The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Go on. Take the sheet off. Carefully.’

  She tugged at the corner; it snagged then released, bringing with it a cloud of dust.

  A small falcon, a stormy petrel with an amazing sheen stood perched on a branch eyeing her with beady eyes. Next to it an owl-like bird, the likes of which she’d never seen. Its speckled brown plumage blended into obscurity with the bark of a tree. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A tawny frogmouth.’

  ‘And look at this. A giant hedgehog.’

  ‘No!’ Kip’s eyes danced as he smothered a laugh. ‘It’s a spiny anteater, better known as an echidna. I’ve decided the downstairs room was used for display. I reckon they left the kangaroo down there because it was too heavy to move. Glad next door said it was a tailor’s shop for a while. I can just see that white kangaroo in top hat and tails, wouldn’t need a shirt.’ He struck a pose, his thumbs hooked through his braces, one toe raised as though he was about to launch into a jig.

  ‘Oh, but wait, you’re missing one thing.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, folded it into a neat triangle and tucked it into the top pocket of his shirt, patting it into place with the palm of her hand. ‘Thank you, thank you for everything.’

  For a fleeting moment he held her gaze, then he gave a curt nod and pushed up his sleeves. ‘What’s next? The cellar? I haven’t been down there. I’ve brought my lantern and some spare candles in case you want a closer look. Thought I ought to wait for you.’

  She gave him a wide smile. ‘Let’s finish here first. What can I do?’

  ‘There’s a bucket and some old rags in the scullery. I thought you might want to give the windows a bit of a clean. Get as much light in as we can. The pump’s in the yard.’ He pointed out of the window to a rickety lever lurching against the small outhouse.

  He seemed to know exactly what she needed, had made her laugh and hadn’t asked any difficult questions or pressured her about Hugh’s package. He was just there to help. Fleur rolled up her sleeves and followed his lead.

  Once the bucket was filled she set to washing away the grime of goodness knows how many years. The front window would be a challenge; apart from the fact that it was bigger it was made up of lots and lots of small leadlight panes.

  ‘Most people I know wouldn’t go to all this trouble. They’d just take the money, get on and enjoy themselves and forget about the past.’ Kip’s voice floated down the stairs, echoing in the empty room.

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’ No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something. She’d had that dream again the night before—Hugh standing on the hill bathed in sunlight, holding out his hand to her, or was he waving goodbye?

  Kip’s face flushed red. ‘They keep telling me to forget about the past.’ With a thundering clap, the last of the planks fell to the ground.

  ‘Were you in France?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t like to talk about it.’ He jumped down and started collecting the fallen timber.

  So he had been in the army, she’d thought as much from the way he carried himself. He didn’t appear to have any lasting injuries; maybe he was one of the lucky ones and had got home early. She scampered up the steps and stood in the middle of the room, the kangaroo in the corner viewing her with a quizzical look.

  ‘The room is huge,’ she called, spreading her arms wide and twirling slowly around. ‘I wonder what the old Curio Shop sold.’

  ‘Australian curios, amongst them taxidermied specimens from the look of this chap and the stuff upstairs.’ He gave the kangaroo another pat. ‘Never seen a white one before. Have you got the key there?’

  She handed it over.

  ‘I wonder who Atterton was.’ He fingered the faded letters on the tag still attached to the key.

  ‘The owners of the shop, they must have been, and the Skipper told me about the Mogo property and he said “the old Atterton place”. He said it was one of the first grants in the district. He said he remembered Hugh.’ She sank down on the bottom step.

  Home is Mogo Creek, it’ll be our place, our special place.

  ‘Hugh told me it was home.’

  ‘St Albans was settled really early in the piece. If that’s not proof enough that his family had lived in Australia for a long time, then what is? Atterton doesn’t sound dreadfully German to me. And this place was built years ago. Look at the walls. They don’t use blocks like this anymore.’ He ran his hand over the sandstone. ‘You can see the convict marks. That’s how they kept tally of how many they’d cut.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe Atterton was his grandmother’s name. Vera said she was Australian, maybe English originally. I don’t understand any of it. When will Mr Lyttleton be back? I don’t mean to be unkind but it seems as though Vera is at a total loss.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Repatriation could take months. We’ll have to see what we can sort out.’ He turned around and picked up a small lantern. ‘Come with me.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let’s go and have another look at the stuff in the cellar. My guess is that this room was cleared when the place was leased, and all the contents stored downstairs.’

  It made sense, perfect sense. ‘Come on, then.’ She swung around the banister and followed Kip down the stairs, her heart in her mouth.

  Once lit, the lantern threw a circle of light onto the irregular sandstone walls. The cellar appeared to stretch the length of the entire house. Alongside the steps there was a narrow cubby hole crammed with boxes. After every few paces, Fleur stopped, praying she wouldn’t encounter one of Kip’s goggle-eyed huntsmen.

  Under her feet the floor sloped up to the street, forcing her to crouch as she moved forwards. A solid bank of tea chests lined the front wall. Against the side wall a glass-topped cedar display case lurched and on top of it were more teetering boxes speckled with dust and rodent droppings.

  Without thinking she pushed her hand onto the top of the pile. An uncontrolled scream ripped out of her mouth. The rank musty odour of rats coated her nostrils. ‘Argh!’ Fiddling her fingers in the air she tried to contain the wave of panic crawling across her skin. ‘It’s a rat.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ Kip tipped the box and shone the lantern inside. He laughed and pulled out a fat roll of soft fur dangling from a silken cord.

  She took it from him and gingerly slipped her fingers inside. ‘It’s a muff.’ The soft satin fabric was smooth to the touch.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A muff. They were very popular in the last century, as a change from gloves. Ladies wore them around their necks and kept their hands inside.’ She delved deeper and found a small pocket. ‘There’s a pocket in here. A lady’s pistol would fit very nicely in there.’

  ‘Maybe just her loose change. I don’t like the idea of my lady carrying a pistol.’

  ‘A lady wouldn’t be seen dead carrying money in those days.’ She lay it down on the glass top. ‘What else is in the box?’ She tipped it over and spread out the contents. ‘Look. Gloves and stoles, and evening bags, purses, and these. A pair of leather slippers. I wonder what they’re made of.’ She ran her fingers over the soft skin, shook out fur coats, stoles and three painstakingly stitched patchwork blankets. The pile in front of her grew.

  ‘Looks like possum. Kangaroo, wombat maybe? Leather could be emu.’

  ‘Do they use Australian animals for clothing and blankets?’ And did all of them have this strange earthy, oniony smell?

  ‘Dunno. Not that I’ve heard of. I thought toffs went for mink and ermine and maybe fox.’ He cracked a laugh. ‘I’ve seen old pictures of Aboriginals wearing cloaks a bit like these. Can’t imagine them at Government House though.’ It was as though Kip had come alive in the drab and dusty building full of strange smells and unexplored corners. Like a child in a museum, his eyes stretched wide with wonder, he ran his long fingers over each item, dusting them with care with his big blue handkerchief.

  They continued to work their way through the top boxes; a lot more of
the same, and then feathers. Headdresses, fascinators, little hats with netting attached. ‘Look at these.’ She picked up a hair comb with a spray of pale, curved feathers and stuck it into her hair, pulling it back behind her ear.

  Kip shone the lantern directly onto them. ‘Lyrebird by the look of it.’

  ‘A what bird?’

  ‘Lyrebird. They’re the best mimics. The male bird fans out his tail, bit like a peacock, to attract the female.’

  The atmosphere in the cellar shifted ever so slightly and she pulled the comb from her hair and stuffed it back into the box. A puff of dust rose and then settled, filling the space with the pungent smell again. ‘Have you any idea what that smell is?’

  Kip scratched his head, making his dark hair stand out at oddly endearing angles. ‘It reminds me of tripes. France.’ He shuddered and lifted the lantern. A closed look masked his face. ‘Sheep stomach. They cook it with garlic in this foul white sauce. Coats your mouth like plaster.’

  And then she remembered. ‘It’s the smell at Mogo. In the workshop.’

  Nothing but a grunt came from Kip and then the sound of something shifting. She edged along the wall into the lantern beam. ‘What have you found?’ The shelves were stacked, the contents threatening to spill onto the floor: scrolled maps and manuscripts, books and leather-covered ledgers, piles of documents, numerous scrolls and quills.

  ‘Here, hold this.’ He thrust the lantern into her hand and heaved himself up, his arms crammed with a stack of long thin leather-bound volumes. ‘I’ll take them upstairs.’

  Fleur blew out the lantern, left it on the table next to the matches, and followed him.

  By the time she got upstairs Kip had dumped the ledgers on the desk and stood surveying them with his arms folded and a satisfied grin on his face. ‘These should tell us something.’

  A strange knot formed in her throat when her hands rested on the first of the faded green ledgers. She opened it, releasing the scent of the past; leather, parchment and ink.

  The Curio Shop of Wonders

  84 Hunter Street, Sydney

  1853

  Rows and rows of neat columns of figures for each day of the week, carefully listed and carefully marked. Names and amounts and quantities. Quantities of what? It didn’t say. And then items. Feathered accessories. Fur accessories. Tonic. Native artefacts. Specimens. Specimens of what? A shudder ran down her spine and she closed the book and picked up a bigger one that had fallen to the floor.

  The Taxidermy Shop

  93 Islington High Street,

  Islington, London

  1835

  ‘Look at this.’ She lay the open book flat on the table. ‘This one isn’t from the Curio Shop, it’s from London. I lived in Islington before the Zeppelin raid.’

  His eyebrows disappeared under the shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead. ‘Zeppelin raid?’

  ‘Mum and Dad were caught in it. Our house went too.’

  Kip gave a grunt of sympathy and Fleur turned back to the flyleaf. Thaddeus Atterton. ‘Atterton. See.’ She stabbed at the faded script.

  ‘At least that makes sense of something. Same name as on the key.’

  ‘Same name as Mogo. I wonder who Thaddeus Atterton was. Did Vera find anything in the records?’

  He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Let’s not wonder. Let’s see what we can find.’

  As they worked their way through the pile of the ledgers, the pages flicked past, one after another, the breath of the past stippling the back of her neck, making her eyes blur.

  Finally she had four separate piles.

  ‘Right. We have the ledgers from The Taxidermy Shop in London owned by Thaddeus Atterton.’

  ‘You don’t know he owned it.’

  ‘True. I’m hazarding a guess. Then ledgers from The Taxidermy Shop at 84 Hunter Street, also owned by Thaddeus Atterton. And others from The Curio Shop of Wonders, at the same premises and owned by Cordelia Atterton.’

  ‘Thaddeus’s wife?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’d say definitely.’

  ‘And finally these. Noble Opals. Della von Richter.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  Fleur’s mind was whirling in ever-decreasing circles. If nothing else it proved a link between the Attertons and Von Richters, but Noble Opals? And then her heart skipped a beat.

  Dad was a miner. That’s why they put me on tunnelling duty.

  ‘What do you know about opals?’

  ‘Not a lot. A gemstone. You find them all over the place—Lightning Ridge, Broken Hill and somewhere in South Australia too, I think. Not sure. Don’t have much call for stuff like that.’

  ‘But where do you get them? Do you mine them?’

  ‘Not real deep. I think you just dig for them with a pick and shovel. Maybe blast. I’ve got some memory of them being fragile. Sorry, not much help.’

  ‘But people call themselves opal miners.’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  She ran her finger down the list. ‘There’s reference to Hugh’s brothers, Clemens and Carl, in the ledgers, Otto and Della von Richter and someone called Burless.’

  Kip hunched over her shoulder and peered down at the ledger. ‘Burless.’

  ‘How did an Austrian opal miner end up owning a shop in Sydney? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the opals were only sold from here.’ That made more sense. ‘What do you think, Kip?’

  Receiving no answer, she closed the ledger with a snap. Kip’s pacing drove her mad, his feet echoed on the timber floor as he strode up and down. Almost marching, from the window at the front to the back, a neat parade-ground turn then back again. ‘Stand still.’

  He came to a neat halt and a tense edginess swept over his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He raked his hair back from his forehead. She noticed a few spots of sweat beading his forehead. ‘I’ve had enough, sick to death of it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We—’

  Before she had the opportunity to finish her sentence, he grabbed his cloth cap and barged out of the building.

  Thirty

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  The Baron’s journals held no interest for Stefan. Instead of editing the notes he’d made during the trip back to Sydney he spent the entire night mulling over Philpott’s words. Arsenic poisoning was nothing new. It had been the poison of preference for centuries, even the Romans had a partiality for it, but why? Why would Mrs Skeffington want to dispose of her husband? What had she to gain? If the rumours were to be believed the man’s interests were property-heavy and he had a penchant for the gaming tables; the brief glimpse of the house in Potts Point proved they were in no way impoverished.

  He peered out of the window. Below, in the street, Philpott strode across the road in a most determined manner carrying his doctor’s bag. He didn’t make it to the door.

  Stefan bit back a grin as Bert fell into step alongside the tall man and grasped his bag. He had to take five steps for every two of Philpott’s and listed dangerously to port due to the weight.

  Pulling on his jacket, Stefan ran down the stairs to fend off Sladdin’s morning greetings.

  ‘Ah! Captain. The very man.’ Philpott tipped his head in the direction of the stairs and raised his eyebrows in question. ‘A moment of your time if you’d be so kind.’

  Abandoning Bert to Sladdin, they took the stairs two at a time. It wasn’t until the door was firmly closed that Philpott said, ‘I called in to see Mrs Skeffington this morning.’

  ‘And she agreed.’

  His face fell. ‘No. As I expected she refused outright to allow any interference, as she called it, with her husband’s body. The undertaker had already called and was preparing the embalming. The funeral is tomorrow.’

  A resounding bang interrupted his words, and Bert fell through the door, Philpott’s bag clutched in one hand and the other rubbing his backside. ‘Scheisse!’

  ‘Bert!’

  ‘Sorry Capt’n but that Sla
ddin. I reckon he’s got lead caps on his boots.’ He dumped the bag on the floor and rubbed his backside.

  Stefan ignored Bert’s tirade and turned back to Philpott, who hefted his bag onto the table and fiddled with a series of clips and locks. ‘I was wondering if you could help me, Bert. I need to procure a bottle of tonic from the Curio Shop. Mrs Skeffington admitted to buying the tonic and some lozenges which were recommended by Mrs Atterton at one of their parlour-games parties. I thought if I gave Bert some money he could go and—’

  ‘You’d be meaning one of these would you, Gov?’ Bert slipped between the two men, his hand outstretched.

  Philpott lifted the green-wrapped lozenge from Bert’s hand. ‘How did you come by this boy?’

  Bert’s face flushed the colour of borscht. ‘I, um. I er—’

  ‘Payment for services rendered.’ Stefan tousled his hair and winked. ‘It would seem we have solved your problem. Can the tests be carried out on this?’

  ‘Yes of course. I have the necessary equipment in my bag. I will also have to confirm the tonic contained arsenic but this is indeed a start. A very good start.’ He carefully removed a burner, a metal stand and a selection of glass tubes from his bag.

  ‘Arsenic. That’s poison, ain’t it?’ Bert edged his way closer. ‘How’s all that clobber going to ’elp?’

  ‘We place the lozenge in here and some of this zinc powder and if there is arsenic present it will react and form a gas. We then heat the gas and it will leave a film of metallic arsenic on the glass—we call that the “arsenic mirror”.’

  Stunned to silence, Bert stared open-mouthed as Philpott arranged the equipment and lit the burners.

  ‘The test is so sensitive it can be used to detect minute amounts of arsenic in foods or in stomach contents. I’ll pop the lozenge in and add the zinc. Now wait a moment while it heats.’

  Stefan held his breath, hardly able to contain his impatience as the black, shiny powder formed.

  ‘And there we have it. An arsenic mirror.’ Philpott straightened up, a glow of triumph on his face. ‘Conclusive. Arsenic is definitely present.’

  A knock prevented Stefan from responding. Before he had a chance to reach the door it swung open. The scent of freshly brewed coffee preceded Sladdin pushing a trolley. ‘There’s a letter for you from the Governor, Captain von Richter, and I have taken the liberty of bringing you some refreshments at the same time.’