The Road Home

by Margaret Way

  “Wait.”

  It was clearly an order. Her short fingernails bit into his skin. “Tomorrow is a working day, Bella. For both of us,” he reminded her.

  “Hush!”

  “Most ghosts are invisible, aren’t they? Or spotted maybe once or twice?”

  He had hardly finished his little taunt when, as if whooshed out of a tunnel, a soft, poignant moaning that even Bruno found disturbing issued from within the fireplace and floated into the bedroom.

  “What did I tell you?” Isabelle hissed between her teeth. “It sounds utterly desperate.”

  Bruno hadn’t reached that conclusion. He moved nearer the fireplace. “Precisely!” He gave a brief laugh. “It’s doing what it’s supposed to do, frighten you.” He uttered a mild curse beneath his breath. “It’s a trick, Bella. A ploy. The bloody nerve!”

  He was giving the strong impression of a man who might very well raise the household at 3 a.m. demanding answers. That alone cleared Isabelle’s head. She rushed to switch on the lights. Why hadn’t she thought of that? A trick! She hated the fact Bruno had. Hated anyone who would play such a callous prank on her. The sound had sounded so perfectly authentic.

  Immediately, the large room was flooded in a golden glow. She bit her inner lip, waiting for Bruno to come up with something resembling a plausible answer. She watched him move to the marble fireplace with those winged women, get a hand on the luxuriant fern, jerking it out roughly. In the process, the plant hit one of the gilt-metal andirons. It fell over, clattering loudly in the silence. Bruno then stuck his head under the chimney breast. Stared all around him.

  “What are you looking for?” Isabelle went to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Have you noticed the moaning has stopped?” He swung his head to look down at her. How much smaller she seemed without heels.

  “All right. Don’t get angry.”

  “I’m somewhat off angry. I’m furious. This room they put you in? It was all planned. It might be an Oriental extravaganza, but it’s no place to sleep.”

  “Agreed, but it was Helena’s room. I’m sure of that.”

  “And I’m sure someone was trying to drive Helena mad. She was a sitting duck.”

  “Sleeping duck, don’t you mean?”

  “She’d have been lucky if she got much sleep. The sound was coming from the fireplace, right?”

  “Well, I haven’t known you all that long, but as it turns out you are mostly right.”

  “The sound could be ducted into any number of rooms. These old houses had their own system of servants’ bells to ring. Things to yank. A servant could easily turn some device against a nerve-ridden girl. I’ve a good mind to go downstairs and wake up Mrs. Saunders. She’s as sinister as it gets.”

  Isabelle blinked. “Well, yes, but I wouldn’t call her a fiend!”

  “I’m more used to fiends than you are, Bella,” he said darkly. “Can’t you see poor Helena sitting up in bed, full of woe, crying?”

  “It’s good to know you have a feminine side.”

  “Let’s not get into that. A young girl raised without a mother she may have believed had been killed by her father or someone prepared to do his bidding. We can’t forget Christian. Probably he was shot as a matter of urgency.”

  “Possible, but it’s also possible your theories are skewed.”

  Bruno looked down his straight nose at her. “I hate to mention this, but you were so frightened you ran across the hallway and jumped into my bed.”

  Isabelle was all the more indignant because it had been so nearly true. “I’ve been warned against jumping into strange men’s beds, thank you. A bit of a change for you, but there was no flying leap to hop in beside you. You pulled me right across you, and none too gently either.”

  “I’m wary of beautiful women,” said Bruno self-righteously. It was perfectly true.

  “No need to fret. I bear that constantly in mind. Surely Helena didn’t suffer in silence? We intend to have the moaning sound investigated in the morning, don’t we? It wasn’t the wind.”

  “More like someone blowing through a tube,” Bruno said with a frown.

  “Playing it like an instrument.”

  “Probably had plenty of practise,” he said grimly.

  “You’re deadly serious, aren’t you?”

  “You bet. I doubt you’ll hear the moaning again. Just to be sure of it, I’m going to spend the rest of the night on that settee, sofa, whatever the heck it is.” He jerked his head over his shoulder to the furnishings.

  “It’s a chaise longue.” Isabelle set him straight.

  “I regret I’m ignorant of such matters.”

  “Gosh, you sound like Mr. Darcy. Anyway, you’re too big for it. It would probably collapse. I’ll take it.”

  “Great, that’s settled.” He bent to pick up the fallen andiron.

  She hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. “I can’t believe you mean that.”

  “I don’t. It might seem unfair, but women always get the best of everything.”

  Now she found herself smiling. “What about the armchair? We’ll find you something to rest your long legs on. A footstool. There’s an ottoman in your room.”

  “Perfect! I’ll turn my armchair with my eyes trained on the door. We’ve got the message loud and clear. Erik Hartmann wants us out of his territory. That’s when Mrs. Saunders moves in, with or without his knowledge. She’s perfectly capable of any amount of mischief.”

  “Why doesn’t it horrify me?” Isabelle asked.

  “That’s easy,” said Bruno. “You’ve got me.”

  * * *

  They were the first in for breakfast, or the family had already had theirs. No surprise there. It was eight o’clock, the time stipulated. Stefan Hartmann would most probably be on the job from first light as he appeared to run the vast station alone, with only the aid of his stockmen.

  Isabelle moved over to the sideboard. This was the breakfast room adjoining the kitchen. A collection of lovely old plates, probably from some nineteenth-century dinner service, had been attached to the Wedgwood blue walls and set within frames. Someone with impeccable taste and money to burn had organised the design of the downstairs rooms.

  They could hear the murmuring of voices from inside the kitchen, which no doubt would be state of the art. The long mahogany sideboard with three drawers was set with all manner of plates, dishes, flatware, a jug of orange juice, a big bowl of fruit compote, another of muesli, a basketful of muffins. There were a number of silver entrée dishes with covers, sauce boats containing condiments. She lifted the lid of one of the entrée dishes. Steam rose.

  “Scrambled eggs. I love scrambled eggs.” She lifted the next lid. “Bacon and sausages for you, Bruno. At least we won’t go hungry. I would like some toast, though.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the same aboriginal girl, sweet faced, black curls, lustrous dark eyes, who had helped serve dinner, came out of the kitchen door carrying a very fancy silver toast rack that held at least ten slices of toasted bread. She smiled shyly. Isabelle and Bruno returned her smile with a friendly, “Good morning. It’s . . . ?”

  “Nele,” the girl supplied. “Anything else you would like?” she asked, looking from one to the other with a great deal of interest.

  “No, thank you, Nele. This looks lovely. I’ll have coffee afterwards, if I may? What about you, Bruno?”

  “Black for me,” he said.

  “Any chance you would be able to make me a cappuccino?” Isabelle asked. She liked a cappuccino in the morning.

  “Certainly, miss,” the house girl told her cheerfully. “Mrs. Saunders has all the machines she needs.” With another beaming smile, she turned about.

  “Clearly Mrs. Saunders doesn’t want to see us,” Bruno said, when they were alone.

  “Why would she? We’ll just have to invite her to explain where the sound might be coming from. Though I’m sure she will deny ever having heard it.”

  “
We have a bit of time to fill in until Stefan Hartmann meets up with us at ten,” Bruno said, pouring orange juice for them both.

  “Do you suppose we could see something of this incredible landscape before we leave?”

  “We can ask.” Although he’d made several trips to the wild heart of the continent, he was keen to see as much as he could of Eaglehawk.

  * * *

  After a good breakfast that restored a measure of well-being, they made their way back into the grand drawing room. Mrs. Saunders had not appeared with a cheery, “Good morning. Was everything satisfactory?” She stayed well out of sight and sound. There was no one around. The house was all but empty. Probably Kurt was with his uncle in the West Wing. Too much to expect he had joined his father in the great outdoors.

  “This has to be the piano in Helena’s portrait, wouldn’t you say?” Bruno signalled Isabelle to come over. “Play something.”

  “Not here. Not now. It wouldn’t be polite.”

  “Polite?” Bruno laughed harshly, his dark eyes burning. “Who cares about polite? Don’t worry. You’re here with me. Everything will be just fine. If nothing else, it might draw the family out.”

  “I’d feel safer if you had that battle-ax with you.”

  “Mrs. Saunders?” He raised his black brows in surprise.

  “That’s one battle-ax. I’m talking about the piece of militaria in the Turkish Room.” As she was speaking, Bruno was opening up the lid of the grand piano.

  “What’s it to be?” She went to touch the keys, stopped short.

  “Something as loud and bravura as possible.”

  “Something to shatter the silence.”

  The moment Isabelle’s curled-up fingers actually came down on the keys, feeling their weight, which was important, she felt a pang of fright. The keys were about to start talking to her.

  “What’s wrong?” Bruno stared down at her in surprise. Isabelle the accomplished pianist was acting like a beginner, unsure of where to start. “Are you okay, Bella? What are you waiting for?”

  She shook her head a little, flapped an authoritative hand at him. He stood back at her command.

  The first rebellious chord of Chopin’s “Revolutionary Etude” in C minor rang out like a battle cry. That was what it had been intended to be. Chopin had poured his emotions into the famous etude, inspired by the Russian attack on Poland’s capital, Warsaw, in 1831. The chord echoed right through the house, rapidly filling the drawing room with tumultuous sound.

  Isabelle was underway, her left hand a dazzling, relentless accompaniment to the right. Bruno couldn’t imagine anyone not coming to a halt, hearing a piano being played with such power and technique. Where was the power coming from? he wondered. Isabelle couldn’t have weighed more than 105 kilos. It wasn’t until the final chords had died away before they heard heavy, fast footsteps on the staircase.

  A moment later, Erik Hartmann strode into the room, his face working like a man overcome by some terrible dread. “How dare you!” he shouted, as though Isabelle should have to beg for forgiveness. “How dare you! The impertinence!”

  Such a reaction was completely over the top. One might have been forgiven for thinking Isabelle had taken to the grand piano with a sledgehammer. Bruno came swiftly to her side, intending to intervene, only she stood up from the piano, walking slowly towards Erik Hartmann with astounding self-possession, given she was a guest in his home, which was about as remote as one could get. “I dare,” she said, in a voice not quite her own.

  It wasn’t at all what either Erik Hartmann or Bruno expected. Hartmann stared back at her as though he didn’t have the faintest idea what to say next because his opening salvo hadn’t worked.

  “Sometimes it’s possible to pick up vibrations from musical instruments,” Isabelle continued in the same tone. “Great artists, particularly string players, have made that point. I’m no great artist but I know a little about such things. Hands that touched those keys were holding tight to their sanity.”

  Instantly, Erik Hartmann’s expression changed to one of scorn. “What, piano tuners?” he cried. “Those are the only hands that have touched that piano for nigh on twenty years, young lady. Tuning it. You should be careful with your tricks.”

  “No trick,” Bruno broke in, unsettled by something in Bella’s manner, but ranging himself beside her. “Speaking of tricks—and it was pretty good as tricks go—what causes the moaning sound in the Chinese Room?” he asked.

  Erik Hartmann gave him such a queer look. “Moaning sound? I have no idea what you’re talking about. What you heard would have been the wind.”

  “The sound was coming from the fireplace.” Bruno ignored the protest. “We thought—”

  “We?” Erik Hartmann drew himself up as though some scandalous romp had occurred under his roof.

  “I assure you. it’s not what you’re thinking, Mr. Hartmann,” Bruno said calmly. “Isabelle found the sound very disturbing. She came across to my room to wake me.”

  “You’re making it all up!” Erik Hartmann was reduced to a kind of panting, as though his heart hurt him.

  “You don’t believe us?”

  “I do not.”

  “Sir, I don’t lie. Neither does Isabelle. The sound would terrify a child. Even an adult. Initially, it frightened Isabella. It even disturbed me until I figured out what might be causing it. Perhaps we might take a look at all the bells and whistles that were used in the old days to alert the servants. The family would have had servants?”

  “Of course,” Hartmann said pompously, as though no one need to ask.

  “Could you indulge us?” Bruno’s suggestion was prompt.

  Erik Hartmann’s dark eyes were markedly fixed on Isabelle. “You’re a very fine pianist,” he said with a strange, unexpected emotion. “My wife, Myra, was just such a pianist. Helena was good, but she could never match her mother. In anything, sadly.”

  “Her mother taught her?” Isabelle asked, thinking what they knew of the dazzling Myra, she wouldn’t have made a good teacher, if a fine performer. The two didn’t often go together.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “Well, only for the first few years,” he amended. “Myra didn’t have the patience, but fortunately, Helena showed a lot of early promise. We finally hired an excellent teacher. A fine young man. He lived with us for some years. Helena liked him. I liked him myself. Myra was capable of being very unkind to him from time to time. She was like that. She wanted you to feel uncertain of where you were with her.”

  “A tutor? Why wasn’t my father told about him?” Bruno asked, shooting a quick glance at Isabelle.

  “For the simple reason he had gone back to England almost a year before. He was well out of the picture.”

  “When did he actually arrive?” Bruno asked. All sorts of theories were exploding in his mind.

  “Myra had hired a woman teacher before then, ex-Sydney Conservatorium. She was effective, certainly, but she didn’t really fit in. Piers was hired when Helena was around twelve. He left when she was seventeen and had gained all her diplomas. That was five years after her mother was killed. May she rest in peace.”

  “If you could please tell us his full name?” Isabelle asked.

  For a moment, Erik Hartmann appeared incapable of formulating a name. “Piers . . . Osbourne,” he said finally, hitting a hand on his forehead. “English. Such an air about him! One would have thought he was the aristocracy, yet he was only a piano teacher. But absolutely first class. Helena blossomed under his tutelage.”

  “Did he keep in touch?”

  “I believe he kept in touch with Helena for a time. Then the contact fizzled out. He returned to his family in England. We never heard from him again.”

  “Helena didn’t go to boarding school, then?” Isabelle asked the question. She had assumed Helena, like many Outback children, especially the offspring of the well to do, attended private boarding schools.

  Hartmann shook his head. “She could learn all she needed to
learn here. Piers was a great help there too. He was obviously highly educated, of good family. Her aunt Abigail supervised her studies too. Abigail is a very clever woman, although she hides it beneath the proverbial bushel.”

  “How old was Piers Osbourne when he arrived?” Bruno asked.

  Erik Hartmann took his time answering. “Early twenties, I believe.” His tone had gone from fairly amiable to aggressive. “I believe he wanted some excitement in his life and picked out Australia. No great culture clash, with the huge migration from the British Isles.”

  “May one ask where Mrs. Abigail Hartmann lives?” Bruno looked to his host.

  “All these questions!” Erik Hartmann was clearly displeased. “Don’t think I don’t know what your reasons are.”

  Bruno answered for them both. “Isabella is making no claim to anything, sir. It’s as I told you. I was the one who brought her extraordinary resemblance to Helena and her mother to her attention. She wanted no part of it, but subsequent conversations with the two people who raised her have given rise to serious doubt and a whole lot of speculation. This is a crisis time in Isabelle’s life. All she wants to know is whether there is a Hartmann connection.”

  “So this DNA testing is the answer?”

  “The definitive answer. There’s nothing easy about any of this, sir. We do understand that. You said you were contacted with news of Helena’s death. Have you been sent papers? Have you sighted them?”

  “God no!” Hartmann burst out angrily, and then caught himself up. “You’d do well to go away. Someone helped Helena to run away. It killed my father.”

  “Someone killed my father,” Bruno said on a harsh note. “Hit-and-run accident.”

  Hartmann gaped at him. “How monstrous. I didn’t know.” He appeared genuinely shocked. Either that or he was a fine actor. “I had heard he had died. I assumed of natural causes.”

  “Unnatural causes,” Bruno said. “The driver of the vehicle that hit him was never found. The police investigated of course.”