The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  A baby? He stood blinking at her, too stunned to speak. How he’d longed for this, longed to be a father, as if it might somehow redress the tragedy of his past. It had never happened with Emma. Hampton Hall was as well run as a brothel could be, but there were inevitable health risks. She’d been to several gynaecologists. Their verdict? Bouts of venereal disease had destroyed her fertility.

  Harry placed a tender hand on Kitty’s belly, a belly that seemed more round and full than before. ‘Are you sure?’

  Her expression softened. ‘The doctor confirmed it.’

  A firecracker of joy exploded inside him, followed by a wave of fear. His world had narrowed suddenly to a single, burning need. Hold onto Kitty and protect his child. ‘This changes everything.’ He kissed her, long and hard.

  ‘So you’ll do it?’ Kitty nibbled his ear, causing him to harden with desire.

  He slipped a hand inside her robe, fondling a soft breast. ‘Binburra will be ours,’ he said. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  Chapter 41

  Tom answered the ringing telephone. ‘Hello, Harry.’

  He hadn’t spoken to his brother since Kitty’s vindictive outburst in Hobart. He had, however, received a string of solicitors’ letters, returning them unopened. Binburra wasn’t for sale, so what was the point?

  But the Harry on the phone wasn’t the angry, resentful person he’d left behind on that fateful night. This was a much more reasonable Harry; a Harry suddenly interested in putting things right between them. It seemed an impossible task, even to Tom, but if his brother was willing to give it a go, so was he.

  ‘I’ll be at Canterbury Downs for a few days this week, inspecting the Hills End mine. Could I drop by one night, Tom? For dinner maybe.’

  ‘Come if you like, but I’m warning you, Harry — if this is about Binburra you’re wasting your time. And don’t expect much of a meal. Mrs M’s gone to Sydney with Old George.’

  * * *

  Harry drew into the driveway at Canterbury Downs as the sun dipped below the elm trees. He parked the car in front of the house and rested his head on the steering wheel. This was it. Tonight, one way or the other, he’d repair the wrong done to him by his grandmother.

  He and Kitty had gone over the plan a hundred times. He’d come equipped with a powerful sedative, obtained from one of his shonkier connections. A few tablets dissolved in Tom’s drink would knock him out for hours. Please God it wouldn’t come to that.

  Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. He needed to stay calm, keep a clear head, but Kitty’s pregnancy and her threat to end it constantly hijacked his thoughts. An empty bluff most likely, made in the heat of the moment. But part of him recognised that Kitty was unhinged enough to follow through. To leave him, abort their child, and go to Hollywood chasing fame.

  Harry took a deep, steadying breath, grabbed his bag and headed for the house. His fears had rolled themselves into a heavy ball that sat like a cold, wet stone in his stomach. He shivered as he checked his watch, impatient for the waiting to be over. Eager and terrified in equal measure.

  * * *

  When he arrived at Binburra, Tom was waiting on the the verandah. Harry went to meet him, strung tight as a bow. His brother’s ravaged face gave him momentary pause, and he steeled himself against an automatic surge of sympathy. This was no time for sentiment. He had to keep his eye on the goal.

  They sat in the parlour before an open fire. Harry glanced around. The place was a mess. Empty glasses on the sideboard. Files and books and papers strewn across the table, spilling onto the floor. His brother was no housekeeper.

  ‘I haven’t had time to cook,’ said Tom. ‘Which is probably a good thing.’ He cleared a place for a plate of cold lamb chops and roast beef sandwiches. ‘I remembered you like chutney. What about a drink? Beer or whisky?’

  ‘Beer.’ Harry picked up a sheet of paper from the floor. On Commonwealth letterhead from the Director of National Parks. Acknowledging an application from Mr Thomas Abbott to have all his Tasmanian land known as Binburra, contained in Certificate of title Volume 8949 Folio 009, declared a national park.

  Tom returned with the drinks.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Harry held up the letter.

  ‘Just what it says. You can read.’

  Suddenly everything made sense. Until now, Harry had been on the back foot, confused by this strange new Tom. A Tom prepared to sacrifice their relationship for money. A Tom so far removed from the brother he remembered, that he barely recognised him, inside or out. But he’d been wrong. This was the true Tom after all, and therefore a far more formidable opponent.

  Harry made his pitch for Binburra, without success.

  ‘Missed opportunities,’ said Harry. ‘The story of your life, little brother. Remember the time you found the neighbour’s pregnant sow in our bottom paddock? A reward of ten pounds for that porker, yet you kept her hidden in the stable. First thing Nana knew about it was when she escaped and ate out the greenhouse.’

  ‘I remember, all right. Those piglets had the run of the place. Did they ever drive Old George mad? I wouldn’t let him butcher them.’

  ‘You never could turn a quid.’

  ‘You had a knack for it, though.’ Tom finished chewing on a chop, set the bone aside and poured himself a whisky. ‘What about that time you went around town selling shares in the non-existent Binburra sawmill? You made fifty pounds before Nana found you out and made you give all the money back.’

  ‘We could have made a fortune,’ laughed Harry. ‘Nana was as hopeless as you when it came to making a profit. Loved the trees too much.’

  Tom grinned, and Harry could suddenly see the boy inside him. The fresh-faced boy who protected piglets and had once been his best friend.

  He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Sell me Binburra, Tom. I only want the gold. Any safeguards you want for protecting the forest, just ask. I could make you head ranger.’

  ‘No you couldn’t, Harry. Rangers work in parks, not mines.’

  Harry smiled and raised his glass. ‘Is there any point in discussing a new bid? How about triple my last offer?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Tom knocked back his whisky, then poured himself another, and one for Harry.

  Harry lit a cigar. Tom wasn’t going to sell, and was well on the way to being drunk. If he was going to drug his brother, this was the time to do it. But the plan suddenly seemed foolish and cruel. There must be some other way to give Kitty her bloody studio.

  A gust of wind whistled down the chimney, sending a spray of sparks from the grate. Tom rose unsteadily to his feet and threw another log on the fire. ‘How’s my wife?’

  Harry stiffened. Kitty wasn’t up for discussion.

  ‘Did she put you up to this?’ asked Tom. ‘Coming round here, having a cosy drink, acting like we’re mates. Did she think you could convince me to sell out for old time’s sake?’

  ‘Give it a rest, Tom.’

  ‘She’s not what you think, Harry. Granted, she’s gorgeous and charming. Utterly captivating actually, but it’s just a beautiful façade. There’s something missing on the inside.’

  ‘Shut up, Tom. I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘What about Emma?’

  ‘I’ll get a divorce.’ Harry’s chest tightened. ‘Kitty’s pregnant. It’s important we get things settled before the child is born.’

  ‘A baby.’ Tom poured himself another drink. ‘I never could quite picture Kitty as a mother. How far along is she?’

  Harry didn’t like the turn their conversation was taking. ‘Why?’

  Tom held up his hands. ‘Forget I asked.’

  Harry skulled his whisky. Tom wouldn’t look him in the eye and then it hit him. Tom thought the baby might be his. Kitty had sworn blue murder that she hadn’t slept with her husband since the accident, and he’d been fool enough to believe her. She was repulsed by him, she said. One glance at Tom’s face told him that she’d lied.

  Cold hatred rose like bile in his throat. Tom and Kitty
were still married. If the baby was born before they divorced, it would legally be Tom’s child. What was to stop him from claiming custody? A long, drawn out paternity suit wouldn’t hurt Tom, especially when he’d look like the wronged party, but it would destroy what little was left of Harry’s own reputation. And what if his brother won?

  Tom picked up the empty platter. ‘I’ll make more sandwiches.’

  Harry stood and wandered around the room, trying to quell his agitation. So many memories. The window sill where he’d scratched his initials. The pencilled dates and marks on the wall, where Nana measured heights on their birthdays. His favourite books still on the shelf: The Sword In The Stone, Tarka the Otter, Emil and the Detectives.

  He took down a well-thumbed copy of The Hobbit with his name scrawled on the first page. The rug beneath his feet had burn marks from when he stole Old George’s tobacco and smoked for the first time at eleven years old. The ceiling had a discoloured hole in the plaster where he’d let off a sky rocket one cracker night.

  Reminders of childhood were everywhere. Kitty’s plan was ridiculous. Doping Tom. Burning down the house. How could she ask him to kill his own brother? How could she ask him to destroy this beautiful homestead? A little worse for wear perhaps, but still so very dear to him. He had to find a better way.

  It was then he saw it — a fringed, silk scarf with Egyptian motif. The same Dior scarf he’d given his wife for her last birthday. His legs turned to jelly and he put a hand on the wall. Emma had been here. When? How often? What if all the time he’d been with Kitty, racked with guilt and ruining his good name, Emma had been having an affair with his brother? It was perfectly plausible. She’d always been in love with him.

  Harry closed his eyes, seeing down a dark tunnel into a bleak future. A future without Kitty. She’d leave him when he couldn’t provide her with that damned movie studio. Without Emma. She’d go with his brother. Without his child, who’d grow up calling Tom Papa. Without Binburra and its gold. Without his reputation.

  A wild panic hit him. Life would be worth nothing. But if he followed through with the plan? Kitty, Binburra, the gold, the child – it could all be his. Harry took the bottle of ground-up pills from his pocket and tipped it into his brother’s half-empty whisky glass. Tom came back with the sandwiches and drained his drink in one gulp.

  Harry watched on with a kind of horrid fascination. Growing tauter and tighter until he thought he’d snap. He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. Goodbye, Tom.’

  Harry could feel the sweat pouring from him, his palms slick and clammy. Tom went to rise, and Harry waved him back down. ‘Stay there in front of the fire. I’ll see myself out.’

  He hurried from the house, not wanting to confront the first signs of Tom’s drowsiness. Not wanting to confirm the awful reality of what he was about to do. Best to wait down the road a way, give the drug time to work, and then return when Tom was fully asleep. Twenty minutes would be enough, so he’d been told.

  Harry took off too fast, wheels skidding on gravel, barely making the turn. He had to get hold of himself. Down the long, steep driveway, out the gate. He turned left, headed half-a-mile down the road and parked the car. It was a black night, black and starless with no moon. Time ticked by with inexorable slowness. He must have checked his watch a hundred times before the twenty minutes were up.

  At last he turned on the ignition, and the engine’s roar magnified the stillness. He was more determined now. Tom was the bane of his life. Time to finish what he’d started all those years ago at the waterfall.

  His car crept back up to the house. The lights were still on, but there was no need to be quiet, not really, not if the pills had done their job. Harry took the can of petrol from the boot and searched his pockets for the matches. He planned to start a fire in the hall by the stairs. It would climb up the staircase, the spine of the house, and radiate out.

  He splashed petrol over the floor and bannister with a fervent energy. No time for indecision, just get on with it. A tossed lit match. Shocking, the instant heat and flames. Shocking, how quickly it took hold. Harry ran from the house, dizzy and shaking. He collapsed to his knees, trying to shut out the image of Tom’s face, which kept swimming into view. Not the ravaged post-war Tom, but the clear-eyed boy who’d once been his best mate. A boy who’d listened to him, protected him, who’d taken the blame for so many stupid stunts. A boy who’d grown into the kind of man Papa would have been proud of.

  Was that it? Was he killing Tom out of jealousy? Harry desperately examined his own conscience. He’d loved their father, worshipped a man who’d committed a terrible crime. Had he been warped by Papa’s example, convinced that murder was an acceptable way to deal with his problems?

  The stained-glass panel in the front door glowed rosy red. Was Tom really knocked out in there? Harry had been too much of a coward to check. His heart pounded like the hydraulic hammer at the mine, and a voice screamed in his head to stop this madness now, to put out the fire. Tom had suffered ghastly burns in the plane crash. Could he let Tom feel those flames again? The fog of anger cleared. He’d left his brother for dead once before, an act that had haunted him half his life. He wouldn’t make the same cruel mistake twice.

  Harry dashed back, slammed open the front door and rushed headlong into hell. So much smoke that he couldn’t see, couldn’t find his bearings. Unbearable heat. A fire monster raged at the heart of the house, a towering pillar of flames that was once the stairs. Its hungry, burning tongue licked the ceiling, the walls, the floor.

  He battled his way into the parlour, choked by smoke, deafened by the fire’s roar. Feeling his way along the wall and shielding his eyes with his hands. This part of the house wasn’t yet alight — there was still time. Out of the toxic grey void loomed the backs of the armchairs that he and Tom had been sitting on, only an hour before. Talking and drinking before the tame little fire in the grate. More like brothers than they’d been since children.

  Choking and panting for breath, he reached the chairs, determined to drag Tom out, or die trying.

  Chapter 42

  Kitty snatched up the phone, praying that it would be Harry. It was hotel reception instead. ‘The police are here to see you, Mrs Abbott. Shall I send them up?’

  The knock came at the door before she had time to put on her makeup. The mirror showed deep worry lines around her mouth, and shadows beneath her eyes. No wonder — she hadn’t slept a wink. Why hadn’t Harry called?

  She opened the door to two officers, who introduced themselves, holding their hats and looking grim. ‘You might want to sit down, Mrs Abbott.’

  ‘No, just tell me.’ Kitty tried to prepare herself. She’d been practising weeping all week, but all she could manage was a single tear.

  The older man, Sergeant Shaw, gave her a searching look. ‘Are you expecting bad news?’

  ‘Of course I am. You’re here, aren’t you?’

  Shaw glanced at his companion. ‘The Binburra homestead at Hills End burned down last night. I’m afraid a body has been found inside. We believe it to be that of your husband, Thomas Abbott.’

  Kitty made a choking cry. Oh, Jesus, Harry had actually done it. She staggered backwards to the couch, replaying a scene from The Moving Finger when her character lost a brother in the war.

  Shaw asked the young constable to fetch her a glass of water. ‘You’re estranged from your husband, are you not?’

  ‘We’ve had some difficulties,’ she managed between sobs. ‘But that was all over. I was ready to move back to Binburra.’ She put a hand on the small mound of her stomach. ‘For the sake of the baby.’

  Shaw raised his eyebrows. ‘Where might we find your brother-in-law, Mr Harry Abbott? His wife says she hasn’t seen him for some months.’

  ‘Why ask me? I’ve no idea.’

  ‘No idea, despite the fact that Mr Abbott is registered in the room next to yours.’ He tested the connecting door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. ‘Are you still telling me that y
ou don’t know where he is?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Harry has been … supportive during my separation, nothing more.’ This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Harry was supposed to be here so that she could give him an alibi.

  Shaw wandered about the room, picking up objects and putting them down again. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news. You won’t be required to identify the body, Mrs Abbott. I’m afraid it’s too badly burned for viewing. Is there anything your husband may have had on his person that will help us? The deceased wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.’

  Kitty glumly shook her head.

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace, then.’ Shaw gave her a card with his phone number. ‘If you should see your brother-in-law, let him know we need to talk to him.’

  The officers saw themselves out. They were suspicious, no doubt about it. She had to speak to Harry and warn him. Kitty poured herself a double gin and tonic, then sat by the phone to wait.

  * * *

  Hours passed. Kitty jumped at each sound coming from the corridor; each footstep, each faint conversation, each muffled, unidentifiable noise. Hoping against hope that it would be Harry. Morning passed into afternoon. She’d been twenty-four hours without sleep, but was still too wired to rest or eat. All that gin on an empty stomach had made her sick and dizzy.

  At four o’clock she finally heard footsteps outside the door. At last. She flung the door open to find Emma standing there. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face puffy from crying. Kitty tried to close the door in her face.

  Emma shoved her foot inside to block it. ‘The police came to see me.’ She pushed past Kitty into the hotel room. ‘Is it true? Is Tom dead?’

  ‘They were here this morning,’ said Kitty. ‘They found someone in the burned out Binburra homestead, and they think it’s Tom. That’s all I know.’