The Secrets of Palmerston House

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “There was a small issue with the final details of Miss Dorothy’s estate. Actually, a claim against it from a person quite unknown to me, and I suspect, any of the family. Quite a mystery really and one I’d like to discuss more with the appropriate paperwork in front of me, and Christie present.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Angus squeezed her hand and leaned forward a little. “I expect you to be present also.”

  “Me?”

  “The party named Palmerston House as part of their claim, so yes, you.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth in surprise, but the arrival of Lance interrupted. As Angus ordered for them both, still holding her hand, she wondered how on earth anyone connected to the Ryan family would think they had some claim on her property. It was ridiculous.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Inland from River’s End, the Otway Ranges formed part of Trev’s territory, dotted with remote properties and a handful of tiny villages. As the sun rose, he’d been on the road for a while and was ready for coffee at the first road stop.

  He took his coffee outside and leaned against the patrol car so he could enjoy the view across a dramatic valley. He loved it up here, as much as the coast. Maybe he could persuade Charlotte to come hiking. Lots of nice trails and he could put a picnic together. They could talk about what was bothering her.

  The familiar rumble of Martin’s motorcycle interrupted Trev’s musings and he lifted a hand in greeting as it turned into the driveway. Martin stopped near the patrol car and turned the motor off.

  “How was the camp?” Trev shook Martin’s hand.

  “Great kids. Always are.”

  “I’m about to get one for the road.” Trev nodded at his coffee cup. “Like one?”

  “Thanks. No. Quite happy to wait to get home first. Thought I’d take a minute to stretch when I saw your car.”

  “Fair enough. I saw Christie out and about earlier.”

  Martin glanced at his watch. “Was it even light?”

  “Nope. She was letting herself into the salon.”

  “Everyone been behaving?”

  The muscles in Trev’s cheek tightened. “Mostly.”

  “Trev?”

  “Dunno, mate. Charlotte’s upset about something but can’t bring herself to ask for help. And Thomas went all secret agent on me.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Someone put him off-side. A guest staying at Palmerston House was lost up past the cottage and it spooked him a bit.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a photographer. I ran his licence and he looks okay. Besides, Elizabeth wouldn’t put up with any nonsense.”

  “Hmm.”

  “No hmm about it. Go see your girl.”

  Martin started the engine. “Are you heading up near Thomas’ cabin?” He raised his voice over the rumble.

  “I’ll drop by and check on it. Safe travels.”

  Trev watched Martin accelerate back onto the road with a tinge of envy. No longer the semi-recluse he’d known for years, Martin’s life changed the minute Christie came along. Her warmth and optimism lit up his darker side. There was a darker side to Charlotte... at least, there was a hidden, secret part she kept buried. If only she’d let him be her light.

  ***

  Behind the cottage, a wrought iron gate was flanked by wisteria on one side and a passionfruit vine on the other. From there, a path led to the orchard and vegetable garden. Trailed by Randall, Martha and Thomas wandered between the beds, each with a cup of coffee. It was a favourite morning ritual before breakfast to see what vegetables were ripening and plan the next planting.

  “We should decide what to do with the trunk,” Thomas said.

  “I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps Elizabeth would like it. Return it to its original home.”

  “If that’s the case, the grandfather clock should go back.”

  “George’s clock? Did it come from Palmerston House?”

  “It did. And rather a scandalous story attached.”

  Martha blinked at Thomas. “Dear, since when do you know the intimate history of a grandfather clock?”

  “Always. I thought everyone knew, until George told me to keep it all to myself. Must have been about fifteen then. About the time the clock was in the cottage. My mother was distraught when the clock arrived and she had to put two chairs in the garage to make room.”

  “I always wondered why there were two chairs left in the dining room when Christie inherited it.”

  “When my parents moved out, somehow those chairs in the garage were forgotten. I found them after they’d left and put them back inside. It was possibly the final thing I did here. Until recently.” Thomas stopped to pull a weed out from the lettuce.

  “But if George’s family owned the clock, why on earth did it come here?”

  Thomas grinned as he straightened. “Probably shouldn’t tell you, being a Ryan.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You might insist on taking it back.” He laughed at Martha’s increasingly confused expression. “Let’s sit.”

  She followed him to a bench Christie had put under one of the old trees. Randall trotted off, sniffing the track of a rabbit or some other small creature, his tail wagging.

  “Originally, George’s family were sworn to secrecy but when they found themselves in trouble, George’s father told my father. If you remember, they were good friends.”

  Martha nodded, hanging on every word.

  “You know George’s great-grandfather established the jewellery shop? The grandfather clock was its first resident, in the corner where it is now. It became part of the background, just another clock amongst many, outshone by the sparkly stuff. But one day, your mother spotted it there.”

  “My mother?”

  “She asked George’s father if it was the clock originally owned by the Temples.”

  “Who built Palmerston? Is it?”

  “Don’t tell George you know... but yes. And before you ask, there’s little I can tell about the how’s and why’s but some deal was done around the time Eoin Ryan took the ownership of the place. My guess is Henry Temple gave it away rather than leave it for the Ryans. Sorry.” He put his hand on Martha’s leg.

  Her eyes wide, she leaned forward. “No, go on. This is fascinating!”

  Thomas chuckled. “I can see where Christie gets her love of mystery. Anyway, Lilian must have found some evidence about the history of the clock and George’s father got wind of her intentions to reclaim it. My Dad cooked up this plan to keep it here, knowing your family never visited. Well, until you did.” He kissed Martha’s lips.

  “Behave, Tom. Tell me the story.” Her smile earned her another kiss first.

  “So it stayed here for a few months whilst the Campbell family finished building their new house. Once done, it went back to them and they never allowed anyone inside who they didn’t trust.”

  “I imagine once Mother and Father moved to Ireland it was safe to return to the store.”

  Randall flopped beside them. “Whatever the clock means to the Campbell family, George has nobody to leave it to and there was a pledge for it to never be sold. Perfect gift for our youngsters if you ask me.” He put his arm around Martha and they leaned back against the tree trunk. “Something to remind them of the past and how, no matter what, time makes things better.”

  ***

  Elizabeth had taken particular care with her appearance this morning. In front of the mirror, she’d applied make-up with a light hand, preferring the natural look Christie had taught her one day. Her hair refused to quite stay in place, one strand insisting on coming away from the others, so she reinforced it with hair spray. Then, a touch of her favourite perfume. In the many years since Keith passed on she’d not considered feeling this way again. Flutters in her stomach, tingles on her skin. Angus is here. Her eyes smiled back at her.

  The house was quiet when she tiptoed downstairs, deliberately avoiding the creaky spots. He’
d had a long drive yesterday and their dinner lasted a long time. In fact, they were the only patrons left when Lance finally left the bill with Angus. She’d pulled it to her side of the table and giggled like a schoolgirl when he’d shaken his finger and swept it away.

  From the moment she’d met Angus, the connection was perfect. They laughed at the same things, and shared a love of old-fashioned cooking and English traditions. He was a gentleman who brought out the lady in her. When Christie was lost at sea she’d seen the distress in his soul and her heart hurt for him. In their conversations she’d learnt about his past, the young wife he’d tragically lost and his unwavering focus on his career afterwards. His commitment to Dorothy Ryan – a difficult and sometimes dreadful employer – was him at his best. He saw and accepted people for who they really were, faults and all.

  Elizabeth put the kettle on the stove to boil, then laid out two breakfast trays for the guests and two places at the table.

  “Something smells wonderful!” Angus appeared in the doorway, sniffing the air in appreciation.

  “Perfect timing, Angus. Would you care for some tea?”

  “What kind of question is that, dear lady?” Angus wandered to her side and leaned down to kiss her cheek, ever so gently. “I always care for tea. And I shall make us a pot whilst you continue creating your gourmet offering.”

  He turned away to collect the teapot and Elizabeth remembered to breathe again. Her legs were just a little bit shaky, in a good way. Now, what was I doing? The kettle whistled. Perhaps there was time to sit together and enjoy some tea before cooking. Perfect.

  Chapter Sixteen

  George swept the pavement outside with the same broom he’d used for ten years

  This shop had outlasted all of its jewellers except George and each one was a Campbell. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather – the man who’d started the business more than a century ago. A tradition he would one day end and this saddened him. But jewellery from a master such as himself held less value these days than in his youth, certainly out here away from the city. Martin spoke of setting him up to sell online but he had little use for computers. Give him a yacht and a fair wind and he was happy. Not so much with technology. And he did sometimes miss Jasmine Sea, although she’d had a different name all the years he owned her. Free One.

  George realised he’d stopped sweeping and was leaning on the broom, staring rather blankly down the road. Someone walked toward him and he recognised the young man from the other day. The photographer. He nodded to the other man as he drew closer. “Good morning, lovely day for a walk.”

  “Good morning. I’m pleased to see you... Mr Campbell?” Bernie stopped a few feet away, head tilted slightly.

  “Please, just George. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Bernie Cooper. I don’t think I introduced myself last time. Would you have a few moments to speak with me? I’m photographing Palmerston House for a new book and would love to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Come inside, Bernie. I don’t know how much help I’ll be though, Elizabeth is very knowledgeable.” George led the way inside, shuffling around the counter to place the broom against a wall. Bernie went straight to the grandfather clock. “I see this still fascinates you.”

  “What a journey it would have had from England. It’s a wonder it arrived intact and working!” Bernie wandered back to join George, who perched himself on the stool and put his glasses on. “And then it was moved yet again, and more than once.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Bernie gazed around. “How old is this lovely shop, George?”

  With a small smile, George shook his head. “The date is above the door outside – 1902. One hundred and sixteen years old.” For a photographer, Bernie lacked some powers of observation.

  “So, given its age, the clock must have been somewhere before arriving here. In a local home, perhaps? So at least one other move.” Bernie’s smile didn’t make it to his eyes and George narrowed his own eyes. “Where was it kept in those years?”

  “A bit before my time, I’m afraid. You are most welcome to take some photographs, if you wish.”

  “Thanks. I’ll drop back a bit later with the right camera.” Bernie leaned against the counter and lowered his voice. “You can tell me, George. I’ll keep your secret.”

  “I have no secrets.” George levelled a stern gaze over his glasses.

  With a quick intake of breath, Bernie straightened. “Look, this is important and I don’t want to have to resort to—”

  “Morning, George!” Daphne’s bright greeting coincided with the jangling of the door. She stopped abruptly. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

  “Not at all, Daphne. We’d finished our conversation, I believe. Good day to you, Mr Cooper.” Whatever the young man had been about to say sounded like a threat of sorts. George saw something like anger or disappointment flash in the other man’s eyes then it was gone. Without a word, Bernie turned and stalked out, brushing past Daphne, who jumped aside as if stung.

  ***

  Outside the jewellery shop, Bernie got as far as the kerb before turning around. Damned old man. Stupid woman. She’d butted in just as he’d begun to make himself clear to George Campbell.

  Bernie glared at the shop. There, above the door, the words ‘Est. 1902’. Where was the clock all those missing years? Through the window he saw the woman – Daphne – at the counter with George. They looked back to him. Judging him. Pointing their fingers just like everyone did. He tapped his jacket and felt the comforting shape of a water bottle.

  He crossed the road and walked to the bakery, its outside tables and chairs empty. He sank onto one and took the bottle out, sucking on it until the vodka warmed his guts. Calm down and focus. Much as he longed to take back the grandfather clock, there was no way to do it.

  “Sir? Excuse me?”

  A teenage girl stood a few feet away, wearing an apron. There was a birthmark on one side of her face and he stared at it.

  “Er... would you like a coffee? I can bring one out.”

  “Why would I want coffee?”

  “Sir, any food or drink at the tables must be purchased here. Sorry.” She looked at the bottle in his hand.

  “I don’t see a sign anywhere.”

  “You are most welcome to sit here as long as you purchase something. Unless of course you are unwell?”

  “Yeah. I’m sick.”

  “Shall I call someone for you?”

  “Yup. Sick of people like you, sweetie pie.” Bernie took another swig from the bottle. “Oh, look. You’ve got a name badge. Jess. Aren’t you too young to be working? Do you sell cocktails? A nice shot of vodka on ice?”

  “This is a bakery, sir, not a bar.”

  “But if you don’t sell what I want to order, whose fault is that? See, I’m a taxpayer and this is the pavement. Side of the road. Okay?” He burst into laughter at the confusion on Jess’s face. Small town people were so easy to trick. Now she was looking in the direction of the jewellers. Bernie followed her line of sight and scowled. Daphne. Headed their way.

  “You win, sweetie pie. I’ll give up my seat for your crowd who wait to taste your wares.” Bernie finished the bottle, crushed it, and tossed it on the ground. He slipped the lid into his pocket.

  “Please pick that up.” Jess stepped back when he stood. Daphne was halfway down the road.

  “See you round.” He turned his back on her and Daphne and walked away. Stuff you all. He’d find the answers himself.

  ***

  Deep in thought, Christie climbed the stone steps leading to the graveyard. Martin was home at last, but exhausted. She’d made him a belated breakfast, kissed him not nearly enough, and left him to get some sleep. Once he woke and phoned, she’d bring Randall home.

  Near the very edge of the cliff, where the oldest graves were, Christie was surprised to see Charlotte. She was intent on a headstone, peering at the inscription. Not wanting to startle her, Chri
stie cleared her throat, then smiled widely when Charlotte glanced up.

  “Oh, Christie. I didn’t know anyone was there.”

  “Just on my way home.”

  “Home, from Martin’s? He’s back?”

  Christie wove past a couple of graves to where Charlotte stood. “He is.”

  “He must have been happy to see you there.”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.”

  “Oh dear. Everything okay?”

  “He spotted the remains of the bruise on my hip so I’ve been resoundingly scolded for taking risks.”

  Charlotte failed to hide a grin.

  “Thanks. You don’t know what he’s like when I do something he deems dangerous.”

  “He loves you. Maybe stop doing dangerous things.”

  “So whose grave is this?” Enough talk of Martin and danger.

  “This? Henry John Temple.”

  “Temple. Didn’t he built Palmerston House? What’s he doing buried here I wonder.”

  “Apparently he drowned.”

  Christie stared at the headstone. A simple monument with only his name and date of birth and death, the edges were crumbled and the inscription hard to read. “1853. But didn’t he lose Palmerston that year?”

  “He did. And he should have left to find his wife and children. At least, that’s what I heard.”

  “I didn’t know you were so interested in the history.”

  With a shake of her head, Charlotte turned to look out over the sea. “Someone I know is. Too interested.”

  Her tone of voice, more than the words, caught Christie’s interest and she joined Charlotte. “Come on, tell me the story. And don’t say there isn’t one, I’m known for my detective skills and insatiable interest in mysteries.”

  She watched Charlotte’s face change, the muscles of her jaw tightening and forehead creasing. Without meaning to, she took Charlotte’s hand, who jumped, but didn’t pull away.

  “I’m really good with secrets, Charlotte. You’ve helped me. Let me be a friend for you.”

  For the longest moment, Charlotte stared at Christie, then she closed her eyes briefly and sighed. “You have no idea how much I want to talk to someone. I can’t, Christie.”