by Roxane Dhand
Pammie wore an expression Maisie had often masked her own with: silent disbelief. Maisie knew she had been studying Coop in the dark wool suit with intense concentration, as if she was trying to memorise his details. The way he chose the smaller items to make them easier to eat. The way he pursed his top lip when he drank from his glass to stop the ice tipping over the top. And when Mrs McMahon dropped a bacon-wrapped oyster on the floorboards, the way he bent his knee to pick it up as if he were about to propose marriage to her. Pammie had seen it all.
Maisie pulled herself together and got to her feet.
‘That was a nice little speech you gave, Maisie,’ Pammie said when the mourners had gone.
Maisie put her head in her hands. ‘I’ve just walked the path to damnation with the lies I told and now I have to organise a headstone for Maitland and perjure myself further.’
Pammie nibbled on a sandwich. With a corset that tight, there was no room for much beyond a crumb in her stomach. ‘It seems to me you have an opportunity to perpetuate the myth of your marriage, if you call him a loving husband and simply record the dates of his birth and death. No-one would expect any more than that.’
Maisie pushed away a plate of leftovers. ‘Then that’s what I shall do.’
Pammie glanced at her, a frown dissecting her forehead. ‘What are your plans, though? Will you go back to England?’
‘I don’t know. I have a lot to settle up here first. What about you? I’d like it if you stayed.’
‘I can’t stay here in this soul-sapping climate. I’ll go back to Melbourne and pick up where I left off. I have a successful business and make good money; it’s what I do. You will think me a most unnatural mother, I’m sure, but I confess I came here to understand what happened to my husband in the opal fields, not to rekindle a relationship with our son. I told you, I think, that Paul always kept in regular touch but then, all of a sudden, his letters stopped. If he had been ill, I feel certain I would have known and I hoped that Maitland might have had something to tell me about that.’ She sagged momentarily with disappointment. ‘But whatever Maitland knew, he took his secrets with him.’
‘Not unnatural, no. I have an unnatural mother and you are in no manner her counterpart. As for Maitland, you should at least take his personal effects back with you. They don’t belong to me. I’ve always hated the hunting pictures. The silver brushes I might keep, though, if you didn’t mind too much, because they came from my family in England. There’s also a soapstone box. Perhaps you might like that?’ She got up from her chair and went to the huge dark desk at the far end of the verandah. The box was at the back of a drawer, an Aladdin’s lamp waiting for its secret command.
Pammie let out a small gasp as Maisie set it down on the table. ‘Gracious! That’s Paul’s. I haven’t seen it in years. He used to hide his winnings in there … till Maitland discovered how to open it, that is.’
‘Do you know how it works?’
‘It’s a Chinese riddle of sorts. It’s not a box, although it looks like one.’ She turned it upside down and squeezed the underside between her thumb and forefinger, dragging it sideways like a slide. The bottom of the box pulled out part-way then stopped. There were two items in the ingenious hiding place: an enormous pearl and a letter.
CHAPTER 26
MAISIE DIDN’T KNOW WHO else to consult. The manager was a dull, blotchy-faced Scot who spoke to her with deliberate slowness as if believing her incompetent.
He gave her an incurious smile. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’
‘Mr Beckingsale, my husband has just passed away. I need to ascertain what our position is financially.’
‘Do you have authority to enquire?’
‘I am his widow. I would think that gives me sufficient authority to enquire.’
‘It is an unusual request.’
‘My husband is dead,’ Maisie said. ‘I have already told you that, Mr Beckingsale, and he didn’t make a will. If I am to survive financially, I must know where I stand, and the nature of your dealings with my husband.’
Gerald Beckingsale folded his arms over his crisp white shirt. ‘We have advanced your husband money several times over the years, and each time it has been repaid without difficulty.’
‘That is a relief to hear,’ Maisie said.
The bank manager wrapped his arms a little more securely round his middle and blinked once, raising his eyebrows over the top of his spectacles. His eyes were not benign.
Maisie was uneasy. ‘I sense a “but”, Mr Beckingsale.’
‘Our best security has always been your husband’s integrity and the rising price of pearl shell. Until now, both have been above reproach. The thing is, this last time we loaned him a large sum of money against the stock and holdings of Sinclair Marine Trading. All his pearl-fishing equipment, boats, schooner and so on, are mortgaged.’
‘Is that not the same arrangement as for any other pearl fleet?’
‘Yes, it is, but he is – I’m sorry, was – not meeting his repayments. The regular income from England is what is propping you up at this time.’
Maisie felt she was not keeping up. ‘From England?’
‘Yes. The monthly amount he receives wired from London.’
Maisie looked beyond the window at the long wooden jetty. She paused before she answered, struggling with the tense. ‘From whom did he receive the monthly payment?’
The bank manager’s hands had moved to a filing cabinet behind his desk. He leafed through the paperwork and paused, a finger against a name. ‘A Judge George Porter provides a generous monthly stipend. In addition, a large single payment was wired to your husband last November from the same account.’
Maisie looked back at the jetty and squinted. The morning sun had gathered force, the heat slowing the trade, unlike the gathering tempo of her pulse. She turned away from the glare of light and shut her eyes.
‘There is an additional monthly income from England that you may find of interest,’ the bank manager went on.
There was a long pause as Mr Beckingsale bent again over his filing cabinet and stirred his files with his hands, like an alchemist making gold.
He revealed that her mother also sent money to Maitland every month. It didn’t make any sense. She felt destabilised and pulled at the neck of her blouse, worrying her fingers round the top button.
She opened her eyes and asked him coldly, ‘Would you please prepare me an exact statement of our financial affairs? The monthly amount coming in, and what is owed and to whom? A complete record.’
The bank manager stood and wiped his fingers on his trousers. He looked at her with cold, sharp eyes, weighing his decision. He held out his hand, and his grip was as limp as spinach. ‘Very well, Mrs Sinclair. I will provide you with Captain Sinclair’s monthly monetary comings and goings relating to this bank. But I should point out there will be other accounts with the ships’ chandlers, chits with the tradespeople and so on in Asia Place. Short of knocking on doors, I am not sure how you will discover what you owe, and to whom. Eventually your creditors will come to you, I imagine, when they run out of patience for their money. I would advise that we keep the nature of this conversation private. We do not have an established protocol for dealing with widows.’
Maisie walked to the door, feet blazing in her thick soles. ‘When you have the paperwork ready, please send a message and I will come in personally to collect it.’
He didn’t see her out.
Maisie wrapped the pearl in a handkerchief and took it to the pearl-skinner’s shop. Most pearls needed cleaning to get rid of surface imperfections before they were ready to sell. Pierre Fornallaz ran his jewellery and pawnbroking business from a single-fronted shop in Asia Place, and had come to the Bay with a reputation as the best pearl cleaner in Australia. He twirled the huge pearl between his thumb and forefinger.
‘It’s a gamble, Mrs Sinclair. This pearl has a significant surface imperfection. Maybe the crinkle can be cut away. Maybe it goes all the way through. You might
end up with nothing. It’s your choice.’
‘I think we have to try. My husband was a gambling man. He would have been excited by the risk.’
Mr Fornallaz pointed to a seat. ‘All right. You sit and watch so you cannot accuse me of treachery if the pearl is no good.’
Maisie sat in the chair opposite his work table, feeling the perspiration begin on her brow. She wasn’t sure if it was the horrible heat inside or terror-ridden anticipation that was making her so uncomfortable. A lot was riding on the quality of this pearl.
‘A pearl is like an onion, Mrs Sinclair,’ Mr Fornallaz said. ‘It is made up of many layers folded over each other. If there is a rotten bit of onion flesh, you can sometimes cut it away and the rest is fine to eat. Sometimes, the rotten flesh goes all the way through and you have to throw it away. A pearl is just like that.’
He screwed a jeweller’s eyeglass onto his eye and picked up a three-cornered file, the handle of which was made of a champagne cork. Maisie thought it a primitive tool for the delicate operation he was about to perform, but back and forth he gently stroked the surface of the pearl like a violinist arcing his bow. Pearl dust began to fall on the green felt tabletop.
‘What do you think, Mr Fornallaz?’ Maisie asked.
‘Patience, please,’ he said, rotating the pearl. ‘I cannot rush or I will ruin what may lie beneath.’
While he worked, Maisie gazed over his shoulder at a picture that hung on the wall. She had no idea what it was supposed to depict and couldn’t concentrate on the garish sweeping brushstrokes. There was too much on her mind.
Time passed. Maisie sensed the change in Pierre Fornallaz’s bowing and focused on the black, waxed moustache above his mouth.
‘You have a beautiful pearl, Mrs Sinclair.’ Mr Fornallaz held the pearl out for her to examine. ‘It has a lovely gold tint, which is rare. Most of the pearls from the waters round the Bay are milky white. This is unusual and will increase its value, presuming you are wanting to sell?’
‘I have no choice, Mr Fornallaz. Could you find a buyer for me? I wouldn’t know where to start or what it’s worth.’
His face was sympathetic. ‘I was sorry to hear of your husband’s passing, Mrs Sinclair. If you are to take over his fleet, however, you must begin to learn about the value of things or people will cheat you.’
‘I hadn’t thought about carrying on with his business. Is it possible for a woman to run a pearling business?’
His eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I assumed that you would, and I think the Bay assumes that you will. You have been running the slop chest most efficiently, I hear. Mr Beckingsale from the bank has a high opinion of you. He thinks you have a head for money matters.’
Maisie didn’t know what to say. It felt peculiar to think they had been discussing her. ‘It is too soon to make definite plans, Mr Fornallaz. I am not sure what I am going to do.’
He rolled the pearl in his palms. ‘This will fetch a lot of money if you are patient and wait for the right buyer. In the meantime, the season is barely started. If you are going to continue to harvest pearl shell, my advice would be to get your divers working hard, now, while the market is strong.’
Maisie sat on the bed and stared at the crowded rail of white suits. She had no idea what to do with them, nor with the twenty pairs of white leather shoes, seventy or so silk shirts and dozens of ties.
‘Mebbe you cut off der buttons, Missus. All dem pearls got to be worth something.’
‘That’s a good idea, Marjorie. Do you know anyone who might like the clothes?’
The maid rolled her eyes. ‘My mob don’t wear dat fancy stuff. Thought you knew dat. Wot about white diver fella?’
‘He’s too tall,’ she said.
Marjorie lifted up a trouser leg, as if measuring its length. ‘Dat true enuff. What you want to do with him trunk-box fella?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Dat box under his bed with da holy clothes and wot not.’
Maisie’s mouth was dry, the saliva not doing its job. ‘Show me.’
Marjorie knelt and pulled out a curved-top box, similar to her own cabin trunk. Justifying her snooping, she said, ‘Part of my English advancement, readin’ everything I can, even Caflick litrature.’
Maisie lifted the lid on the trunk. Folded neatly on the top, wrapped in calico to protect them from the jaws of silverfish and moths, was a black cassock and surplice. She lifted them out and smoothed over the folds with her palm. Underneath the clothing were religious books: a hymnal, the Book of the Gospels, a lectionary and sacramentary and a leather-bound Bible. She discovered a rosary with its smooth black beads in a soft cotton pouch and a heavy silver crucifix in another. There was a fat wad of sheet music and full scores for the Mozart and Verdi requiems with tenor passages underlined in pencil, and a pair of silver candlesticks with their tall slim candles, religious pictures painted on the wax.
She sat very still, her shoulders slumped, and tried to process her feelings. She’d known nothing about Maitland until a few days ago, that he’d once loved music, singing and God. She couldn’t imagine him young and fresh and pious; what he had become blackened his memory and sickened her heart. ‘We’ll take them to the Catholic church, Marjorie. They were obviously very important to Captain Sinclair and I am sure he would want them to have a good home.’
Pammie appeared in the doorway. ‘Take what?’
Maisie showed her the box. ‘See for yourself.’
Pammie lifted out the Bible and flipped through the well-thumbed pages, the tips of her fingers tracing the embossed religious illustrations. ‘Maitland won this Bible at Sunday school, Maisie. He came first in the Bible-study competition year after year. He loved all the stories and could quote long passages from memory.’
Maisie said nothing and Pammie went on. ‘I should have fought harder for him and found him another school in another state. What does that say about me? That I was too caught up with my own needs and didn’t care enough about my son?’
‘Maitland had his own demons that had nothing to do with what you did or didn’t do. He turned his back on his religion, and what he became – well, that was his choice.’
Pammie’s head dropped to her chest. Grim-faced, she knelt beside the box and began to put back Maitland’s belongings, as if she were packing his things for a trip. Eventually she got to her feet and said, ‘Let’s go and sit on the verandah, Maisie. There’s something else I have to tell you.’
It was another scorching day, wetly oppressive, and there would be no downpour to cool the air. A flock of black cockatoos streaked noisily overhead, a dark smudge on an innocent blue sky.
Duc banged a tray on the table and fiddled with the cups. ‘You want I bring cake? I make scones you like with recipe from Mem Beeton.’
Since Maitland’s death, Duc had gone out of his way to be helpful. Perhaps he had realised he was now dependent on her for the roof over his head, or that she was on the point of enabling him to realise his dream. Whichever it was, he was more eager to please than ever.
‘We’re fine, Duc, and thank you. I couldn’t have managed without you lately and I want you to know that I am very grateful.’
He looked at her with a broad grin, his eyes sparkling with joy. At least someone’s happy, she thought.
Pammie’s hand shook a little on the coffee pot. ‘I read Paul’s letter. The one in the soapstone box.’
Maisie gave her a small nod of support. ‘Did it answer your questions?’
Pammie waited for Duc to leave. ‘Ten years back, he took his own life. He’d been ill for a while and knew he wouldn’t recover, so from somewhere or other he got hold of a large quantity of opiate and knocked it back with a bottle of whisky.’
Maisie sat very still. ‘Was Maitland with him at the time?’
‘Yes, as far as I know. Paul’s letter never reached me and yesterday we find it among Maitland’s affairs. Even an amateur sleuth could reason that Maitland must have been around
Paul at the time and stole the letter.’
Maisie agreed. ‘He did have a taste for other people’s correspondence.’
Pammie dropped a sugar lump in her coffee and gave it a brisk stir. ‘Knowing what happened to him ends a decade of puzzlement, but there’s a great deal more that is not so easy to fathom. The letter was also a confession of something he had done in England for which he was seeking absolution.’ Her face stiffened. ‘He was asking me to be his confessor.’
‘What on earth had he done?’
Pammie took a sip of coffee. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Maisie. When Paul went back to England for his father’s funeral he got himself into serious financial trouble. I told you that my husband was a serial gambler and it seems he had markers all over London. I think when Maitland read what Paul had written, he hatched a plan to use what he found out to extort money.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Maisie said.
Pammie drained her cup. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this at all well. Paul got involved in a high-stakes gambling syndicate and ran up a frightening debt that he simply could not pay off. He promised to settle up when his father’s estate had been formalised, but his debtor would not let him off the hook so lightly.’
The question rose up inside her. ‘He told you who it was?’
Pammie went still. ‘Yes. It was your father. He did ultimately wipe Paul’s debt but he named his own chilling price.’
Maisie’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘What did he have to do?’
‘He had to kidnap a baby.’
She forced herself to speak. ‘Whose baby did my father ask him to take?’
Pammie studied her hands, now motionless in her lap. ‘His own. Paul stole your father’s baby son.’
Maisie felt light-headed. Her mind was racing, trying to picture Maitland’s father, the fast-living, gambling charmer who one day found himself so pressured with debt, he could set out and steal a baby. Her breath came out in a laboured gasp. ‘Why would my father ask him to steal his own child?’