The Cartographer's Secret

by Téa Cooper

  With the words of The Bulletin advertisement, absolutely secret, echoing in her mind she leapt over Oxley’s sprawled form, flung open the door and shot up the stairs. Where else would a girl hide something secret if not in her bedroom?

  She dived under the bed and found nothing, not even a speck of dust. Of course there would be nothing. Peg cleaned every week. Somewhere else. No space at the tiny desk, the sketchbook taking pride of place still open at Evie’s self-portrait, nor the bedside table where the first of William’s journals sat. She flopped down on the bed and stared around the room.

  There was only one other place. The cupboard tucked in the corner. She wrenched open the door, releasing a cloud of naphthalene with a tinge of lily of the valley and Evie’s trademark scent. Dress after dress of white cotton dangled in graded lengths. A divided skirt, a green velvet cloak, brown riding boots of varying sizes and black buttoned boots.

  Down on her knees she burrowed further into the cupboard, hands flat against the base. Nothing. Just nothing.

  Groaning in frustration she raced back to the study. Evie had hidden her map in the desk drawer. Even William hadn’t found it. She reefed open every single one of the drawers, took each one out, ran her hand over the runners, made certain nothing had fallen down the back then slumped back into the chair and slammed her hands down.

  The palm of her hand hit the side of the compass. ‘Ouch!’ She picked it up, turned it over. Evie couldn’t have hidden anything in the compass. Pushing back the chair she opened the bookcase and slid out William’s box, took out the sextant and chain, felt all around the edge, tried to lift each compartment. Still nothing.

  With a grunt that sent Oxley scuttling into the corner she settled the compass back in its compartment and slammed the lid. ‘Oxley, come here. Where would you hide something?’

  Leaning against her leg he offered silent sympathy but no solution.

  Grasping William’s box in two hands she eased it into the space between the books. One of the piles teetered, slipped and slid to the floor, the crash sending Oxley scooting through the door.

  ‘Damn and blast it.’ She restacked the books and straightened the box and the green tin lying alongside. A sprig of bottlebrush decorated it. Evie’s handiwork without doubt but what was it doing on the bookshelf? All the other botanising canisters and flasks lay stacked against the walls on either side of the mantelpiece. Why was it among William’s books and possessions?

  Curiosity aroused, she lifted it down, placed it on the desk next to the notebook. A long leather strap was attached to either end of the green cylindrical metal container—a shoulder strap perhaps. Lettie hefted it, tried it for size. It sat snug and well-balanced over her right shoulder and rested neatly on her hip although it weighed more than she expected. Settling it on the desk, she rolled it over. A small trapdoor provided an opening.

  After some fumbling she managed to slip her fingers inside. A roll of papers, crammed tight, filled the tin. How could she get them out without destroying them? She snapped the trapdoor closed and examined the ends of the cylinder and found a screw top, rather like the jars in Peg’s pantry. She twisted it. Nothing happened. Exerting more force, she finally heard a satisfying grate as the dust and grime released and she freed the lid.

  With the palm of her hand she hit the other end of the cylinder until the roll of papers slid to the end. By inserting her fingers and tightening it she managed to ease it from the canister. A strip of leather secured the roll.

  Her palms sticky with anticipation, she unravelled it—a copy of The Bulletin. The irony almost made her shout aloud until she saw the lead article—‘The Fate of Ludwig Leichhardt’—and the date—Saturday, 25th December 1880. Mere days before Evie disappeared. She flicked through the pages and discovered the corner torn from one page. She had no need to check. Without a doubt the reward notice had once filled the space.

  Putting The Bulletin aside she leafed through the sheets of paper. Newspaper articles from the Brisbane Courier, an interview with Andrew Hume. The details of his early life. Travels around the country, no mention of Maitland. His arrest as a bushranger and finally the story of the way in which he secured his release from prison. He’d told of his meeting with an old crippled man, who claimed to be a member of Leichhardt’s party. He’d shown him some papers sealed in a metal canister, a hunting watch, telescope, quadrant and thermometer, and Hume had buried them in the desert. Lettie jumped to her feet—reminded of the tiny drawings Olivia had in her bedside table. She was on the right track.

  She read on—Hume had been released to the Roper River to retrieve the relics. Then a report from the Sydney Morning Herald labelling him a scoundrel and a cheat, after he claimed the relics had been stolen.

  More articles, the print faded and yellowed, transcripts and pages of notes written in William’s hand. And the one thing they all had in common she realised as she scanned the pages—every single one talked of Andrew Hume and the Leichhardt relics.

  Lettie went back through the pages, tossing them aside in her frustration when she found no reference to Maitland. She flicked through another series of articles. The words Maitland Mercury jumped out: 2nd July 1874. Her eyes skimmed the page:

  THE TRAVELS OF ANDREW HUME

  On Tuesday evening, about one hundred persons assembled in the hall of the School of Arts to hear Mr Andrew Hume, the person who went out to the north of Queensland to discover the remains of the explorer Leichhardt …

  So Andrew Hume had visited Maitland before he left on his final expedition. But why had Evie thought Maitland significant, six—no, seven—years after Andrew Hume’s death?

  And then Lettie remembered Davey, the young boy in Maitland, leading her to the gravestones of David and Hannah Hume … Andrew’s parents. They had died in 1893, well after Evie vanished.

  She pulled Evie’s notebook towards her.

  5th January 1881

  The old gods are surely watching over me. Bailey is heading for Maitland. To see an old friend, Hume, who once worked at Dartbrook. I am convinced he is Andrew Hume’s father. I will follow and beg an introduction and ask if his son left the relics in his safekeeping. I will leave tomorrow at dawn. My only regret is that I cannot tell Olivia.

  And below a quick sketch of a young boy astride a horse, dressed in patched moleskins, a faded shirt and cabbage palm hat.

  Lettie sat back and re-read the entry. What had made Evie think Andrew Hume might have left the relics in Maitland?

  Maitland, 7th January 1881

  Bailey is furious! However I met Andrew Hume’s parents. They are both quite aged. Mr Hume holds his son in low regard. Mrs Hume took me aside and with tears in her eyes told me Andrew cared more for his old friend and nursemaid Ginny who lived on the Halls’ property at Dartbrook where her husband once worked. Bailey is delivering horses to Scone just ten miles north of Dartbrook and has agreed to let me accompany him. He made me promise to send a letter to Olivia. And so, I too may be labelled as much a scoundrel and a rogue as Andrew Hume because I have not written to Olivia. I must find Ginny, I believe she holds the key. And I must keep this knowledge secret.

  Lettie buried her head in her hands. No room for doubt. Evie was with Bailey.

  Dartbrook, 10th January 1881

  I HAVE THE EVIDENCE! I was right! Andrew Hume did leave the papers with Ginny. She had no knowledge of the watch and other relics. I believe Andrew told a half-truth and that the thermometer, quadrant and watch were stolen when he was aboard ship but not the canister containing the papers. He must have kept them intending to bring Classen back and verify their authenticity. Seventy-five pages written by Leichhardt himself and another sixty by Classen. My German is poor but I recognise Leichhardt’s signature. The others are signed by Classen. I am certain they explain the fate of the expedition.

  Ginny is such a dear old woman and she hadn’t heard of Andrew’s passing. I have told her about the reward from The Bulletin. I will claim it by telegram from Scone and see that s
he is amply compensated.

  I cannot wait to return to Yellow Rock! I can already see the smile on Pa’s face and his eyes dancing. Skuthorpe might claim to have the relics but I have the answer to the fate of Leichhardt’s expedition. We have succeeded where everyone else has failed!

  A lump caught in Lettie’s throat as she surveyed the final journal entry, Evie’s excitement palpable on the page. In the margin there was a small drawing—a bottle-shaped canister, the metal dented and scratched, a thick roll of papers peeping out of the top.

  But there was no canister in Evie’s saddlebag, no papers other than her notebook. Lettie fanned the remaining blank pages of the notebook. The reward notice from The Bulletin fell out, then another loosened page slipped free. Evie’s bold print:

  I WISH TO CLAIM THE REWARD OF ONE THOUSAND POUNDS STOP

  I HAVE IN MY POSSESSION PAPERS WRITTEN BY LEICHHARDT AND CLASSEN DETAILING THE FATE OF LEICHHARDT’S FINAL EXPEDITION STOP EVELYN LUDGROVE

  A telegram that had never been sent because Evie and Bailey hadn’t reached Scone.

  Clutching the notebook and papers tight to her chest, Lettie ran back to the farmhouse and left them on the table. No sign of Denman or Nathaniel. And Olivia, where was Olivia? More to the point where was Evie’s saddlebag?

  Sticking her fingers in her mouth, she tried for one of Denman’s whistles, hoping it might bring Oxley, at best Denman. Her first attempt produced nothing but a series of splutters and a soggy hand—her second proved more fruitful and Oxley appeared from behind the stables, Denman not far behind.

  She ran down the path and skidded to a halt, pushing Oxley down. ‘Denman, where’s Nathaniel, where’s Olivia, where’s Evie’s saddlebag?’

  ‘Olivia’s got it. She took it to her room last night. Leave her to mourn.’

  ‘I can’t. I simply can’t. She gave me Evie’s notebook. It explains everything. Evie was with Bailey.’

  Denman’s face creased in a frown. ‘Nathaniel, boy, where are you?’ He reached for the stall wall, swaying slightly.

  ‘I’ll go and find him.’

  ‘In the paddock with the mares.’ He gestured over his shoulder and sank down on an upturned bucket.

  ‘Stay right there. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.’

  Denman’s blank gaze, fixed on some far distant horizon, showed no sign that he’d heard her. Why hadn’t she been more thoughtful? She’d forgotten how old he and Olivia were. She should have chosen her words more carefully.

  Nathaniel’s shirt made him easy to spot standing behind the stables just like the drover on Evie’s map. It all came back to Evie’s map. If only she’d understood it better—if only Evie had taken it with her and finished it. No. Then Lettie wouldn’t have been able to commence the search at all. The map had led her to Maitland and to the Humes, Bertha and Dartbrook.

  ‘Nathaniel! Denman needs you. And I do too. I’ve read Evie’s notebook. She was with Bailey.’

  Nathaniel’s face paled. ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It means we know they were together, reached Dartbrook, found the papers Andrew Hume had left there Her words tapered off.

  ‘They must have tried to outrun the fire.’ He aimed a kick at the base of the fence post.

  ‘And failed?’ Her voice quavered. ‘You think she and Bailey perished in the wildfire?’ Goosebumps crawled across her skin. Just like Thorne. Taken by fire. She couldn’t imagine a worse way to die. A choking sob slipped between her lips.

  Nathaniel reached over and pulled her against his chest.

  ‘Oh! What am I going to tell Olivia?’ Wasn’t it better to leave things as they were, better for Olivia to remember Evie as the young girl setting out for a day’s painting? She wouldn’t wish the images scorched in her memory on anyone.

  ‘The truth. It’ll be what she wants.’ With one thumb, he traced a gentle caress on her cheek, wiping away the tears she hadn’t known she’d cried. ‘Come on. Where’s this notebook—the least we can do is make sure we’re right before we tell Olivia.’

  ‘On the kitchen table. And Denman. I told Denman. He looked … that’s why I was calling you … he looked unwell.’

  ‘He’s tough. He’s not harbouring any illusions about Bailey. Reckons he’d always known something dire happened. Always maintained Bailey wouldn’t have shot through. It’ll be Evie that’s upset him, and what it’ll do to Olivia. Come on.’ He clasped her hand and led her around to the front of the stables where Denman stood, leaning against the fence, pipe jammed in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Who’s going to tell Olivia?’ Denman asked.

  ‘No one. Not until we’ve looked at this notebook. Come along, old fella.’

  ‘Nathaniel, did you take anything from the saddlebag?’ Lettie asked.

  He dropped her hand. Stopped dead in his tracks. ‘I did not.’

  ‘It’s just that Evie said she’d picked up some papers from Dartbrook. She drew a picture. They were in an old tin canister, bottle-shaped.’

  ‘Nothing like that in there.’ There was an edge on Denman’s voice, as though he was jumping to Nathaniel’s defence. ‘I was there when he opened it, back at Frog Hollow. He’s no thief.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you have stolen anything, it just seems strange. Here I’ll show you.’

  She pushed open the kitchen door and there was Olivia, sitting at the table, her face streaked with tears, Evie’s notebook in her hand.

  Twenty-Nine

  Olivia lifted her ravaged face. ‘You were right, Lettie. Right all along. Evie did go with Bailey.’

  Lettie reached out and squeezed Olivia’s hand. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘If I’d listened, looked more carefully, put the puzzle together, we might have found her before it was too late. I knew Bailey was going to Maitland, knew he was delivering horses to Scone, knew he was going on to Murrurundi. If only I had paid more attention to Evie when she talked about William and their wretched books. If I’d understood she’d become infected by his passion … I thought if I ignored all the Leichhardt nonsense, Evie would too.’

  Lettie understood Olivia’s self-recrimination, but she couldn’t keep blaming herself for Evie’s actions any more than Lettie could blame Thorne’s accident on her tardiness. The outcome couldn’t be changed no matter how much they might wish.

  Denman reached across the table and tilted Olivia’s chin, gazed into her eyes. ‘You’re mourning—not only mourning Evie, Bailey too.’

  Lettie’s head came up with a snap. There was something in the way Olivia’s face had changed, softened, when she’d tipped her head back to look at Denman.

  ‘Yes, yes I am. I thought he’d left me. We argued. That’s why I asked Evie to give him the wages. When he didn’t come back I thought it was because I couldn’t give him what he wanted. Couldn’t let the family down. I loved him, you know.’

  Denman’s fingers squeezed. ‘He knew.’

  ‘Do you think he did?’

  ‘He did. Understood it couldn’t be.’

  Lettie felt the sting of tears as the dreadful implication of Olivia’s words sank into her befuddled conscience. Olivia hadn’t only lost Evie, she’d lost the man she loved, Bailey.

  Nathaniel stood with his back to the room. The tension in his shoulders was evident even under the thick cotton of his shirt.

  ‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’ Lettie asked for want of anything better to say. What could be said? This agony was of her making. If she’d delivered Miriam’s message and left Yellow Rock, the past would have remained buried, much like the contents of the study and Evie’s saddlebag. Oxley leant his head against her leg, his big brown eyes full of misery.

  ‘I’ll make it.’ Olivia wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘Be good to have something to do. And while I am you can tell me what sent you racing to the stables in search of Nathaniel.’

  Why hadn’t she stopped and thought before she’d flown down to the stables? She should have thought about the effect the
news would have on Olivia. ‘I’d read Evie’s journal. I’m sorry, I should have broken the news more gently.’

  ‘I’ve read—read some of it. But you still haven’t told me what it was you were worked up about.’ Despite Olivia’s ashen complexion her determination to hear the truth was clear.

  ‘Evie was searching for something specific. You were right, she intended to claim the reward from The Bulletin. It’s all there. These—’ Lettie pointed to the pile of articles she’d found, ‘—these explain why Evie left. They were hidden inside this green metal tube …’ She sketched the shape with her hands.

  Olivia sighed. ‘Evie’s vasculum. She painted bottlebrushes on it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. What is it?’

  ‘Botanists use them for collecting plants. Evie liked to keep her samples fresh then when she returned she could draw all the details. I didn’t know it was missing, didn’t notice it in the study.’

  ‘It was on the same shelf as William’s box, between some books. I found it when I put the compass back. And these were inside.’ She fanned the articles. ‘I think Evie set off believing Andrew Hume had left the missing Leichhardt papers with his parents in Maitland while he went to the desert to bring Classen back. But she discovered he hadn’t. He disappeared for two days and while he was missing he visited his old nursemaid at Dartbrook, Ginny, and left the papers with her, as some sort of security I’m guessing. Evie went with Bailey to Dartbrook to try and find Ginny and the papers. And she did. There’s a picture in her journal of the papers.’ She picked up the notebook from the table and turned to the last page—to the sketch of a canister with the papers peeping out of the top. ‘These belonged to Leichhardt and Classen and explain the fate of the expedition.’

  ‘And we’re right back to wretched Leichhardt again,’ Olivia spluttered.

  ‘I wanted to check Evie’s saddlebag. I didn’t remember seeing them.’ Lettie reached over and opened the flap on the bag, ran her hand around the bottom, brought out a couple of old and faded pieces of paper. Nothing like the large roll Evie had drawn, and no sign of the canister. ‘It’s not here.’ She smoothed out the two crumpled sheets, the writing faded, almost illegible. ‘I can’t read them.’