The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

‘Please.’

  Taking no notice of Bessie’s huffs and puffs, Jane pushed open the flyscreen door and stepped outside to find Timothy propped up against the verandah post.

  ‘I didn’t set out to keep anything from you,’ he said.

  Unable to remain still, she paced the length of the verandah searching for any sight of the chickens. Lucy couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe, and Jane didn’t want anything upsetting Elizabeth, not now, not when she seemed so much more her usual self.

  Timothy said nothing more; she could tell from his expression some internal debate was going on. He better get a move on because Bessie would be yelling for her in a moment or two. She wasn’t certain he deserved any of her time; he still hadn’t made any effort to justify his lies. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘My father’s not telling the whole truth.’

  And didn’t she know. Why would his son turn snitch? ‘About what?’

  ‘About Grandma Maggie’s will, the reason we came to Australia.’

  ‘I think we all know that, thanks to Gertrude’s letter.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, a lot more. When Grandma Maggie died, she left half of the estate to Mother and the other half in trust to Mother’s sister, Daisy. She didn’t leave it to Father. In fact, she stipulated that he should have no control whatsoever.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Because she remembered him as a boy, always chasing sixpence, wanting something for nothing, she said.’

  That was about the first thing Timothy had said that rang true. Langdon-Penter’s inappropriate remark at Michael’s wake sprang into her mind. ‘What made her think your father was only interested in the estate?’

  ‘It’s a long story, goes back a few generations. Mother and her sister were …’ his face flushed a little ‘… born out of wedlock. Their father, my grandfather, Oliver Langdon, was the son of the local landowner. All hell broke loose when the twins were born. Oliver was off in India; he promised to marry Grandma Maggie once he returned. Trouble was, he didn’t make it home. Great-grandfather Langdon saw Mother and her sister as a stain on the family honour. It wasn’t until he died that Great-grandma and Grandma Maggie were reconciled and she and Mother moved into the big house. To cut a long story short, Mother and her sister ended up inheriting the Langdon estate.’

  ‘So you think your father married her for her share of the estate?’

  ‘It seems that way.’ His fist clenched. ‘Father grew up there. His family worked for the Langdons; he did too. As the years passed, Mother spent more and more of her time in Paris, painting and studying, and I was sent to boarding school. Father saw himself as the rightful owner. He had this bond with the place, loved it, more than he loved Mother, or me.’

  That wouldn’t be difficult to believe if the black eye Marigold sported was anything to go by. ‘He wants the estate in his name.’

  ‘Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Reckons he’s entitled to it. He’s managed it since Great-grandfather Langdon died, thinks of it as his own. Even changed his name. It’s just Penter, Tyler Penter, not Langdon-Penter. He claims he wants to find out what happened to Mother’s sister as much as she does. The truth of the matter is he wants proof she’s dead because that’s the only thing that will see the other half of the estate released, otherwise it goes to me on my twenty-first birthday. He engaged a private detective to track down Ó’Cuinn. Discovered he’d changed his name to Quinn, was a renowned businessman in Maitland and was involved with the Labor party. That’s why we came to Australia.’

  So Penter had an agenda right from the very beginning when he’d come looking for Michael. Jane had no trouble believing that and she certainly wouldn’t be calling him Mr Langdon-Penter anymore. ‘He thought Michael might have the answer because he was the last person to see the girl they believed might be Daisy alive.’

  ‘It’s all a bit far-fetched when you put it like that.’

  ‘Jane! This tea’ll be cold if you don’t come and get it.’

  ‘That’s Bessie, I’ve got to go.’

  Timothy’s hand came down on her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry you thought I’d duped you.’

  ‘Used me, would be more accurate.’ She shrugged him off and went into the kitchen to collect the tray.

  The Penters and the Messrs Brown made short work of the fruitcake and sandwiches Bessie served. Jane managed to force down a glass of water but not much else. More than anything, she wanted to go up to her room and sort out the jumble of information bouncing around in her head. However, Elizabeth insisted she stay and keep taking notes, still worried that in some way Michael’s name and reputation might be tarnished.

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth, I don’t think there’s much more to be said, is there?’

  ‘It seems we have become embroiled in some sort of family dispute. I do, however, want it on record that Michael had nothing to do with that poor child’s disappearance. I intend to recap the situation and ask Messrs Brown to draw up some sort of formal agreement. Transcribe your notes and pass them on to Messrs Brown.’

  ‘I have one more question though, about the exhibition,’ Jane said. ‘It’s due to open at the weekend, do you think it should go ahead or should we cancel?’

  ‘Providing Marigold’s happy, we’ll go ahead. Imagine Mrs Witherspoon and her friends if we cancelled. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Elizabeth patted Jane on the arm, in an affectionate gesture, then moved to the head of the table.

  ‘Thank you for your time today. I think we have firmly established Michael had nothing to do with your sister’s disappearance. As to who is responsible …’ Elizabeth paused and glared at Penter, as though she was in no doubt he knew more than he was letting on. ‘I will leave that for you to follow up. I’ve asked Messrs Brown to draw up a record of our conversation. Jane has taken notes, and I will ensure a copy is delivered to your accommodation. I would appreciate your signature acknowledging it is an accurate record.’

  ‘What about the exhibition? We’ve invested a deal of money in it.’ Penter’s petulant tone echoed in the room.

  Marigold sat motionless, a distant expression on her face, her pale hair sweeping her forehead, the planes of her face perfectly symmetrical. She didn’t show a flicker of interest in her husband’s enquiry, instead she turned her eyes to Elizabeth and gave a half smile.

  ‘I’m happy for the exhibition to go ahead,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You have everything down, Jane?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She gazed down at the blank page in front of her. She’d been so far away she hadn’t heard a single word of the conversation. ‘Most of it, yes.’

  Unfortunately nothing explained why Elizabeth had become so upset at the technical college, and again at the preview. Unless there was something that linked the two events. Something they’d all missed.

  Thirty-Two

  ‘There is some truth in the saying: There is no greater cause for melancholy than idleness. I feel quite my normal self.’ Elizabeth relaxed back in the chair with what might have been a satisfied smile on her face. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought that Michael’s name might be tarnished. My dilemma is in no way comparable.’

  Which was the perfect lead for Jane. ‘Does the name Daisy mean anything to you?’

  ‘My name is Elizabeth.’ She turned her vibrant blue eyes up, and offered her trademark half smile. ‘I will always be Elizabeth, and in my heart, I will always be Michael’s sister, in the same way as he will always be my brother.’

  Jane’s mind stilled as she stared into Elizabeth’s eyes. But for her dark hair caught in a carefully wound chignon, she was looking at a face so similar to Marigold’s as to be uncanny. The more she studied Elizabeth, the less ridiculous the idea became. She had been four when she and Michael left for Australia. Michael had arbitrarily given her a birthday because no one knew her birthdate. Just the same as he’d given her a name, his sister’s name. Why wouldn’t she know her own? Surely at four, a child knew their name. Unless for some reason she’d
hidden it, forgotten it, or suffered some tremendous shock. What had Lethbridge said? A traumatic event causing amnesia and loss of speech.

  ‘I think I’ll ask Lucy to bring us some tea, this rain has chilled me to the bone,’ said Elizabeth, ringing the small bell on the table. ‘No, on second thoughts, a glass of Michael’s whiskey would be appropriate.’

  Jane didn’t answer, too busy searching for facts to prove Daisy and Elizabeth were one and the same. The prospect of solving such an intricate puzzle left her giddy and a little light-headed.

  ‘I do think that Langdon-Penter man is appalling. I can’t get over the fact that he helped himself to Michael’s whiskey.’

  ‘And another man’s name to boot. His real name is Tyler Penter. Langdon was Timothy’s great-grandfather’s name.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Marigold’s family home has always been known as the Langdon estate.’ Jane glanced down at her notebook and for the umpteenth time wrote the name Daisy. Who had taken her and how had she got from Somerset to the workhouse in Liverpool, where she met Michael?

  ‘In his eyes he’s the Lord of the Manor. It’s archaic.’ Elizabeth gave a derogatory toss of her head. ‘He is a particularly offensive little man. I have no idea how much longer it will take them to give women the vote in England. His attitude is outrageous. Ah! Thank you, Lucy. Put the tray down here. The jug of water was a thoughtful addition; however, I don’t believe we’ll be needing it.’

  Throwing Jane a look of pure loathing, Lucy left the room.

  ‘Do you remember any of the paintings at the Tost and Rohu Exhibition?’

  ‘You aren’t expecting me to go back over that debacle, are you?’ Elizabeth took a mouthful of whiskey and let out a long sigh. ‘I didn’t know Michael drank whiskey until he came home incapable, swaying from side to side, after he’d lost five hundred pounds at the race track. I took over all the finances after that and we agreed on a weekly allowance.’

  ‘Do you remember the paintings?’ Jane asked again.

  ‘No, no I don’t. If I close my eyes all I can see are swooping birds. Take this, and sip it slowly.’ Elizabeth pushed a cut-glass tumbler into her hand.

  As Jane’s fingers closed around the glass she inhaled. Michael, his study, all she owed him, and those final words. Do this for me. She has to know.

  She brought her lips to the glass, sipped, and choked.

  The palm of Elizabeth’s hand came down on her back, knocking what little breath was left in her lungs out in a rush. She put the glass down and groped for some air.

  ‘It’s an art.’

  An art Michael, and Elizabeth, had obviously perfected. It took Jane a good few moments to recapture her breath. ‘The painting at the technical college exhibition was The Village Church. I found your hat under a display case beside it. Do you think the combination of the picture and the taxidermied birds might have triggered your …’

  ‘Dilemma.’

  ‘Yes. Your dilemma. The Village Church was also on show at the preview.’

  ‘The occasion of my second dilemma.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Jane took another sip of the whiskey, held it in her mouth for a moment then let it trickle down her throat. Warmth blossomed, giving her courage. She’d never reached a satisfactory resolution without a neatly written equation, but this conundrum didn’t lend itself to equations. She took another sip. ‘This is more a hypothesis.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Daisy Dibble disappeared on the twenty-eighth of August, 1862, at the age of four. On the first of September, five days later, a young girl of similar age was found in Liverpool and taken to the workhouse, one hundred and seventy-one and a half miles from Daisy’s home. Could that girl have been Daisy?’

  ‘How would a four-year-old child travel that far in a matter of days? Someone must have taken her there.’

  ‘Correct.’ Jane took yet another sip. The flavour was almost smoky, pleasant, if it wasn’t taken at speed. ‘On September the seventh, a week later, Michael’s sister, Lizzie Ó’Cuinn, died, along with twenty-one others in a fire in the girls’ dormitory at Brownlow Hill in Liverpool. The following day, Michael set sail for Australia with his sister.’

  Elizabeth topped up the two glasses. ‘Impossible. She was dead.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Are you being a little pedantic? We are well aware I boarded the ship with Michael.’

  ‘Just ensuring we haven’t jumped to any unproven conclusions. The last person to see the little girl at the workhouse was Gertrude Finbright, when she was talking to Michael the day after the fire, and she gave him the news of Lizzie’s passing.’

  ‘I see your point. You think the little girl who boarded the ship with Michael was Marigold’s sister, Daisy.’ Elizabeth downed the contents of the glass, her pale skin instantly infused with colour. She sat statue still for a moment then slowly lowered the glass to the table. ‘Which would mean I am Daisy Penter.’

  ‘Dibble. Daisy Dibble. Marigold’s maiden name was Dibble.’ Jane waited as a play of emotions swept Elizabeth’s face.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be Daisy Dibble. It’s a ridiculous name. I prefer Elizabeth Quinn.’

  Jane smothered a laugh, or perhaps it was a hiccup, and pushed herself to her feet. ‘That would make the offensive little man your brother-in-law.’

  Another hiccup managed to escape Jane’s lips. Her knees didn’t appear capable of supporting her legs. The ceiling of the room merged horribly with the floor and the rose-patterned wallpaper took on a bilious hue.

  Elizabeth tucked her arm under Jane’s elbow and led her upstairs to her bedroom. ‘It’s an acquired habit. You’ll be fine in the morning.’

  Dear, oh dear. The girl’s education was seriously lacking. There was no one to blame but herself. She could well remember the first time Michael handed her a glass of whiskey. It was in the early days of the depression, the day she’d bought the first of the properties at auction, while he was busy trying to find somewhere for the poor owners to stash the remains of their belongings.

  Aye! How she missed him. Missed his comforting presence, his rollicking laugh, his over-protectiveness and, more than anything else, his friendship. She couldn’t have asked for a better brother … yet he wasn’t. It was all a little strange. More peculiar than knowing she wasn’t Elizabeth Quinn.

  She was. She’d become Elizabeth the moment she’d followed him up the gangplank and taken his hand.

  So many people standing on the dockside, shouting and screaming, pushing barrows and heaving packing cases. It was impossible to know where she was going. Knees, hundreds of legs and knees, some patched, some scratched and bleeding, others covered by skirts and petticoats, one set bare, petticoat hitched to waist height as a man leant against a woman and bumped her into the wall.

  All she wanted was to find Michael.

  She’d seen him leave the workhouse after he’d spoken to Miss Finbright, his big broad shoulders heaving. She knew he was crying.

  He’d walked so fast, not looking back, almost running. She could hardly keep up. It wasn’t until he’d reached the gangplank that she caught up. As he took a step she recognised the sole of his shoe, covered with ash and dirt. The ash and dirt they’d thrown over Lizzie, and the other girls. Dropping them deep into the pit, hiding them from the light. Lizzie didn’t like the dark; Daisy didn’t either.

  Her chest heaved and she rushed for the bowl and vomited, vomited all of Michael’s best whiskey and a bundle of memories she hadn’t known she carried. She swished some water around in the bowl, opened the window and chucked it out into the rain, hopefully beyond the verandah. She wiped her face and lowered herself onto the bed. She should sleep, but the dark tide of memory refused to abate.

  Ebb and flow. Like the magic lantern show she’d seen with Michael. Flickering images, a darkened path, a sweaty hand dragging, no, hauling her along.

  ‘G’woam! G’woam.’ Her feet went from under her, stuck under his stinkin
g armpit like a basket of dirty washing. The slam of the door, the darkness, and the stench. Worse, worse, the flapping wings, diving and swooping, brushing her cheeks with their feathers, the strangled shrieks.

  ‘G’woam. G’woam.’

  She burrowed under the bedcover, arms shielding her head. Deep breaths, slowly pulling the air into her lungs.

  Clicketty clack, clicketty clack. The smell of burning coal, belching smoke. Tonk, tonk, tonk. Grit in her eyes, scratching and sore, and dark, so very, very dark. The plaintive cry of a whistle. Then light. Bright, bright light. A great door creaking open. Hands, the reek of stale cabbage and sweat, tutting sounds. Hop in here with Lizzie.

  A small body, arms pulling her close, and blessed warmth beneath the rough blankets.

  Jane groaned and closed her eyes against the blinding light shafting through the curtains.

  ‘Miss Elizabeth thought you might like a cup of jasmine tea.’ Lucy’s face drifted into focus.

  ‘I never have jasmine tea.’ She ran her tongue over her parched lips, struggled into an upright position. ‘Yes, please.’ The banging in her head reached a crescendo. ‘Leave the curtains, Lucy. I’ll sort them out when I get up.’

  ‘That’ll be right now. Miss Quinn’s in the dining room waiting on you. She’s had her breakfast.’

  The mere thought of the smell of kedgeree set her stomach roiling. ‘Tell her I’ll be down in a moment.’

  ‘She says you’re to bring your notebook.’

  ‘Thank you, Lucy.’

  For some reason it took Jane much longer than usual to get downstairs, and when she finally reached the dining-room door she realised she’d forgotten her notebook.

  ‘I’ll be there in a moment, Aunt Elizabeth.’ She trooped back upstairs, each footstep reverberating inside her skull. What was wrong with her? She never suffered from headaches, not even at that time of the month she wasn’t supposed to mention. With a sigh, she pushed open her bedroom door, collected her notebook and trotted back downstairs.

  Elizabeth eyed her with a half smile. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’ She pushed a small teapot across the table. ‘Drink this.’