydney to Lithgow train. The driver, Henry Kelly, who has previously had no prior accidents with the rail service, is being treated for shock and claims Doris Partridge ran onto the tracks as he passed along Owlbone Woods. Rupert Partridge, well-known local artist, has been unable to be contacted and police are treating his disappearance as suspicious. Both mother and daughter were well known and liked in Mount Bellwood. Shalimar had attended Mount Bellwood local school for a short time before leaving to be schooled at home by her mother. Shalimar will be remembered in Mount Bellwood not only for her lauded beauty but also for her lovely artworks, which can be seen on display at the local school, and for her cheerful disposition and fetching smile. Police are appealing to anyone who has seen or has knowledge of Rupert Partridge’s whereabouts, or anyone who may have been witness to either death, to contact their local police station immediately.
‘Such a horrible case,’ Patrick said. ‘It shook Mount Bellwood to the core. Both Shalimar and Doris killed and Rupert vanishing on the same night . . .’
He flipped through some of the older scrapbooks. ‘That’s odd,’ he murmured.
‘What is?’ Nick prompted him.
‘Somebody has removed a clipping from this one – this is most irregular.’
Nick stared at Patrick, wondering why he suddenly appeared agitated. Was it simply the violation of his precious scrapbook or was it something to do with that particular clipping? ‘Do you know what they took?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course I do,’ Patrick said. ‘I know these scrapbooks so well. It was from the file on the early 1940s. I remember the clipping very clearly. We had a lot of Americans staying in the town. Now why on earth would somebody want that? Unless . . .’ As Patrick trailed off, Nick stared at him curiously, his instincts telling him that
something significant was going on. What information was Patrick Bishop withholding?
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to turf you out now, son,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ve got a meeting on tonight, and I need to prepare. I have to do a few things here first. Would you mind seeing yourself out?’
‘No problem,’ Nick said. ‘Would it be alright if I borrowed this one to scan some of the clippings?’
‘No, I’m afraid I never allow the scrapbooks to leave the museum,’ Patrick said apologetically. ‘But you’re welcome to come another day and scan the images here. There’s a printer and scanner out the back.’ He fetched a brochure from the front desk and gave it to Nick. ‘Our opening hours,’ he said, leading Nick to the door. Nick frowned at the door shut behind him – what had rattled the personable Patrick so quickly?
***
Nick got back to his Nest with half an hour spare before he was due at the manor for dinner. He opened Patrick’s book and examined the chapter headings, which sounded as if they belonged in a Fortean Times magazine, celebrating weird and wonderful phenomena: Alien abductions at Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains, Big Cat sightings at Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains, Ghost sightings at Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains, The Lost Children of Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains, Old myths and legends of Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains, Pan and the Devic bush energies of Mount Bellwood and the Blue Mountains.
He was laughing and shaking his head when a knock sounded at his door. He sprang up to answer it, hoping it would be Elizabeth so he could discuss with her what he’d uncovered today, and his suspicions that Patrick Bishop knew more than he was letting on. He not only felt uneasy about certain people keeping secrets concerning the manor, he felt increasingly protective towards Elizabeth. The gentle-voiced photographer had got under his skin with her shy smile and dark, doe-like eyes. She brought out a more tender side of himself that he hadn’t realised he had suppressed for so long. Before his father had left his mother, Nick could still remember with a combination of rage and shame the times his old man had belted him if he ever showed any emotion. The jeering he was a ‘sissy-baby’ if he dared to get emotional had been his father’s legacy branding him for several relationships. Elsa had often accused him of hiding his feelings behind jokes, his music and writing.
Currawong Manor Page 28
