by Morgana Best
“Misty, something’s come up. Can you interview me now? Would that be okay?”
There went my carriage ride. “Where?”
“The Morpeth Pie Man? I haven’t had breakfast. Hop in.”
“That’s okay, I’ll meet you there. I know where that is, in Green Street.”
Gavin nodded and drove off. That was nicely convenient for me, as the Pie Man was next door to the Tea Leaf Reading lady.
Gavin was talkative, telling me of his alleged ghost sightings in between mouthfuls of two Beef and Burgundy Mash and Pea Pies which he scoffed in double quick time. I averted my eyes on more than one occasion. I made copious notes despite being sure it was all a load of trash, and boring to boot, but it suddenly got interesting after I made an aside about mistranslations in the Bible.
Gavin jumped on my idle remark. “Yes, do you know that most English Bible versions mistranslate Lilith as owl?”
No, I didn’t, and I shook my head.
“Isaiah 34:15.”
I made a note.
Gavin continued. “It says, ‘The wild animals of the desert will meet with the howlers, and the hairy goat demon will cry to its fellow. Lilith will settle there and find a resting place for herself.’ Most of the English Bibles change Lilith to a screech owl or a night creature.”
I was a little surprised that Gavin would know a Bible reference, let alone be able to recite it. “Do you know Hebrew? Do you mean Lilith as in the dark goddess?”
Gavin ignored my first question but pounced on my second. “Lilith has had a lot of bad press. She’s the wife of Sammael.”
I tried to recall some ancient history. “Sammael? Isn’t he like, some evil dude or something?”
Gavin wiped some pie from his mouth before replying. “Sammael’s had bad press too. He’s not to be confused with Satan either.” Gavin leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “There are Satanic rituals all over the Hunter Valley.” He looked around theatrically, and then produced his expensive camera and showed me an image of people in dark cloaks and hoods around a fire.
“How did you get that?” I tried to sound impressed, but it was obvious to me that he’d bought it from a royalty free photo library. “Is that going in your book, too?”
“Yes.” He beamed from ear to ear, which was unfortunate as bits of pie were stuck to his teeth. “I might be able to give you one of the photos for your article.”
“Great.” I hoped that I sounded convincing. I failed.
“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic, Misty.”
“No, not at all.” I tried my best to sound believable.
Gavin carefully placed his napkin on his plate, and placed his elbows on the table. His voice took on a somber quality. “Do you believe spirits can kill people?”
I was taken aback. “I don’t know.”
“There is no hope for some. If they cross the wrong person, a deadly power targets them. There is no escape.”
I feared I was being threatened, and wondered if I should simply ask. Instead, I said, “Oh, look at the time. I’m booked in for a tea leaf reading next door.”
I felt uneasy when I walked past Gavin to get to the door, but then the impression went away.
I’ve had a few readings in my time, but Jennifer, the Tea Leaf Reading Lady, proved to be spine chillingly accurate.
“Hmm. I can see here that you’re a clairvoyant-medium, and that recently you’ve started to see spirits.”
“Exactly!” I was impressed.
“There’s a spirit trying to get through to you, but he’s been warded somehow,” she continued. “He needs your help. There’s a lot of deception around him. Things are not as they seem. Be very careful with this. Evil arts are involved. I’m getting a connection to Africa.”
Jennifer turned the cup around and peered inside. “There are lots of secrets around you. I also see clumps of change coming up for you. Change is all around you. I’m seeing a lot of deception, deception everywhere. People are not what they seem.”
I nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly right.” I took copious notes. Jennifer was very detailed, giving dates and specific information.
Jennifer looked up at me. “I can see two men coming in and out of your life, all very secret. One is significant to you personally. He’s a good looking man, and you’re attracted to him. You will…”
I rudely interrupted her. “No, I’m not attracted to him!”
Jennifer appeared startled by my outburst.
“I suppose he’s good looking, but I’ve never really noticed.”
Jennifer looked at me in disbelief. She looked down at the tea leaves, and then back at me, frowning. With that the reading came to an end. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut and found out more of what Jennifer had to say.
When I left the Tea Leaf Reading Lady, I turned my phone back on and saw eight missed messages from Skinny. I walked across Green Street and sat down on the seat outside the Teddy Bear store. I called her with apprehension. Her screeching voice always sank my stomach and put me on edge.
“Misty, where have you been?” she shrieked. Her voice was like fingernails down a chalkboard.
I shuddered. “I’ve been interviewing people today, so I’ve had my phone turned off.”
“Whatever. Misty, you need to keep me updated at all times. This is not a holiday. I called to say I want you to focus on the treasure. Our readers will like it, and it’s a little different from the usual. Interview that tour guide about the treasure, and tie it into ghosts. Take it to the next level.” Without waiting to say goodbye, Skinny hung up.
Now I was horribly tense. I called into several stores, but no one had Scotty’s phone number, and he didn’t have a business card. He clearly ran his little ghost tour just as a hobby. Someone suggested trying one of the hotels.
No one at the Commercial Hotel had heard of Scotty, but they had all heard of his ghost tour. They were a friendly bunch. I addressed the room. “Does anyone know about the treasure that Scotty mentions on his ghost tour?”
One man, clearly a farmer, clad in R.M. Williams boots and Stubbies (Stubbies are shorts worn by Aussie farmers when they’re working), stood up, beer in hand, and walked over to me. “I’ve seen Scotty at the River Royal Hotel. What’s this about a treasure?”
He was interrupted by another Stubbie-clad farmer. “Scotty only goes to the River Royal. He’s always on about some friend of his being cheated out of a will or something. He’s a strange one. He might just be talking about the will when he says ‘treasure.’ These old blokes can pull your leg. I mean, ghosts and all that. Have you seen those photos that Gavin King’s always showing around town? Could they be more fake! Do they look real to you?”
I laughed and shook my head. As soon as I did, a rotten, musty sensation filled the atmosphere. I turned around, only to see my suspect from Gavin’s ghost tours, the man I suspected of masquerading as a ghostly figure. To say he was glaring at me would be an understatement. I was taken aback at the level of malevolence emanating from him.
I hurried out of there and headed straight for the River Royal Hotel. It was just a bit further up on Swan Street. Inquiries revealed that Scotty often called in at night, so I decided to spend the afternoon researching.
I stepped out onto Swan Street, and then remembered I’d left my sunglasses inside. It was the spinning around action that saved me, for at that precise moment a car sped past so close to me that my folder was knocked out of my hand. Had I proceeded out the door with my sunglasses, I would have been hit. I was badly shaken, but unharmed, although my shoulder felt wrenched. Talk about a close call! I was too distressed to notice the car in any detail, but thought it was deep blue.
I retrieved my Ray-Bans and bought a cheap bottle of Moscato, then drove back to the motel. After half a glass of Moscato, my nerves settled somewhat. I hit the net again and tried to find everything I could on Baxter Morgan. The connection at the motel was horribly slow. Frustrated, I refreshed the page every few minutes.
Finally, I found something useful. Baxter Morgan had bought an allotment of land from Edward Close in 1834 for one hundred pounds. Next, I scrolled through the online archives of the newspaper with the lengthy name, The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser. My efforts were fairly half-hearted as it was founded in 1843, two years after Baxter Morgan was said to be executed, so I didn’t expect to find anything.
I had fallen asleep at the laptop when my iPhone’s sms tone woke me. One word: Govi. What on earth did that mean? The screen read, ‘Blocked Sender’. I didn’t think blocked senders could send texts, only make calls. I’d have to ask someone. Any child should know. They’re always up with the latest technology. It was probably a wrong number. The only blocked sender calls I get are from the bank when I’m two days late paying the mortgage.
Back to the passage on the first page.
Lost, in the district of Morpeth, about three weeks since, one bay mare, about fifteen hands high, black points, branded BM on the near shoulder.
Any person giving information where the same may be found, to Mr. Joe Crawley, “Morgan Estate,” shall be rewarded for their trouble.
Maitland, January 5, 1843.
Morgan Estate, and the brand, “BM” surely stood for Baxter Morgan. Two years after Baxter’s execution, a Mr. Joe Crawley was in residence at the Morgan home. I hoped it wasn’t an alcohol-fueled stretch on my part to make the connection that Mr. Crawley might have been the one who had falsely accused Baxter Morgan and taken over his property. At last, I felt I was getting close to solving Baxter Morgan’s murder.
A quick google of ‘Morgan Estate’ took me at once to a listing on a local realtor’s website. I couldn’t believe my luck. The place was for sale, at a tidy one point four million bucks.
I was yearning for a long, hot bath, but the cheap motel only had a shower and, at that, one more befitting a prison. I had bought some Wood Smoke and Jasmine Shower Gel that morning—no idea why, but the bottle was pretty—so slathered it all over me, and let the hot water run for some time on my sore shoulder.
I hopped out, dried myself with the small, scratchy, thin, motel-issue towel, and then poured on a bit too much Wood Smoke and Jasmine Body Lotion. I stood side on to look in the mirror and sucked in my stomach.
As I lay in bed between the bleach-scented sheets, I formulated a plan. Tomorrow I would be a hard core journalist. No more Ms. Nice Guy. I had just drifted off to sleep when my iPhone rang.
“Misty, how far are you from Newcastle airport?”
“Huh? Is that you, Melissa?” I mumbled.
“Of course. Did I wake you?”
“No, no.” I tried to put on my most realistic awake voice. “What did you say?”
“How far are you from the Newcastle airport? You’re still in Morpeth, right?”
“Um, Maitland, actually. Um, dunno, about half an hour or so, I suppose. Why?”
“Skinny’s sending me to Melbourne the day after tomorrow to interview someone from the Princess Theater about their famous ghost. I’ve just checked and the return flights from Newcastle are really cheap, fifty bucks.” Melissa sounded excited.
“You’re kidding!”
“Will you come?” Melissa’s tone was pleading. “I can book you on the first flight in the morning and you can fly back that night. I’m only staying for the day. Skinny will never know.”
“I don’t know, Melissa. I do have a lot to do.”
“Misty, you owe me.” Melissa’s voice was stern. “I went on those horrible ghost tours with you and got frozen. Plus, I’m babysitting your cat and she insisted on sleeping on my legs all last night. I have ghastly scratches all over my legs ‘cause she attacked me when I rolled over.”
She had me there.
Chapter 9
The realtor was doing his best to qualify me as a buyer, and I was doing my best to be obscure.
“Are you ready to buy now? You don’t need to sell your own property?”
I thought before speaking. “I won’t be rushing into anything. I just want to see what’s available.”
The realtor did not look happy. I suppose I didn’t look like a typical millionaire. I attempted to look posh.
“Thank you so much for letting me view at such short notice.” I drew out my vowels and looked down my nose at him. It seemed to work.
“No problem at all. No one’s in residence. It’s a deceased estate. Quite sad, really. It’s been in the family for decades, but now old Mr. Crawley has died and his sons are just not interested in keeping the place.”
My ears had pricked up at the name ‘Crawley’. “What a shame. The sons don’t live here then?”
“One lives in Newcastle but the other lives in Sydney.”
“How long has the property been in the one family?” I was onto something, so upped my efforts. “It’s just that my father is very interested in social history. I have horses and this place looks ideal from what I’ve seen so far, but Daddy is the one with the money. He isn’t into horses, just all the racehorses he has with Gai, Gai Waterhouse that is.”
My namedropping of one of Australia’s most famous racehorse trainers did the trick. The realtor looked impressed. I felt a bit guilty for telling such outrageous lies, but that soon passed. I was a journalist after all.
“It’s been in the family for well over a hundred years. Surely you’ve heard of the Crawley family? They have the Midas touch—everything they touch turns to gold. They’re a very wealthy family; they have property all over the place. This house, however, has been the private residence of David Crawley. It was built in 1836 by a Baxter Morgan, who was a friend of Edward Close.” He pointed to the number 1836 embedded over the front door. “Have you ever heard of the Jewboy Gang?”
Yes, of course I had, but I thought it better not to let on. “No, who were they?”
“Bushrangers. Baxter Morgan was one of them and was executed.”
“I thought all bushrangers were escaped convicts?”
“Pretty much, but the whole matter’s quite a puzzle. Anyway, Baxter Morgan was a close friend of Joe Crawley and left him the property in his will. Your father would be interested in the story. Someone falsely testified against Baxter Morgan and named him as one of the Jewboy Gang.”
I was astonished but hoped my surprise wasn’t showing on my face. “My father loves that sort of thing. Are you sure this is all true and not just village gossip?”
The realtor shook his head and then laughed. “I can’t be sure, but I grew up in Morpeth and this is the story that’s always been around.” He must have been reassured that I was a genuine buyer, as he progressed to the hard sell. “You would’ve noticed that the drive into the house is lined by old English oak trees, and the driveway down to the barn, which would covert nicely to stables for you, is lined with pepper trees. The homestead is solid sandstone. The cast iron lace work on the balcony was originally imported from England, but it’s been restored and repainted in the last decade.”
I practically drooled. The house was gorgeous. The entry foyer was impressive by itself, but the formal living room onto which it opened was like something out of an English film.
A huge marble fireplace was set against a backdrop of Australian Colonial cedar features, cedar ceilings, mellow Huon pine floorboards, original cedar windows and cedar doors. French doors opened onto a garden of lavenders and old English roses. Their heavy scent filled the air.
As we walked around the house, the realtor pointed out the marble fireplace in the master bedroom, the walk-in closet, and the luxurious en-suite bathroom with a stunning roll top bath. The place could have been straight out of an issue of Vogue Living. The realtor led me through textbook late Georgian, Australian country house architecture. The rooms were filled with expensive art, but held very little in the way of antiques. The last room the realtor showed me was the study.
“All the house is original with the exception of the study, but period features have been replicated to make it in k
eeping with the rest of the house.” He opened the door to let me go in. I almost couldn’t. The atmosphere of the room left me frozen to the spot for a moment. I wondered if the room was warded, protected.
The realtor walked past me and continued his sales pitch. “Of course, you have to look past the seller’s personal touches and imagine the room with your own personal taste. David Crawley travels extensively and has a collection of religious curios, mostly from Africa.”
I recognized some of the curios from articles I had researched and written for the magazine, in particular the art of the Yoruba region of south-western Nigeria and neighboring Benin and Togo: the conical bead crown and beaded slippers, and the beaded fly whisk, all showing the interlace and the zigzag patterns. There were three frontal faces with marks under the eyes. One had the representation of two snakes eating each other, signifying the cycle of life.
I walked over to the bead crown hanging just next to the door and peered at a tiny white bird with a long tail. Perhaps the room wasn’t warded after all; all the spiritual curios would give off some sort of power.
I was so engrossed that I didn’t see the man enter. The realtor’s jaw hardened. “Mr. Crawley, I have not finished the viewing, as you can see.”
I spun around and automatically shook the outstretched hand.
“Hello, allow me to continue the inspection. I’m the owner, David Crawley. I’ll call you later, Tom. Please show yourself out.”
Tom stormed out, looking none too pleased at being so rudely dismissed. Perhaps he thought David Crowley would sell the place to me direct and not pay him his commission.
“You like African art?”
“Yes, I do. I was just admiring your collection.”
He followed my gaze. “That bird is Okin, the king of birds. Birds are very important in Yoruba art. That there is the orere staff, and as you can see, it has two birds on the top of it. You often find just one bird on top of orere staffs. They’re associated with divination. Are you interested in buying the house?”
I hesitated, a bit thrown by the sudden change in topic. What to say? I decided to abandon the deception.
