The War Widow

by Tara Moss

  Billie lurched to her feet, not sure how fast their party could move. The motor cars? Perhaps she could start one of them and drive them out of this mess, together? As if in answer, angry flames danced across the dry grass, light, swift and deadly, snaking with speed to the rear of the nearest shed. The shed she had been inside. It lit like a pack of matchsticks, as if it had been waiting for this moment. The Packard and the Daimler would be surrounded or even engulfed before they had time to find the keys or force them to start. Billie watched as the fire raced over the treetops and lit the hill behind the homestead. Her own automobile was down the road, fifteen or so minutes away by foot, but less if they ran. If the roadway remained clear they could reach it, but the fire was already moving at a terrifying rate, devouring the dry summer grasses and spreading towards the roadside. She didn’t like their chances with the girls in tow and a struggling Franz.

  ‘To the river,’ Shyla said, ‘it’s our only chance,’ and she pointed the way.

  Together, the five women and girls, with Franz as their captive, struggled down a dusty path, bent over and moving their feet as fast as they could. Billie’s lungs protested and she spluttered and coughed, but kept on, her suit streaked and torn, her hands and arms scratched and grazed. Behind them, the wrathful fire was rising, the wind shifting and starting to blow harder, creating a roar of the kind Billie had only ever heard during bombing campaigns in the war. Shyla lifted one of the young girls into her arms, carrying her and running forward with impossible strength for someone her size.

  ‘Feuer, feuer . . .’ someone was saying as they ran and stumbled down the track towards the river.

  It was Franz, the man who was to blame for all this. The man who had forced the girls into those prison rooms, who had started the fire. He stopped, crouching and whimpering, as terrified as a small child, the roles now reversed. He repeated the same word again and again. ‘Feuer, feuer.’

  Fire.

  He was terrified of the flames, Billie realised, now sure that he had tried to free himself from the ropes but had not counted on the lamp spilling, had not counted on the dry Australian bush which came alive with terrifying flame at the slightest opportunity. Not counting on the drought and the hot Australian summer. The bush here loved to burn, the burning was part of its nature, part of the cycle of life and death. And he’d triggered it.

  ‘Feuer,’ he cried again. He was wailing now, trying to cover his head.

  Shyla put down the girl she was carrying and told Billie to get her to the river. Billie took the girl’s hand, urging her onwards, Ruthie and the other girl running in front of them. Shyla grabbed the ropes binding Franz and hauled him through the paddock like a bull. ‘You won’t get far in Darug Country,’ Billie heard her say to him as she yanked at him fiercely.

  They pushed through a thicket of thorny bush, Billie cutting her hand, tearing her stockings, her suit, and then they were through a fringe of trees and jumping down to the level of the river, where beige sand glowed in the moonlight. Here was water, slow, lazy water, enough to keep them from the flames. They waded in, submerging themselves to the thighs. The two younger girls were immersed to the waist and Ruthie was with them, slightly taller, cradling them maternally. The water, cool and welcoming, brought tears to Billie’s eyes, making tracks down her soot-covered face. Shyla reached them, dragging their prisoner by his ropes. He collapsed onto the sand.

  The sky was red with flames, embers rising like fireflies and falling down again like black snow. The fire was like thunder now, like a freight train, the taste of smoke on their tongues, the air itself filling with falling ash.

  Without words, Billie opened her arms and Shyla joined her, then Ruthie and the other girls too. The five women and girls formed a circle in the slow river, arms locked protectively around each other.

  ‘I’m Eleanor,’ the smallest one said, in a child’s voice that tore at the part of Billie that was just barely hanging on.

  ‘I’m Ida,’ the other girl said.

  The five of them huddled together in the cool water of the Colo River, heads close. Behind them, the white-haired man was curled on the sand of the river bank, shaking as the world around them roared and danced with flames.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Upper Colo homestead in the early morning light was a vision to behold.

  The wooden footings that had held up the homestead had collapsed under the flames, and the blackened walls sprawled out across the scorched grass as if the building had burst its stitching and come apart at the seams. Only two brick chimneys sat in their original places, proud and intact, the rest of the homestead having fallen away. And standing like sentinels from a surreal apocalyptic tale, Mr and Mrs Satan were almost untouched: blackened and charred, but their posture unchanged, their glittering eyes feasting on the scene.

  The East Kurrajong Bush Fire Brigade had arrived in the dead of night in a single battered red Ford truck with a pump, alerted by a watchful farmer in the hills to the growing inferno at Upper Colo. It was a motley crew of brave locals with fire-fighting knapsacks on their backs who had erupted out of the truck, six in all, and without pause had begun their work against the raging flames, barely noticing at first the huddle of women and the strange man cowering at the side of the river. With something like awe, Billie had stood up on the river bank and watched them contain the blaze after a battle that had lasted hours. The areas beyond the road and river were saved; the evil house and its contents stood not a chance.

  The firefighters, all volunteers, had beaten Inspector Cooper in his race from the city. But at five in the morning, fully an hour earlier than he had promised her, Cooper and his colleagues had arrived and the white-haired man known as Franz was placed in irons and driven to the Richmond lock-up, while Billie, Shyla and the girls were ordered to stay put and await questioning. There wasn’t a vehicle big enough for them all.

  Shyla, Ruthie, Ida and Eleanor were huddled together on the wool blankets provided by the firefighters, talking in low voices and sipping from shared cups and a thermos. Young Eleanor was still in something of a trance since she’d been taken from her prison room by Ruthie, Billie had noticed. Those wide dark eyes remained blank, empty with shock. She was the youngest, Billie guessed, and she’d done well to get to the river at all in her state. Ida, who was barely older from what Billie could tell, was more animated, but also showing signs of shock, hands clammy and pupils enlarged. All of the girls needed medical attention, Billie thought. She had left them when the inspector silently signalled for her attention, but even as she stood with him she watched the group in their semi-circle, clothes torn and wet, and wondered about their futures.

  Now Detective Inspector Hank Cooper was beside Billie Walker, steady and tall, concern written all over his face. ‘Billie, I got here as fast as I could,’ he said to her. ‘I hope you know that.’

  Billie was almost unrecognisable, covered in streaks of soot, her suit filthy and ruined, a wool blanket wrapped around her and a steaming cup of black tea in her hand. Her muddy oxfords were drying, so a spare pair of oversized boots, volunteered by the firefighters, covered her feet. Her tilt hat had been lost somewhere, probably engulfed in the house, and her curls were unrestrained. Unruly locks framed her streaked face like a mane. Her eyes were bloodshot, her elegant hands scratched and bruised.

  ‘I know you did, Inspector,’ Billie replied softly.

  The firefighters were walking over the paddocks now, putting out small spot fires. Parts of the homestead still smouldered, walls crackling and glowing orange. Above them, the air was heavy and dark, a smoky cloud hanging over the scene even as the early morning sunlight fought against it, the eternal battle between night and day playing out more violently than usual.

  ‘Please call me Hank.’

  Billie looked up at Cooper and nodded, and he put an arm around her shoulders, closing the blanket gently across her with his other broad hand. They stood in silence for a while, watching the scene, she cocooned in the blan
ket and in him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier,’ he said again.

  Her shivering stopped. She hadn’t even realised she was doing it. ‘I know, Hank,’ Billie said again. ‘I know.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Seeing as you don’t like to drink alone,’ Sam remarked, and grinned all the way up to the corners of his aquamarine eyes. They clinked beer mugs and Billie smiled back across the table at him as he downed another large mug of foaming ale.

  It was Friday, two and a half exhausting days since the fire and the discovery of the shed, and it was time to put the whole sordid affair to rest, time to somehow move on. In aid of that idea, Billie and her assistant had come downstairs to let off some tension in the billiards room in the basement of Daking House. Billie, true to her personal rule, was not drinking alone. Indeed, on this occasion she was in some wonderful company.

  ‘Your father would be proud,’ Baroness Ella von Hooft said, and instead of raising a glass she turned and loudly tried to order a bottle of champagne for the table for the second time. For the second time she was informed that the billiards room did not have any champagne. They didn’t have a waiter, either.

  ‘Good goddess, can’t you just sip what’s in front of you?’ Billie implored her mother. This wasn’t The Dancers, but under the circumstances that didn’t feel like a downgrade. Alma clinked her mug with Billie’s, and they each took generous sips, leaving Ella to crossly watch them from beneath her pencilled brows and flawless marcel waves.

  ‘I don’t think the waiting room will be empty again for a while,’ Sam said to everyone at the table. ‘Clients are lining up.’ He took another swig.

  That appeared to be true. While Billie had been in the Blue Mountains with Inspector Cooper and, later, had crept around Upper Colo, her assistant had fielded calls and visitors. The past two days had not slowed down, either. Word had spread about the spectacular fire and her uncovering of possible Nazi loot, and that along with the front-page coverage of the car chase had now attracted new clients. She’d not been entirely sure whether the publicity would scare people away or draw them in, but it had proved better than taking out an advertisement. In a way it was odd. Clients always wanted everything on the downlow and hush hush, yet with her sudden notoriety she had new cases lined up for weeks. The turn of events, professionally speaking, was cause for celebration, even if she hoped she wouldn’t need to investigate a similar case to keep Sydney calling on her little inquiry agency.

  She looked around the party of revellers packed like canned sardines in a cosy booth in the basement billiards joint. It was an eclectic group, rounded out by Shyla and Constable Primrose, who was downing the off-licence ale as fast as Sam could. Billie suspected such a group may never assemble in quite the same way again.

  Shyla, who did not drink alcohol, raised her glass of Cherry Cheer courteously. ‘Another?’ Billie suggested, and she shook her head. For someone who could kill a rapist stone dead with one swing, she was very quiet, at least in this company. Franz, and indeed the late Georges Boucher, had massively underestimated her. Perhaps Billie had, too. It was a quality that would come in handy in the trade, if she could convince Shyla to join the agency. So far, Shyla had refused. One thing they were in agreement on, however, was that it was a relief that news about the young girls had not hit the newspapers. Not yet anyway. The last thing they needed was the lack of privacy that would bring. Cooper had done well, if indeed it was him who had managed it. The Upper Colo fire and the discoveries at the house had attracted a lot of speculation. Ruthie had already found a new placement, but as for Ida and Eleanor, Billie knew only that they were in hospital being treated for shock and minor injuries, and Shyla would update her when she could.

  ‘To victory!’ Sam said in an overly loud voice, bringing to mind the cry of 1945 and the end of the war, so recent and yet a lifetime ago.

  ‘To victory,’ the rest of them said in surprising harmony, even Shyla joining in.

  They clinked glasses again and she smiled, trying to enjoy the moment of triumph.

  Victory, in reality, was a mixed affair, not quite the glorious beast the posters and the songs so fondly announced it to be. It was the end of something, yes, a victory over some things, but it was also a time to take stock, a time to bury the dead. There was Con Zervos, who might still be breathing had Billie not come asking questions of him. There was what Adin Brown had been through, and what those young girls Ida and Eleanor had endured, things no shout of victory could erase. The police weren’t finished with them all, either. There was the matter of Boucher’s demise, and how that might appear once the dust settled. Billie hoped it would be put down to panic in the fire, but he’d been a powerful man and that could spell trouble for a while, trouble she hoped she would be equal to. And there was the matter of identifying just who the man Franz was, and from whom he’d had help to acquire and ship so many precious things into Australia without attracting the attention of authorities. And there was the matter of Moretti. Yes, Moretti. She had a word or two for him. Was Franz the one paying him? How much had he known? Billie was going to see to it that he came to justice for his part in all this if it was the last thing she did.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Constable Primrose said, putting down her empty glass.

  Billie raised a brow. She was presented with a small package emblazoned with the word Tussy. ‘You didn’t . . .’

  ‘I did. I found one of the last sticks of Fighting Red.’ The constable smiled widely, her curls bouncing in her enthusiasm.

  ‘How?’

  She just smiled knowingly. Yes, she was a resourceful one, that Primrose. And she’d come through with the information on the owner of the car with plate XR-001, albeit too late as the drama unfolded in remote Upper Colo.

  ‘Pardon me, Billie. I should go,’ Shyla said, pulling Billie from her thoughts.

  Billie looked into the young woman’s deep caramel eyes, and they exchanged an unspoken understanding. ‘Thank you for coming. And thank you.’ She paused. ‘I will do what I can to keep searching for your brothers.’

  Shyla nodded. ‘Ruthie says hello. Things are better for her now,’ she said quietly.

  That could only be an understatement. The young woman had not been able to release the two girls herself in that isolated and violent place, but she’d alerted contacts of Shyla’s, and Shyla had in turn reached out to Billie. However Ruthie had managed it, she took a risk. She’d been brave. Franz was armed and had doubtless threatened them of severe consequences if they stepped out of line. If Ruthie hadn’t taken that chance, who knew how much longer they would have been trapped there? There was no way to undo what those girls had been through, but it was at an end now. The man responsible was in custody, and Boucher was no longer able to hurt anyone either. The rest of the men in that notebook? Well, there was a reckoning still to come.

  Constable Primrose was also making moves to leave. She flashed a toothy, gleaming smile. ‘Enjoy the lipstick. It’s good on you. I’m supposed to be off for the day, but I get the feeling Inspector Cooper might want some assistance. It’s a heck of a pickle, this whole thing, and having had him behind bars at Richmond.’ She blew some air out of her mouth, a silent whistle, then grabbed her things, gave Billie a hearty squeeze and went to follow Shyla up the stairs.

  ‘Wait. A pickle?’ Billie echoed, confused.

  Primrose bit her pink lower lip. ‘I’ve spoken out of turn,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, I’m sure. Billie, you really aced it. I’m so pleased for the Brown family. Sock it to those Nazi bastards,’ she added enthusiastically, punching the air, her blonde curls bouncing once more.

  ‘Indeed . . . but what did you mean by it all being a pickle?’ Billie pressed, feeling anxiety building in her gut. Primrose was not forthcoming, bidding her friend adieu and clattering up the staircase.

  Billie exhaled heavily and moved closer to her mother on the bench, feeling the tension of the past few days sliding back in. Now she worried that
there was something she wasn’t being told.

  ‘What is it?’ Sam asked her.

  In lieu of answering, she picked up her beer mug, examined its state of unacceptable emptiness with an exaggeratedly arched brow, and her assistant dutifully filled it again. He seemed to glean what was needed by way of osmosis, yet another quality to recommend him. Ella raised a pencilled eyebrow at Billie, then glanced meaningfully at Sam. Alma, catching the exchange, shook her head ruefully and clinked glasses with Billie, who chose to ignore her mother’s pointed signals.

  ‘I could sleep for a week,’ Billie remarked, and meant it.

  The celebration was winding down when the door to the street opened once more. Billie was surprised when Detective Inspector Hank Cooper appeared in front of their booth and offered a good-natured if restrained greeting to the dwindling group.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ Billie said, sliding out from the bench seat. The ale had gone to her head, and that didn’t seem to be a terrible thing for the moment. She’d been thinking over her plans for the night. Would she go home, or try to coax the inspector out for a meal? He’d refused her in the Blue Mountains, but perhaps he wouldn’t now.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay,’ Cooper said, and remained standing. Billie frowned. Something in his expression made her excuse herself from the table and go to his side. This wasn’t a social visit, evidently. Perhaps this was about the charred body of Georges Boucher, if they had identified him. She was quietly pleased at Shyla’s timing, not wanting her around when the subject inevitably came up.

  Billie and the inspector made their way over to an unoccupied pool table, and she fished a cool ball out of the recesses of a corner netting. An eight ball. ‘I could be mistaken, but I got an inkling from Constable Primrose that something might be wrong,’ she said in her most restrained voice, holding the black ball and considering its meaning. Cooper did not answer her, which did not help the sense she had that all was not well.