The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s quite unusual. Not a name I’ve heard before.’

  ‘It’s my maiden name, Kip’s name too. Albert Burless Cassidy. Named for his grandfather. Not that it did him much good. His mates all call him Kip because he insists on playing Two Up every chance he gets.’ With a shaking hand Mrs Cassidy reached up to the mantelpiece and brought down a small round tin. The photograph fluttered to the floor, and she made no move to pick it up.

  She opened the tin and offered Fleur a cigarette.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Mrs Cassidy’s hand shook as she cupped it around the flame of the match and brought it to her mouth. She inhaled deeply, the tobacco smoke circling up to the ceiling filling the small kitchen with a blue haze.

  After several more drags the tip of her cigarette glowed as she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs; in just a few moments it would be ash and Fleur’s time would be up.

  Sitting at the table, Mrs Cassidy fiddled with the edge of a chipped saucer full of butts. ‘Those von Richters should have been sent back where they came from. They always thought they were a cut above the rest with their airs and graces and clicking heels. My father always cared more about them than Mother and me, chasing around the world after them, leaving us to fend for ourselves.’

  Fleur didn’t know whether to agree with her or not. Her feelings regarding Hugh and his family seemed to swing like a pendulum. ‘My parents died in the Zeppelin raids in London.’

  Mrs Cassidy stubbed her cigarette out and stood, chewing the edge of her finger as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether she’d said too much. ‘They’ve all got blood on their hands.’

  Fleur sat quietly waiting, hoping that eventually it would all make sense.

  ‘It’s not my story to tell. I just live with the consequences.’ Mrs Cassidy gave a shuddering sigh. ‘See yourself out.’

  Thirty-Two

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  Della wrapped the green paper around the muff and placed it onto the table. ‘That will be six shillings and sixpence, Mrs Thompson. Thank you.’

  ‘Will you be getting some more of those possum blankets? I believe they are deliciously warm and with winter closing in …’

  ‘To be honest I’m not sure.’ She certainly hoped not. She’d taken the last three and put them on a back shelf in the cellar, harbouring some forsaken hope that she might take them back to Mogo next time she went. There was still no sign of Gus and Dobbin, nor of Cordelia for that matter. ‘Perhaps if you’d like to call back in a week or so.’

  She walked to the door and opened it, careful not to let it slam because she still couldn’t find the key. The last time she remembered having it was when she had returned from the carriage ride with Stefan.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Thompson.’

  The overblown woman swept out in a waft of Attar of Roses and Della stood relishing the patch of frail sunlight, imagining herself down by the creek feeding Tidda a handful of sweet grass while she listened to the Darkinjung women tell their stories. On days like this she found the town claustrophobic. What she needed was another ride in one of those lovely carriages. She grinned at her foolishness and turned to look down the street.

  As if in answer to her unspoken wish Stefan’s tall figure appeared striding down the road. No uniform today, instead he looked the very picture of a profitable squatter in a worsted jacket, matching cravat and long boots.

  She lifted her hand in greeting and he picked up his pace, as good as ran, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Good morning, Stefan.’ She inhaled his scent of ambergris and musk.

  ‘Della, good morning. You look a picture of health and happiness.’

  Health yes. Every trace of the lethargy and dizziness that had plagued her had vanished in the past days and with Captain von Richter holding both her hands and smiling down at her she felt exceptionally happy.

  ‘I was wondering if I could ask for your assistance. Sir Charles is back and has requested my attendance at eleven. In just half an hour.’

  ‘That would be … oh no I can’t. Cordelia’s not back yet and I can’t find the key.’ The night before she’d locked both the front and back doors with the inside bolts but she could hardly leave the shop open in broad daylight.

  ‘I would very much like you to accompany me. Your testimony would add weight to my story. Could Charity not keep an eye on the shop?’

  The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Charity never looked after the shop. Helped with the dusting, cleaned the windows, did most of the cooking but even when Ma and Pa were alive, she’d never had responsibility for the shop. ‘I’m not sure.’ Oh, but she so wanted to go with Stefan. Not only for the pleasure of spending some time in his company. This was for Jarro and all his family. Not just his family. All the others who’d suffered Gus and Dobbin’s awful raids. It was time she stood up for what she believed in. ‘I’ll ask her. I won’t be long.’

  Much to her surprise Charity jumped at the idea, assuring her she was more than capable of attending to the customers. Cordelia simply didn’t appreciate her skills.

  With that problem solved Della ran upstairs, re-pinned her hair, pinched her cheeks and unearthed Cordelia’s blue cloak. When she returned downstairs Charity sat ensconced behind the desk looking quite the lady of business while Stefan waited impatiently outside drumming his cane against the edge of the footpath.

  ‘I’m sorry I kept you.’

  ‘No matter. Charity appears to be pleased with her responsibility.’

  ‘She’s keen to stay in Sydney and wants to prove her worth. She hated being out at the farm with me.’

  ‘And what about you? Do you miss the freedom or are you happier here in Sydney?’

  ‘Truthfully I miss it. Charity said Jarro was asking after me.’

  ‘And was there any sign of Gus and Dobbin?’

  ‘No, none.’

  He reached for her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. ‘Now let’s put our mind to what we are going to say to Sir Charles. I have no intention of letting Gus and Dobbin continue their unconscionable behaviour.’

  By the time they’d reached Government House Stefan had convinced her Sir Charles would use Gus and Dobbin as examples and prevent any further attacks. He spoke so persuasively and with such intelligence she doubted she could add anything to the argument.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Charles.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Captain von Richter. Miss Atterton, good morning.’

  Stefan tucked Della’s arm into his own and led her down the road. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I had no idea so many had suffered so greatly.’

  ‘There is no reason you should have known. The massacre Sir Charles mentioned took place a long time ago.’

  ‘Twenty-eight men, women and children. Where did it happen?’

  ‘A place in northern New South Wales, Myall Creek.’

  ‘And to think that so many people share Cordelia’s lack of concern for the Aboriginal people. I never thought I would say it but I am pleased those killers were brought to justice and hung.’

  ‘The fact that it has established a precedent is in our favour, although as Sir Charles said nothing can be done until Gus and Dobbin are found and brought before the courts.’

  ‘Oh, yes there is. I intend to make sure every one of those stolen possessions at the shop are returned to Jarro and his family, and just as soon as Cordelia returns I will find out the full story. It’s appalling to think that the shop, Pa’s shop, should be involved in such ... in such atrocities.’

  And that brought him back with a crash. He’d been in such a hurry to get to Government House he hadn’t mentioned Philpott’s findings to Della and in truth had no idea how to approach the matter. The last thing he wanted was for her to be implicated. ‘Where has Cordelia gone?’

  ‘I’m not certain. She simply said she had business to attend to.’ Della lifted her pretty shoulders and shook her head.

  ‘There’s something
I need to tell you. It concerns Skeffington.’

  ‘And the stone? I still haven’t given it to you.’

  ‘It can wait, at the moment this is rather more important.’ He drew in a deep breath, suddenly unsure how she would take the news, the accusation. After all he was about to implicate her aunt yet again. ‘Let’s sit for a moment.’ He drew her down onto a bench overlooking the harbour. ‘I think I mentioned Mr Philpott, a doctor I met at the Berkley.’

  ‘Yes, yes you did. When I was unwell.’

  ‘Philpott conducted a test on the lozenges Cordelia has for sale in the Curio Shop and he discovered that they contain arsenic.’

  ‘Arsenic? How could that happen? We’re always very careful with the supplies both here and at the farm. It’s dreadfully poisonous. That’s why it’s used to kill rats.’

  ‘So you know there is arsenic on the premises?’

  ‘Of course. I use arsenical soap to preserve the skins, otherwise my displays would disintegrate in a matter of months, eaten by moths and larvae.’

  Sladdin was quite correct then. ‘Where do you purchase this arsenical soap?’

  She threw him a quizzical glance. ‘I don’t. Charity and I make it.’

  Which would account for a tolerance as Philpott suggested, but why had she suddenly become ill when they’d returned to Sydney?

  ‘It is a mixture of white arsenic, around two pounds, soap, camphor, powdered chalk and salts of tartar. I sometimes add some thyme leaves to improve the scent.’

  ‘And you never suffer any ill effects?’

  ‘No. None at all. Pa taught me. It must be treated with a deal of respect. We keep it in labelled tins. It can easily be mistaken for sugar or flour. Perhaps that’s how it got into the lozenges.’

  ‘And you’ve made the lozenges?’

  ‘No. I’d never seen them before. Cordelia must have introduced them while I was away. In fact, until Bert picked up that handful I hadn’t even noticed them.’

  ‘And what about the tonic?’

  ‘We’ve sold the tonic for as long as I can remember. It’s a herbal mixture. A health and strength restorer. From a recipe Ma’s mother gave her.’

  Providing the recipe hadn’t changed. That would be up to Philpott to determine with his Marsh test. ‘Would it be possible to test the contents?’

  ‘Yes of course, but why?’

  And here was the crunch. ‘Philpott believes that Skeffington died of arsenic poisoning caused by the ingestion of tonic and lozenges from the Curio Shop.’

  ‘Oh, how ridiculous.’ Della shot to her feet, eyes blazing. ‘What are you suggesting, that we are running some sort of arsenic racket as well as murdering the Darkinjung?’ She didn’t wait for a response, simply strode off down the path, shoulders tense, head held high. He was suddenly reminded of the first time he’d met her down by the creek.

  Cursing the remnants of the musket ball in his thigh, he raced after her. It wasn’t until she turned into Hunter Street that he caught up. ‘Della, wait please.’

  She took no notice and came to a halt in front of the Curio Shop. The door was wide open and Charity’s strident tones echoed into the street. ‘Get your hands orf me. You can’t do that.’

  Without further thought Stefan barged past her into the shop and came to grinding halt. There was a resounding crash and a display cabinet toppled, depositing Bert onto the floor in a nest of furs and feathers.

  ‘In Gottes namen …’

  Philpott stood at the back of the shop facing off an irate Charity, arms akimbo, face flushed, hair falling around her face like some harridan.

  ‘Would someone please explain what’s happening?’ Della stepped past him and held out a hand to Bert, who pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘This man ’ere says he’s a doctor and he wants some of our tonic. I told ’im we ain’t got none.’ Charity adjusted her dress and dragged her hair back from her face.

  Swallowing his groan, Stefan glared at Philpott. Why couldn’t he have waited as he’d suggested instead of barging in demanding the tonic.

  ‘Charity, give the man a bottle of Ma’s Health Tonic, please.’

  Charity’s face flushed. ‘There ain’t none.’

  ‘Was the other day.’ Bert pointed to the shelf above the display he’d ruined. ‘Was up there. Rows of the stuff.’

  ‘Well, we sold out. It’s all gone. Mind your own beeswax, boy.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ Bert unclenched his fist to reveal a bottle, neatly labelled.

  ‘Give it to me.’ Philpott reached out and took it. With a cry Charity sprang forward. He raised it above his head, out of her reach, and turned to the light squinting at the label.

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if we sat down and talked about this sensibly.’ Della walked back to the door and pulled the key from the lock and placed it in the palm of her hand, a frown marring her face. ‘You found the key?’

  Charity’s face flushed. ‘Got lost. Sladdin found it and brought it over.’

  Della pocketed the big brass key and sat down at the desk. ‘Mr Philpott, I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Philpott straightened his jacket, ran his fingers through his hair then sketched some vague bow. ‘Philpott, surgeon and physician, Miss Atterton.’

  ‘Please take a seat.’

  This was a side of Della Stefan hadn’t seen. Gone was the young girl in the leather apron and in her place a businesswoman, in command of the situation. He pulled up another chair and pointed Bert to a spot over near the door.

  ‘Now, Mr Philpott. How can we help you?’ She folded her hands in her lap and tucked her feet neatly to one side.

  ‘As I said, Miss Atterton, I wish to purchase a bottle of the tonic.’

  ‘I’m sure we can arrange that. Charity?’

  ‘Told you. We ain’t got none. It’s all sold.’

  ‘Then Mr Philpott can have the last bottle.’

  ‘That’s already been paid for.’

  Philpott cleared his throat. ‘I think this might solve the problem.’ He pointed to a scrawled name across the label. ‘It says Skeffington.’

  Stefan didn’t miss the frown that flickered across Della’s face, nor her sideways glance at the shelf.

  ‘I believe it may be contaminated, contain traces of arsenic. One of my patients recently passed away and I suspect the tonic might be responsible. If that is the case, the authorities must be informed.’

  All colour bleached from Charity’s face and she dropped down into the chair. ‘I’m sick to death with all this malarkey.’ She buried her face in her arms. ‘I don’t want nothing to do with the authorities. It’s nothing to do with me. I ain’t been here. Ask Della. It’s bloody Cordelia again.’

  Della didn’t move but the atmosphere in the room shifted, and even Bert kept his mouth closed. A picture of Della standing in the dock flashed before Stefan’s eyes. As the owner of the shop she would undoubtedly be held responsible. ‘Charity, is there something we need to know? Where is Cordelia?’

  ‘No bloody idea. Up to her old tricks again, I’ll be bound. It’s time she got her comeuppance. I ain’t going to see Della ‘eld to account.’

  ‘Old tricks?’ Stefan encouraged.

  Charity sucked in a deep breath then straightened her shoulders. ‘Time the truth came out. Della don’t know nothing, she was just a babe in arms. Started before she was born, in London. Cordelia had a nice little racket going skimming off the arsenic from the taxidermy shop Della’s pa owned. Della’s pa, Thaddeus. Selling it, even had a list of instructions on the amount, make it seem like they died natural-like.’

  Philpott cleared his throat again and raised his eyebrows. Stefan’s thoughts darted back to the concerns Philpott expressed about the deaths he believed misdiagnosed.

  ‘It was all fine until they caught up with her. She managed to convince Della’s pa she was selling the arsenic to shore up the business because they’d hit hard times. He spoke for her. Said it had all been a mis
take. They gave her seven years. He couldn’t bear the thought of his little sister being shipped away when she’d been doing it all for him.’

  Della’s face had turned the colour of chalk, and she sat still, so very still.

  ‘Thought she’d turned over a new leaf Thaddeus did, but she ‘adn’t, had she?’

  ‘Ma’s tonic?’ Della’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Cordelia knows how to get rid of an unwanted husband or child, relative even. She’s had enough practice. Then it’s a simple matter to inherit.’

  Thirty-Three

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  Della’s blood turned to ice. ‘What do you mean Charity?’

  ‘She laced it, and sold it, just the same as in England, with the instructions. Get it right and you can’t pick the symptoms, makes it look like a wasting disease, or the Asiatic cholera.’

  Della pressed her hands tightly against her waist in a vain attempt to hold herself together, frightened she might crumble. Unable to control the agonising howl, she leapt to her feet and fled up the stairs.

  No! It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be true. Charity must have something wrong. Her brain too addled by the rum she loved to drink. Getting her own back, angry with Cordelia for banishing her to the farm.

  She stumbled into the big bedroom. Ma and Pa’s room. The room where she’d nursed them through the last horrid weeks of their life. Watched them waste away, wracked by pain, their bodies shrivelling to nothing more than bones and stretched yellowed skin while she fed them spoonful after spoonful of Ma’s tonic in the vain hope it would offer some respite.

  Another scream ripped from her throat.

  She’d killed Ma and Pa, as surely as if she’d twisted a knife in their hearts.

  ‘Della, Della, where are you?’

  She burrowed under the quilt, blocking out the light, blocking out the world. How could she face Stefan? How could she face anyone? She’d killed her parents.

  Her body rolled to the edge of the bed and the familiar scent of ambergris and musk surrounded her.