by Evans, Ilsa
I examined the spade for living occupancy before beating it against a tree, the looser fecal matter flying off into the garden. Quinn was standing by the car, frowning, the driver’s side open so that she could press the horn. Her face cleared when she saw me. ‘God, Mum, you gave me a fright! I thought you’d been kidnapped!’
‘Good lord. What have you been watching?’
She grinned sheepishly. ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’
I wiped the spade against a rough-barked pine and then wrapped it in a recyclable grocery bag from the boot. After storing both implements, I slid into the car and turned to face my daughter. ‘Did you use the spade to de-poo the backyard?’
‘You told me to!’
‘Did I also tell you to put it away covered with crap? Literally?’
‘Well, you didn’t tell me not to.’
I stared at her, and took a deep breath to underline the message. I knew from experience it wasn’t worth verbalising anything that could lead to a debate. Quinn was quite skilled at debate, and didn’t seem to have grasped the concept that sometimes a simple apology was the easier option. I removed Abracadabra from my bag and opened it to page six before passing it across. She read while I drove, the silence permeated by an increasingly pungent reminder that my clean-up job had been less than thorough. I wound my window down.
*
Sheridan House, also known as the Majic Community Centre, was situated alongside the football oval just behind the main street. It was a bizarrely beautifully building, with panels of red brick within creamy render and plump, forest-green domes crowning an assortment of rounded rooms on the second and third floors. It had been gifted to the town by the Sheridan family about a century ago, and had since done service as a school, a hospice and, for the past fifty years, as the community centre.
While the centre occupied the majority of the ground floor, along with some smaller organisations, such as the Citizens Advice Bureau, and the second was made up of larger function rooms, the third floor had been given over to any not-for-profit organisations willing to stake a claim. The Wine and Cheese Society, Fellowship of Northern Writers, Trauma Survival Support and Paranormal Activity Appreciation were just some of the community groups that shared a rabbit warren of cubicles. In fact, the only local clubs not in residence were those with my mother as secretary, which were bullied into holding their meetings in the back room of Renaissance.
The centre was busy this morning, with the usual activities plus various groups working on projects for the commemoration. I stopped to watch half a dozen women who were piecing together a patchwork of crochet squares in the centre hall. The overall picture appeared to feature a galloping horse with rather protuberant eyes. Unfortunately one of the rear legs was considerably shorter than the others, giving it the appearance of a well-endowed amputee.
‘It’s a horse,’ said Grace June Rae, rather needlessly. She was one of the older members of my Monday afternoon book club. ‘Except Loretta needs more leg.’
Loretta Emerson sniffed. ‘Only because I was given the wrong measurements.’
‘It still looks … effective. Compelling.’ I shifted my gaze away from the horse’s eyes. ‘Ah, Grace, did you know that the Caldwells have lost a dog like the one you found?’
‘Good-o! I’ll ring this afternoon. That old dog’s eating me out of house and home.’
‘The note was right next to the one you … never mind. Loretta, do you know if there’re any historical people upstairs?’
‘Always,’ said Loretta with feeling. Her husband was a founding member of the society. ‘Actually I think the mayor’s up there too.’
‘C’mon,’ hissed Quinn from behind me. She was holding a pyramid of possessions: the box containing the plaque, Abracadabra, and her mobile phone. The latter was vibrating skittishly and, according to the screen, Griffo was calling. Interesting.
I said my goodbyes, sprinkling a few more compliments regarding their project, and then Quinn and I trudged up the three flights. There was an elevator, but it was so slow and noisy that most patrons emerged at their destination with some degree of temporary hearing loss. Instead I arrived out of breath, a clear sign that I needed to spend more time at the gym. Which probably meant I would have to join one.
The ample proportions of Edward Given came into view, standing at the third-floor elevator and jabbing at the down button as if the device fed on urgency. He looked across and beamed. ‘Nell! How are you?’
‘Good thanks.’ I paused, glad of the chance to regulate my breathing. ‘And you?’
‘Can’t complain. Although I’ve been having some trouble with my back, most annoying. The doctor says I have the spine of a ninety-year-old.’
‘Better than having no spine at all,’ I replied, rather wittily. I had known Edward Given for as long as I could remember. He grew up on the same street, attended the same school, we were even occasionally in the same class. Nevertheless, we had never been friends, exactly, but even as a child this had nothing to with his obesity and everything to do with his temperament. Edward, or Ned as he preferred to be called, was a gossip. And this tendency was oiled, albeit lightly, by a maliciousness that set my teeth on edge.
‘True, true. And how’s Darcy going then? Heard from him lately?’
I blinked. Darcy was my husband, or rather my ex-husband, given he had deserted the marital nest over a year ago. ‘Yes, actually. All the time. He rings regularly.’
‘Can we go?’ Quinn nudged my foot with her shoe. She was frowning.
‘Good idea.’ I returned my gaze to Ned. ‘We’re off to the Historical Society to see Sam Emerson.’
‘Oh, I’ve just come from there. I’m the secretary, you know.’
‘Really? I thought you were more involved in the Richard the Third Society.’
‘Plenty of room for both.’ Ned beamed, even his chins stretching into a smile. ‘It’s the history that draws me in. The people. What did you want to see Sam for? Maybe I can help?’
‘No,’ said Quinn rudely. She hugged her box to her chest.
‘What my daughter means,’ I added, ‘is thank you for your offer but we’ve lined up our visit now. It’s just for a school project.’
‘Well in that case I’ll leave you to it.’ Ned jabbed at the elevator button again and this time was rewarded by the grinding sound of gears somewhere in the bowels of the building. ‘Sam’s there. Just barge right in. And say hi to Darcy next time you speak. Tell him we all miss him around here.’
Quinn nudged my foot again, this time a little harder. I took a deep breath and smiled a polite farewell at Ned. Breaking news. Twenty-stone man falls from third-floor balcony. Police suspect gravity.
The Majic Historical Society occupied one of the prized rooms towards the front of Sheridan House, with curved walls and mullioned windows. It was run entirely by volunteers, but such was their dedication that there was more likely to be somebody in residence than not. Today was a full house, with five people having what appeared to be a meeting. I recognised Sam Emerson and Willy Akermann, who was the manager of Sheridan House, along with his wife Leisl and the mayor, James Sheridan. The latter was a dapper man who reminded me of Fred Astaire, and his bountiful smile adorned so many posters that even kindergarteners knew who he was. They looked up as I came to a halt in the doorway.
‘Ah, sorry. I’ll come back later.’ I tried to reverse but unfortunately Quinn was so close that I stepped on a good part of her foot. She yelped.
‘No, no,’ said James Sheridan, his smile settling. ‘We were due for a break anyway.’
Sam rose. ‘Just doing some planning. So what brings you here, Nell?’
Quinn poked me in the back with her burden and I stepped forward, releasing her foot. ‘If you’re sure? Quinn just has a couple of questions – for a school assignment.’
‘You’re the writer,’ commented the one person I didn’t know, a middle-aged blonde whose dove-grey roots matched her suit. ‘I’m Deb Taylor.’ She smiled and t
hen coughed, as if wanting to foreshadow her next words. ‘I think you know my sister, Tessa Sheridan?’
I stared at her, taken aback. ‘No, not really. Under the circumstances.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Quinn squeezed past to look Deb Taylor up and down slowly, with teenage expertise, before turning away. Her victim flushed.
Leisl Akermann cleared her throat. ‘I might make a pot of coffee. At the risk of sounding sexist, Deb, want to give me a hand?’
‘Nothing sexist about it,’ replied Deb Taylor, rising. ‘I’ve tasted the coffee from both these guys. So it’s just respect for the miracle bean, and a desire for survival.’
Laughter greeted her comment, which splintered the unease. The two women left, Leisl giving me a wry smile as I moved aside.
‘Hello, Nell,’ said Will Akermann. Frilly Willy, we used to call him in school, after his mother once dressed him as Little Lord Fauntleroy for a dress-up party, complete with broderie anglaise collar. The name stuck, mostly because it seemed to suit his fussy manner – an attribute that came into its own when he took over Sheridan House about twenty years ago. It ran like clockwork.
‘Hi, Will. I bet things are a little hectic at the moment?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘So, young Quinn,’ said Sam Emerson, ‘what’s this project all about then?’
Quinn shuffled her feet and then took a half-step closer to me.
‘She has to find an unusual fact about Petar Majic,’ I said. ‘So we went to the cemetery yesterday to take photos and, well …’ I glanced at Quinn. She looked about five years old. I turned back. ‘The plaque was loose. You know, the one with his name and dates and all that. It fell off while we were there. Hit the ground and broke in half. Anyway, beneath was another inscription. It says Petar Majic, tragically taken 1 April 1867. Beloved.’
They stared at me. Sam Emerson opened his mouth and closed it again, frowned.
Will steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘Um, Nell. Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I snapped. I took the box from Quinn and removed the two plaque halves, laying them on the table before sliding them together. ‘We thought it best to take this with us, so that it couldn’t get damaged.’
‘Any further,’ added James Sheridan softly.
‘Correct. And Quinn has photos of the inscription. Show them, Quinn.’
Quinn stepped forward with her phone, held it up to Sam and then lowered it for the two men still seated. They leant forward.
‘Well, well, well.’ Sam took Quinn’s hand and guided it back towards him. ‘Beloved. Why would it say beloved?’
I nodded. ‘Exactly what we were wondering. Wasn’t he a bachelor? That’s what it says in Abracadabra.’ I gestured towards Quinn, who held up the book with her free hand.
Will’s fingers were still steepled. ‘More to the point, why cover the inscription up?’
‘Perhaps the beloved refers to something else,’ said James Sheridan. His smile had vanished. ‘Like general admiration from those left behind.’
‘Then why wouldn’t it say that instead?’ I watched him with some interest. It was clear that his mind was working rapidly, probably three steps ahead of the other two. ‘Like Much Admired, or Respected, or Sorely Missed. But Beloved?’
Sam finally managed to extract the phone from Quinn’s hand. ‘This is amazing! Absolutely amazing! We have so little from Petar’s life. Plenty from the Sheridan era –’ he paused to nod towards James, as if he were personally responsible for this largesse ‘– but just the bare basics from the Majic one.’
‘So you think he was married then?’ asked Quinn, speaking for the first time.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said James Sheridan quickly. ‘There’s no evidence to support it. And if so, what happened to his wife after his death?’
‘Have we actually ever done a search for a marriage certificate?’ Sam was staring at Will, who seemed to be a fellow member of the Historical Society as well as centre manager. ‘I mean it’s always been accepted he was single. But did we ever really check?’
‘I’m quite sure somebody would have.’
Sam sat down at one of the desks and began typing on the computer. ‘Give me a sec and I’ll do it now.’ He turned to face me for a moment. ‘Marriage records from 1853 onwards are all online nowadays. I can track a marriage down in five minutes.’
I nodded, suitably impressed. Will and the mayor were gazing at the photo on the mobile that Sam had left lying on the table, comparing it to the plaque. I glanced around the room. It was quite large, with desks on either side of the door and the table nestled in the curve of the window. The walls were either covered with bookshelves or with noticeboards, some glass-covered. There were also some portable display boards, huge, about six of them, arranged in a half-octagon that loomed over the table. They were covered with sepia photographs and certificates and newspaper printouts. Each board also bore a title, printed on parchment in gothic font. James Sheridan I (1835–1908); James Sheridan II (1867–1916); James Sheridan III (1898–1916) & Mary May Sheridan (1897–1990); Sheridans: post-Sheridan House.
‘It all seems rather egocentric, doesn’t it?’ asked James Sheridan, watching me.
‘They’re actually for a display about Sheridan House itself,’ said Will. ‘The rest are already downstairs. But this series is ordered around the Sheridan in residence, up until the house was gifted in 1917. That’s why our James isn’t featured –’ he nodded towards the mayor ‘– nor his father.’
‘Except in Sheridans: Post-Sheridan House,’ I commented.
‘We’re expecting people to be a little interested in the family,’ said Sam, his eyes still on the computer monitor. ‘After following their history through the other boards. It’s all a little Downton Abbey.’
James Sheridan laughed. ‘Except that we’re far more prosaic, I’m afraid.’
‘So you’re like James Sheridan the Fifth?’ asked Quinn. ‘And what’s with Mary May?’
‘Yes, to the first. And Mary May was my grandmother. Her brother, the James Sheridan of that generation, was killed in the First World War. His father died a few months later; he never recovered from the news. So Mary May inherited the lot. Fortunately she was a tough cookie; the first thing she did was make her fiancé change his surname to Sheridan. Then they named their son James to keep the tradition going.’
‘Phew,’ I said. ‘Thank god.’
He smiled, but it wasn’t quite the bountiful one of habit. ‘Yes.’
‘But what about Petar Majic?’ asked Quinn.
‘He’s downstairs,’ said Will, ‘That is, his board is downstairs. Not him.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Sam fervently, swivelling his chair around. ‘Now, bad news I’m afraid. No marriage.’
I was surprised at how disappointed I felt. If only because I suspected a clandestine marriage would have perturbed James Sheridan the Fifth, and I had never quite taken to him. He was a little too slick, too political. It would have been amusing to watch him negotiate a question mark over the legitimacy of his inheritance. Very amusing indeed.
Quinn’s mobile began vibrating and she dived forward to reclaim it. The door opened and Edward Given came in, followed by Leisl and Deb Taylor, the former bearing a plastic tray with a coffee plunger and six mugs. Sachets of sugar were piled in the centre. Leisl looked surprised to see me, and then apologetic. ‘Oh, sorry, Nell – I didn’t realise you’d still be here. I’ll grab another mug.’
‘That’s okay, I’m just about to –’
‘Still here, Nell?’ said Ned, sliding into Sam’s vacated seat at the table and unwrapping a sandwich. Lettuce curled along the side of the bread. ‘That must be some project.’
‘It is,’ said Sam fervently. He stood up, patting his pants pockets and looking around. ‘I’m going out there. Not that I don’t believe you, Nell, just that I want to see the inscription for myself. Will?’
‘I wish I co
uld. But I can’t. No time.’
‘I’ll come along,’ said the mayor unexpectedly. ‘I find all of this fascinating.’
‘What?’ asked Ned, his sandwich forgotten. ‘What’s fascinating?’
‘Nell has made an amazing discovery out at the cemetery.’
‘Actually, it was me,’ said Quinn modestly, glancing up from her mobile. ‘Mum was just sitting on the bench.’
‘In that case I shall ensure you get all the credit,’ replied Sam. ‘James? Ready?’
Leisl put the tray down on the table. ‘What amazing discovery? What’s going on?’
‘Vandalism?’ Deb Taylor had picked up one half of the plaque between two fingers.
‘Look, we might leave you to it.’ I took a step towards the doorway. ‘I’ll drop in tomorrow with our questions, Sam, after you’ve had a look yourself.’
‘That’s from Petar Majic’s grave,’ said Ned, pointing at the broken plaque. He rewrapped his sandwich and then pushed his chair out in order to stand. ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I’m coming too. This sounds exciting.’
‘It may well be.’ Sam patted his pockets again. ‘Where are my keys? Leisl, do you know where the camera kit is?’
Leisl folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ll tell you if you tell me. And I know it’s not just vandalism. I haven’t seen you this excited since they found Richard the Third’s remains.’
I caught Quinn’s eye and gestured towards the door. We made our exit quietly, although any noise would have been drowned out by the conversation now taking place. Quinn continued to text as we walked, no doubt catching up on the fifteen minutes she had been incommunicado. I stopped at the bathroom, leaving Quinn outside, and then folded myself forward as I sat down, staring at the tiled floor. I wondered if Deb Taylor would mention to her sister that she had run into me today, and whether Tessa would feel even a frisson of guilt. Or perhaps she would simply take it in her stride. Oh, really, dahling? How awkward. Then she would sashay over to their designer kitchen to pour margaritas, which she would take to the balcony of the tenth-floor Gold Coast apartment. Sinking down into a chaise longue to enjoy the sun dipping into a diamond-sprinkled coastline. With my husband.