The Beekeeper's Secret

by Josephine Moon

  ‘You won’t. It’s all good now.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve just backflipped because you’re afraid that everything we have now will fall apart.’

  ‘Well, what about you? Haven’t you done the same?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and she could hear the smile of hopelessness in his voice. ‘I realised that I could have a life with you and a baby, or I might have to have a life without you at all. And the better of those two choices for me is to have you and a baby.’

  ‘Even if you don’t want it?’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe I got too old too soon because I had a child too young. Maybe I made big decisions about not having more children when I was stressed and couldn’t see a way to do it better. Maybe I’m at the right age right now, and you and a baby are just what I need to stay young.’

  Hope fluttered its wings inside Tansy’s chest, but she kept them under wraps. Both she and Dougal had swung dramatically in ideas and emotions and they might swing again. ‘Well, this leaves us in even more of a tangle than before you left.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s not just us. So much has happened here since you left. It’s crazy. And this is good. You and me, this is good. We’re talking now and thinking more clearly. That’s what we need to do.’ She heard him open the fridge door and take out a bottle of some sort. ‘Are you drinking?’ she asked, concerned that she’d pushed him to alcohol.

  ‘Soda water.’ He cracked open the metallic top and she heard the fizz of bubbles. ‘Tell me everything that’s been going on,’ he said.

  So she did, as thoroughly as she could, given the time constraints of an expensive international call. The only thing she left out was Leo’s news about university; that was his information to share.

  ‘I’m completely gobsmacked,’ Dougal said, once she’d finished. ‘I might have to add some scotch to this soda water after all.’

  ‘Told you there was a lot going on. Can you believe all those confessions just bubbling up like that in our lounge room? Can you believe my mother hit me? I should charge her with assault.’

  He swallowed a gulp of his drink loudly. ‘I’m still stuck on the fact that Maria is a murderer. You were lucky that day up there with the archbishop. Who knows what these people are capable of?’

  ‘I know you want me to come over as soon as possible, but Maria is determined to confess and I think I need to stay here and help her through this, help her find a lawyer at least, stop her from doing anything stupid.’

  ‘Sounds like the stupid thing was done a long time ago.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘You think? She killed someone, Tans. I know you’ve been excited to make contact with her, and I know you still hold hopes of being able to reunite your mother and aunt with Maria—assuming they could get past her crime—but I think you should just stay out of this now. It sounds like something that could turn nasty. You need to protect yourself. I need you to protect yourself. Just let justice take its course.’

  Tansy bit her lip, but didn’t commit.

  ‘And just think about what I said about the baby, okay? We’ll work this out, one step at a time.’

  30

  Chastity, poverty and obedience—the three vows Maria took to serve her faith and God, the same three tenets of a bee’s life. A worker bee was there for one thing and one thing only, and that was to obey the order of the industrious hive, serving a higher purpose with unquestioning faith and commitment, keeping no nectar rewards for herself but giving it all to the hive, ensuring the continuation and expansion of her enclosed community, knowing that all her efforts would end for her in one way only—death.

  George Harvey would be here soon, and Maria was determined to prepare an overabundance of products for the market stall, not just for this weekend coming, when Petrice had agreed to man the stall, but to carry Maria’s replacement through for a few weeks while they found their feet. There wasn’t time right now to write down lists of instructions and recipes, but she supposed she might be able to do that from wherever the police took her.

  Michaela had replied to her email immediately, telling her that she must not confess to the police, that it would do no one any good now and would only cause hurt in so many people’s lives, including the orphans’. She was stern, angry that Maria could want to disrupt and endanger the running of the orphanage only to relieve her own conscience.

  That wasn’t the case; Maria knew she had to confess, in part because Ian could drop her in it at any moment. But she understood that Michaela was panicking. Though she was fond of Maria, Michaela’s first concern was for the children in her care, and Maria’s departure would disrupt the constant flow of funds to Cambodia.

  Tansy had left a message saying she was going to find her a lawyer, which was sweet but too late as far as Maria was concerned. She’d organised for Petrice to arrive later this afternoon and hopefully stay for the duration of the drumming workshop. But Petrice wasn’t a manager, and was not even particularly reliable. Maria had decided to ask Tansy to step in temporarily and guide Honeybee Haven through the choppy waters until something more permanent could be arranged. She had great faith in Tansy; her niece had turned up at just the right time in her life. God’s plan in action.

  Now she had one and a half hours to pour herself into creating beautiful works to leave behind. That wasn’t much time—a day would be better, a week ideal. But there was nothing she could do about that. Candles seemed a good place to begin. She’d collected old teacups from op shops for this purpose and stored them in a box under her bed; now she quickly carried them back to the kitchen and washed and dried them.

  She set hunks of caramel-coloured rendered beeswax into a steel bowl over a saucepan of water and lit the gas. Wax was slow to melt, and while she waited she gathered up her essential oils, food colouring and cotton wicks. She cut the wicks to length, clamping one end of each in a metal wick sustainer placed in the bottom of each cup. The other end of each wick was suspended to a wooden skewer balanced over each rim. She stirred the hunks of wax over the heat, then drew out four mixing bowls to separate the wax into different colours (pink, orange, yellow and green) and their associated scents (rose geranium, orange, lemon and mint). Finally, the wax was fully melted. She divided it into the four bowls, coloured and scented each one, and then poured the thick liquid quickly and carefully into her eight teacups. She put them aside to set, the wax already changing colour as it cooled, and moved on to the honey butter.

  It had been a while since she’d made a batch, but it was a treat to mix up and to lick off the spoon, and today of all days that was just what she fancied doing. The recipe called for equal amounts of honey, sugar and thick cream to add to the butter. Since she wanted to make a lot, and had dozens of empty jars lying around, she dashed to the dining hall’s commercial kitchen and took a litre of each from the supplies there, choosing brown sugar for extra richness. Back in her own small kitchen, she heated them together in a large saucepan, stirring with a wooden spoon until the sugar was dissolved. While waiting for the mixture to come to the boil, she put her empty jars into the oven to sterilise them. The aroma of the brown sugar coming from the stove was like a warm balm for her soul. When it was ready, she added the butter and stirred again, essentially making a decadent honeyed caramel sauce.

  When all of it had been distributed into the jars, and Honeybee Haven cards attached to the lids with brown string, she licked the spoon, closing her eyes with pleasure as the flavours swam around her mouth. She licked the bowl too, using her finger to scrape up every last drop she could, relishing it as though it was her last meal.

  Finally, she put the jars of honey butter into the fridge to chill, quickly washed the dishes, and prepared herself for George’s arrival. She showered and dressed in clean clothes—a pale blue pair of trousers, a white collared shirt and knitted cardigan. She tidied the kitchen and wiped down the benche
s. She zipped up her duffel bag, ready to go.

  It was quiet outside, the drumming group having left for a communal bushwalk, so she took out her string of aurora borealis glass rosary beads from the blue velvet case in the top drawer of her bedside table. The lid resisted, its hinges stiff with age, her thumb fitting instantly into the indent on the top and her other fingers into smaller dents around the base. She’d been opening the box the same way since she first received them, back in the mid-sixties. Mother Veronica had brought them back from Rome; Pope Paul VI had blessed them. And the second she seated herself on the sagging floral-patterned couch, a small cushion behind her straight back, the rosary beads in her hand, she felt everything drop away.

  She said the Lord’s Prayer and then quickly moved on to the first decade of Hail Marys.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .

  Her hands knew exactly how to hold and fluidly move each bead through her fingers. Her mind was laser-focused, like a bee zooming through the skies with pinpoint accuracy towards the nectar in a garden of flowers, having received the information from a fellow worker who’d communicated the exact geographical distance and location through the inexplicable ‘waggle dance’—a vibration in its body. The bees’ dance was one of the great mysteries of life, something science couldn’t explain.

  She’d just finished her fourth decade of the rosary when she heard a car’s engine straining as it ascended the steep slope to the small car park near the dining hall. Halting her prayers, she opened her eyes and kissed the rosary beads before replacing them in the velvet box.

  The time had come.

  George stepped out of his ageing Falcon. He didn’t like to take a police car on these sorts of trips: it unnerved people too much and they were usually stressed enough already. He spent a few moments uncurling his body after the drive, arching his back and then doing a few Achilles heel stretches. He got so stiff these days whenever he drove for more than twenty minutes or so.

  During the moments it took to loosen up his body, he looked around at the circle of colourful cabins under the trees, with a space where it appeared as though a cabin had recently been removed, and the stretch of lawn in the centre, strewn with folding chairs, drums, a few towels and cast-off shoes. The place was silent and apparently empty. Just some birds and the breeze in the trees. Up here, at this altitude, it was a good few degrees cooler than in the city. A chill skittered up his back. Early June days in Brisbane rarely required much more than a t-shirt—it was July and August that brought the deep cold and bitter winds—and now he wished he’d brought a jacket with him.

  A screen door slapped shut and he turned in the direction of the sound to see the former nun Maria Lindsey, he presumed, walking towards him; like Sarah’s yesterday, her stride was strong and purposeful. No doubt about it, these old nuns were tough.

  ‘Officer Harvey?’ she said, nearing him, tightening her cardigan against a sudden gust of wind that lifted her wavy grey hair.

  He stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Maria?’ She nodded. ‘Please, call me George.’

  ‘Thank you for coming all the way up here.’ She gestured towards a yellow Citroen. ‘The old girl’s going to need some time off.’

  ‘No problem. I’m glad you called. You were on my list to contact next anyway.’

  ‘Yes, I thought I might be.’

  They eyed each other for a moment. He motioned around at the buildings. ‘This is a lovely spot. Is it yours?’

  ‘I’m the manager. All the profits from this business go to an orphanage in Cambodia.’

  George already felt a warm sense of affection for this woman. Like Sarah, she was still living her vows, still serving the people who needed the most help.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’ she said, turning and leading him away from the loading bay, past a small hut with a sundial on the wall and a block of wood nailed above the door painted with the words Meditation Room, and into a modest cabin, a kit-home granny flat, by the look of it. It was dark and sparse inside, and there were boxes stacked around the floor. He spied a duffel bag near the kitchen.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’ he asked, scratching under his chin.

  ‘I think I might be going to jail,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  31

  Maria woke to the sound of a single drum. It was just after dawn, the cold air prompting her to pull her doona up to her chin. And she smiled.

  This time yesterday, she’d truly believed she’d be waking up in a sterile, clanging jail cell today. But here she was. She’d confessed everything to George; she didn’t leave out a single detail. He’d listened closely, clearly surprised. Eyebrows raised, he rubbed at his moustache, cleared his throat and adjusted his buttocks on the wooden chair. He asked some questions, asked her to repeat sections of the story, took notes, turned the recording device on and off. Accepted a second cup of tea. But he said very little.

  After she’d finished her story, she waited. For the lecture, the reading of rights, handcuffs. But he did nothing. He just stared at her and tapped his foot.

  ‘Are you going to arrest me now?’ she prompted at last.

  George grunted and scratched the back of his neck. ‘This has all been a surprise,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I should imagine it is,’ she agreed.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, what I’m most interested in right now is the archbishop. I’m guessing you’re sharing this now because you expect that Ian Tully will turn on you, when push comes to shove?’

  She stood up and retrieved Ian’s two notes from the cutlery drawer, where she’d stashed them under the tray. ‘He most certainly will,’ she said, handing them over to George. ‘He left me these. I caught him in the act of leaving the second one.’ She pointed to the note that said Murderer.

  George considered her.

  ‘He was in this house,’ she said, looking up at the walls and the ceiling of her small abode. ‘It was quite frightening to have him appear out of the shadows. My niece was here too . . .’ She faltered then, thinking that she shouldn’t have mentioned Tansy, she should have kept her out of it. But it was too late. ‘Tansy was most alarmed.’

  George nodded and slid the notes into his folder of papers. ‘Maria, I think we’ll need to leave this meeting here for today.’

  ‘But I . . . what do you normally do in these situations?’

  George’s moustache twitched, as though he was trying not to smile. ‘This isn’t entirely normal,’ he said, packing away his items. ‘I would ask you to be available for more discussion, more meetings?’

  ‘Of course,’ Maria said, stunned at the lack of consequences.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’re planning on going anywhere? Not getting on a plane or anything?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  He’d asked for her passport, which she’d fetched and handed over. He’d popped it in with his notes and nodded again, looking completely unconcerned. And then he’d left, saying he needed to consider everything she’d told him and that he would be in touch shortly.

  And now here she was in her own bed, needing to get up and put on a vat of hot porridge for the hungry drummers out on her lawn.

  A riot of kookaburras broke into morning laughter high up in the trees outside her cabin. Maria joined in, feeling so free, even if it was for just one more day.

  Cramps—big-arsed, bone-crunching, toe-curling cramps in his calves and feet, the kind that made it feel as though his bones were twisting around each other—had seen George leap from his bed in the dark and swear and mutter his way out into the stillness of the house. Since then he’d been pacing the rooms. The torsions had eased, but every time he thought they’d gone and he tried to sit or lie down, they came back with a vengeance. And so h
e continued to walk, and meanwhile the birds outside had come to life and were talking up the day as if it was the first one they’d ever seen.

  Although his body had found relief, his mind remained contorted, turning over everything Maria had said to him yesterday, wondering how he should proceed. Her confession had been unexpected and complicating. He felt real sympathy for her, certainly. But that wasn’t what had stopped him from arresting her. More time was what he needed. More time before he had to report to Blaine Campbell. The man was unpredictable at best, and George wasn’t sure if his response would be to arrest Maria or sweep the whole thing under the carpet in favour of nailing the person they’d set out to nail—the archbishop.

  Hilda came yawning out of the bedroom, tying her pink dressing-gown around her.

  ‘Sorry if I woke you,’ he said, passing her on his way through the lounge room.

  ‘Cramps?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ll get some liniment. You should have woken me.’

  ‘No point in both of us being up, love.’

  His wife went to the pantry and fussed around in the medicine box, a pile of prescription drugs three years past their expiry date, miscellaneous plasters for cuts and scrapes, and stiff tubes of antiseptic ointment that should have been thrown away years ago. And liniments—at least six different kinds.

  ‘Sit down,’ she ordered, shepherding him to the recliner and perching in front of him on the footstool, rolling up her sleeves.

  George winced and screeched and grimaced as he took the weight off his legs and the cramps threatened to resume their vicelike grip, but Hilda’s hands were quick and firm, grabbing his calves and wrangling them as if they were thrashing pythons. He groaned, half in pain and half in relief. The liniment smelled of peppermint and aniseed and was starting to warm deep down into the problem areas.

  Hilda chewed her lip.

  ‘They’re just cramps,’ he said, sad that she was worrying about him the second she’d got out of bed.