What Lies Buried

by John Bishop

PART SIX

  AUNT MAY, OLD MEN, AND SUNBURY RACES

  Hooked on History

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  Caroline soon realised Max had understated the need for sorting of the folders. The facing sheets were evidence of some effort to maintain order, but many items had yet to be indexed. Her fear that visiting Banabrook would awaken memories to test her resolve was proving well founded. These documents were her past, and they were an absorbing departure from her accustomed focus on politics. Neither Max nor Judith had returned to the family room. With sudden decision, Caroline took all the folders from the desk and sat herself in the middle of the carpet to start sorting. Her attempt to do this in a disciplined way—not to read more than was necessary to establish a date or subject for each item—was constantly tested. It was not long before the name of her great-aunt May seduced her into reading another draft chapter.

  Working title: Kalawonta - A History of the Shire

  Draft Chapter - The Blake Collection

  The reading of The Last Will and Testament of Alured Blake in 1893 produced a surprise for his son Simeon whose memoirs include the following note, written in 1933.

  My father had often discussed with me his hopes for the future of Banabrook. After my mother’s death, in 1892, he told me he had originally named her as tenant-for-life of the estate, but that the property would now devolve to me, unencumbered, as the sole residuary beneficiary. I had never seen his Will but was aware he had made some bequests and legacies, none of which came as a surprise on the day of the reading. In regard to the art works, however, I had no idea he had made provisions for ownership to pass to a Trust for the State Gallery, subject to continuing rights for blood relatives to hold items on loan. Writing now, forty years after the event, I can confess to having been somewhat miffed when I heard the news, particularly so because I had to cope with the surprise in public, albeit a small public—my wife Alice, the solicitor, and the recipients of some legacies. In the intervening years, I have sometimes wondered whether my annoyance was motivated by greed, or merely by disappointment that my father hadn’t taken me into his confidence. My mother having already passed away, I had nobody I could ask for an explanation. I knew my father to be of a controlling nature so I like to think he just wanted to dictate the future of the collection and was not implying a lack of confidence in my stewardship. Nevertheless, the old saying about three generations separating shirtsleeves from shirtsleeves might have been in his mind. He might have feared I would become profligate with the family treasures. Whatever the case, I felt no compulsion to challenge the bequest, and set about deciding what pieces I wanted to remain at Banabrook.1

  The items comprising the Blake Collection are listed in Appendix 3. Apart from five paintings and two Chinese vases, which have remained at Banabrook, the only items not currently held by the gallery are two watercolours attributed to the artist George Rowe. These were held by May Blake from 19th March 1930 until her death on 7th April 1949 and, after a short hiatus, by her brother Christopher, before passing to her nephew Anthony, the current custodian.2

  The attribution of the works to George Rowe is not without an element of mystery. On enquiry about a footnote to the list which had been provided by the trustees, the authors were informed that some of the items in the Blake Collection, although considered authentic, do not have documentary provenance of the standard required for purchase of new works by the State Gallery.3 This matter is also raised in notes made by the late May Blake.4

  1 .Blake archives. Simeon Blake’s unpublished memoirs, 1933

  2. Letter from Trustees of the Blake Collection dated 10th April 1990

  3. Letter from the Trustees of the Blake Collection dated 17th May 1990

  4. Blake archives. May Blake’s handwritten note, circa 1930. See also tape, recorded by Maxwell Kingsley, of an interview with Anthony Blake on 25th January 1989

  From other papers in the batch, Caroline could tell this draft chapter was far from complete, but it was not obvious where it was headed next. She looked for a draft Appendix 3, but could not find it. She was sure it would confirm what she’d already realised. She had seen one of the paintings referred to. She couldn’t recall the title, but it had been on the wall of Aunt May’s room at Uncle Christopher’s apartment. Horses on a country race track. So, the visit Max made to see Tony had uncovered things of interest. What else had he discovered about the family history? Caroline was acutely aware of her growing curiosity. We turn our back on family, she thought, but it doesn’t go away! She looked at the ring she now wore constantly on her middle finger. It had been at the bottom of Aunt May’s jewellery box, wrapped in tissue paper—a ring Uncle Christopher had not seen during his sister’s lifetime.

  A Telephone Call From Aunt May

  Tuesday 9th March 1948

  At Rachel’s request, her wedding to Walter in 1948 was to be a civil ceremony attended only by their closest friends. Few others were told about the arrangements, so Walter was surprised to receive a telephone call from Aunt May whom he had not seen or spoken to since Grandma Alice’s funeral in 1940.

  ‘I heard you’re getting married, Walter. Don’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘You haven’t even met Rachel.’

  ‘I believe she’s Jewish.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘It will some. You live in a close community.’

  ‘Who have you been talking to? Not that Archer woman?’

  ‘I’m not saying who called. They did. That’s the worry.’

  ‘I can’t believe the anti-Semitism in this town!’

  ‘It’s not about Jews. They’ve done it hard for centuries, poor blighters.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I’d say the same if you were marrying a Mormon, or a bloody Druid, or somesuch. Mixed marriages don’t work.’

  ‘This one will. I can assure you.’

  ‘It’s a mistake. You should stick with what you understand. What would your father say?’

  ‘If he were here, I have no doubt he’d support me totally, as he did when I married Emily.’

  ‘It’s a generation out of control. I’ve said so to Christopher before.’

  ‘What’s his view?’

  ‘About your marriage? I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry Aunt May, but it’s my business and I think you should keep out of it!’

  ‘So you’re determined?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh well, good luck. You’ll need it. It’s a mistake Walter. A bloody mistake. And don’t let her convert young what’s-her-name... Caroline.’

  Walter was saved the need to think of any further response by May’s abruptly ringing off.

  The following day, Uncle Christopher called.

  ‘I know it’s a long time since we saw each other. I’m only making this call so I can tell May I did. Forget whatever she said. She means well.’

  ‘But do you actually know what she did say?’

  ‘I’ve a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Well I wasn’t going to pay her any heed anyway.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘How are you keeping, Uncle?’

  ‘Oh. Well enough, thank you.’

  ‘Aunt Genevieve?’

  ‘Yes she’s well. Plays bridge.’

  ‘And Tony.’

  ‘He’s well.’

  There was another pause. This time Christopher continued.

  ‘Your lady’s name is Rachel I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy.’

  ‘It’s to be a quiet ceremony, but family would be welcome.’

  ‘Thanks for the thought. But I know May would think it ... inappropriate.’

  ‘Did she have a bad experience or something?’

  There was a pause and no answer.

  ‘I appreciate your call, Uncle Chris. Look after your
self.’

  ‘And you. Goodbye.’

  Walter could almost feel his uncle’s relief at getting through the conversation.

  It was a year later he had another call from Christopher to tell him Aunt May had died.

  ‘I don’t expect you to come to the funeral. But, I thought you’d want to be informed.’

  ‘I’d like to come.’

  ‘Really? You can stay with us. There’s a spare room.’

  ‘I won’t put you to that trouble. I’d like to bring Caroline. I think she might like to grow up knowing she was there to see her great-aunt put to rest.’

  ‘A link to her heritage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve told you it’s on Wednesday, but not the time. Hold the line a moment will you?’

  Walter heard his uncle call out, and a prolonged exchange.

  ‘Genevieve suggests you come here at ten, and leave for the funeral with us. There’ll be plenty of room. Tony’s making his own way. He’s not flying in until that morning and has to go back to Sydney the same afternoon.’

  The arrangements agreed, Walter went to find Rachel and Caroline. From his own past came the belief that dealing with death was a vital part of a child’s education. And the opportunity for time alone with his daughter appealed.

  An Interview and An Archive Box

  Wednesday 25th January 1989

  When Max started work on the history of Kalawonta, Tony, at 73, was the oldest surviving Blake. Walter had not seen his cousin since the funeral of Aunt May nearly forty years earlier, and had not communicated with him since their exchange of notes after Uncle Christopher’s death. Nevertheless, when Walter telephoned, Tony readily agreed to be interviewed.

  In the last week of the school holidays, Max made the journey to Sydney. He arrived at the luxury penthouse before 10am and was still there early in the evening, having left the recorder turned on for most of the day and captured a running commentary as his host cooked and served a gourmet lunch. Max realised his close scrutiny of the apartment had not gone unnoticed when Tony said, ‘I’ll be devastated if you don’t like it. It’s one of mine. I designed the building and fell in love with my own creation. Bit narcissistic I suppose.’

  ‘I like it a lot. And this eclectic collection of furniture and art. Somehow even the old pieces suit the modern setting.’

  ‘You’ll make me blush. Oh, and there’s a couple of paintings from the Blake Collection. Those two. They’re called Old Men at Bendigo, and Sunbury Races. No prize for guessing which is which. Aunt May had them. I suppose you know about the collection?’ Max nodded. ‘Big “to do” when the gallery realised May had died. They were on the case in a flash. Fortunately, the trustees agreed to switch custody of the pieces. Dad and I had grown attached to them.’

  It was late in the day when Tony said, ‘I hope you won’t think I’m taking advantage, but I thought I’d give you a box of papers to take away.’ He pulled an archive box from under the table. ‘It’s been in storage for years. Not under the table of course—I went down to retrieve it when I knew you were coming. The truth is I’m quite unable to throw things out, but if I give these to you I satisfy my compulsion to preserve, and I get rid of them at the same time. Clever, huh?’ He lifted the lid to display the contents. ‘Aunt May’s papers. Financial records mainly. There’s a bundle of old race books; horses were her passion. I should ask you to turn that thing off to mention, in passing, that she was overly fond of drink. But, since the whole world knew it, no harm done. Tipsy or not, she maintained her interest in horses—in between nips of cooking sherry. That’s a joke actually. She spent a fortune on grog, and got only the best. Delectable Bordeaux reds; a range of French Champagnes; she would have loved Grange. Left the entire cellar to me. Nice thought. Unfortunately she’d already consumed the lot, so it was a bit like inheriting from Old Mother Hubbard. She never married, which was a bit sad; she wasn’t a bad looker in her day. Anyway, for what they’re worth, you’re welcome to her financial archives. Oh, and there’s a man’s pocket-watch tucked down the side here—something I hadn’t noticed—an old Hunter wrapped in tissue paper. Don’t know the story, but it might as well stay with the other stuff. I can send it all on if you think it’s too much to carry.’

  Max felt the weight of the box. ‘I’ll manage. I’m travelling by train and I’ll take a cab from here.’

  The sound of a key in the latch signalled the arrival of a younger man weighed down by a large art folio.

  Tony beamed. ‘My friend Timothy. Meet Max Kingsley. All the way from Arajinna.’

  ‘Well met,’ Timothy exclaimed offering his hand. ‘I need a stiff drink. Hasn’t the old bugger offered you one?’

  Max left Tony’s apartment well satisfied with the recordings he’d made, but it was not until his train pulled out of Central Station, and he started a preliminary examination of May’s archive box, he discovered he was in possession of real treasures. Alone in a compartment of the train, he had room to lift items out of the box onto the seat. A casual look through the top layers revealed nothing of great import, although any historian is interested in ephemera such as a cheque butt marked Buckley & Nunn—blouse £1.1.0. With time on his hands, Max flicked through a couple of the cheque books before turning his attention to some invoices and receipts. He opened a bundle at random. It had the same minor interest as the cheque butts, purchase details handwritten on the stationery of shops that no longer existed. The precursor of excitement to come was when he opened a second bundle and found, among the receipts and invoices, documents of a different kind. These included a letter from the Mitchell Library in response to a query. It listed paintings, owned by the Library’s Dixson Gallery, by an artist named George Rowe. There were some letters from solicitors, which appeared to deal mainly with the provenance of art works. In the same bundle, a handwritten note appeared to be May’s record of a telephone discussion with her father Simeon Blake. Other papers in the bundle suggested this must have been in 1930.

  On the trail of Old Men and Sunbury Races. Dad says Alf.B must have bought them. Dad says Alf.B burnt a lot of papers. Thinks about 1860. Told by Grandad who saw it happen. Grandad told to mind own business but curious. Sifted through ashes. Heidelberg stuff circa 1888 all oils. Bought by Grandad. Dad thinks watercolours circa 1850. Old Men and Sunbury a mystery. Oscar no help. Artist prolific. No known list of works.

  Although the note was in a cryptic form, it was not difficult to interpret. Old Men and Sunbury clearly referred to the paintings now held by Tony. Alf.B was the legendary Alfred, founder of Banabrook. Grandad was Alured who’d gifted the Blake Collection to the State Gallery. Presumably, Oscar was somebody May knew to be knowledgeable about art. It was a pity she’d not recorded what Alured might have found sifting through the ashes, or why the paintings were the subject of mystery.

  Towards the bottom of the box, he came across a small bundle of papers tied tightly with the pink tape so loved by the legal profession. The only evidence of the nature of these papers was the top item—a receipt from a florist. These too were probably run-of-the-mill financial records, but the elaborate way they were tied posed a challenge. It took Max several minutes to undo the knots and carefully turn over the receipt. The next items in the bundle were letters. The top one was short and brutal.

  7th July 1919

  Miss Blake,

  My family regards your continuing to put flowers on Gerald's grave as trespass. Please desist or I shall ask my solicitor what legal redress I might have.

  I have long believed it should be possible to obtain an injunction to prevent a non-believer from entering a Christian burial ground.

  Martin Grant.

  In places, the light blue paper was discoloured and the writing smudged. Max wondered whether it was too fanciful to imagine tears had fallen on this cruel sheet. Next came three single-page letters on lined sheets torn from an exercise book. Each had its top portion cut off and, when Max realised what he was reading, he guessed the reas
on. Gerald Grant was dead and his remains buried in Australia before the confronting letter dated July 1919. These poignant messages were written earlier. They were from a soldier at the Great War, and the whereabouts of the sender had been removed by the censor.

  My darling May,

  I have been told a single page saying very little might be allowed through.

  My injuries should be a ticket home at some stage, but there are no resources to transport us at present. I'm not sure if you get news of how the war is going. If so, you know more than we do.

  I love you and miss you more than I could ever say.

  Forever.

  Gerald.

  Dearest May,

  I've been told they think our last batch of mail was despatched, but we have no way of knowing where it ended up. If you got my last letter I can tell you we are still in the same place, but I'm still unable to tell you where. I hope you think that's as funny as I do.

  We have nothing to do but lie around. I fortify myself by thinking of you, and planning our life together. Don't worry though, everything I plan is subject to your approval, and I will require you to seal each agreement with a kiss. It is developing into a very long list.

  Did I tell you I love you?

  Forever.

  Gerald.

  Dear Miss Blake,

  My friend Gerald asked me to write to you if anything happened to him. I cannot tell you how distressed I am to give you the news that he didn't make it. He wanted to spare you the worry, so he didn't tell you how extensive his wounds were. I am sure he was not in much pain, however, and it was a peaceful end.

  I have his watch, which he wanted given to you. I will guard it with my life until I can hand it over. I am assured he will be returned to Australia for burial. That at least is a comfort. So many will never make it home.

  I know you are aware we are restricted in what we can say. The less the better if we are to hope our letters might get through.

  Yours sincerely,

  Monty Adlem.

  The remainder of this small bundle might explain the origins of the lawyers’ binding tape. There were several short letters from the firm of Bertrand, Smyth and Crawshaw, Barristers and Solicitors. The most significant of these said, among other things:

  We confirm our advice that you are under no legal obligation to inform anybody you have the watch. The contention that it has come into your possession legally is backed both by the letter from Mr Adlem and the Statutory Declaration he has given us. We have made searches and have not found any application for probate of a Will for Gerald Grant. In any case, Mr Adlem’s statement supports the argument that the watch was a gift properly given by the deceased before his death. There could be circumstances in which you might become obligated to disclose your having the watch, but our advice is to volunteer nothing and consult us again if approached.

  Then another letter.

  Brisbane

  August 1919

  Dear May,

  A quick note to confirm I saw your solicitor before leaving for home. At his request, I have made a sworn statement about the watch. I also told him I would happily give evidence in person, but he doubts it will come to that. In the circumstances, I understand why you felt concerned.

  As you know, I visited Gerald's parents after I saw you. They seemed normal enough although, in retrospect, they did react strangely when I referred to their sharing their loss with Gerald's fiancée. Otherwise I might well have gone on to tell them I'd met you. They had already received Gerald's other personal effects from the army, and gave no indication they were not satisfied.

  Their objection to your visiting the grave is something I shall never understand.

  I want you to know that, apart from being able to vouch for Gerald's insistence on your having the watch, I can tell you, quite unequivocally, that he loved you very deeply.

  God bless,

  Monty Adlem.

  Max sat back and watched the passing scenery. May Blake’s touching personal story was not relevant to the history of Kalawonta, but he was already toying with the idea of writing Walter’s biography, and incorporating stories of earlier Blakes. First, however, he should let Tony know what he’d discovered.

  A telephone call the next morning caught Tony leaving to travel overseas. Max told him, briefly, about the letters. Obviously pre-occupied, Tony promised to telephone on his return. Had the cab not arrived early, Tony would probably have written himself a note. But it did, and he didn’t. The call never came and Max did not feel a need to follow the matter up.

  A Visit to the Art Gallery

  Tuesday 11th February 1930

  May Blake was aware how few memories she had of the decade following the end of the Great War. Her brief, failed flirtation with Alcoholics Anonymous had taught her there was no universal pattern to cravings. Some members told of waking each morning desperate for an immediate drink, others of compulsive desires which arrived with the first cigarette; some likened their problem to a circadian rhythm—an imperative that tapped them on the shoulder at the same time each day. May’s cravings usually overcame her late in the day—unless triggered earlier by the well oiled aromas from an Italian restaurant, or finding herself in the proximity of the members’ bar of a racing club. She valued sober mornings when she could walk through a nearby park, or take the short bus ride into the city to visit the museum or the art gallery. Early sessions at cinemas were also a diversion.

  On one of her visits to the art gallery, she was attracted by a bush landscape she’d not previously seen. She read the brass plate attached to the frame. To her surprise, she discovered the work was on loan from the Blake Trust. She understood the arrangements her grandfather had made for custody of the family art works, and knew many pieces were not on permanent display. To her eye, however, this painting was superior to some on show elsewhere in the gallery. Further along the same wall, the experience was repeated. Her curiosity was now thoroughly aroused. It was still early in the day, and she decided to visit the administrative offices to make some enquiries. The receptionist listened politely, asked her name, made a telephone call, and offered her a seat. Five minutes later, the door burst open, and a pale young man, with a high forehead and blond hair, entered the room and stopped to examine the occupants. Later, May would tell him his arrival had brought to mind the theatrical direction: “enter stage right”. Identifying his target, he bounded towards her and grasped the hand she proffered.

  ‘I am thrilled, absolutely thrilled, that anybody has even noticed the changes, let alone call in to ask what we’re doing. And to find you’re a real live Blake! We’re reorganising the reserve collections right now. Would you like to see some of the other pieces?’ He gestured to the door with an arm May thought so delicate, exposed as it was by his sleeveless silk top, that it might break from the vigour of its own movement. Assistant Curator Lindsay Fielding led May down several flights of stairs, through doors marked STAFF ONLY, to a dimly lit security desk, where she was required to sign-in under the direction of a uniformed attendant who looked far too old to be still on the government payroll. He handed her a visitor’s pass, and she was ushered by Lindsay into the cavernous basement containing countless racks of art works.

  ‘If only!’ the enthusiastic young curator stopped and waved his arms expansively. ‘If only we could persuade the government to give us the space to display even a quarter of this. It is so frustrating! Each year we buy new contemporary works and we need to display most of them. So, each year some wonderful older pieces have to be banished down here, into the bowels, where we turn their faces to the wall. It is getting harder and harder to make those sorts of judgements. We have a rotation policy, which is all very well, but it takes time and staff to manage, and we’re being cut back every year. Apologies! Rally speech!’ He grimaced and slapped the back of his own hand in mock chastisement, then led May along several narrow walkways to an area where there was barely enough space to place paintings for inspection. He clapped his ha
nds for attention.

  ‘Boys and girls, you won’t believe it, but this lady is a Blake! And!’—dramatic pause—‘She likes the pieces we put up at the weekend.’

  Each of the members of the small crew acknowledged May with a nod or a smile. Although not as effusive as their spokesman, they were clearly pleased to learn somebody was taking an interest in their work. An hour later, May emerged from the basement, overwhelmed by what she’d seen, not merely from the Blake collection, but other banished favourites of her young guide. ‘What an exhilarating experience,’ she said. ‘Have you ever seen the pieces held by members of my family?’

  He shook his head in apparent surprise. She explained what she knew of the custody arrangements adding, ‘I’ll give you my telephone number and, if you’re ever going anywhere near Arajinna, I’d be happy to give you an introduction to my father so you can see what they’ve got at Banabrook. I’m tempted to apply to hold some of the pieces you haven’t room to hang. At least that would mean one or two fewer faces turned to the wall. I have just the spot to put Old Men at Bendigo. And Sunbury Races is me.’ Few would have registered the slight change in his expression, but she was quick to add, ‘It’s a secure building, I can assure you.’

  ‘Am I so transparent?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid you are.’

  ‘Silly isn’t it. Rooms full of un-displayed works, and you’d think we owned them ourselves.’

  ‘I think that’s wonderful.’

  ‘I’m shamed by your understanding. If you get the necessary approvals, I’ll pack the pieces and transport them myself.’

  Intoxicated by elation instead of alcohol, and with images from the depths of the gallery still flooding her mind, May decided on a walk through the Botanic Gardens. Sunbury Races was undistinguished as a work of art, but it reminded her of happy days at country race meetings. Old Men at Bendigo was an evocative piece, which kept running through her brain—like a tune cycling through the mind, refusing to go away. On the verandah of a timber cottage surrounded by gums, two men sit staring intently at something behind the viewer’s right shoulder; birds in a tree, perhaps. It was a painting she felt inviting her to wonder what those old lives meant, and what had attracted the attention of the aged subjects.

  By the time she finished the first draft of her letter to the trustees of the Blake Collection, her cravings and several glasses of single malt had taken over, and she rolled unsteadily away to bed. For the next few weeks, however, she spent a succession of sober mornings on the quest for custody of Old Men and Sunbury Races. Finally, after signing declarations and producing her passport, she received a deed of agreement. The paintings were hers. She had the self-knowledge and foresight to ask Lindsay Fielding to deliver them early one morning, and plied him with strong coffee while he unpacked them and attended to the hanging. His delicate arms belied strength and skill when it came to handling works of art.

  ‘I looked him up,’ she said as they stood back and admired the watercolours. ‘George Rowe, I mean. He was commissioned by the Brits to capture scenes of the Victorian goldfields.’ She laughed and added. ‘Amazing what you learn. Not much technical detail except that he used David Cox paper. Nevertheless, I shall be able to sound suitably knowledgeable as I show off my new treasures.’

  ‘David Cox paper,’ Lindsay replied. ‘Interesting.’ He stepped closer to the paintings, and examined them one last time. Shortly afterwards, he left carrying a bottle of aged Bordeaux red with as much care as he’d handled the paintings.

  May opened a bottle of vintage French Champagne, toasted the old men, and woke next morning exceedingly hung over.

  David Cox Paper

  Tuesday 25th March 1930

  The following week, May received a telephone call from Lindsay Fielding asking her to drop in and see him next time she was near the gallery.

  ‘I was coming down, tomorrow,’ she lied, welcoming the opportunity to spend a morning with some definite purpose. They arranged to meet for coffee at ten o’clock. As she approached the gallery café, she saw her young friend pacing half circles at the entrance. Even for such a naturally ebullient personality, he seemed so energised she wondered whether caffeine might cause him to explode. Seeing her, he took an involuntary step in her direction, nearly knocking over another patron. Oblivious, he grabbed May’s arm.

  ‘I’ve set up some pieces to show you in a private room. We can take our coffee with us.’

  ‘A private viewing? What fun.’

  ‘It will be, I hope. Well it depends on whether you find mystery and intrigue fun, which I do.’ In the private room, four watercolours were displayed on easels. ‘Four different artists. Two used David Cox paper, and two used something else. I don’t expect you to pick which paper is which, but see if you can pair them.’

  ‘Now this really is fun. I feel like a kid with a puzzle. I hope there’s a prize!’ She examined each painting in turn. Eventually she said, ‘I’d pair one with four, and two with three.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but one and four have a sort of roughness and deeper shades. Two and three are clean and pretty. I think all of them are good but, seeing them together, I like the roughies best; two and three suffer a bit from the comparison—a touch insipid perhaps.’

  ‘I’m impressed, May. You’ve missed your vocation. Your comment about David Cox paper made me go and look it up. In 1836, in England, David Cox started painting on rough Scottish wrapping paper. The results were so vibrant, other painters followed suit. When George Rowe was commissioned to come out to Australia, he must have brought a supply of Cox paper with him. According to some notes I found, one of the features of Cox paper is that areas not painted—like here...’ he pointed to an area of blank white on one of the works ‘darken slightly over the years. Now, describe the two pieces we hung at your apartment.’

  ‘I don’t have to. Old Men at Bendigo is on Cox paper. Sunbury Races isn’t.’

  ‘That’s what I believe.’

  ‘So either George Rowe didn’t work exclusively on Cox paper, or there’s something suspect about Sunbury Races.’

  ‘There’s a collection of Rowe’s works in the Dixson Gallery at The Mitchell Library. One of them, painted in 1858, is titled Victorian Race Meeting near Sunbury. So, George Rowe must have painted there. And, May, all of their collection is thought to be on Cox paper.’

  ‘You think Sunbury Races might be a fake?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a possibility.’

  ‘How bloody wonderful.’ May threw her head back and laughed. ‘Oh I do hope you can prove it!’

  She turned to see a bemused expression. ‘I thought you might be upset,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not worried about the whole Blake Collection?’

  ‘Not at all. The Heidelberg work is beyond question. So is a lot of the earlier stuff. But some of the items have come to us without provenance. No receipts or letters; none of the usual paper work.’

  ‘Then finding one or two forgeries is no great tragedy. It’s exciting.’

  ‘I will have to report this to my superiors.’

  ‘And what will they do?’

  ‘Add it to the list and forget about it.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Don’t quote me, but they have far bigger worries than this one.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep mum?’

  ‘I would be grateful if you did. The press loves this sort of thing.’

  ‘Pity. But, for you dear boy, I’ll do it. I can still carry-on like an expert and air my knowledge about Cox paper.’