by John Bishop
Megan had brought with her after the interview. He browsed fairly quickly until he got to the new sections.
After the deaths of Rita and Jamar, I spent a week getting the house in order and then visited the local estate agent to put the property on the market. I was determined to pursue Baldo and knew my efforts might be thwarted if bodies were discovered by somebody exploring the orchard. I tried to reduce the risk by telling the agent enough about my attitudes to life for him to swallow the story that I would accept a modest price if he could find a buyer who would maintain the quiet solitude of the place and simply enjoy the tranquillity of the river setting. Nora Keppel was the ideal purchaser. She could not have afforded to pay a fair market price but she loved the house and I sold it to her for an amount she could manage. I guessed she had neither the resources nor the inclination to re-open any of the unused areas.
As soon as I had signed the papers, I packed up and departed. I told Mrs Keppel she could keep anything I left behind and I would pay for the things she did not want to be donated to The Society of Saint Vincent de Paul. It was a long time later I discovered I had created a problem by not leaving signed written instructions and that Mrs Keppel had to consult the solicitor, Mr Ross, before a contractor was prepared to undertake the removal.
Finding Baldo was easy; as was killing him, which I did without a second thought. It was he who opened the door to my knock. I stabbed him, there and then, with a knife I had taken for the purpose. No words were exchanged. He fell to the ground. As soon as I was sure he was dead, I left.
I would have liked to believe I was not capable of such a calculated cold-blooded act. Perhaps my father’s warped teaching had prepared me to deal with a man I believed evil and without hope of redemption.
Had my actions been witnessed, I would have surrendered without demur and confessed. But I saw no need to turn myself in. It seems Baldo’s parents had no idea where he had been for the past decade; nobody knew of his links to The Valley People; the police had nothing to go on but the knife bearing my fingerprints—fingerprints that were nowhere on record. All this I discovered from reports I read later on. Meanwhile, I found myself lodgings in Sydney and waited to see what happened. Later, I changed my name by Deed Poll and started systematically changing all my financial records to my new name.
I put the past behind me and enjoyed my new existence. But, two years later, there was another strange turn of events when I saw a newspaper report about somebody else having been charged with Baldo’s murder. How this could have happened, I didn’t know; but, given my beliefs about our justice system, I could not stand by while an innocent man was tried. I approached the police and confessed. My fingerprints were on the knife, and my statement included facts that were not public knowledge. I could describe the nature of Baldo’s wound, what he had been wearing, and the precise time of the murder. I mentioned The Valley People only to explain how I had met him. To keep my sister and Jamar out of it, I said I had met Baldo again by chance and my motive for murder had been the theft of a large wad of cash I carried on my person. The evidence was so conclusive that the crown prosecutor took the matter to court without delay. I believe there was a mistake in the proceedings. I was charged as Marcus Loader, which had not been my name when I committed the crime. It didn’t matter to me so I did not point it out. One reporter suggested my trial had set a record for brevity.
Although a convicted murderer, I was not considered a risk and, with the high-security gaols already overcrowded, the authorities were quick to put me into a low- security facility. I have lived a peaceful life as prisoner and librarian ever since.
The finding of the skeletons at Arajinna brings this saga to a close. Soon I shall be able to see the remains of Rita and Jamar buried in a conventional cemetery, and to pay for a memorial headstone for my gentle sister. I have met the present owner of the property on the river and believe it will become a place of beauty and love again, as I suspect it was when my Grandfather built it nearly a century ago. I am as happy as I have ever been in my life.
Tony put down the manuscript and blew his nose on the silk handkerchief he kept in the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Dear me, what a sook I am!’
‘I hope you don’t think it’s too sentimental,’ Max said.
‘It’s not sentimental at all. It’s the simple telling of a moving tale. And I’m a noted sook, okay?’
From the kitchen, Judith called, ‘Dinner’s ready. I’m serving ours in here.’
‘Where’s Emily?’ Tony asked as he settled himself at the table.
‘She’s helping cookie in the dining room. A mob of casuals blew in late.’ Judith took a wok of seared beef and vegetables from the stove and placed it on the table. ‘So what do you think of the manuscript?’
‘I blubbed like a baby. Especially at the end where he says he’s happy for me to be the new owner. I think what moved me most was to know this unhappy family had lived in Arajinna—a community we all believed to be caring—and none of us ever realized the suffering of that poor woman and children. Marcus must be much of an age as young Adrian. Just think how different their lives have been. Adrian taken in by Olive, loved and cared for. While only a mile or two up the road, Magnus and his sister are being abused by a monster.’
‘I had similar thoughts,’ Judith said. ‘Magnus and Rita must have still been at school when I started, although they were several years older.’
Tony served himself from the wok. ‘I thought when Marcus eventually comes to Arajinna to attend the funerals, I would ask his permission to name the orchard after his sister—“Rita’s Orchard”. I could design an archway and take a cutting from Banabrook’s famous climbing rose. What do you think?’
‘I think you’ll have me blubbing soon. Eat your dinner.’
Book Launch
Thursday 17th December 1992
Over the years, the last day of term had become something of a festival at Arajinna. It was not only the parents of children currently at the High School who came in from all areas of Kalawonta, but others who had some past connection, and many, in addition, who found it an opportunity to meet with folk they rarely saw at other times. For some, the drive took several hours. Every bus in the district was in service; all accommodation was booked months in advance; the shire waived its requirements for camping permits; caravans and tents appeared in paddocks and playing fields. In the main hall, school projects were on display. The speech day assembly began at 2pm in a marquee on the sports field. Afternoon tea was served in a second marquee. Later in the day, there was a special meeting devoted to some current issue for the community. In 1992, the special meeting was the launch of The Atlas of Kalawonta, Max Kingsley’s biography of Walter Blake.
Earlier, at the speech day assembly, Max had briefed the school community on progress with The History of Kalawonta, which he and students had been developing since 1989.
‘It has been a rewarding project for many students, but those who started on it with me four years ago, must be wondering if our promise to acknowledge them in the book will ever be realized. The editorial committee, headed by the principal, has decided that 1992 is an appropriate year for this volume to end. The early chapters chronicle the arrival of the founders of the district in the first half of the nineteenth century. When we began the project we planned to cover the first 150 years. But things happening around us as we worked, some wonderful, some not so wonderful, brought us to what the shire president referred to as “a grand new beginning”. We have continued to chronicle events as they unfold, but the editorial committee has decided this is a good time to draw a line, leaving it to future generations to write the next instalments. Current students who had been looking forward to becoming part of the project should not despair. We will spend first term of next year preparing this volume for publication. Then, the school will begin a new project conducting interviews and writing notes for future volumes, bringing together the fragments of evolving stories, which researchers into the past often find hard to achieve in re
trospect. The Kalawonta News has agreed to be the major sponsor.’
How Walter Blake’s biography had come to be called The Atlas of Kalawonta was one of the stories related at the launch by The Minister for Local Government, The Honourable Nerida Quigley. The artist who had drawn a cartoon for The Kalawonta News in 1945 spoke from his wheelchair of the events that had led to his depicting Walter bent under the weight of a globe bearing a map of the shire. The minister, who had read the entire book in three days to prepare for the launch, spoke of her awe at the achievements of a man who, having been rejected by the army on medical grounds, had looked for other ways to make his contribution to the war effort.
As he posed for a photograph with other members of the family, Tony Blake had no thoughts of personal tragedy. The threat posed by Miranda d’Aratzio had been relegated, in his mind, to what he had once referred to as his ever-growing stock of things to ignore in the quest to remain sane. Even when somebody commented on a plume of smoke rising at a distance, even when the siren of a fire engine was heard, his thoughts were of Walter and the family, not of any threat to the lovingly restored property he had named Arramulta.
The book launch marked the end of the formal program of events. Around the buildings and marquees, goodbyes were being said, and family groups had started moving away, when the school’s public address system came alive.
‘Attention. Attention, please. This is Constable Domenic Gerado. I have to tell you there is a fire along Old River Road. Please do not be alarmed. The brigade is in attendance and has the fire contained. The highway remains open, in both directions, but all side roads south of the highway between Arajinna and Dalley’s Crossing have been closed off. Anybody needing access to property in that area should check with me outside the principal’s office. Thank you.’
The announcement had barely concluded when Tony felt a hand take his elbow. He turned to find Trudy, the school principal, at his side. ‘Domenic asked me to find you,’ she said. He opened his mouth to speak but, for once, nothing came. He was aware of adrenaline flooding his system. His heart was beating uncomfortably. Trudy’s grip on his arm tightened and she started to guide him towards the main office. They arrived to find Emily in animated discussion with Constable Gerado. The expression on her face, as she turned to Tony, was uncharacteristically grim. He lowered himself into a visitor’s chair.
Fire
Thursday 17th December 1992
Arramulta was a smouldering gutted shell. Remarkably, seen from the bridge where the horrified crowd gathered, the facade was nearly intact except for the windows having fallen out and the paint above the lintels being blackened and blistered. Most of the roof had fallen in, leaving only the main roof frame in skeletal outline against the smoky sky. Having been turned back by a fireman at the gate, Tony joined the onlookers on the bridge who made way for him to stand with his hands on the old sandstone wall, surveying the remains of his dream. Nobody spoke to him; the hushed whispers of the observers attesting to their sympathy and, for many, their personal distress at the loss of a piece of local history. Even his own family members, Judith on one side and Emily on the other, could think of nothing to say. Judith put a hand on his; he responded by patting it with his other hand, then putting his arm around her. Eventually, he spoke.
‘How extraordinarily dense the structural timber must have been. It makes me realise I don’t even know what it is. I doubt it’s local. I think they used to import some hardwoods in the early days. Strange when you consider how much forest was here. They would have used softer wood for the roofing battens, which is why the tiles fell in. Hardwood for the verandah, though. Amazing resistance to fire. In bushfires, it’s the canopy that provides the fuel. The trunks often remain merely singed.’ He paused before adding, ‘If I can persuade the authorities the main framework is still structurally sound, we might be able to rebuild around it.’
‘Do you really think you can rebuild?’ Emily asked.
‘Dear Emily, I’ve nothing else to do with my life. The place was fully insured, so why not? A new challenge for an ageing architect. The brigade has done a remarkable job of containment. Before they turned me back, I got close enough to see that Rita’s Orchard has taken a bit of damage on the far boundary, but they got their pumps into the river and saved most of the vegetation. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not mad. Might have a bit of a cry later on, behind closed doors. Oh, dear. We don’t actually have any doors to close, do we. May we stay at Banabrook tonight?’
‘Of course, you idiot,’ Judith said. ‘We do so love you, Tony.’
The remark was too much for him and tears rolled down his plump cheeks. ‘Always the sook, eh?’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Sorry, people,’ he said to nobody in particular.
The three of them remained on the bridge for another half hour, watching the brigade peg out a boundary and surround the building with tape. By that time, most of the other onlookers had drifted away. Then Caroline and Sean arrived.
Caroline hugged Tony tightly and said, ‘Holding up?’ She’d had a close relationship with her cousin for many years, having shared the grief with him when his father, her favourite uncle, died. They were an odd sight clinging together now, his massive arms engulfing her slim, elegant frame.
‘He’s already got the place half re-built,’ Emily said.
Sean grasped Tony by both shoulders. No words were exchanged but the sympathy was palpable. After a moment Sean said, ‘Max will see you back at Banabrook. He felt he should help supervise packing up at the school.’
‘Poor Max,’ Tony said.
‘He’s used to it of course,’ Judith said.
‘No, I meant poor Max will have to write another chapter for the history. It’s still 1992, you know. The line isn’t drawn yet. Well, folks, there’s nothing we can do here, and I, for one, need a drink. The brigade will stay on site to ensure there are no secondary fires. Tomorrow they’ll try to determine the cause. In my experience they’re very good at that. Amazing what they can deduce from charred remains.’
‘I’m sure we didn’t leave anything on,’ Emily said. ‘We hadn’t been cooking, and it’s not the season for heaters. I hadn’t even used a hair dryer.’
Tony took her in his arms. ‘Don’t fret yourself. Even if it was one of us, these things happen. My guess is an electrical fault; or something to do with one of the gas bottles, perhaps.’
‘You had the place completely re-wired. I was here while they did it!’
‘We’ll know soon enough, Emily. Let’s go home and see whose clothes we can borrow for the night. You’re slim enough; but I’m going to be a challenge. We’ll go shopping in the morning.’
It was a solemn Fire Chief who arrived at Banabrook, early the next afternoon, accompanied by Dominic Gerado. The family gathered to hear his report.
‘I’m afraid it’s arson, Mr Blake. I’ve brought Constable Gerado along because we’ll have to liaise with the police on this.’
‘Arson?’
‘Yes sir. Fire was lit in four separate places. Method we’ve seen before. Did you own any single-bar electric heaters, sir?’
‘No. We used open fires and heaters fuelled by gas-bottles.’
‘That’s what I thought when I looked around. Obviously, they brought the small heaters with them. Wouldn’t have been any use to heat rooms that big. Dominic is happy for me to explain it all to you. He doesn’t consider any of you folk “persons of interest”. This is the work of professionals. What they do is drape material over the heaters. Some distance away, they soak the carpet with petrol or some other accelerant that gives off a flammable vapour. Inside, with no breeze, the vapour is heavier than air and it spreads slowly along the floor. When the heaters warm up, the material draped over them smoulders and starts to burn. When the flammable vapour gets to it, the effect can be spectacular. They wouldn’t switch the heaters on until just before leaving, which gives them a head start. By the time it blows, the arsonist is well away.’
‘Partly to make it harder to do anything to stop the inevitable if somebody got there too soon. Partly because nothing in life is guaranteed, so they give themselves multiple chances. The probability of four sites all failing to ignite is very low if you know what you’re doing. And our arsonist or arsonists certainly did know.’
‘Do you ever catch the culprits?’
The Fire Chief glanced at Dominic who looked doubtful but said. ‘I think we do... sometimes. Our blokes will do their best.’
Sean said, ‘Whoever it was knew everybody would be going into town. The first place to look is people with a grudge and with local knowledge.’
Dominic nodded. ‘I’ve rung Justin Brody. He’s not arson squad, but I thought he should be told.’
Extracts from Judith’s Diary
1993
1 January 1993
On New Year’s Day two years ago I made my first entry in this diary. Although I have been irregular in my chronicles, I have nearly finished this book and will soon have to purchase a new one. In our current circumstances I’ll need it. I find writing my notes therapeutic when the family is under stress. It helps clarify my thoughts.
It is early morning and I’m out on the verandah. I could not sleep. Emily and Tony are the only others in residence and I’m not expecting them to surface for a while even though we retired before midnight. We all drank at least one glass too many last night.
Max left on Boxing Day to go to Canberra where he has a meeting with a helpful archivist who found some new references to the early years of the district. He is staying with Caroline and Sean at Caroline’s flat.
We have a holiday booking for a large group to arrive in a few days. I’ll be glad of the diversion.
Although we try not to dwell on the possibility that we might still be targets for the d’Aratzio family, we know Justin Brody would not have told us to get on with our lives if he did not also feel an obligation to alert us to his concerns. The fire at Arramulta was a stark reminder of our vulnerability.
29 January 1993
Wonderful news. Tony telephoned from Sydney to say his persistence has paid off. He has an official letter confirming that the shell of Arramulta has been declared structurally sound. Now he can submit his rebuilding plans to the shire. For the first time in more than a month, I could hear the old Tony in his tone of voice. Since the fire, he has devoted himself exclusively to this venture but, despite his positive utterances, his