by Anna Romer
By the time I got back to Thornwood, the sun was witheringly hot. Grass drooped, leaves relinquished their grim hold on life and wafted earthward, twigs crackled as though on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Even the lorikeets seemed irritable, shrieking and calling to each other as they congregated at the birdbath and tried to cool off.
The Millers had made good headway on the garden. The lawn was mowed, the edges trimmed, and the intruding mango limbs humanely amputated.
I showered and slipped into something more me – cut-off jeans, tank top and bare feet – and then spied on the Millers from various windows, marvelling that they seemed untroubled by the excruciating heat.
Hobe declined my offer to help him carry the glass panes up from his battered utility. As his brother Gurney shied away from coming near the house, Hobe had to make two trips. First came his toolbox and an armload of timber offcuts. Then he donned rigger’s gloves to bring the glass. By the time he’d set up camp in the bathroom his face was shiny pink, his snowy hair glued to his scalp.
He got to work chiselling putty from around the broken window panes. First he removed each section of damaged glass and wrapped it in newspaper, then re-measured the new inserts. I interrupted under the pretence of offering him an iced coffee, and when he politely regretted that he’d already had his solitary cup of the day, I decided to get straight to the point.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me this morning.’
He had his back to me, so I didn’t see the expression on his face, just a glimpse of his profile as he half-turned.
‘What’s that, lass?’
‘I’m curious, Hobe. Where did they find Aylish’s body?’
Scraping his chisel along the base of the window frame, Hobe tapped out another chunk of putty, spraying debris over the floor.
‘They found her up at the gully,’ he said quietly.
‘On Thornwood?’
He nodded. ‘She’d been bashed and left there to die.’
An alarm rang quietly in the back of my mind, but I ignored it. Establish the details, I cautioned myself, before you go getting any crazy ideas.
‘That’s why you think Samuel was guilty, isn’t it? Because Aylish was found on his land.’
Hobe pondered the window and scratched his stubbly chin. ‘I’m going to have to remove the entire sill, it’s rotten through. Good thing I brought along that extra timber.’
‘Hobe . . . ?’
He sighed. ‘What does it matter now, lass? Too much time has passed. Stop fretting about Samuel Riordan, what he did or didn’t do. Thornwood’s yours now, it’s your home. Don’t let the past drive you out of it.’
He was right, it shouldn’t matter; it was useless trying to unearth facts that were simply too deeply buried. I kept trying to let it go. And I kept failing.
Aylish might be dead and Samuel long gone, but to me they’d become real. So real that if I closed my eyes I could smell the sweet fragrance of roses, hear a young woman’s tinkling laughter drifting across the garden, and see – so clearly that it made my eyes water – the tall man slouched in the arbour, his angel’s face lit by a devilish half-smile.
‘Is it much of a walk . . . to the gully, I mean?’
‘It’s on the northern boundary, lass. Back in the direction of town. Borders the national park, might take you a thirty- or forty-minute hike from here. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I was planning to take Bronwyn up to see that flower place you were telling me about – Bower’s Gap, wasn’t it? But I’d be interested to see the gully now, perhaps I’ll go there instead. The light’s perfect at this time of year. I could get some really lovely sunset shots.’
Hobe placed his mallet on the windowsill. ‘There won’t be much at the gully right now. You’ll have to wait ’til spring to see the flowers. If it’s photos you want, you and Bronwyn’d be better off sticking with Bower’s Gap. There’s more of a view, and it’s safer. Less of a hike, too, only twenty minutes.’
‘Safer?’
A hornet hovered near the now-glassless window, darting to and fro, probably scouting for a nesting place. Hobe waved it away.
‘There’s been a few accidents at the gully over the years, the place is well known for being dangerous – rockslides, earth collapses, trees coming down after heavy rainfall.’ He gave me a measuring look. ‘You should warn Bronwyn, tell her not to go wandering off into the bush alone. You know what kids are like, they get side-tracked with all the exploring they like to do. Will you do that, Audrey? Will you tell her?’
Birds whistled outside and the hornet droned, but in the bathroom the stillness – though it lasted less than a heartbeat – was explosive.
‘Don’t you find it strange,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘that Aylish and her granddaughter Glenda Jarman both died at the gully?’
Hobe brushed a line of putty crumbs from the sill. His face seemed old, the lines deeply carved, his inner light dimmed.
‘Like I said, lass, that place has seen more than its share of accidents over the years, what with earth collapses and tree falls and suchlike. It was sad about young Glenda . . . very sad. But she wasn’t the first to take a wrong step up there.’
The bitter and desolate sorrow that coloured his voice shocked me.
‘Did you know the Jarmans well, Hobe?’
The hornet whined in the stillness, darting at the empty window then dropping back as though undecided. Somewhere in the garden below, a lonely whip-bird cried.
‘Well, now,’ Hobe mumbled, ‘I saw them ’round town on the odd occasion, but no, I can’t say I had all that much to do with them.’
He turned away and began to peck at the remaining putty with his hammer and chisel. After a while his good eye peeked around and saw me still watching. With a sigh, he laid his tools on the sill.
‘Don’t you hate it? You hit sixty and your memory starts to dry up like a billabong in a drought.’ He shook his head and shuffled past me, pausing beyond the bathroom door to look back. ‘Left my fool spirit-level down in the car, means another trip. Perhaps I will have that cold drink after all,’ he added, ‘I expect I’ll be parched by the time I get back.’
He went out to the verandah and vanished down the back stairs. I hurried to the lounge room window and watched him cut across the grass and down to the service road.
Gurney was fossicking in the back of the ute. He looked up as his brother approached. Hobe slumped against the car, his shoulders stooped. Dragging a large handkerchief from his back pocket, he mopped his face, blew his nose. Gurney must have asked him a question, because he shook his head and then stared away down into the valley. Gurney continued to hover, wringing his hands as he shambled about. Even from my vantage point at the lounge room window, his distress was palpable. He kept glancing up at the house, then back at Hobe, his face creased with worry.
‘Oh, Hobe,’ I whispered, ‘what just happened?’
This morning, up on the embankment overlooking Thornwood’s rambling garden, Hobe had confessed his love for the surrounding countryside. He’d painted a picture of hills carpeted in wildflowers and prowling prehistoric monsters, and told me of his boyhood fascination for the long-dead volcano. He’d spoken respectfully about the local Aboriginal people and had seemed to understand their connection to the land. I’d warmed to him after that, feeling compelled to spill my own private thoughts, wanting to trust him the way I’d wanted to trust Corey.
And yet, just now, he’d lied.
I remembered his shock at seeing Bronwyn this morning, obviously triggered by her resemblance to Glenda. He’d been so overcome by emotion that he’d shed a tear. And yet, when I’d asked him just now, he’d denied knowing the Jarmans and taken off like a startled lizard.
Hmmm.
As Alice said when she stumbled down the rabbit hole, things were getting curiouser and curiouser.
‘Pizza again?’
‘I thought you loved pizza?’
‘I do, Mum. Don’t get me wrong, I’
m not complaining – just reading the signs.’
I settled myself on the couch, grabbed a plate and loaded up with ham and pineapple. ‘What signs?’
‘That time is of the essence. That one of us is too busy with other things to be bothered cooking. That there are secret activities going on. That one of us is hiding something. And it’s not me.’
I paused, a slice raised halfway to my lips. I lowered it back to the plate and looked at her. She was nibbling a corner of cheese and tomato, blinking innocently at the television. Pretending interest in David Attenborough’s segment on termites which she’d watched a million or more times already.
‘Hiding what?’
She shrugged, eyes on the TV. ‘You tell me.’
My stomach knotted as a vision bloomed in my mind: Bronwyn discovering the old revolver I’d locked into Samuel’s dresser drawer. Handling it, rummaging in the box of live rounds . . . I felt suddenly ill. Why hadn’t I disposed of it, surrendered it to the cops as I’d initially planned?
‘What did you find?’ I asked carefully.
Bronwyn took another dainty bite, chewed and swallowed. ‘Come on, Mum, own up. A secret pastime, perhaps? A private little project? Something you’re not quite ready to share?’
Not the gun, then. A parade of other guilty suspects shuffled past. The clean sheets I’d put on Samuel’s bed, the carefully hand-washed quilt and my own favourite pillowcases. My books piled on his bedside; the frame displaying Samuel’s photo de-tarnished and fitted with new glass; Aylish’s letter tucked into the top drawer . . .
I shrugged. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’
Bronwyn contemplated her crust the way a torturer might eye their next victim. I could almost hear her brain ticking over: Will I draw it out slow and painful, or act fast with the advantage of surprise?
‘Mum,’ she said reasonably, still considering her crust, ‘I think I’ll become a vegetarian like Jade. It’s more humane, plus it’s way less taxing on the planet. Can I?’
So, it was to be slow and painful. Shoving my plate onto the coffee table, I drew my legs up under me and wriggled around to face her.
‘What do you mean, a secret pastime?’
She smiled then, a luminous smile that lit up her face. ‘That sounds like the voice of a guilty conscience.’
‘Actually it’s the voice of an annoyed mother who’s too tired to play games.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Come on, Bron, what’ve you found?’
Setting down her plate with unnecessary slowness, she reached under the coffee table and drew out a small pile – several instruction books and a companion DVD.
My heart sank when I recognised the book covers, but at the same time I felt drunk with relief.
‘Oh. That.’
‘It seems I’m not the only one learning about signs,’ Bronwyn said triumphantly, tossing the DVD onto the lounge between us, holding up the manuals to read.
‘A Time to Sign – The Easy Way to Learn Sign Language . . . and this one, Something to Sign About – Eleven Fun Children’s Songs . . .’ She peered over at me, eyes agleam. ‘Really, Mum, children’s songs?’
‘I thought it best to start with something simple,’ I told her stiffly. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what the big deal is, it’s only – ’
Bronwyn twittered happily. ‘Oh Mum, you do like Jade’s dad, don’t you?’
I glared at the TV. ‘I’m only being polite because he’s deaf. Besides, he’s coming to the barbecue on Saturday and I’d hate him to feel left out just because he’s hard of hearing. Someone’s going to have to talk to him.’
‘Someone? You mean aside from me, Jade, and Aunty Corey?’
‘It’s just the polite thing to do, Bron. Besides, if the four of you get caught up in a sign language conversation, how am I supposed to join in unless I know it too?’
‘You’re telling me you don’t like him, then? That you’re going to all the trouble of learning sign language just so you won’t feel left out?’
I picked up my plate, bit the corner off a pizza wedge and feigned absorption in the program. David was leaning on a huge termite hill, instructing the camera to enter. Suddenly there were busy white bodies everywhere, gathering and swarming like . . . well, termites.
‘Mum? Stop ignoring me. It only makes you look more guilty.’
I sighed. ‘He’s nice, okay? Just not my type.’
‘Why not?’
‘He just seems . . . I don’t know, a little wild.’
Bronwyn snorted. ‘Mum, you’re hilarious, I can’t wait to tell – ’
‘Don’t you dare!’
She shook her head. ‘Let me guess, Dad was the only man for you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You know, Mum, one day I’m going to grow up and leave home, and you’ll be alone. You’ll get lonely. That is, unless you can forget Dad and move on.’
I looked at her, found myself trying to analyse her words, probing for a hint of pain or a shadow of unresolved anger. Trying to determine if her casual-sounding comment concealed a cry for help. Her face was calm, her eyes deep blue and still as lake water.
‘Move on, maybe,’ I told her. ‘But we don’t have to forget.’
‘I’m not saying I’ll forget him. Just that you should.’ Tossing the sign books aside, she reached for the remote. Inching up the volume, she settled herself comfortably and resumed the slow demolition of her pizza.
She was right. I was hiding something.
Only it wasn’t a romantic plot that hinged on learning sign language. The truth was, how could I think about any man when my head was so full of Samuel and Aylish?
After the dishes were done, I hurried out to my studio at the far wing of the house. The long narrow room had once been part of the verandah, which, with the addition of a timber wall and line of tall windows, had been converted into a sunroom. Soon after our arrival I’d spent several days scrubbing bird poo from the floorboards, polishing the windows, and freshening the walls with creamy white paint. The furnishings I’d kept simple: my print drawers, an aluminium tripod lamp, my cherished Eames chair and an antique desk. Under the windows at the opposite end of the room sat my huge drafting table – a pair of sturdy trestles topped by a recycled oak door. I’d even dragged out my old developing trays and enlarger. They were dinosaurs in a digital world, but I loved having them around – they reminded me of those giddy, intoxicating first days of my love affair with photography.
Sitting at my laptop, I plugged in the satellite USB and connected to the internet. Typing my request into the search engine, I waited while the State Library of Queensland website loaded. I used Bronwyn’s public library card to set up a user account, then followed a link to the Historic Australian Newspapers site. There was only a handful of Queensland newspapers – the earliest of which was the Moreton Bay Courier from 1846. I clicked on the more recent Courier-Mail, dating between 1933 and 1954. The site took forever to load. When the page appeared, I saw it was useless: either the newspapers after 1939 were non-existent – which was unlikely – or they hadn’t yet been digitised and uploaded to the site.
Retracing my steps to Historic Australian Newspapers, I typed in a series of connected keywords – ‘Queensland’, combined with ‘1946’, ‘Magpie Creek’, ‘murder trial’. My hopes began to flag as I trawled through nineteen pages of links to possible articles – Atrocities by Japanese, War Prisoners Starved and Beaten, Death of a Swagman – but failed to find anything even remotely related to what I wanted.
On the brink of giving up, I made a last-ditch attempt and typed in: ‘Aylish Lutz’. Within seconds I was staring at a patchwork of blurred newsprint. At the centre, flanked by articles and advertising sketches, was a single block of highlighted text. At first I was mystified – it wasn’t even from a Queensland paper. Then I enlarged the image and took a closer look.
The Argus (Melbourne, Vic.: 1848–1954)
Monday, 18 March 1946, page 1
MAN
ARRESTED FOR MURDER
BRISBANE, Mon. – After 30 hours’ investigation by police under direction of Sub-inspector B. McNally, a man was arrested on Friday night charged with the murder of Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, whose body was discovered early Thursday morning in a bush clearing fifteen miles west of Magpie Creek, Queensland.
The police discovered signs of a violent struggle, as well as several human teeth and patches of blood where the victim had tried to drag herself away from the scene. A post-mortem examination held on Friday showed that Miss Lutz died of injuries sustained when she was bashed across the head and body.
A further examination today confirmed that Miss Lutz had been battered by a wooden implement thought to be a wheel spoke or club.
I flew out of my chair and raced along the hall. Aylish’s letter was already scored into my memory, but I had to be sure. Bursting into the back bedroom, I retrieved the letter from the bedside and unfolded it in the light.
Aylish had written the letter on Wednesday, 13 March 1946, asking Samuel to meet her at their secret place. The following morning – Thursday – her body had been found in a bush clearing near the gully.
Back at the desk, my fingers sped across the keyboard. I jabbed the Enter key and waited, convinced there’d be nothing. First time lucky, second time empty-handed, wasn’t that how it worked?
Apparently not.
The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW: 1842–1954)
Wednesday, 20 March 1946, page 3
WAR HERO ARREST
BRISBANE, Wed. – Returned war hero Dr Samuel Riordan appeared in Magpie Creek police court, Queensland, accused with having murdered Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, a coloured woman, daughter of Lutheran minister Rev. Jacob Lutz on Wednesday.
Miss Lutz was found with her head battered half a mile from the doctor’s homestead.
Several witnesses came forward and declared that Dr Riordan and Miss Lutz were seen arguing in the main street of Magpie Creek the morning of Wednesday last. Another witness affirmed that he and Dr Riordan had parted company late on Wednesday evening. Both men had been drinking. Dr Riordan pleaded not guilty in the preliminary hearing and will be remanded in custody to reappear at Brisbane Supreme Court in June.