by Margaret Way
Bruno returned, holding a couple of photographs, one of which he handed to her. “I haven’t even asked you her name,” Isabelle said. “This is all sooo melodramatic.”
“Helena. Helena Hartmann. The Hartmanns are a pastoral family.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“People on the land have,” he said. An understatement.
“German name, Hartmann.” She made herself look down. “Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, seeing herself. “How can this be?” This view of the young woman was completely different from the first photograph. The expression was openly vulnerable, in need of emotional support. This wasn’t an adored young woman living in a model family home. She looked like she had been fighting for years to be herself. Isabelle had the unnerving feeling she was looking at herself. Hadn’t she caught that very same expression in her mirror?
“Do you want to find out what happened to her?” Bruno asked gently. He could see she had instantly identified with the young woman in the photograph. He remembered his father once saying, “That look on Helena’s face, Bruno. Makes you want to jump in and help.”
Isabelle shook her head. “It doesn’t fall to me. An extraordinary resemblance, that’s all. I admit it’s bizarre. The other photo you showed me is of a different person. An older sister, perhaps?”
“What?” Startled, he looked down at an enlargement of the photo he had shown Isabelle in the restaurant. “Helena Hartmann didn’t have a sister. No siblings, in fact.”
“Her mother perhaps, when young?”
Bruno was stunned. He continued to stare down at the photograph, compelled to adjust his thinking. Isabelle appeared confident of her judgement. He had already rated her highly intelligent. No suggestion had ever been made that the photographs were of two different young women. They were, after all, identical, save for the differing expressions. It was only after Isabelle had pointed it out that he’d realized she could be right. Anything was possible. The personalities revealed were of one super-confident young woman, the other, girlish and insecure.
“Put the photos side by side on the table,” Isabelle suggested. “One is black and white. The other is in colour, I know. We both see the features as being extraordinarily alike. The same mane of curly hair. The same almond eyes, but the expressions—the inner selves are totally different. One is a shadow of the other. Surely your dad saw that?”
Bruno frowned. “He didn’t have a clue. The photographs were given to him by family. He was told they were of Helena. Why would they lie? What would be the point?”
“The grandfather?”
“Not Konrad. The father actually, Erik. He could scarcely make a mistake. We all do look different depending on whether life is going our way or isn’t, surely?”
“What about the mother?”
He paused for a moment, then he met her searching eyes. “The mother, Myra, was killed in a riding accident on the property when Helena was twelve. Rumour had it the mother had been having an affair. Affairs. Could have been exaggeration. The family were all against her, according to Dad.”
“Something is wrong somewhere, Bruno,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head. “Maybe the husband fixed it that she’d come off her horse. There would have been a lot of venom in him. A beautiful wife. A lover. A jealous, possessive husband. Has all the ingredients. Maybe Helena ran off to be free of all the family tensions. The dead woman was her mother, after all. It has to be considered: the first photo could be of the mother, Myra.”
“You seem so darned sure.”
“A woman’s take. Of course I could be wrong, but I doubt it. The other photo, the vulnerable one, could perhaps reflect grief over the mother’s tragedy.”
“Over ten years later?”
“Why not? What’s time to a grieving soul?”
“Of course there’s that, but Helena’s father handed over the photographs as those taken of his daughter.”
“He could have been playing games,” Isabelle said. “He could even hate his own child because she was a constant reminder of the wife who betrayed and humiliated him. The family could well have been trying to confuse your father. Maybe one of them didn’t want her found? Maybe one of them helped her get away for whatever reason. It had to be serious. An investigation was mounted by the grandfather, who must have loved Helena. The police would have been notified, then your father. The grandfather might never have suspected another family member was involved, even his own son. So then, which one was the real Helena? First subject looks fully capable of running off and establishing a new identity, wouldn’t you say? She looks confident, manipulative. Second subject looks just . . . sad and sort of helpless. Anyway, Bruno McKendrick, it’s not my problem. I’ve never met anyone called Hartmann in my life. My parents are Norville and Hilary Martin. My mother’s maiden name was Frazer-Holmes.” She began to wave the photograph in her hand as if it threatened her. “I don’t want this.”
“Don’t be angry,” he said quietly, not taking the photograph from her.
“I’m not angry. I’m all shook up. Like Elvis. Heck, Elvis has had dozens and dozens of look-alikes.”
“No one, but no one, looked like Elvis,” he half-laughed.
“Okay, but lock the photographs away.”
“At least you know what I’m talking about. There remains a possibility your parents haven’t spoken about, didn’t want to speak to you about the past.”
“By telling me they snatched someone else’s baby?” Her voice rose in disbelief.
“Not unheard of. Things do go wrong in maternity hospitals. Wrong tags, no tags, wrong names, mix-ups, babies given to the wrong mothers. Wrong mothers rear wrong babies. Baby gets to adulthood before someone stumbles on the truth. Baby doesn’t want to hook up with her biological mother. You read about it all the time, Bella, even if you can scarcely believe it. Surely a mother would know her own baby? The smell of it, the look of it. Should we doubt a mother’s instincts? I wouldn’t have thought so, yet the evidence is there. Babies do go to the wrong families. Moreover, they’re accepted.”
“Bruno,” she said, exasperated. “I am aware of what you say, but it just so happens I know they’re my parents. I truly do.”
“Then you shouldn’t be bothered checking things out. Ask a few questions. Show your mother the photograph. See what she says. How she responds.”
Isabelle had no difficulty visualizing her mother’s reaction. “It wouldn’t be the best conversation opener, I can tell you. She’d be affronted.”
“How so?” He had to turn that one over in his mind. “If she did react in that way surely you’d have stumbled onto a minefield. I can’t see a loving mother being outraged by your extraordinary resemblance to a young woman gone missing decades ago. There could be no possible reason for outrage.”
Isabelle sighed. “Want to bet? Everyone has a reason. Everything has a reason. My mother is a very formidable woman, and very clever. She intimidates people. I’ve seen it. She deals in life and death. Not fantasy.”
“Who’s talking fantasy?” Bruno countered, not liking the sound of her mother. “You have Helena Hartmann’s face. You have her colouring. You’re a musician. So was she.”
She felt dazed. “Maybe you should pay more attention to coincidence? I can’t listen, in any case. You’re driven to solve an old case for your father. I understand that. You had a father you loved, who loved you. I’m not criticizing my mother. I’m only describing the way she is. Both my parents have been extremely good to me. I’ve never wanted for anything. They may not have exactly approved of my decision to become a professional musician. They had different hopes for me—I was smart at school—but they supported me on the understanding my ambition was not to make a name for myself.”
Bruno’s shapely mouth compressed. “You can’t be serious?”
“I’m very serious.”
“Then I’m having a bit of trouble with that. You’ve spent years studying. You’ve gained a Master’s degree at a world-famous colleg
e of music yet all further ambitions are frowned upon. What’s their aim? To keep you hidden?” He took a deep and, yes, angry breath.
“More like marry me off.” She gave a half laugh. “A good marriage of course. My mother would pick out the most outstanding candidates from within her own circle.”
She wouldn’t want the dead rising.
“They’re not everyday people,” Isabelle tried hard to explain. “Just imagine the life they lead.”
“They’re controllers?”
“Oh, Bruno,” she protested. “They want to see me settled. They want grandchildren.” Or so they claimed. Maybe they’d be more comfortable with the next generation, a grandchild.
“If you don’t want to risk showing her the photograph, it’s entirely up to you.”
“Risk being the punch line?” she challenged wryly.
“Right now, I think it’s worth it. If it’s sheer coincidence, there’s nothing whatever to worry you or your parents. Who knows; we could have exact doubles.”
“I said it first.” She looked back at the later photograph, then up at him. “I wish you hadn’t shown me this, Bruno. I see the tears behind her eyes. I don’t see a much-loved granddaughter or a much-loved daughter. The other woman looks older. Far more worldly.”
“I agree.” He did, now that he had given the photographs his total attention.
“So what happened in between? It would have been very easy for your father to get so involved. I know instinctively he was a very nice man. A kind man. You obviously loved him a great deal. But what makes you think you can solve a case he couldn’t? I’m guessing he was an expert investigator?”
Bruno’s explanation was simple. “The best. Only he never got to see you.”
“And you think you’re going to nail it?”
“Doesn’t her family deserve closure?”
Isabelle lowered her head, shielding her eyes. “All suffering families deserve closure. But this is conjecture. You have no proof of anything. Anyway, the Hartmann grandfather would be dead. Someone in the remaining family could be living with a secret. What do we know? We know Helena Hartmann had problems. She thought disappearing was the only answer. It’s a strong possibility she was desperately unhappy. She would have had help to get away. You can’t just hop on a bus in the Outback.”
“My father was convinced she had hidden away on a freight plane that regularly brought supplies to the station. Probably the pilot knew, but he wasn’t talking, not to the police, not even to my dad, who’d made the getting of information an art form.”
“The pilot was probably protecting her. You’re being very disruptive to my life, Bruno McKendrick.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe in fate? Karma? That sort of thing?”
“I do now.” There was a whole lot of feeling in his deep voice.
Isabelle came to a reluctant decision, but a decision all the same. “I think I’ll show this photograph to my father,” she said. “He’s more approachable than my mother. I’ll make it seem like a curiosity.”
“You’d have to fly to Adelaide?” He thought he should pay for that.
“No.” She shook her head. “There’s a medical conference in Sydney starting next Wednesday. I’ve organised to see him then. He’s been very good taking care of me, you know. He loves me. He’s not a demonstrative man, that’s all. Some men don’t find it easy. They don’t understand the concept of closeness like physical displays of affection. Perhaps it was the way they were brought up.” She omitted to say her mother found displays of affection redundant. Displays of affection were denied her father as well. She had never seen them hug, let alone kiss. They had always had separate bedrooms. Her mother was different. She remembered one of her school friends, Cressy, rolling her eyes while confiding her mother called Isabelle’s “a travelling iceberg.” She should have felt bad for her mother, but she didn’t. She liked Cressy’s mother a lot. She was so warm and friendly. Unfailingly kind. Kindness was very important. Besides, she knew her mother would come across as an icy, unapproachable woman. Certainly not one to stand around chatting with other mothers. But so clever! Everyone thought so.
At that moment, Bruno could find nothing easy to say about her parents. “Anyone with red hair and green eyes in the family?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, there is. A cousin on my mother’s side. Red hair and freckles. On the horsey side. Long face. Long nose. I don’t look a bit like her. But there you are!”
“You’ve met her?”
“No. I’ve only seen a photograph of her.”
“So what family have you actually known?”
“Tough question. None. It happens like that sometimes. I’d like to go home now, Bruno. There’s really no need for you to come with me.”
“I feel there is.”
“So no argument, then.”
Chapter Two
No way could she wear an outfit with evening pants to dinner, not even a very short dress. After a few minutes of indecision, she chose a deceptively simple crepe dress in a beautiful shade of indigo. The skirt hit well below the knee. Her father would like that. Feminine. Ladylike. To further gain his approval, she had subdued her copious hair, pulling it back into an updated roll like the wonderfully stylish Princess Mary of Denmark, Australian born and bred.
Many times over the years she had wondered if her parents had had a choice they would have picked a different child. A child they recognised. A child they identified with. One who shared the same characteristics. Not the changeling they got. A special trial was her riotous red hair. “No restraint about red!” her mother, Hilary, a handsome brunette who favoured a short, brush-back style that suited her, had once said. She must have been one troublesome kid, but she had settled down once she got her piano and the household was no longer a “madhouse.”
She could well imagine she might have been swapped at birth. Some new mother, probably with red hair, would have gone home with a dark-haired, dark-eyed changeling who never did fit in. It was possible, as Bruno McKendrick had so kindly pointed out. Thanks to him, she had completely yielded to this crazy idea, but then, the resemblance was incredible. Baby swapping was a conclusion one could reach, though it would have been nigh on impossible to put one over her mother. And there was the horsey, redheaded cousin conveniently living in the wilds of Scotland.
* * *
Dr. Norville Martin was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. He had a full head of fading fair hair, grey eyes, fine regular features, unlined pale skin that rarely saw the hot Australian sun. He looked like what he was: a man of high moral and ethical standards, a dedicated doctor, recognised in his field of oncology, which was the very serious business of diagnosing with great accuracy the various types of cancers, then advising on treatments best suited to the specific cancer. Dr. Martin was therefore a serious man.
Both her parents dealt in life and death. The making of music wasn’t their scene, though she had often thought listening to beautiful music could provide great pleasure and a relief from all the pain and suffering they saw on a daily basis. Her father had the harder time. Her mother coped brilliantly. She had a very different temperament. Or a heart carved out of stone?
He was waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying. He rose to greet her. No kisses or hugs, but his fondness for her was apparent in the numerous pats she got on the shoulder. “How are you, my dear? You look well.”
“I am well, thank you, Father. It’s lovely to see you. How’s Hilary?” She had been instructed to call her mother Hilary after her graduation from high school. As though Mother wasn’t somehow right. As far as that went, she had always thought she should have been allowed to call her father Dad, like all her friends. But the very formal Father worked best.
Her parents inhabited a totally different world from the one her friends’ parents did. Few people measured up. She knew she didn’t. On the plus side, she was no snob, though her mother was among the worst of
them.
She almost missed what her father was saying in his quiet, controlled voice. “Your mother is extremely committed, as usual, my dear. Shall we go in? I must admit to being hungry. I missed lunch.”
Isabelle found herself ordering much the same thing as her father. Her heart was thrumming and she had butterflies in her stomach. She wasn’t hungry. Her father might say he was hungry, but she knew both parents ate sparingly. Unlike the French, they ate to live, not live to eat. She had a mad urge to order octopus but settled for pan-seared snapper with a warm Mediterranean salad. Her father chose chargrilled salmon with a Greek salad. All very healthy and, as it turned out, delicious. Dessert was light and healthy too: lemon curd tarts with fresh raspberries.
“Oh, I do feel so much better,” her father said, giving his fugitive smile. It was such a nice smile, he should smile more often. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. I have something to show you. A curiosity.”
“Really?” Dr. Martin summoned their waiter. “Two short blacks, if you would. Okay with you, Isabelle?”
“Fine.” What she really needed was a short brandy.
“So what is this curiosity?” he asked indulgently when their coffees were set in front of them.
“A photograph. I wanted your take on it.” Her stomach was tied in knots.
“Well, then, better show me, m’dear. Is it of you?”
“What do you think?” She passed the photograph across the table.
Her father looked down at the photograph. Looked up at her in puzzlement. “Where was this taken, in London? That’s not your piano.”
“It’s not me, Father.” She kept her eyes on him.
Norville Martin made a helpless gesture. “It’s not?”
“It’s of a young woman called Helena Hartmann. Ever heard the name?”