3 A Basis for Murder

by Morgana Best

  We both sat in silence for a moment, and then he asked, "By the way, have you heard from Jamie lately?"

  Well that threw me. "Why do you want to know?" I asked, doing my best not to sound rude.

  Douglas shrugged. "Just curious. Anyway, The Orpheans want you to find out that spirit's name as soon as possible."

  I couldn't have been more suspicious if I tried. I had never trusted Douglas, and now I trusted him even less.

  What was I to do? I figured that I might as well go to Bakers Creek Falls and see if I could pick up the presence of any evil entity. That was my assignment from SI7 anyway, and so far I had made zero progress with internet research. It was time for a bit of field research.

  By the time I'd walked back to Brandon's, fed Diva lunch, and then headed out to Bakers Creek Fall, I felt a fuzzy headache coming on. I parked at the Lookout, downed two headache tablets, swallowed half the bottle of water that I had in the car from yesterday, took a pen and my notepad, and locked the car. There was no other human in sight.

  I walked over the viewing platform again. Although I had been here recently with Melissa, and although the last time I was here I’d found a dead body, I was again was in awe at the scenery. I knew from the guide book that it was a two thousand and seven hundred foot perpendicular drop over massive granite cliffs into the bottom of the gorge. The Bakers Creek Mine was at the bottom of the gorge. I took out a photocopy of a newspaper clipping I'd slipped into my folder, and read it again. It was dated Monday September 29, 1890, and was from the Melbourne Argus newspaper. I'd come across it after I had visited the falls with Melissa, and been taken by the beauty of the description.

  The panorama from the head of the gorge is of the most magnificent description. On each side almost perpendicular walls of granite and slate, below the winding stream, on the banks of which are the batteries of the Baker's Creek Company, the North Bakers Creek Company, the Sunlight Company, and perched up amongst the rocks on the eastern Bide, the crushing mills of the Lady Carrington and the Cosmopolitan companies. On the opposite side stand out prominently the numerous shafts and houses of the Earl of Hopetoun Company.

  To the north the massive granite falls, over which the water in winter roars in torrent, and to the south, through the azure haze the rugged peak of Enmore, 30 miles away. As a subject for a picture, it has but few rivals in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales or the canyons of the "Rockies" of America The varying lights and shades mingling with the glow of the setting sun. The roar of the stampers below, and the thunder roll of the exploding shots in the numerous tunnels on the sides of the gulch are features of a scene of awful grandeur.

  "A scene of awful grandeur," was a perfect description of the vista before my eyes. I was waxing lyrical.

  I left my position on the viewing platform to sit on a little wooden seat which was away from the edge, but which nevertheless afforded a good view. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. I decided to do a brief grounding meditation. I sat up straight and imagined my feet stretching into the earth, through the earth's crust, absorbing the earth's energy. I imagined my feet turn into branches and connect with the earth itself.

  Suddenly I was jolted from my meditative state. I stood up in alarm and looked around, but no one was to be seen. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. The adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and my heart was racing. I couldn't see any sign of what had startled me, but I had certainly received some sort of spiritual shock.

  I looked around. The sky was still blue; a lizard ran into the undergrowth; a magpie looked at me from a tree. The world for all intents and purposes looked sunny and normal. Yet I knew that I was now not alone. I could sense the presence of a malignant, dark entity, but it remained elusive even as I stretched out my mind to try to categorize it even in the most basic of ways.

  * * *

  A rose has thorns, a cat has claws; certainly both are worth the risk.

  (Anonymous)

  Chapter Twelve.

  I went back to the Hillgrove museum to see if it would supply any clues of the evil entity. I figured it was a long shot, but it was as good a place to start as any. This time, there was a car parked down one end of the museum, so I parked my car at the other end, under a tree, after rolling down the windows as the day had turned hot. The weather in this part of the country was highly unpredictable, but for the moment it was hot, and my car's air conditioning wasn't working.

  I walked down the pathway to the old, white building, and, once inside the little ante room, made the gold coin donation. A gruff looking man appeared at the doorway from the museum itself and I jumped.

  "Did you pay?" His voice was accusatory.

  "Yes, I just put the money in that box." I pointed to the honor box on the bench.

  "Are you here to look at the museum?"

  I bit back the overwhelming urge to say something sarcastic. Why else would I be there? I simply said, "Yes."

  The man scowled at me and went back into the museum. I wandered around the main room of the museum, relieved that, this time, I wasn't aware of any ghosts of children haunting the old school house. Perhaps the gruff man had scared them away; nevertheless, the man was keeping an eye on me. I decided on the direct approach.

  "Hi, my name's Misty Sales. Are you the curator of the museum?'

  He narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Samuel Groves. I'm the new curator of the Hillgrove Rural Life and Industry Museum, which is its proper name."

  I was encouraged by the fact that his tone was less unpleasant. "Hillgrove is an old place. There must be lots of ghosts here."

  The man simply mumbled to himself.

  I pressed on. "Have you heard of anyone seeing any ghosts here? Or heard of bad things happening?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I'm a journalist for a paranormal magazine. I'm writing a story on the ghosts here in Hillgrove and Bakers Creek Falls." I wasn't getting anywhere with the man, so thought it wouldn't hurt to give him that information.

  "You can't use my name," he snapped.

  I hurried to reassure him. "Oh no, of course not. Whatever you say will be completely anonymous. Do you know anything about any ghosts around here?"

  He walked to look out one of the large, sash windows at the back of the building, and I followed. "What sort of ghosts?" he asked.

  "Well, any sort really," I said. "Is there an evil presence or anything bad around these parts?"

  "Could be; why do you want to find it?"

  I bit my lip. "I don't want to find ghosts as such; I just have to write about them."

  He simply looked at me, and walked across the room and then outside the building.

  I stood there, in front of a group of Freemasons' photographs, shaking my head. That didn’t go so well, I thought. What will I do next? I walked around the museum, trying to gain inspiration, but there were no clues about any entity, whether evil or otherwise.

  The curator presently returned and busied himself stacking piles of pamphlets across a long bench against a side wall. I watched him from the farthest room. As I was about to leave, a younger man walked in and chatted to the curator. I walked back into the main room, and looked at an old cash register and an ancient set of scales on a bench, with packets of century-old cleaning products and foodstuffs on a big shelf behind the bench.

  I was peering at an old cardboard packet labeled Watson's Matchless Cleanser Soap when the younger man approached me. "Hi again. Misty, isn’t it?"

  I turned around. "Oh yes, Ethan the photographer. I didn’t recognize you when you were talking to the curator, sorry."

  "You found the body, didn't you." He said it as a statement of fact.

  I nodded. "Yes; did the police interview you too?"

  Ethan looked quite put out. "Yes, and they wanted my camera. I deliberately gave them the wrong one." Ethan's hand flew to his mouth. "Oh, don't tell them, will you, whatever you do. I was just so excited at the photos of that unusual snake, so I gave them my other camera. I didn’t want
them deleting photos of that snake by mistake, and who knows how long they would've kept it! They still have the camera I gave them. Anyway, I never go anywhere near the cliffs, so I knew I didn’t have anything they wanted."

  I nodded. "They took my friend's camera too, and she hasn't got it back. Look, Ethan, I'm a journalist for a paranormal magazine, and I'm looking for ghosts around here."

  Ethan looked shocked. "Ghosts?" he repeated.

  "Yes," I said. "Have you heard of any ghosts around these parts? I'm writing a story on ghosts at Hillgrove and Bakers Creek Falls, but so far I haven’t managed to find any."

  Ethan looked thoughtful. "I haven’t heard anyone say anything about ghosts." He scratched his chin. "There have been a fair few murders here at Hillgrove as well as out at Bakers Creek Falls, so you’d think there would be ghosts around here, I suppose, if you believe in that sort of thing."

  I nodded.

  "Oh, sorry, Misty, no offense."

  I shrugged. "None taken. So, no one's ever mentioned seeing a ghost? Or even sensing the presence of evil?"

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. "You mean evil, because there were so many murders out here? You think Hillgrove must be an evil place or have evil spirits or something?"

  I tried to look nonchalant. "Who knows? It's just that my boss has sent me here to write a story on ghosts, but so far, I haven't found a single thing. I’ll be in trouble if I can't find something to write about. Like you said, there have been murders here over the years, and usually where there are murders, there is the presence of evil."

  "So you want to find evil spirits?" Ethan asked.

  I was little uneasy that he had hit upon the truth. "The readers like evil spirits; that sort of thing sells more magazines." I tried to keep my tone light.

  "And what will you do if you find an evil spirit?"

  I thought that a strange sort of question. "Well, I'll write about it, of course," I lied, convincingly, or so I hoped. I looked around and the curator had come up behind me, and was standing there, listening to the conversation.

  "I’ll be right back." With that, Ethan hurried out of the museum.

  "Why do you want to find an evil spirit?" The curator stepped closer to me and I instinctively stepped back.

  "For my article, as I've already told you," I said in the most even tone I could muster.

  "I don’t think you should go looking for trouble. If you go looking for trouble, trouble will find you." The curator shook his finger at me and moved away.

  Had I just been threatened? Or was he simply making conversation? I had no idea. At any rate, I thought it time to move on.

  I walked out to my car just as Ethan was walking back away from his car, which was parked next to mine under the big tree. "Misty," he called, "I have the photos I took the day you found the body. I'm sure there's nothing interesting about them, but come and see for yourself."

  I thanked Ethan and hurried over to his car, where he spread out the photographs on the hood.

  He was right; there was nothing interesting about them, not unless you were interested in shrubs and bushes and tiny, little frogs. Oh, and snakes. Ethan was particularly excited about the photos of the brownish colored snake. "See," he said, waving the photo under my nose. "It looks like an Inland Taipan. It can’t be, I suppose, as they’re not known to be this far east, but I'm sending these photos to a snake expert. The Inland Taipan is the most venomous snake in the world," he added gleefully.

  I could see Ethan expected some sort of reaction from me, but all I could say was, "Oh."

  Ethan showed me lots of photos of frogs, and then a black and white banded snake, and all the while, I was trying to think up an excuse to get away. I had to find out something about the evil entity, and fast, or S17 would likely soon fire me. I had made no progress whatsoever.

  * * *

  Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.

  (Jeff Valdez)

  Chapter Thirteen.

  I left Ethan and his appalling close-up photos of snakes, and made my way once more to the small and ancient cemetery at the edge of town. While I had visited it recently with Melissa, I knew Melissa did not have an affinity for such places, so we hadn’t stayed long. I was excited to be able to take my time amongst the crumbling headstones, and also glad for the opportunity to use my new, infrared, digital thermometer which I had bought second hand on eBay.

  I pulled my car to the side of the dusty road, parking next to the old sign, and left the window down as I was parked in the direct sun, and the day was quite warm. I made my way to the old, worn, iron gates that were fallen open. While most modern cemeteries had paved roadways that wound amongst the graves, this one was far too old enough to have any such luxury. I climbed out and reached behind my seat, pulling up a soft gray case with a black strap. I slid the strap over one shoulder and shut my door.

  As I walked, I pulled the digital infrared thermometer from the gray case and flicked it on. I stood just outside the iron bars and swept the thermometer across my body, keeping an eye on the digital readout screen just above the handle. There was nothing to indicate a spirit or a supernatural presence. The temperature remained even.

  After making the offerings I always made when entering a graveyard, I began to make my way through. I wondered what Melissa would say if she could see me walking around a graveyard full of people, most of whom had been dead for well over one hundred years, holding a tool designed to find ghosts. It even sounded pretty ridiculous to me, and I could see and sense ghosts. Usually, that is; I could not see or any sense any here.

  I kept sweeping the thermometer back and forth, in between checking out a few of the headstones. Many of them were hard to read, and there were some that were nothing more than piles of rocks, the grave markers long since broken and destroyed from the unending march of time.

  I lost myself in the cemetery, despite the fact that the infrared thermometer did not indicate any spectral activity. It was interesting to look over the names of the dead, and to see when they were born and when they died. I found it to be a warm and comforting feeling to get close to the dead, as odd as that may sound to others.

  I turned, thinking about heading back to my car, but I saw someone making their way towards me in the distance. As he approached, I saw it was the local historian, Gerald Wayfield. He walked with a slight limp, although was covering the ground at a good speed. I went towards him, meeting him next to a sad looking tombstone that had all but crumbled away.

  He walked over to me. "Hi! You're here again. Doing more research?"

  I nodded.

  "I can’t believe that the body was here when we were speaking last time," he said. "What a horrible situation. Was it you who discovered it, or your friend?"

  "It was me," I said, "Just after you left. I went back to take photos for Melissa as she's scared of heights, and then-" I stopped speaking and shuddered.

  Gerald flashed me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry to mention it. The police interviewed me about it. They seemed to think it was an accident. They found another camera up the top of the cliff; they think he climbed over the rocks to take photos, and fell."

  "How awful," I said, while knowing that what he said was not the case at all. I wondered if the British government had put pressure on the local police to call it an accident.

  "Anyway, enough of this morbid talk. I saw your car parked here on my way to lay these flowers on graves, and thought I would see what you were up to.” He waved bunch of flowers at me.

  I shrugged, and slid the digital thermometer into my bag. “I just like cemeteries,” I said.

  Gerald laughed. “Me too. My grandfather and grandmother and their parents are buried here."

  “That's right; I remember you said that your family's been in these parts for some years."

  The man nodded. “Yes, as long as it’s been a town. Now, what do you have in that bag? It didn’t look like a camera.”

  I paused. I didn’t want to
disclose any details of my mission, but then again, Gerald already knew I was a journalist for a paranormal magazine. It couldn’t hurt to tell the truth; at least part of it, anyway. “It’s a digital thermometer. It reads heat signatures, and cold spots, and things like that.”

  He nodded, but one eyebrow was raised, as if he were perplexed.

  “It finds ghosts,” I said with a laugh, simplifying it for him.

  Gerald laughed too. “Well, I can’t say I've ever met a ghost hunter. I thought you were simply a journalist.”

  “For Horrors and Haunts,” I said. "It is a paranormal magazine after all. But, yes, I'm just supposed to write stories, not look for ghosts. It's fun using stuff like this, anyway."

  Gerald lifted one eyebrow again, but then dropped the subject. “Would you like to come and see my grandfather and grandmother?”

  I followed Gerald on foot down Cemetery Road, past the Roman Catholic section, past the Presbyterians, and then the Wesleyans, to a far more ornate section of the cemetery. There were no broken, iron railings or overgrown grave sites here, and the monuments were tall and of marble. One large marble headstone had an angel perched on top. It was so tall that it dwarfed both of us.

  Gerald's grandparents and great grandparents had large, rectangular slabs of marble in the ground next to one another, and nearby was one of their sons, who had died when he was only seven months old. We stood for some minutes, while Gerald told the few stories he remembered of his grandparents. They had died within a year of each other, when Gerald had only been eight year old.

  Twenty minutes later I was at my car, waving goodbye to Gerald as he climbed into his own car which was parked in directly behind mine.

  I got into my car and slid the key into the ignition, after dumping the soft gray bag on the seat next to her. I cranked the engine over and reached for the water bottle that was sitting in my cup holder under the dash. The water was somewhat warm but still refreshing, and I downed the rest of it before sliding the shifter into drive and pulling slowly onto the road, making sure I turned the car around three times.