Secrets of the Springs Read online

  He took the rebuff in good part. ‘Yes, of course, I realise it’s all up in the air for now. Well, have you decided about the silver oddments in the display cabinet? They’re hallmarked – they’ll be worth a bit.’

  ‘I’ll keep them. And the china – in fact, everything in it.’

  ‘Okay.’ He licked his thumb and paged through his notebook while I cleared the table. ‘Ah, that bronze moulded lamp on the hall table near the phone . . . Now that’s a genuine antique. It should go in a separate sale, which I can arrange if you wish.’

  ‘Really? The one you almost wiped out?’

  ‘Only almost,’ he protested. ‘So do you want to keep it? No – well, I’ll mark it to be set aside. The long case clock too, that’s not your everyday item. Okay,’ I was standing by then so he rose with seeming reluctance, ‘guess it’s time I got back to work.’

  Alec left after three. I had expected him to finish in the one day but he came downstairs, briefcase in hand, to inspect the wine cellar, which seemed to take an age. When he emerged he was shaking his head.

  ‘Wow! I think I’ll have to take advice on the wine. I’ve made a rough catalogue of types and dates so we can arrive at a proper estimate for you. I’ll head back to the motel and get on the phone before everyone shuts up shop for the day. See you tomorrow, unless . . .’ he tipped his head to one side, ‘Orla, you wouldn’t let me take you to dinner tonight? I’d really like to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alec, I’m expecting someone later this evening.’ I walked him to the door. ‘Thanks for the thought, anyway, but as I said I’ve rather a lot on my plate.’

  He turned to face me, banging his hip against the wooden frame. ‘And you’re not really interested?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated helplessly. ‘It’s not you. If things were different . . . Tomorrow – I’m an early riser, so come whatever time suits you.’

  ‘Right.’ He glanced at his watch, tripped on the step and gave me a rueful smile. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Bye.’ I shut the door and headed upstairs to make a list of the reserve prices and try to figure out what I might expect from the sale of the house’s contents. Something to fill the time while I waited for Ben to arrive.

  It was after five when he turned up, carrying a folder, his normally cheerful expression absent for once.

  ‘Ellen told me the barest outlines,’ he said, removing his coat and hanging it over a chair in the kitchen. ‘I can scarcely believe it. I’ve dug out the old newspaper clippings of the accident, and our office was given a copy of the coroner’s report, so I’ve brought that too.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, frowning. ‘And Ben, it was no accident! Palmer did it. His confession’s there in his own handwriting.’

  ‘Call it the legal mind, Orla.’ His smile was wry. ‘I have to say it beggars belief. I thought I knew the man but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Can you show me the papers?’

  I went to fetch the box. ‘It’s all in there. A nasty little bomb waiting for me. I wish I’d never found it.’

  Donning a pair of glasses, he methodically sorted the papers onto the table, adding the typed report and the yellowed newspaper clippings from the folder he’d brought. I picked the top one up. TRAGIC DEATH OF LOCAL COUPLE, the heading read, followed by a few inches of column space:

  The deaths in a motor accident, of prominent local grazier Harry Macrae and his wife, Clare, occurred last night on the access road to the family property, Malvern Park. Police speculate that Mr Macrae was speeding in an attempt to beat an approaching storm when he lost control of the vehicle, which veered across the narrow track and hit a stationary Fordson tractor left there when it ran out of fuel sometime earlier that day. Sergeant Wallis, who attended the scene, described the accident as ‘unbelievably bad luck.’ Both victims were killed on impact. The couple were returning from a trip to Broken Hill. They are survived by their daughter, Orla, aged twelve, who had not accompanied her parents as she was in school, explained Mrs Evans, wife of the property’s overseer. The Macrae family were pioneers of the district, with many historical links to Emu Springs and a long history of community service.

  So much for the local rag. The Barrier News from the Hill had more or less repeated the gist of it with a small follow-up report at a later date on the coroner’s finding. He had adjudged it an ‘unfortunate accident’ and used the occasion to urge motorists to take particular care on bush tracks whose ‘unpredictable nature’ were even less conducive to speeding than the open highway. The verdict was death by misadventure and he extended his sympathy to the couple’s tragically orphaned daughter.

  Ben sighed, pulled off his glasses and folded them onto the pages of Palmer’s handwritten confession. He shook his head and blew out plump cheeks. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say, Orla. To quote you – accident be damned! He committed a coldblooded murder and got away with it. All these years – a pillar of the church, charitable works – well, it’s easy to see why. He was eaten up with guilt over his actions. Trying to make amends and in the end it drove him to confess.’

  ‘Once he was safely out of the way!’

  ‘There is that.’ He rubbed the ridge of one eye. ‘The thing is, we’ve knowledge of a crime now. We’ll have to give that,’ he nodded at the letter, ‘to the police.’

  ‘What can they do?’

  ‘Nothing, but it’s the law – by not reporting a crime you are seen to be abetting it. I’ll take it into the station tomorrow.’ He picked up the copy of Dad’s divorce notice. ‘I imagine this must have come as quite a shock.’

  ‘To put it mildly. It also makes me illegitimate. Is that going to affect my ownership of Malvern Park?’

  ‘No, I’ve already checked. Your father’s will specifically named you as his heir. “To my daughter Orla Dawn, I bequeath” . . . that’s how it read. I pulled it from the files before I left the office. So there can be no question if ever a legal dispute should arise over the property.’

  ‘You mean if Dad had children by his first wife. They could try to make a claim, couldn’t they?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Ben admitted cautiously. He reached across the table to give my hand an avuncular pat. ‘Basically, my dear, nothing has changed. It mightn’t feel like that, I mean, I imagine it’s very upsetting for you, but illegitimacy these days isn’t the big deal it once was. You won’t be passed over, disinherited or ostracised socially, even if it became known, and I see no reason why it should.’

  ‘But it still makes my father a criminal.’ Who betrayed both my mother and myself, I added silently.

  ‘Let us say that he committed a criminal act. At least it wasn’t murder.’

  ‘That’s what you call damning with faint praise, Ben.’ I got up to stoke the stove. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Beyond the window faint haloes glowed where the street lights had come on. ‘Better still, what if I make us both an omelette? And I’ll show you the figures Alec left on the auction stuff. He hasn’t quite finished yet, but it’s still adds up to a respectable total – and that’s just the reserve. We could do better on the day.’

  ‘Some items won’t make their reserve, remember. Still, every cent helps. And thanks, an omelette sounds great.’ He was turning the ring box in his hand. ‘What will you do with this?’

  I suppressed a shudder. ‘Sell it. I couldn’t bear to keep it. There’re a couple of things that Alec says need a specialist sale. The ring can go with them.’ I took the box from him and snapped it open, still incredulous at what it contained. ‘Palmer must have been mad! How did he think that killing Dad would somehow make my mother agree to marry him?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘There’s no end to what a man’s capable of when it comes to women. Love makes fools of us all.’ Something in his voice had me glancing his way but he was placing Palmer’s confession in the folder, his stooped posture lending his frame a defeated air. I forced lightness into my tone.

  ‘Yes, well it seems to me that persistence might work where extreme methods are bou
nd to fail. So you shouldn’t give up hope.’ I cracked eggs into a bowl, adding before he could speak, ‘Do you want to nip upstairs now for a wash? When an omelette’s ready, it’s ready.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but the sink’ll do. I’ll set the table, shall I? Don’t worry, I know where everything is. Then we’ll look at those prices.’

  By eleven the following morning Alec had finished his work. I made him a cup of tea and fed him a sultana sandwich as I still hadn’t got to the shops.

  ‘Hmm, not bad,’ he said taking a bite. ‘Your own invention?’

  ‘Something I learned at Coober Pedy. Supplies could be a bit erratic and the shops often ran out. Excuse me.’ The phone was ringing; it would be Marty, I thought, but it was Fiona’s voice I heard when I answered.

  ‘Orla, I’m wondering if you can help.’ She spoke in a rush. ‘Could you possibly mind Sophia for an hour?’

  ‘Well, I —’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m desperate. I’m at work and Roger’s mum is still away. It’ll be just till he gets back. He’s out with the tow-truck picking up a vehicle that rolled on the highway. I left her at daycare this morning, but they just rang and said to collect her. Roger will come and get her the minute he’s back. Promise.’

  ‘Well, of course. If you think . . . Where is she now?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll bring her to you. And thanks a million. Ten minutes and I’ll be there.’

  I returned to the kitchen and began fencing off the stove with chairs. I wondered what had prolonged Mrs Brigson’s absence and how Sophia would react to being faced with a strange carer . . .

  ‘Orla,’ Alec spoke loudly, ‘I said, I’ll be getting along now.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, of course. Thank you for the valuation. I expect Ben will be in touch about when the sale can go ahead.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stood up so I added his chair to the barricade about the stove. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Babysitting.’ He stood irresolute until I said politely, ‘Was there something else?’

  Sighing, he picked up his briefcase. ‘No – except that I do hope you’ll come to the sale, when it happens.’

  ‘I’ll see how I go,’ I said mendaciously. ‘Thanks again.’ I extended my hand and gave his a quick shake as my ears caught the crunch of tyres on gravel. ‘There she is. Sorry, have to go.’

  He exited the front door as Fee arrived panting, her high heels sinking into the gravel, her hair disarrayed. She had Sophia on one arm and a large carry bag in the other and had left the motor running.

  ‘You’re an angel, Orla. Everything’s in the bag including milk and a bottle of juice. Give her some of both for lunch. There’s a feeder cup. Just make sure the lid’s firmly on —’

  ‘I’ve done it before. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Bless you.’ She kissed the child and handed her over, dumping the bag at my feet. ‘Measles, would you believe – or that’s what they think, but I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get back. See you. Bye, darling. Be good for Orla.’ Then the car was rolling backwards before it swung around in a tight arc. There came a flutter of fingers behind the glass and she was gone. I looked down at the child’s solemn face and stooped to pick up the bag. Alec had left, I saw, his departure unremarked by either of us.

  ‘Well,’ I said to my burden, ‘how do you fancy a coddled egg for lunch, hmm? It’s about all that’s left. And some nice milk for afters? Who’s a good girl for not crying when Mummy leaves, then?’ Putting her over my shoulder I dragged the bag into the hall and used my elbow to shut the door. It was a joy, mingled with pain and grief, to feel the familiar weight in my arms again and to breathe in the smell of baby skin. Her little hand was warm against my neck and I was caught between the need to both weep and laugh, as if those magic two years had been suddenly returned to me. Scarcely aware of doing so, I began to hum. Sophia stuck two fingers in her mouth, staring like an owlet newly introduced to the world, as I carried her into the kitchen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The afternoon passed without any sight of Roger and it was a breathless, apologetic Fiona who came to collect Sophia a little after four.

  ‘Orla, I am so sorry,’ she exclaimed as I opened the door. ‘I’ve been ringing the garage ever since I left her but Roger’s still not back. Jim – that’s the other mechanic – well, he thinks that Roger must’ve hauled the wreck down to the Hill. I hope you haven’t had a terrible time with her?’ She stretched out her arms to receive the child who was already reaching for her.

  ‘There you go, sweetie.’ I felt a pang as her weight left my arms. ‘Don’t be sorry, Fee, we’ve had a good time. Come into the kitchen and I’ll get her gear together. We’ve had stories and games and she’s had a nap. So, is it not usual for road accident vehicles to be carted off to the Hill?’

  ‘Mostly the insurers want the shortest distance. I mean normally, if it happens closer to the Hill then a garage from there would handle it. Mileage costs money. It just seems a bit odd and of course it would happen today when Mum Brigson’s away.’

  ‘I thought that was just a weekend trip,’ I said retrieving a stuffed toy from under the table.

  ‘So did I.’ Fee’s brow knotted. ‘Only it turns out she had a doctor’s appointment today. She’s found a lump in her breast. That’s what the trip was really about, the weekend was just an excuse. Dad Brigson rang last night to let us know why they wouldn’t be back. She was worried about how I’d manage with Sophia but I said don’t be, there’s always daycare . . .’

  ‘Yes, so what happened there?’ I had corralled the last of the toys, and brushed Peterkins the bunny lightly across Sophia’s nose. She gurgled with delight, demanding, ‘More, Orlee, more!’

  ‘The woman who runs the centre called in a nurse to look at a toddler with a rash. She reckoned it was measles and insisted on sending all the kids home. Is that likely? Most kids get vaccinated these days, don’t they?’

  ‘But not all. And sometimes it doesn’t work and they can still get sick.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been marvellous anyway, Orla, and I can’t thank you enough. God knows what I would’ve done without you. I can just imagine turning up at work with her. Corrigan would have a fit.’

  ‘Anytime,’ I said warmly. ‘In fact I could take her tomorr—’

  ‘Oh that’s all right, Mum Brigson rang just before I left. She’s had the biopsy and they’ll both be home tonight. I’d best get moving.’ She hoisted Sophia onto her shoulder and stood to swoop a kiss onto my cheek. ‘Hopefully there’ll be news of Roger too. Say ta-ta to Orla, darling. Blow her a big kiss as a thank you.’

  Sophia blew a spitty raspberry onto her palm and followed it up with a wide smile. ‘Ta-ta, Orlee.’

  ‘Ta-ta, sweetie. Bye, Fee.’ I shut the door behind them, feeling the silence flow back into the empty rooms. It had been a wonderful few hours but now they were over and reality loomed once more. My uncle the murderer, my father the bigamist – I wondered if Ben had handed over Palmer’s confession to the police yet, and what, if anything, they would do about it. Write it into the record so that their crimes became history, there for the whole world to uncover? Well, it was out of my hands now. And unless I wanted porridge for dinner I had better get my coat and purse and get down to the supermarket before it closed for the day.

  I drove back to Malvern Park the following afternoon with bananas, oranges and the necessary painting equipment. At the boundary I averted my eyes from Great-grandfather’s old hut, wondering what secrets he’d hidden from his world. Everybody, it seemed, did so. Marty made me a cup of tea as if I had come forty rather than five miles, and asked about my time in town.

  ‘Did the chap from the auction house come?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all done. Marty, did you know the table lamp in the hall was valuable? The bronze one that sits next to the phone.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘So Alec said – a real antique.’

  ‘Who’d have guessed? I thought it w
as ugly. Did you talk to Ben about Palmer?’

  ‘I gave him the papers, the whole box in fact. He said he would pass Palmer’s confession on to the police. They can’t do anything but apparently they have to be informed if a crime has been committed.’

  ‘I really can’t understand why he ever wrote it down,’ she said. ‘A deathbed confession is pure selfishness. I wonder if it made him feel better to get it off his chest? I have to say, Orla, that my opinion of your uncle has changed. So coldblooded! Because you realise that he must’ve gone back after the deed to remove the mirror?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, he must’ve done so. He can’t have inspected his handiwork though, or he’d have known about Mum being in the car. And I’ll swear he didn’t. Even he couldn’t have faked his response when he was told the news.’

  I set the cup aside and sighed. ‘That really hit the spot, thanks Marty. I also spent a small fortune at the hardware shop – the price of paint! I had no idea. Still, I’ve got brushes and paint and primer and sandpaper. Tomorrow I’ll get started on the verandah. And sometime before the weekend I must go back into the Springs and pick up the stuff from the house. If our guests are looking for elegant dining we’ll certainly provide it.’

  ‘The Crown Derby? What if it gets broken?’ She sounded suddenly uncertain, considering that using it had been her own idea.

  I shrugged. ‘Then we’re down a few plates. But why should it? Most guests dine at hotels without wrecking the service, why should here be any different? Alec, the man who came to value the stuff, said he’d have to get advice on the wine. So that’s in the too-hard basket until we see what Ben can sort out for us. Maybe we could get some sort of restricted licence just to serve guests? If not, Alec was thinking it might be worth a private sale, but like I said he was seeking advice. He’s obviously not an oenophile.’

  ‘A what?’