by Margaret Way
“Is Mrs. Saunders involved in this?” Kurt asked, making his fears clear.
Bruno shook his head. “We will never know.” So his father had been in touch with Abigail Hartmann? How close to his premature death?
“We will just take this as it comes,” Stefan said heavily.
“That will be the way of it, sir,” Bruno said respectfully. It was painfully obvious the three Hartmann men were absolutely shattered.
“It means a great deal to us that neither of you told the police of family matters they didn’t need to know,” Stefan said, taking over from his uncle as head of the family. “Not now, at any rate.”
“We still have to find Helena,” Isabelle said. “That’s my quest.”
“And ours,” Stefan said. “None of us had the slightest suspicions about my . . . mother,” he hesitated painfully. “Helena had to be frightened of someone. She had to have found out something.”
“We have a new lead,” said Bruno. “Piers Osbourne.”
“Heavens no!” Erik jumped on that suggestion promptly. “He went back to England.”
“As far as you know,” Isabelle said. “Orani said something to me. She said, ‘He came back, you know.’”
“Who did?” Kurt asked blankly.
“She said, ‘no one, a ghost,’ when I questioned her. I believe now she could have been talking about Piers Osbourne.”
“Didn’t the young fool fancy himself in love with Myra?” Stefan asked. “As I recall, he was a very uppity young man. Acted quite superior. Myra often remarked on it.”
“We don’t believe he was in love with Myra,” Bruno said. “We believe he would have grown fond of Helena and she of him. We could suppose both knew of the relationship between Myra and Christian.” He didn’t mention the loving inscription they had found in the book of German poetry.
“And you think Helena wrote to Osbourne, asking for his help?” Stefan asked.
“He could have been in the country, for all we know.”
“Then we find him.” It was Kurt, surprisingly, who spoke up.
“We intend to,” Bruno said. “I have a good friend, a top journalist, who claims with some truth she can find anyone. As soon as we get back to Sydney, I’ll enlist her aid. She’s very discreet. Better still, her newspaper has far-reaching resources.”
* * *
The family retired early, greatly shocked. The search team would be back early the next morning. The police would have more questions. The news of the fatal crash had already gone out via bush airways. The Stirling family had been contacted. They had pronounced themselves devastated when they had spoken to Abigail about giving up flying at her age. Stefan had contacted his wife in Adelaide. Stunned by the news, she told him she would be flying in as soon as she could get a private flight organised. Life moved on, no matter what.
“I don’t want to sleep in the Chinese Room,” Isabelle said, feeling as if all her mental and physical strength had drained away and she was running on empty.
“I don’t expect you to,” Bruno replied. “Will we both be finding some love letters, do you suppose?” In truth, his interest in them had vanished. It had been a terrible day and it had taken its toll on everyone. The family. Him. But all his concerns were focused on Isabelle. She was twenty-two years old. A baby in terms of a full life. Moreover, she had led a sheltered life. She was handling herself extremely well, but no sooner had they learnt one terrible thing than another had popped up.
He had no difficulty with the scenario of Orani accusing Abigail of treachery from the very moment they were airborne. Abigail being Abigail would have revealed her true nature, telling Orani in no uncertain terms to shut her mouth. There would be nothing left to hold Orani back. She had wanted vengeance, just as Abigail had cried out for vengeance against her husband and sister-in-law. His own father had to be quietened. What had he found out? Whatever it was, Abigail had come to know of it. Maybe his father’s “accident” had been meant as a warning only? Maybe it was meant to silence him forever. Bruno would never know. It hurt him unbearably. He had so loved and admired his father.
Isabelle was opening the door of the Turkish Room. “We’ll give it an hour,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I don’t want to go to bed. I’m bound to have nightmares after all this.”
“Bound to have a few myself,” Bruno admitted.
“The whole place wants clearing out,” Isabelle said.
“Too much history. Too many bad memories. I’m sure a museum would take a lot of this stuff. Or it could be put up for auction. The rugs alone are superb.” She stumbled a little dazedly over the mounds of cushions that lay everywhere. Probably once had provided a love nest?
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bruno asked, steadying her on her feet. He thought she had lost much-needed weight. Of light, willowy build, she was looking a bit on the fragile side. Courageous as she had shown herself to be, she couldn’t continue to sustain these shocks. He felt guilty now that he had brought her to Eaglehawk. The ghosts of the family members who had died violently were here. Now there was another one.
“What did we get ourselves into, Bruno?” Bella was asking, turning to meet his eyes. No accusation there. A near-despairing question.
“Your family,” he said wryly. “You can thank your lucky stars you weren’t brought up with them.”
“What lucky stars?” She sighed. “Not a whole lot of joy with Hilary and Norville. We have to speak to Hilary again.”
“Would it be all that impossible to switch babies?” Bruno pondered.
A shudder passed through Isabelle. “I wouldn’t put anything past Hilary. Norville wanted a child. Not her. But she agreed to have one and get it over with. There was never going to be a second. Hilary needed a well-respected husband to add weight to her own position. One who would allow her to lead her double life. For over twenty years she dominated Norville’s life. Talk about a monster!”
“So Hilary’s baby dies not long after birth and she talks Helena into handing over her baby?” Bruno asked.
“Worse.” Isabelle came up with her scenario, seeing they were without a single vital clue. “How’s this? Hilary being a doctor realizes something is wrong with her newborn baby. She thinks long and hard, then decides her course. She switches her baby for Helena’s. Wrist tags, toe tags, identification, whatever is necessary. Helena’s sickly little baby dies. Hilary goes home with me.”
“But that’s criminal!” Bruno burst out, shocked. “One would have to be a monster to do that.”
“Monsters look like everyone else, Bruno. You know that. How many killers out there go unrecognised, unpunished? We see photos. Nothing about the faces suggest what crimes they’re capable of. You’re going to speak to Cassie when we get back?”
“If she’s not on the information highway already,” Bruno said. “Cassie will do anything to help you.”
“How lovely! It means a lot to me I was able to help Josh and find the right teacher for him. Music unlocks many doors. You saw with your own eyes an autistic child behaving normally when listening to me, then when playing those black and white notes for himself. It’s extraordinary really! More should be done. Music has a very powerful effect on us all, even pop music, which isn’t my scene. Jazz I do like.”
“Thank God for that!” Bruno gave a theatrical sigh. “I have a jazz collection to die for.”
“The great Daniel Barenboim, concert pianist and conductor, husband of the late, great Jaqueline du Pré, is said to be a marvellous jazz pianist,” Isabelle told him.
“So jazz is real music,” Bruno said.
“Absolutely.”
* * *
They were just about ready to give up when Bruno picked up an old Bible he had previously put aside. Both he and Isabelle had been searching out German poems of all kinds. The Bible was in English. This time he opened it up fully. “Hello, just look at this.” He turned his head to her. “A nifty little hidey-hole.”
Isabelle moved quickly to join h
im. “A hollowed-out book!” she exclaimed. “They were all the go at one time. You wanted to hide a key, a piece of jewellery, a gold watch, anything fairly small and of value, a hollowed-out book would do. Pretty hard for a burglar to search a library to uncover something the owner wanted kept secret.”
“Like a bunch of letters,” Bruno said, taking out the letters tied with a narrow red ribbon.
“Another minute and I’m going to start singing ‘Amazing Grace,’” Isabelle said. “Please?” She put out her hand to take the little pile of old letters Bruno was holding.
“They’re probably from your granddad,” Bruno said, passing them over. “To the love of his life, Myra.”
Isabelle sank down on an ottoman covered in a striking Turkish fabric. Radiant head down, she read through one page, then the next. The letter was of a very intimate and erotic expression of love and longing. She passed the pages to Bruno, making no attempt to read further.
“I don’t think we’re meant to see these, Bella,” Bruno said after he had read what he considered enough.
“No, we’re not.” Tears filled Isabelle’s eyes. “They really did love each other, didn’t they?”
Bruno gave a soft groan. “It was a love that came at a heavy price. Please don’t cry, Bella.”
“Let me cry,” she almost wailed. “It’s my turn to cry.”
“For the love of God, Bella,” he protested. “I can’t sit and watch.” Dark clouds were moving across his handsome face.
“Okay, I’ll stop.” Isabelle threw up her arms in defeat. “Seeing you’re so desperate to get out of here.”
Bruno put out an arm to haul her to her feet. “Let’s check on the other bedrooms,” he said briskly. “I don’t want to sleep here anymore than you want to sleep in the Chinese Room.”
“I’m not surprised. We’re all alone with the ghosts.”
“It’s not the ghosts I’m worried about,” said Bruno.
* * *
One of the bedrooms near the bathroom housed good-sized twin beds with blue quilted-satin coverlets. A small inlaid mahogany desk separated them with a Tiffany style—it could well have been Tiffany, Isabelle thought—table lamp with an alabaster nude, slender arms upraised, standing beneath it.
The matching chair stood against the wall beneath a gilded mirror. Four large botanical prints hung behind the beds. Two on each side. The walls were painted the same duck-egg blue as the beds’ coverlets.
“What do you think?” Bruno asked, his voice decidedly on the tense side.
“This should do.” Isabelle nodded, sitting on one of the beds and bouncing up and down. “Tell me you won’t let me sleep here alone, Bruno? We have the desk between us for propriety. I can think of you as my big brother.”
“As if that is ever going to happen,” he returned, supersharp.
Isabelle’s green eyes filled with tears again. “Don’t jump down my throat. I’m feeling a bit emotional, okay? I need a little time to deal with it. I just don’t want to be on my own. I’m not afraid exactly. It’s just that my mind and body aren’t at peace. Once I would have thought it a bit of fun sleeping in a house that was supposed to be haunted. This one actually is.”
He gave a short laugh. “Let’s see if they’re made up.” He pulled the quilted satin coverlet from the other bed.
“There must be a linen closet somewhere,” Isabelle said.
“Probably downstairs. I’ll go.” Bruno half-turned away.
“I’m coming with you.”
She looked so young, a vulnerable softness in her expression, a slight quiver to her lovely mouth, that Bruno held out his hand. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said, deliberately injecting humour.
To his relief, Bella laughed.
* * *
An hour later, showered, they were ready for bed.
“I take it I’m nearest the door,” Bruno said, wondering how the hell he was going to get through the night. There was Bella, so beautiful, so desirable in the other bed, and he couldn’t touch her. If there was a humorous side to the situation, he couldn’t see it.
“Of course you are, Bruno, my knight in shining armour.” She plumped up a pillow.
The lovely, fresh aroma of the native boronias filled the room. Isabelle had elected not to wear her usual nightclothes. She had pulled a cotton kaftan over her head instead. Bruno had decided on a T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Neither had wanted to draw attention to the fact they were sharing a bedroom, however platonically.
Appearing in total control, inside Bruno’s whole system was racing. He thought he needed a drink, so he had tossed off a shot of brandy when they were downstairs. “I’ll have what you’re having,” Bella had said.
“You wouldn’t be used to brandy,” he said repressively.
“It will help me sleep.”
“Ah, I suppose.” Though he muttered against it, he gave her less than a shot.
“That tasted awful,” she complained, putting down her squat crystal glass.
“I never said it would taste good.”
They were safely tucked up in their respective beds with the light from the hallway sconces filtering through the half-closed door. A half hour passed. Bruno, thoroughly awake, thought Bella had fallen asleep until he heard what sounded like the faintest sob.
“You’re awake, Bella?” He lifted himself on one elbow, compelled to whisper.
“Of course I’m awake,” Isabelle replied crossly. “You’re doing a bit of tossing and turning yourself.”
“Hard to relax.” Having her a few feet away from him was driving him mad.
“Reach out your hand,” she said, suddenly sitting up in her bed.
“You want to shake it?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.
“Do it. I want to feel your hand just for a moment,” she said softly.
“Ah, Bella,” he groaned, extending a long arm across the divide.
She clutched at his warm fingers. “Would you kiss me good night?”
His heart rocked, even as he felt a great surge of excitement. “If I do it once, I mightn’t stop.” His tone was far from warm. It was harsh.
“You will,” she said, full of trust. “Just for once, Bruno, reach out.”
“Bella, I don’t dare. Don’t you know you’re in protective custody?”
“It’s not an invitation into my bed,” she said. “All I’m asking for is a good-night kiss. Is that so hard?”
“You really expect an answer to that?” He could see her small face in the dim amber light, her luminous skin, her delicate, delicious mouth, the masses and masses of soft, curling hair.
“All I’m hoping for is a good-night kiss. I’m not proposing anything else. I deserve it. I’ve been having an awful time. I want to forget for one blessed moment. I want release. We know each other well enough by now for a good-night kiss.”
A woman can tear a man to pieces.
His dad had said that.
The bottled-up forces inside him exploded. Bruno threw off the coverlet so wildly it fell to the floor. He stood up, a tall, powerful male figure, and then came around to the far side of her bed. “There’s only so much I can take, Bella,” he said sternly, without allowing himself to look down at her.
“You’re more than happy to kiss everyone else,” she was quick to remind him.
“You might be sorry you said that.” He reached for her, pulled her willowy body right up into his arms, enfolding her. She didn’t resist. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He could feel her heart beating, the catch in her breathing. The protectiveness he had always felt for her was turning into a driving passion. The drive to take her. She opened her mouth to him and he fell into kissing her, breaking up the unbearable tension. He would have done nothing against her will, but she wanted this as much as he did. He didn’t kiss her once. He kissed her over and over until soft cries came from her.
All at once he couldn’t endure the impossibility of the situation. This was neither the time nor the place to take
off the single garment Bella wore, lay her back on the bed and make love to her. Their time would come. He no longer had a single doubt. But not now. For all he knew, he could make her pregnant.
“You were mad to ask me.” He lifted her like a child, putting her back on the coverlet.
She gave a palpitating laugh. One that held thrills in it. “That was as close to heaven as I’ve come,” she exclaimed. “I think you love me a little, Bruno McKendrick.”
“You can tell, can you?” He all but threw himself down on his bed, not even bothering with the quilt.
“Truly, I think I do.”
“Well, you are a beautiful creature,” he said. “You got what you wanted; now go to sleep.”
“Oh, I will!” She drew a deep, appreciative breath, as though what she had prayed for had been granted.
Chapter Nine
They were back in Sydney over a week before the results of the DNA testing came from the laboratory. It was confirmed Isabelle was related by blood to Stefan Hartmann. This was no great surprise. Neither were the findings on Orani Saunders. Her mother’s claim that Orani was Konrad Hartmann’s love child was no more than a sad and ultimately tragic delusion.
It took longer to test Isabelle’s relationship to Hilary Martin from dry saliva, but it was proven Hilary was not Isabelle’s biological mother. For almost her entire twenty-two years, Isabelle had been living with a lie. It was decided between them that she and Bruno would confront Hilary and Norville with the laboratory findings. Not that Hilary didn’t know the truth. She had just lied. Sometimes pathological liars were hard to spot.
Cassie Taylor had gone full speed ahead tracking down Piers Osbourne, making full use of her far-flung sources and a fair bit of Internet searching. Some of what she found was readily available, if only one had known where to look and who to look under. Cassie had agreed to come over to Bruno’s place for an hour, and then she had to get back to work. She had a deadline for her column and she always delivered on time.