by Téa Cooper
She pushed open the first door on her right, the dining room. The brass work lamp sat in the centre of the table. Four chairs were tucked underneath but the huge cedar sideboard had gone. Crossing the hallway she peered into the room opposite. It was completely empty—no rugs, no chairs, nothing except the fireplace, which was as clean as the rest of the floor.
Mrs Quinleaven had only died two weeks ago and already it was as though no one had lived there. Closing the door behind her she bypassed the third room and made her way into the library at the front of the house. The massive desk had gone and all that remained were a series of tea chests stacked almost as high as the top of the shelves lining the walls. Taking care not to topple the stack she peered at the side of them and her heart stopped. Every single one carried the same stencilled address.
SHAW EVERDENE.
121 BLUES POINT ROAD, NORTH SYDNEY.
‘Double-crossing, two-faced, conniving bastard.’ The words ripped out of her mouth breaking the dusty silence. It wasn’t just the sketchbook. He intended to sell the entire library. The rat! And he’d tried to tell her it was his grandfather’s library he’d inherited from England. Thank goodness the sketchbook was in Mrs Williams’s safekeeping.
Slamming the door behind her Tamsin stomped down the corridor and threw open the remaining doors. Dust sheets covered what remained of the furniture and every room carried the sense of desertion and loneliness. Mrs Rushworth hadn’t wasted any time selling off pieces of furniture.
The library and the kitchen appeared to be the only rooms used. Mrs Quinleaven must have slept somewhere. Closing the last door she made her way up the stairs and stopped on the small landing. Above her were four doors.
The one at the top of the stairs was ajar and she pushed it open. The dusty scent of roses and talcum powder greeted her. This must have been Mrs Quinleaven’s room. A hand mirror and two brushes sat neatly atop the dressing table next to a small scent bottle. Otto of Roses. She picked it up and brought the bottle to her nose, as if by inhaling the perfume she could in some way get closer to Mrs Quinleaven. How she wished she’d arrived in time. The bedside table was empty except for a mottled glass, bronze-based lamp sitting on a lace doily.
The large wardrobe pushed into the corner contained a coat and several cotton dresses, a pair of slippers incongruous next to a pair of sturdy walking boots and a couple of utilitarian felt hats on the shelf above.
After she’d closed the door she peeked into the other three rooms. Two covered with dust sheets like the rooms downstairs and one with the sheets neatly folded and piled on the floor, the wardrobe and dressing chest empty and the single brass bed made up. She flopped down on the bed and a waft of sickly sweet jasmine filled the air. No doubt Mrs Rushworth had slept here.
Walking back onto the landing she paused once more outside Mrs Quinleaven’s bedroom. She had no idea what she’d hoped or expected to find in the house. If there was anything in here it wasn’t advertising its presence.
She pushed the door open again and inhaled. Beneath the rose petals and talcum powder she could smell something else, something that reminded her of her parents … hospitals, carbolic and rubbing alcohol. Sniffing she walked around the room stopping when she reached the bedside cupboard. She dropped down onto her knees, lifted the latch and peered inside. No shelves of pills or bags of stockings, just one large lump. Something wrapped in a pillowcase. She reached inside and pulled it out then slipped down onto the floor, her back resting against the bed.
Balancing the bag on her lap she ran her hands over the outline. It felt like an old toy, a teddy bear perhaps. Screwing up her eyes she pushed her hand inside.
Her scream ripped through the musty air.
Throwing the pillowcase aside she danced to her feet shaking her hand, expecting to see a rat dangling from one of her fingers, its teeth impaled in the soft flesh at the pad.
Slowly her heart rate settled and she kicked the bag over, letting out a hysterical giggle as the upended pillowcase delivered its contents. Someone’s old stuffed toy, a keepsake; perhaps Mrs Rushworth’s, and Mrs Quinleaven had kept it to remind her of the daughter who’d once loved her.
She crouched down for a closer look, cursing her appalling eyesight. Rummaging in her skirt pocket for her spectacles, she rocked back on her heels. A leathery bill protruded from the bag along with two short stubby paws with sharp claws.
A platypus. A taxidermied specimen, no less!
She pulled it fully out of the bag and settled it on her lap, her hands moving over the moth-eaten fur. One of the back legs dangled—the stitching loose, some sort of long thread of yellowed cat gut. The nose-twitching odour of carbolic and rubbing alcohol was overpowering.
She pushed her hand into the crevice above the torn leg, her fingers wrapping around some soft stuffing. She tugged gently. A little piece pulled out then more and more, easier as the packed material loosened until it fell free. With both hands she shook it out, a smile tugging the corners of her lips as her fingers clasped a worn and patched chemise, a smattering of handmade lace across the neckline.
Had it once belonged to Rose? Was she holding her great-grandmother’s chemise in her hands?
What was it doing here? It was very old, a crude attempt at taxidermy, nothing like the impressive birds and animals so many people valued, placed in their front rooms under glass domes for all the world to wonder at.
Without a doubt the room belonged to Mrs Quinleaven; why had she hidden it here, beside her bed? Surely it belonged with the sketchbook and would have had pride of place in the Library. Unless she’d deliberately squirreled it away. Kept it from prying eyes. Mrs Rushworth’s steely blue gaze sprang to mind. She kept insisting she and her mother were estranged but supposing, just supposing, she knew of the sketchbook, knew of its potential value and poor Mrs Quinleaven’s letter had been one last and vain attempt to save it from her daughter’s greed.
Stuffing the platypus and the tattered chemise back into the bag she trailed down the stairs. The sense she’d found another piece of the puzzle weighed heavily, the same certainty she’d felt when she’d held the tin in her hands.
By the time she reached the town the sun was high and her blouse had stuck to her skin where she’d clasped the platypus to her chest. What she needed was a glass of Mrs Adcock’s lemonade and a quiet sit down. Time to think away from prying eyes.
‘Miss Alleyn! There you are.’ Mrs Adcock stood on the verandah of the hotel waving something above her head. ‘You’ve got a telegram.’
Quickening her pace Tamsin took a short cut across the grass and headed diagonally across the road. A telegram! Perhaps Mr Lovedale had found some hard evidence already. Goodness how she hated that expression. Hard implied difficult to find though she thought he meant rather more—something along the lines of written, official and stamped.
‘Thank you.’ Tamsin held out her hand and Mrs Adcock stepped up next to her and dangled the folded buff-coloured paper tantalisingly out of reach.
‘What’s it say?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps you’d let me read it.’ She snatched the telegram and turned her back on the nosy parker.
Mrs Adcock gave a loud sniff. ‘What have you got there? Smells terrible.’
‘Just something I found.’ Tamsin clutched the telegram tight and bolted up the stairs to her room. If it was from Mr Lovedale and contained bad news she had no intention of sharing it. She flopped down on the bed and unfolded it.
REGRET TO INFORM SKETCHBOOK CLAIMED BY RUSHWORTH
SOLICITORS STOP
MRS WILLIAMS
‘Oh!’ Rushworth Solicitors? That was Everdene, Roach and Smythe. Damn Shaw. He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t sell it. Not now.
‘Not bad news, I hope.’ Mrs Adcock appeared at the door and took three steps towards the bed. Tamsin screwed it into a ball and thrust it in her pocket and shunted the platypus under the bed with her boot.
‘Do you have a telephone?’
‘Chance wo
uld be a fine thing. None of those new-fangled devices around here.’
Then she’d have to go into Cessnock again and speak with Mr Lovedale. Surely he could do something. ‘Is Mr Adcock going into Cessnock, or is there a post run?’ What she wouldn’t give for her own motor car. Ha! That would put Shaw Everdene in his place. Gallivanting around hither and yon without having to spend hours wasting time getting from one place to the next.
‘Not this afternoon, and Bill’s not here. Got some sort of a problem with his new toy. Took off to Maitland first thing this morning.’
‘Has the Telegraph Office got a telephone?’
‘Miss High ’n’ Mighty? No. Best she can do is a telegram. Probably closed up shop by now. Can only say no, can’t she? I’ll come with you.’ Mrs Adcock started to untie her pinny.
And then everything would be around town in two seconds flat. No. She didn’t want that. ‘Thanks for the offer but I’m sure you’re very busy. I’ll go by myself. There’s no harm in asking, as you say.’ She didn’t remember the lady in the Telegraph Office being anything but charming. Surely if it was an emergency … She’d give it a try.
Tamsin took off before Mrs Adcock had the chance to follow and when she pushed open the Telegraph Office door she was greeted with a welcoming smile.
‘I was wondering if you could help me. I need to send an urgent message to Kelly, Baker and Lovedale in Cessnock. Is it too late?’
‘I was just closing up. Not sure if it’ll be delivered today.’
Tamsin’s heart sank. This was ridiculous. Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. So much for peace and quiet—now all she wanted was to be back in Sydney with everything in easy reach and telephones on hand.
‘Best idea would be to send it to the Telegraph Office there and ask for a special delivery. My niece works there. I can get her to relay a message. Would that do?’
‘I really need to discuss something with Mr Lovedale. Is there any way we could ask him to contact us here?’
‘Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do. Pop out onto the back verandah—there’s a nice seat out there in the shade. Keep the gossips at bay. Rest and settle yourself. I’ll let you know. And by the way my name’s Harriet, Harriet Michaels—that’s where the High and Mighty comes from.’
‘And I’m Tamsin Alleyn.’ Throwing the lovely lady a grateful smile she slipped out of the door and settled down in the shade.
After an interminable wait Miss High and Mighty, who definitely wasn’t, stuck her head out of the door. ‘I’ve got Mrs Lovedale at the Telegraph Office. Mr Lovedale’s out on business.’
The image of Mrs Lovedale’s reassuring smile when she’d sat next to her in the office and removed her boot flitted through her mind and she leapt up. Perfect. Perhaps even better than Mr Lovedale. Sometimes woman-to-woman could be so much simpler. She sat down at the desk and wrote out her message.
Harriet moved discreetly into the back room leaving her alone.
Now the time had come she wasn’t sure exactly how important the news was. Could they do anything to stop Shaw and Mrs Rushworth?
SKETCHBOOK TAKEN FROM LIBRARY STOP MUST
PREVENT SALE PLEASE HELP TAMSIN
During the interminable wait while Miss Michaels sent the telegram and they waited for a reply Tamsin chewed her fingernails almost to the bone. Miss Michaels sat by the telegraph, her fingers drumming on the desk and then the tapping began.
WILL RELAY MESSAGE ASAP STOP WAIT AT TELEGRAPH
OFFICE STOP
MRS LOVEDALE
The air sucked out of Tamsin’s lungs and she leapt to her feet and started pacing the small room. More waiting. She might go insane.
Miss Michaels appeared at her shoulder with a glass of water. ‘You look as though you could do with this. Feel free to wait here if you’d like to.’
‘Thank you, I would. I’m at a bit of a loss.’
‘It would be about the sketchbook, would it?’
She knew about it. Was there anything that remained private in this town? Tamsin nodded.
‘Poor Emily, she had quite a bee in her bonnet. Time just caught up with her and she was so certain she’d finally found a home for it.’
All Tamsin could hear was the air rasping in and out of her mouth. ‘You knew Emily Quinleaven?’
‘Of course, everyone knew Emily. We shared a bit of an interest so she talked to me about her mission. She was determined she’d fulfil her promise.’
‘Her promise?’ God, she sounded like a parrot.
‘Her promise to Mr Kelly. It always means so much more when it’s a promise made in the last moments of life, doesn’t it? When I heard you were in town, and from the Library, I thought at least her back-up plan had come good.’
‘Do you know what this promise was?’
‘Of course, I thought everyone did. That’s why Mr Kelly arranged for her to stay in the house—to give her time, you see. They’d been trying for years to find his daughter. Mr Kelly always thought it was because she’d disapproved of his friendship with Emily; it was nothing like that. Just the rumour mill. Carried a candle for his wife till the very end did Mr Kelly.’
Gayadin’s words echoed in her mind. Friends, not lovers. Mr Kelly, he just love my Jane.
‘And Mrs Quinleaven didn’t find Mr Kelly’s daughter?’
‘Such a shame it was. She married some missionary and they took off overseas and he never heard from her again. Couldn’t find hide nor hair of her. So Emily decided she’d go backwards, try and trace the family tree, see what she could come up with. That’s when we became friends. I’ve still got her tin of notes here. To be honest I wasn’t sure what to do with them, thought there’d be something in her will and maybe her daughter would come asking but she didn’t come anywhere near me. Half of us wouldn’t have had an opportunity to pay our last respects if she’d had her way.’
‘Her daughter doesn’t want the sketchbook to be donated to the Library.’
‘But that’s what Emily wanted, since she couldn’t find Mr Kelly’s daughter. It’s what Mr Kelly wanted.’
‘Would you mind showing Emily’s notes to me?’
‘Reckon I could do that. Hang on a tick. I’ll go and find them.’
Tamsin dropped her head into her hands, tears pooling in her eyes. She’d only ever thought of Mother as Doctor Alleyn’s wife, Mavis, not Mavis, daughter of Frederick Kelly. There must be thousands of Kellys in Australia; it was such a common name and she’d never made any mention of Wollombi.
‘Here you go love.’
Tamsin lifted her head. Miss Michaels stood in front of her with a tin in her hands, a replica for the Peek Frean tin sitting in her bag back at the hotel, except a little newer.
‘These were Emily’s favourite biscuits. She’d go through them like a house on fire. Still, it made for good storage, keeps things nice and dry.’ Harriet pulled off the lid and grunted with satisfaction. ‘Looks like everything’s there, all the information we tracked down and letters from the churches and the like.’
As Tamsin held out her shaking hand the telegraph started clattering again.
‘Excuse me a minute, expect that’s your reply—so busy nattering I as good as forgot.’
Tamsin worked her way through a pile of notes recording the time and place of birth and death, marriage dates. Names, so many names. Some she recognised, some she didn’t. Charles Winton, Jenifer Trevan, Rose and Finneas Methenwyck, Jane Methenwyck. All the hard evidence Mr Lovedale could ever want.
‘Tamsin, Tamsin. Mr Lovedale must be in the Telegraph Office. The message just says Lovedale here.’
With her mind reeling Tamsin settled the tin on the chair and stumbled to the desk. ‘I think perhaps you have given me everything Mr Lovedale is looking for. Please send him a telegram saying Have all evidence required except copy of my birth certificate.’
How impossibly simple. She turned the pieces of paper over and over, her eyes darting backwards and forwards to the crude family tree. She trace
d the wavering pencil lines with her finger and there under Mother and Father’s name an empty box where her name belonged.
‘Miss Alleyn, I have your reply.’ Miss Michaels placed the paper on the desk in front of her. Tamsin crossed her fingers before she read the neatly printed words.
MUST SIGHT ALL DOCUMENTS TO CONFIRM STOP WILL
CONTACT RUSHWORTH SOLICITORS STOP FAMILY TRAITS
INDISPUTABLE STOP TOMORROW 9AM WILL-O-WYCK STOP
LOVEDALE
Twenty-six
Sydney, Australia 1908
Shaw bounded through the doors and tipped his hat to the doorman. For once Father had turned up trumps and the solicitors in Bodmin had got back to him in record time. He patted the three telegrams already in his pocket, to ensure they were still there, and took the back stairs two at a time. There was no doubt about it: Rose Winton and Rose Methenwyck were one and the same and the sketchbook belonged to her family.
When he reached the first landing he slithered to a halt.
‘It is daylight robbery. I will do no such thing.’ Mrs Rushworth’s stringent tone filled the dark space and curiosity got the better of him. He hadn’t even bothered to go to the Library, certain Mrs Williams could hold her own and would refuse to hand over the sketchbook to the woman she’d heard so much about, unless … He stopped in his tracks, swivelled and knocked on Father’s office door and without waiting for a response walked straight in.
Mrs Rushworth stood with her back to the door leaning over the desk, a veritable cloud of jasmine-scented fury emanating from her as she tugged at the sketchbook Father had clasped in his hands, his big sweaty hands. He leapt forward and snatched it from them.
They both flopped down in their respective chairs and eyed him with looks akin to two children caught scrapping behind the toilets.
He placed the book gently back on the table, picked up the linen bag and slid it inside. ‘The sketchbook won’t be any good to anyone unless you show it some respect.’ Whatever was it doing here? He wasn’t due at the Library for another two hours. He couldn’t imagine Mrs Williams, or Tamsin for that matter, handing the book over to Mrs Rushworth before the due time without a fight. His trust in Mrs Williams’s capabilities was seriously misplaced.