‘I used to like running too,’ said Tania. ‘Especially on a cold, crisp day.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. He took a sip of coffee and looked at Mrs Settree. ‘Did you ever know Father Shipley, from the Church of the Blessed Madonna, Tania?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ replied Tania. ‘But I never really got on with him. Right up until his death.’
‘Oh?’ said Les. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Tania. ‘He’d say hello and that. But he always seemed to avoid me, for some reason.’
‘Avoid you?’
‘Mmhh. Even when I was young. He had a small sailboat, and he’d often take the other girls out sailing. But he’d never take me.’ Tania made a tiny gesture with one hand. ‘I mean. It’s not as if I was ever rude to him. Or anything like that.’
‘Yeah. People can be funny at times,’ said Les. ‘Actually I visited his grave yesterday. I left some flowers on it.’
‘That was thoughtful of you, Mr Norton,’ said Tania.
‘Well, I was in Lorne,’ said Les, magnanimously. He looked at Mrs Settree over his mug for a moment. ‘It said on his grave, “Loved by all. Especially the people at the cable station.” And something about? “So he … bringeth them unto the haven — where they would be.” I’m kind of curious what all that’s about.’
Tania looked back at Les. ‘I’m not overly religious,’ she said. ‘But the piece about, “unto the haven” is a passage from the Bible. Father Shipley saved almost twenty men from drowning once.’
‘Fair dinkum?’
‘Yes. He was quite an avid sailor,’ said Tania. ‘And he often used to sail his small boat from Lorne to Apollo Bay. He sailed down here one morning, just as a big storm blew in from Bass Strait and a timber vessel overturned. Father Shipley saved all the crew, except for one, and brought them into Apollo Bay. The government gave him a medal.’
‘Go on,’ said Les.
‘And he was also involved with the old telegraph cable station. Before it became a museum.’
‘I noticed it on the way in,’ said Les. ‘What did you say it was? A telegraph cable station? What’s that?’
‘Before satellite technology came in. The original telegraph cable across to Tasmania was laid from here,’ said Tania. ‘It was completed in the thirties. But the building’s over a hundred years old.’
‘Is that right?’ said Les.
‘You may not think so, Mr Norton. But at one time almost everything came into Apollo Bay by ship. The roads in those days were little more than bullock tracks.’
‘Really?’ said Les.
‘Oh yes. There was no Great Ocean Road then,’ said Tania. ‘And when the telegraph cable finally became obsolete, Father Shipley made sure the government would never sell the old building. So it would preserve the area’s heritage. Then after he died it became a museum.’
Les stopped eating his muffin and looked directly at Mrs Settree. ‘Did you say a museum, Tania?’
Tania smiled at Les. ‘I feel I know what you’re thinking, Mr Norton. But believe me, I’ve been in there on many an occasion with the children. And there’s no paintings. Lots of old photos. But no paintings.’
Les watched Mrs Settree sip her coffee. ‘Tania, did Father Shipley have any other connection with the old telegraph station? Apart from getting it preserved as a museum?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Mrs Settree. ‘He helped with the maintenance. Baptised the workers’ babies. Took care of any widows whose husbands died on the job. Considering his parish was in Lorne, he spent a lot of time in Apollo Bay.’ A coy smile formed on Mrs Settree’s face. ‘It was rumoured he was having an affair with one of the widows. And that she had a son to him, who became a well-known detective in Melbourne.’
Les kept his eyes on Mrs Settree. ‘Does the museum have a storage shed?’ he asked her.
‘Yes. An old building out the back,’ she replied. ‘No one ever bothers much about it.’
‘You wouldn’t have a key to the storage shed, Tania?’ asked Les.
Tania shook her head. ‘No. But my friend Mrs Sheridan has. She’s one of the museum’s volunteer caretakers.’
‘Any chance of getting the key off her?’ asked Les.
‘I don’t see why not. She runs a gift shop with her daughter just a few doors up the road. I’ll go and ask her.’ Mrs Settree picked up her handbag and rose from the table.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Les.
‘No. Stay here, Mr Norton, I’ll only be a few minutes.’
‘Okay.’
Les watched Mrs Settree walk off to the left and drummed his fingers on the table. Dear Father Shipley. Acting the good samaritan at the telegraph station while he was porking a lonely widow on the side. Mrs Totten said he was a bit of a devil. He could have sailed down here with the paintings and stashed them somewhere to get them out of Lorne. Maybe there was another roll left in the dice yet. Mrs Settree returned and sat down looking rather pleased with herself. She opened her handbag and took out a solid brass key tied by a strip of leather to a piece of wood with MUSEUM printed on it.
‘Here it is, Mr Norton,’ she smiled.
‘Hey. Well done, Mrs Settree,’ said Les. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘Do you wish to go there now?’ asked Mrs Settree.
‘Yeah. Why not?’ said Les. He got up to pay the bill and they walked out to the car.
It was only a short drive back up the main road to the Cable Station Museum. Les swung left up a driveway then reversed round into a gravel parking area with a fir tree in the corner. He turned off the engine and had a look through the windscreen.
The old single-storey red-brick building was quite big and set in a large fenced-off block of land overlooking the ocean. A yellow double-door stood at the front between four whited-over windows, and there was a side entrance down to the left. A wide patch of grass ran down the right side and scattered around the grass or against the fence and the side of the building, were old wooden signs with WARNING: TELEGRAPH CABLE on them along with piles of greying timber and lumps of rusting metal. Les stopped the engine, took his overnight bag from the back seat and they got out of the car.
‘Where to?’ Les asked Mrs Settree.
‘This way, Mr Norton.’
Les followed Mrs Settree down the left side of the building past the side entrance, then past a garage and, further along, a large concrete water tank. Where the block of land ended back from the water tank, an old sandstone building with a tarred roof pushed into the hill behind the cable station. There were no windows, but at the front was a sturdy greying wooden door with a rusty keyhole in it.
‘Crikey,’ said Les. ‘It’s a solid, big old thing.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Settree. ‘They built them to last in those days.’
‘Did they ever,’ muttered Les.
Mrs Settree took the key, put it in the keyhole and gave it a turn. She gave it another hard turn. Got her strength back and gave it another.
‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘It won’t open.’
‘Give me a go.’
Les gripped the key and gave it a good twist. It might have moved, except the hole was full of corrosion from the salty air. Les removed the key, opened his bag and took out a small can of WD40.
‘I’m a good boy scout, Tania,’ said Les. ‘I’m always prepared.’
‘Yes. You certainly are, Mr Norton,’ smiled Mrs Settree.
Les gave the keyhole a good squirt, then squirted some over the key. After waiting a moment or two, he put the key in and tried again. A couple more turns plus a bit of gentle persuasion and the lock clicked. Les pushed the door with his foot and it creaked partially open. He handed Mrs Settree back the key, then picked up his overnight bag and took out his torch.
‘After you, Mrs Settree,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Settree put the key back in her bag and blinked at Les. ‘I’ve never been in here before.’
Les gave her a wink. ‘There’s a
lways a first time for everything, Tania.’
Les pushed the door open and followed Mrs Settree inside. He shone the torch around the wall next to the door and found an old brass light fitting. Mrs Settree switched it on and a bulb sputtered a few times from behind a metal grille in the ceiling before filling the room with just as many shadows as light.
‘Shit a brick!’ said Les. ‘Where do you start?’
Piled around the room, or lying on the cobblestone floor, were age-old objects covered in dust and cobwebs. Mostly to do with seafaring. Next to a wooden rudder in the middle, were halliards, capstans, brass portholes and enough parts stacked on top of each other to make a small sailing boat. In one corner was a sulky with its wheels removed and resting against it, along with a saddle. And in another corner was a ship’s boiler with an anchor and a broken bowsprit sitting on top. There were huge springs, coils of rope, marlin spikes and block-and-tackles. And wooden and metal objects, with pieces of wood and metal screwed or bolted onto them that had Les completely mystified as to what they were ever used for. Lying on a padlocked metal trunk against one wall was a hard hat and diving suit, and stacked on a battered wooden set of drawers against another wall was a pile of lead ballast. On a wooden sea-chest against another wall was a ship’s bell, a compass and a small anchor. Mrs Settree was examining something that resembled an extra-long handled machete.
‘What’s that?’ asked Les.
‘I think it’s a flenser,’ said Mrs Settree.
‘A flenser?’
‘Yes. For slicing up whales.’
‘Ohh yuk!’ said Les.
‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Settree. ‘The children and I are against whaling too.’
Les flashed his torch around the room and over the ceiling. ‘Well, the sooner I start looking, the sooner we’re out of here, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Settree, wrapping her cardigan around her. ‘It’s not very warm in here.’
Les began going through all the old gear, flashing his torch in every nook and cranny. There was everything from big brass rings to little wooden plugs. Iron spikes to pieces of iron grate. He even uncovered an old wooden leg. But nothing even resembling a green canvas bundle of old paintings. Mrs Settree had been helping too and she couldn’t find anything either.
‘I’m afraid I can’t see your paintings, Mr Norton,’ she said, poking at a pile of old hemp rope.
‘No,’ said Les. ‘It looks like I’ve struck out again.’
Norton walked over to the chest of drawers and pulled one out. It was full of copper nails. The rest were full of wooden dowels, small tools and other old junk. He pushed the last drawer in and turned to the wooden sea-chest. He looked at it, thought for a moment, then walked over and gave it a kick. The old wooden chest sounded a little empty inside.
‘Hello?’ said Les.
‘You’ve found something, Mr Norton?’ said Mrs Settree.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
The sea-chest wasn’t locked. Les took the ship’s bell and compass off and lay them on the floor. The lid had tightened up over the years. But Les was able to put his back into it and wrench the lid open. Inside was a stack of folded white canvas.
‘Hello, hello, hello!’ said Les.
Mrs Settree came over and watched Les pulling aside the canvas. He got halfway down and stencilled across one of the folds was MIZZEN LOWER SHROUDS. Les pulled a few more folds aside, then pushed them back in and dropped the lid.
‘What was it?’ asked Mrs Settree.
‘Just an old sail,’ replied Les.
‘Oh dear,’ sympathised Mrs Settree. ‘What a shame.’
‘Yeah.’
Les put the bell and compass back on the sea-chest and turned to the metal trunk. It was black and dented here and there with rust poking through the paint, around a metre and a half square and secured by a solid brass padlock on the front. Les walked over and gave it a kick. It didn’t sound quite as empty inside as the wooden chest. Les looked at the lock then picked up a metre-long iron spike he had noticed lying on the cobblestones.
‘Mrs Settree. What’s that down there?’ said Les, pointing behind the chest of drawers.
‘Down here?’ Mrs Settree walked over and peered behind the chest of drawers.
While Mrs Settree was looking the other way, Les jammed the iron spike in the lock, got a good grip and quickly wrenched it open. He placed the iron spike back on the cobblestones as Mrs Settree looked up from the old chest of drawers.
‘I can’t see anything, Mr Norton,’ she said.
‘Must’ve been my imagination,’ said Les. ‘Sorry.’ He turned to the metal trunk. ‘Hey, this old metal box isn’t locked. I may as well have a look and see what’s inside.’
‘Yes. Why not?’ agreed Mrs Settree.
Les lay the hard hat and diving suit on the floor then removed the broken lock and creaked open the old iron trunk. It, too, was filled with folded layers of white canvas. Across the top layer was stencilled MAIN ROYAL SAIL.
‘It’s another bloody sail,’ said Les.
‘Dear oh dear,’ said Mrs Settree.
Les pulled a couple of layers out, then shoved his hand down one side of the metal trunk. He got down a fair way and felt tightened rope amongst the sails. Les got his hand under the rope and gave it a tug and found it was attachcd to something solid. He pulled several more layers of canvas sail out of the metal trunk and, sitting on the remaining layers of white canvas, was a bundle of green canvas a good metre square, bound with white rope. Les took hold of the rope with both hands and lifted the bundle out of the trunk. It was about a metre thick and, when Les lay it on the floor, he felt wooden frames along the sides.
‘Holy bloody shit!’ yelled Les. ‘I think it’s them.’
‘The paintings?’ said Mrs Settree.
‘Yeah. Look. You can see where something’s been painted over on the front. But maybe there might be something on the other side.’ Les turned the canvas bundle over and, printed neatly on the back, was From: Guichet Magazine, Bayswater Road, Kings Cross.
‘Yes,’ howled Norton. ‘It’s bloody them all right. That’s Talbot’s place in the Cross, where Emile sent them from.’
Mrs Settree looked mystified. ‘I don’t quite follow you, Mr Norton.’
‘Don’t worry, Tania,’ said Les. ‘This is them all right. You bloody little beaut.’ Les stared at the bundle of paintings lying on the cobblestones and felt like breaking into a dance. ‘I’m a genius,’ he shouted. ‘A bloody genius.’ He grabbed Mrs Settree and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Genius. Hah-hah. Hah-hah-hah!’
Mrs Settree blushed and put her hands to her face. ‘And they’re definitely your mother’s paintings?’ she said.
‘My oath they are,’ said Les. ‘After all these bloody years.’
Mrs Settree clutched at her breast and looked a little faint. ‘Oh my Lord!’ she gasped. ‘This is so exciting.’
‘Is it what,’ said Les.
‘Nothing like this has ever happened to me before in my life,’ said Mrs Settree. ‘I do believe I feel quite dizzy.’
‘I think I’m getting half a horn,’ said Les. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘We won’t unwrap them here. We’ll do it back at the orphanage. What do you reckon?’
‘If you wish, Mr Norton.’ Mrs Settree put her hand on Les’s arm. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you, Mr Norton,’ she smiled. ‘This is marvellous.’
‘Yeah. And I got you to thank, Tania.’ Les gave Mrs Settree another kiss on the cheek. ‘God bless you, sweetheart.’
‘Mr Norton. Please,’ blushed Mrs Settree. ‘You’re making me all embarrassed.’
‘Good,’ grinned Les. ‘All right, Tania,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here, and I’ll put the paintings in the boot of the car.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Settree.
Les repacked the sails then closed the trunk and piled the old diving gear back on top. He picked up the paintings and carried the bundle through the door. Mrs Settree locked it behind th
em, then joined Les as he placed the paintings in the boot of the car.
‘I’ll have to take the key back to Mrs Sheridan, Mr Norton,’ she said.
‘Yeah, no worries,’ said Les, closing the boot.
He opened the door for Mrs Settree then got behind the wheel and they headed back into Apollo Bay. Les was absolutely beside himself. Mrs Settree looked flustered and kept waving her hand in front of her face. She stopped for a moment and turned to Les.
‘Mr Norton,’ said Mrs Settree.
‘Yes Tania,’ replied Les brightly.
‘Would you mind terribly if I was to have a little drink in town? I feel quite heady. There’s a hotel not far from Mrs Sheridan’s.’
‘No. Not at all,’ replied Les. ‘In fact I might have a light myself. This calls for some sort of a celebration.’
‘We could have a celebration back at the orphanage tonight, if you like. There’ll only be Angie and myself there. I’ll cook you dinner. I’m quite a good cook, too, people tell me.’
‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘That’s sounds good. I’ll bring a bottle. Does your daughter drink?’
‘Yes. Red wine.’
‘Okay. Red wine it is.’
The Apollo Breeze Hotel was cream and brown with stairs running up to two entrances, and took up a corner of the main street next to a blue and white supermarket. Les did a U-turn and found a parking spot outside the supermarket. He got out of the car and walked with Mrs Settree as far as the hotel, then waited outside the stairs on the left. As he absently watched the people walking past Les couldn’t believe his luck. He was right. Shipley must have brought the paintings down in his boat. The cable station was right across the road from the water and if anybody asked what the canvas bundle was, he would have said sails. And what a great spot to keep them. Locked in a trunk, in a place no one would ever enter, hidden amongst old sails no one would ever use. He removed his name just as a precaution and that’s where they stayed. Rosa-Marie and Emile died without contacting him, and Father Shipley died taking his secret to the grave. And that’s where the paintings would have stayed. Except for the world’s greatest non-professional detective, Sherlock Holmes Norton, finding them. Les smiled across to the Mitsubishi. Now there was around half a million dollars worth of paintings sitting in the boot of a rental car. Hold on to them for a few years and they could be worth anything. Les had finally cracked the big one. The world was his oyster: mornayed, kilpatrick or on the half shell with pepper and a wedge of lemon. Any way you want it. Thanks mainly to a skinny old Miss Prissy who ran an orphanage. And what would be an appropriate remuneration for an old bag of bones running an orphanage, mused Les as he watched Mrs Settree walking back down the street towards him. I could pull fifty thousand out of that hole in my backyard without even missing it.
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