by Wendy Harmer
‘Don’t fuss too much with it now, I’ll secure it properly in the morning,’ said Hannah.
Jo rehung the frame on the wall. They stood back to look at it and continued to talk in hushed tones—too excited to leave the photograph and the mystery it held.
‘Well, we’ve found her. It looks like our Eunice fell on her feet,’ said Hannah. ‘She did marry and became the mistress of a rather grand house overlooking the harbour. And kept up with her painting.’
Jo continued the story. ‘Her husband died not long after she gave birth to the baby she’s holding, even before the house was finished. She was widowed only three months when this was taken. How sad.’
‘I wonder what happened to him?’ Hannah asked what Jo was wondering too. ‘She was so awfully young, widowed with four children—if you count the one Augusta’s holding. Mind you, that could be Augusta’s love child. She could have gone off with a sea captain and had it over the summer holidays then kept it hidden or...something. And I wonder if Eunice remarried? I hope she did.’ Hannah was busily weaving a tale of intrigue worthy of a modern-day soap opera.
Jo preferred to stick to the facts at hand. It was the relationship between the two sisters that fascinated her most. ‘It seems Augusta kept up with her sister, even though she probably had to keep it a secret if Eunice was disgraced. She had Eunice’s paintings here at the college. I wonder where she hung them? Maybe in Etheldreda House where no-one could see. And it’s really interesting that they’re signed in Eunice’s maiden name. From the ages of the children, she must have been painting while she was a wife and mother.’
‘And I wonder why Eunice seems to have been expunged from the records, Jo? Surely if she and Henry got married and had children, then built this house, Eunice must have regained some respectability?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s something to do with Henry Donnithorne,’ said Jo. ‘Maybe he was a scoundrel and came to some kind of bad end.’
Hannah sighed heartily. ‘Lord love Eunice. She must have had a very independent, fighting spirit. And God bless Augusta for supporting her sister through thick and thin.’
‘They must have both had a good deal of courage,’ agreed Jo.
‘Indeed,’ Hannah nodded. ‘Would you like to come and have another look at those watercolours in my office? I’ll make tea and I think I might have a wedge of poppyseed cake.’
‘I’d love to, thanks. You know there are plans to knock down The Cape?’ said Jo.
‘No!’
‘For luxury townhouses.’
‘But it’s part of the college’s history. We can prove it. Can we stop it? Is there anything we can do? I’ll bring the file and we can copy everything.’
Of course there was something that could be done, thought Jo. The house was half hers and if she had her way would be all hers by the time she had sorted out the divorce settlement. The thought of it was thrilling.
‘We shall prevail,’ she whispered, echoing the words every Darling Old Girl knew by heart.
Jo was on the internet in her office at home searching for any information she could find on the Donnithorne family in Sydney. There seemed to be a few mentions of the name. She would love to join Hannah in her investigations, but there was a task at hand—tomorrow’s renewal of wedding vows for Doug and Elaine McIntyre. However, the words for the ceremony weren’t coming easily this evening and Jo found herself trawling through various library websites and their fascinating archives of local history.
And then a message from James.
Dear Mum,
I made it to Turkey. I went to the Sultan Ahmed Mosque today in Istanbul. It’s known as the Blue Mosque.
Millions of worshippers have been coming here for 400 years. When you walk up the steps and through the portal you see all these amazing domes until you see the great dome of the mosque itself, looking like it’s floating to heaven.
I went inside and sat down by a massive marble pillar and just closed my eyes and listened. It’s so still. You hear feet padding by and the rustle of long robes. It’s very holy. Don’t ask me what that means, but it’s like this peace comes over you and you slip away from the world and feel like you are connected with something bigger than yourself.
Everywhere I go someone is trying to convert me to Islam. They say Judaism was first, then came Christianity and, finally, Islam. It’s the ‘last and best’ is what they say.
What do you think the Australian Aborigines would think about that, Mum? Remember the time we went to Uluru? You said it felt like a sacred place. Some of the caves there were being used for rituals 50,000 year ago. Remember the guide told us that? It makes some of the other religions brand new, if you think about it.
I’ve met a girl from New Zealand and we are going to travel together to India. Her mother is a Maori. I was telling her last night about you and it made me realise that I am lucky to have a mother who has let me find out stuff for myself.
I hope you are getting plenty of bookings as a celebrant. You will be great at it.
Kita and I are flying out to Goa tonight. I’ll write when I get there.
Give my love to Tory and Dad.
Love you too,
James x
James had met a girl? That was good news. Jo could detect between the lines a change in his thinking. A thoughtfulness and softening. Maybe he was in love? If the trip was opening his heart and mind, then it was worth whatever money he needed.
And he was off to India. Jo thought about writing back to tell him she’d meet him there. She imagined sitting naked on the banks of the Ganges covered in ashes with the yogis and renouncing all earthly desires. Although a miserable middle-aged mother traipsing along after him and his girlfriend would be about the last thing a son would welcome.
She wrote back to urge him on, telling him to keep travelling and to come home soon. Then she smiled. It was what her mother Margaret used to say to her when she was a teenager: ‘If it looks like you’re going to be late, come home early.’
Chapter Thirty
It was around 11 a.m. when Jo finally found a parking space and walked a fair distance up the road to the Bronte Bowling Club. This part of Eastern Sydney looked out to the Pacific Ocean and the bleachers were crammed with punters also eager for a blue view. However the scene they were most likely to see through their windows was what was playing on the television in the flat next door. In this goldfish bowl of humanity, every small fish dreamed of splashing in a bigger pond.
On the slow drive there through narrow, congested streets, Jo had used the time idling in Saturday-morning traffic to revise the words of the renewal of Doug McIntyre’s wedding vows. Doug had been married to Elaine for forty years and wanted to tell his family and friends he would be happy to go round again in her company for another decade or two. Next year he would retire as bursar of Darling Point and it would be the end of an era. Jo had always been grateful to have such a firm and steady hand on the school’s financial tiller and had welcomed his musical knock on her office door. She and Doug had shared many confidences and cuppas over the years. He always spoke of his wedding day as if it was a momentous date in history, like the signing of the Magna Carta or the moon landing. It was no surprise that he wanted to renew his vows and Jo was touched he had asked her to officiate.
The Bronte Bowls clubhouse was a bog-standard red-brick box from the 1960s, but a much-treasured institution now that a community hall and a patch of emerald-green grass were a rare find in this crowded corner of Sydney. Jo recalled the community outrage a few years ago when the Potts Point Bowling Club had been bought for seven million dollars for redevelopment by Canonbury School—and thinking about Canonbury inevitably led her back to JJ and The Cape.
She’d been thinking about it until her head hurt. Her first instinct was to confront him and scream that he was a philistine and vandal. Demand that he give her the house. But with forty million dollars in the offing, he would brush off her complaints as if she was an irritating mosquito. She was o
wed half of it at least. And then there was Parklea and the rest. He would be back in the office on Monday, his secretary had told her. Like Linda said, she had to think with her head, not her heart.
The event this afternoon would be a welcome distraction. Inside the club the unpretentious space had a bar at one end and a low stage at the other. Obviously it was the family who had lovingly decorated the place. Harsh fluoro lights were hidden by canopies of sheer pink fabric and poles were festooned with white balloons. The tables were adorned with mismatched vases of home-picked flowers. Jo was relieved to see how homey and intimate it all was. The thought of being up on a stage and officiating in front of a crowd, many of them from Darling Point, made her nervous, but she and Doug had spoken of how it would go—low key, not too much fuss—and that was reassuring.
Jo had agreed to a final meeting on the order of the ceremony with Doug this morning. He was a stickler for detail. She’d then find a café and pass the time until the event started at 2 p.m. Jo waited by the deserted bar and soon enough Doug McIntyre came squeaking across the wooden floorboards in thick rubber-soled shoes and looked up at Jo through old-fashioned black-rimmed spectacles.
‘Jo, good morning,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you urgently, so let’s retire into one of the empty offices for some privacy.’
‘Almost half a million dollars. That’s what she’s stolen. She didn’t win the lottery. That was a lie. I’ve assembled what evidence I can in that folder.’ Doug pulled a tablecloth-sized handkerchief from his trouser pocket, feverishly polished the lenses of his glasses and then the face of his watch. Jo looked about the small, untidy office, felt for a chair and collapsed onto it. The folder on the table yielded dozens of pages of bank entries and flow charts and made little sense on first viewing.
‘Of course I didn’t want to believe it. But I’ve looked and looked and looked again and discovered everything. She’s attempted to cover her tracks, but I’m no amateur. I’ve been a professional for almost fifty years. The technology might have changed, but the modus operandi of the perpetrator hasn’t.’
Doug was pacing back and forth in front of shelves crowded with bowls-club trophies, leather bowls cases, white hats. Racks of snowy dust-coats stood as ghostly sentries. It was surreal, like a scene from an amateurish 1970s TV crime show. Surely the walls were cardboard and would fall flat at any moment to reveal a startled camera crew.
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. It must be a mistake.’ Jo was barely able to comprehend.
‘I’m saying that she’s a criminal. Of course, she comes over as a kind woman, so we can’t be blamed for being taken in. But she’s been a mistress of deception. And I have no doubt that since she first walked through the front door of Darling Point six years ago, she’s only had one thing on her mind—to defraud and swindle. Perhaps out of sheer jealousy. Who knows why? I’ve always suspected her and, if I’m honest, I suppose it was the pagan symbols and incense in her office that always made me feel that there was something there that didn’t inspire trust.’
Jo laughed in disbelief. A crackling cackle that communicated she didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Next you’ll be telling me she graduated from Hogwarts with a degree in the Dark Arts!’
Doug McIntyre swivelled on his heels. ‘Pardon?’
‘I’m trying to make sense of all this, Doug. Are you saying Mrs Reynolds stole half a million dollars from the college?’
‘About four hundred and fifty thousand in 2009, from what I’ve been able to trace. Some one hundred and fifty-five separate tranches—but perhaps it’s much more. She was in charge of a lot of cash, too. I hear the husband is turning up for free handouts at St Bernadette’s. So she’s even cheated him, poor sod.’
At the mention of Rob, Jo’s heart chilled. Could Suze have stolen the money to cover his gambling debts? Surely not. She was...so good with money.
‘But you were in charge, Doug. How could it have happened?’
‘I trusted her, that’s what happened.’ His voice was thin and raspy with emotion. ‘So yes, you’re right: I am partly to blame. Thirty-five years I’ve been there. And this! Just when I’m about to retire. Thirty-five years of service and dedication, all about to be ruined.’ Doug whipped out his handkerchief and began to scrub away at his glasses again. He polished the frames this time and clamped them on his face. He wiped his brow, tugged at his striped tie. He was moist with perspiration. Damp patches were showing in the armpits of his pale-blue shirt.
‘So many times in the past week I almost picked up the phone to call the police. I struggled with my conscience as a Christian. She has sinned mightily, although—’ now he was mopping his bald head, which was glistening with sweat ‘—I couldn’t help thinking about those two lovely Reynolds girls. Very talented and accomplished. What will happen if their mother goes to jail? In the end, I thought that if there’s one person who would know how to handle it, it would be you. You’re her best friend. You were deceived by your own husband, so you have some experience in such matters.’
The indignities and accusations were coming so thick and fast, were so utterly outrageous and unfounded, that Jo was speechless. She was glued to her chair.
‘I’ll be frank,’ Doug continued. ‘I don’t need the scandal and neither do you. I hate to say this, but because you’re such good friends with Mrs Reynolds people might come to the conclusion that you helped her in some way. Or covered it up, at least. They’ll find it hard to believe you were totally unaware of her crimes.’ And then Doug paused and coughed, as if his next question was stuck and he had to dislodge it. ‘Forgive me for asking, Jo, but I feel I must: you didn’t know, did you? I know how kind-hearted you are. You didn’t find out and then...although that makes no sense; you would have helped repay the money, no doubt, if you had known.’
Jo shook her head, still utterly unable to offer a word of explanation.
‘So, here are my thoughts. If you can have the money back in the college accounts after Easter, I’m sure I can go back and cover her tracks. It’s wrong, I know. It’s forgery. But it’s probably my—your—only chance. I know that you are not...without means.’
‘Doug, that’s only days away, I—’
He continued pacing up and down a small square of brown carpet, his anxiety levels rising with every step. ‘We’ve got that new finance department up and running. There’s a young chap in the office now, sniffing things out. I don’t mind telling you that he’s made my life a misery and wants all my expense records. He’s about to start on a five-year audit. It was only when I was preparing everything for him that I saw a pattern of withdrawals. And now I’ve traced the transactions back to the viper in her nest.’
The reference jolted Jo. Had she been as hopelessly naive as Doug seemed to think?
‘It must be a mistake,’ she repeated.
‘No, I’m afraid there’s no mistake. Suzanne Reynolds is a thief and a liar. And to think we all celebrated her good fortune! She’s shameless. What a dreadful state of affairs.’
Doug placed two hands on the table and leaned forward, and even through the thick lenses of his glasses, Jo could see the desperation in his eyes.
‘I’m sure this has come as a blow to you, but this will ruin my reputation. I’ll be in court. My heart’s not what it could be. And what effect will this have on Elaine?’ Doug’s glasses clouded with condensation. ‘You have to help me.’
There was a knock—six taps that Jo recognised as the McIntyre jingle—and Elaine put her head around the door. A cream satin fascinator was perched on carefully curled grey hair. Her face was carefully made-up with a pink splodge of rouge on each cheek.
‘Josephine!’ she exclaimed. ‘How lovely to see you. Doug and I are just thrilled you could do this for us. I must admit, I’m feeling a bit jittery. Isn’t that silly after all this time of being married?’
Jo stood on wobbly legs to receive kisses.
‘Has Doug been boring you with all our history? Oh, Doug! You didn’t prepa
re Jo one of your awful folders, did you? Honestly!’
‘No, no, no, darling! These are just a few bits and pieces that she requires for the ceremony,’ Doug dissembled as he hastily tidied the notes and handed the folder to Jo.
‘Well, come on, the pair of you. Out of this office, now!’ Elaine scolded. ‘We’re trying to get the place set up and you need to get into your suit jacket, Doug.’
‘So, you have everything you need, Jo?’ Doug inquired with a fragile cheeriness.
Not quite. What Jo needed was a stretcher and an oxygen tent.
‘It all looks fine,’ she mumbled.
‘Lovely,’ said Elaine. ‘Come along, Mr McIntyre. We’ll have wedding guests here soon.’
Jo hastily stuffed the folder in her handbag. Why couldn’t he have at least waited until the end of the night to hit her with all this? She considered bolting out the door and never coming back.
The documents were spread over the passenger seat of Jo’s car, which she had parked overlooking Bronte Beach. Doug had illuminated Suze’s alleged crimes with a yellow highlighter. Other documents listed the amounts taken and the company they’d been transferred into—R. and J. Holdings. Jo guessed the initials stood for Roberta and Jessica.
It was all true. Jo knew it was.
Suze had explained her cash windfall last year as Oz Lotto winnings. She must have lied about that. Or had she really won that money and had it along with what she’d stolen? Had she really been so heartless as to watch Jo cry when she had cut the ribbons to Geraniums Red, and still gone on with the deception? All that stuff about the universe providing? Was that some kind of sick joke to put Jo off the trail? Their long and intimate friendship, was that a lie too?
Then she thought of the paintings. That was one crime Suze had owned up to. But if she was so desperate for money, why hadn’t she sold them? What else had she taken? Why was she working so long and hard in the shop every day? How much money did she have left from almost half a million? Half a million dollars! Perhaps much more. It must be the gambling debts. There was no other explanation. Maybe the five thousand she had just given Suze was being fed into a poker machine at this very moment.