Ill-Gotten Gains

by Evans, Ilsa

  I froze, still staring at Edward, and then slowly, reluctantly, let my eyes track around the group now forming on the footpath. Older woman, no doubt Edward’s wife. Safe. Younger woman, around forty. Not so safe. Generous breasts amplified by a baby-doll top that also hugged a just-rounded stomach. Thin legs, honey-dyed hair, blue eyes. Staring at me.

  ‘Nell? Is that you?’ The last member of the group strode forward and unceremoniously lifted my hat. ‘My god, it is! What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ I snatched the hat from Darcy and rammed it back on my head. Bad enough that for a few seconds I looked like a dark-haired version of Ronald McDonald, but even a glance told me that he, on the other hand, was looking remarkably good. Slimmer than the last time I had seen him, a little tanned, a little younger.

  He frowned, and dropped his voice. ‘Nell … you’re not, um, spying on me, are you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The outfit.’ He waved a hand, finishing with a finger pointed at my hat. ‘Being here. You’re not going to make things awkward, are you?’

  ‘You have to be kidding.’ I drew myself up, bewilderment blossoming into anger. ‘Let me tell you something, bucko. If I was going to spy on you, I would have done it years ago. When it meant something. You know, like when you were sleeping with her.’ I paused to nod my head towards Tessa who, with her parents, had moved back a few steps. I raised my voice to finish the sentence. ‘And the others. Why the hell would I spy on you now? Especially when I’ve just discovered how much fun I’ve been missing.’ I grinned as his face tightened almost imperceptibly. ‘That’s right. And FYI, if I did choose to spy on you, you wouldn’t even know I was there.’

  ‘But then why –’

  ‘Oh, and heaven forbid that I should make things awkward.’

  The cafe door opened and Petra came out, holding a tray with coffee and muffins. She stopped when she saw my face and then followed my gaze. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Darcy and his paramour.’

  ‘Hello, Petra.’

  Tessa stepped forward to stand beside my husband. ‘Sorry, but I prefer partner, thanks.’

  ‘I imagine you do,’ said Petra, placing the tray carefully on our table and taking a seat. She crossed her legs and smiled up at Tessa. ‘However I suppose that’s the type of thing we sacrifice when we take up with married men. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Hey!’ Darcy held up his hand like a traffic policeman. ‘Stop! I thought we’d moved on from this. I thought, after we all sat down for Christmas dinner, that …’

  ‘It’d be happy families?’ I said derisively. Even as the words left my mouth, I realised that was exactly what he had thought. Or near enough. As far as he was concerned, everything was done and dusted. No residual feelings, no lingering sense of betrayal, no need for guilt. I shook my head in disbelief. ‘God, Darcy, the only thing that simple is you.’

  The older couple had been hanging back throughout the conversation. Both looked like they would rather be anywhere else. Now Edward Sheridan moved forward and laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Tess, love, why don’t we go somewhere else for breakfast? Let these ladies have theirs in peace.’

  Tessa nodded. She looked at me as if she would like to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally she turned, but not before she made a gesture that, if deliberate, was extremely bitchy – she stroked her belly. I flushed.

  ‘Sorry it was …’ Darcy took a deep breath. ‘I’m just sorry. See you soon.’

  Petra passed over my coffee as we watched them walk down the street. When they continued, I realised they must be heading towards the pub on the corner of Sheridan Lane, which meant they would have to walk past Renaissance. I couldn’t quite make out who was manning the outside sales area but thought it might be Ruby.

  ‘What an idiot,’ said Petra.

  On reaching the bookshop, the group merged into an amorphous lump for about three long minutes before breaking apart again. They rounded the corner soon after and Ruby, who had remained still, went into the shop.

  ‘Do you have her mobile number on your phone?’ I asked.

  Petra fished it out of her bag and set up the message before passing it over. ‘He just doesn’t think, does he? Like he could have invited the girls to this breakfast. Broken the ice.’

  I keyed slowly. Are you okay? My thumbs always felt deformed when I was texting and it didn’t help that my hands were trembling. I glanced back down the street and sighed. ‘He looks good, though. Healthy. Slimmer.’

  ‘Let’s see how good he looks when the baby arrives. That’ll be amusing.’

  ‘Oh yes. Absolutely. I’ll be rolling on the floor.’

  Petra glanced at me sympathetically as she broke a piece off her muffin. Blueberries glistened. ‘If it’s any comfort, as bad as you feel having seen him, I guarantee she feels worse having seen you.’

  ‘Yes, that is a comfort.’

  ‘Anyway, after a while you’ll get desensitised to seeing them. You’ll have to.’

  My stomach twisted. The future loomed; bumping into Darcy outside the council offices, having Tessa pop into Renaissance for a book, passing them as they pushed their pram down the street. Even when I didn’t see them, every trip to town would be framed by the possibility. The mobile vibrated with a message from Ruby. Yes.

  ‘Let’s forget about Darcy,’ said Petra with a flick of her hand. ‘He’s already taken up more than his fair share of our time. Let’s talk about Avery instead. Want the details?’

  ‘Avery?’ I frowned, and then the distinctive name fell into place with a clunk. Avery Logan, eloper of yore, partner of Matija. An excellent distraction. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  Petra took a sip of coffee. ‘Okay. Well, we’d just started to pack up so it was Lew who found him. Avery left Majic in 1884, that’s why it took so long. Anyway, so he was fourteen years older than Matija and he’d also been married before. Had a few kids he’d left behind.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising.’

  ‘It isn’t. But there was plenty of detail available because one of the descendants of those other kids is obviously into family history. Anyway, Deb and I jumped back online and between us, we pieced together a potted history. It seems Avery was working as a surveyor in Majic for six months, leaving in October 1884. Then all of a sudden in February he and Matija get married, which suggests they stayed in contact. Personally I think she had daddy issues.’

  ‘Possibly.’ I cut my muffin in half and applied butter liberally. ‘But why did he marry her?’

  ‘What, apart from the fact she was eighteen years old and hot?’ Petra grinned. ‘Funny you might ask. On another website was a short letter written to Mr Avery Logan in March 1885 – by none other than James Sheridan Senior.’

  Now she had my undivided attention. ‘Then he did know where she was.’

  ‘Yes. Not only that, but the letter is clearly a reply. My guess is that Avery thought Matija came with money because that’s what the letter mostly addresses, very curtly. Puts him right in his place. No money, no support. He also says that he, James, considers his duty to an old friend, no doubt meaning her father Petar, ended with her marriage. That she was Avery’s responsibility now.’

  ‘But it was her money!’

  ‘Yes. So anyway, Prince Charming shot through the following year. The next mention of him is in North Queensland in October 1886.’

  I shook my head. ‘I hope he was eaten by a crocodile. What about Matija? Why didn’t she go home then?’

  ‘From the tone of that letter, I don’t think James would’ve let her. Maybe she even tried and he turned her away.’ Petra broke off a piece of muffin but didn’t eat it. ‘She died in November 1888 at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne. She was registered as destitute. It was typhoid, like her mother. She was twenty-one.’

  ‘That’s … awful.’ A surge of bile-soaked anger brought tears to my eyes. They burnt with injustice. It didn’t matter that she had married a fortune hunter rather tha
n his son, it was her money. Instead she had had a grossly unfair hell of a life and as far as I was concerned, James Sheridan killed her. Doubts might remain over the death of the father, but not of the daughter. The anger receded slowly, leaving a gritty sadness in its wake. Twenty-one. Just a touch older than Lucy.

  ‘You’ve forgotten something,’ said Petra.

  I stared at my plate, where just a tumble of crumbs remained. ‘What?’

  ‘Not that. Remember what Deb said at the centre? There was a child.’

  ‘A child!’

  ‘Yes, but don’t get too excited.’ Petra’s mouth flattened. ‘There’s every chance the child died around the same time, or just after. There’s no death certificate. It was a girl by the way, named Alice May Logan. Born 31 December 1885. New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘How on earth did you lot find all this in – what? Ten minutes?’

  ‘Once we had Matija’s name, everything else just fell into our laps. Her death certificate listed where she died and the cause, and also her issue. Then it was just a matter of looking for Alice Logan, but there was nothing. Well, not yet. Lew said we shouldn’t give up.’

  ‘On what?’ asked Yen, looming across the table.

  ‘Ah, just a distant relative of the Sheridans. We’re doing some research.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked at me searchingly and then transferred her gaze to Petra. ‘And in what way were you two involved in Will Akermann’s arrest?’

  I gaped at her. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t. But I do now.’

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ Petra pointed to Yen’s lilac windcheater, which had One hundred and fifty years of Majic! scrawled in silver italics across the chest.

  ‘It’s good for business.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’ Yen focused on me. ‘I thought I spoke to you about getting involved in this sort of thing?’

  ‘Yen, I’m forty-seven years old. I can make my own decisions.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me your age, I’d forgotten. It’s not like I was there at the time.’ Her eyes slid briefly to Petra. ‘Now let me tell you both something: I have no intention of having a child predecease me. If anything happens to either of you because of your silly research or whatever it is, I shall be extremely put out. Understand?’

  I nodded, deciding not to point out that if anything did happen to either of us, we probably wouldn’t care if she was put out. ‘Yen, Will’s been arrested. The danger’s over.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she replied shortly. ‘Anyway, is this research really so fascinating? I mean, the Sheridan family are mostly tedious. Nell, are you sure you’re not doing this because of your ex-husband?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘First, you know his name. Second, we’re not divorced so he’s not technically my ex-husband. And third, no. No, I’m not.’

  ‘So then you admit you’re not sure. Interesting.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘By the way, I spoke to Ross Charles – he works at the real estate agency with the shops. He isn’t the actual agent but he said they’ve been on the books for a while and though the seller isn’t strapped for cash, he does want to offload them. He thinks they’ll be quite negotiable on price.’

  ‘Oh, excellent.’ I’d actually forgotten about the shops. The thought gave me a warm feeling, which was doubly pleasant given the outdoor heater wasn’t very effective.

  ‘Now I’d better be off. Some people have to work for a living.’

  We watched her head back down the street towards Renaissance. She put on a burst of speed as a few shoppers stopped to peruse the outdoor display.

  ‘One more coffee,’ said Petra, rising. ‘Then I’ll take you home.’

  I wrapped my coat a little more securely and leant back in my seat. A white van drove past with the Channel Seven News logo emblazoned on the side. It seemed the media were interested at last. The van turned left, towards Sheridan House. I could see Elsa Poxleitner among a group at the end of the arcade. Their heads turned as one to watch the van go past and then, like a flock of excited chickens, followed. I thought of poor Deb, who would be juggling all the final preparations plus the excitement over Will’s arrest, and now the media also. And I wondered whether she knew her sister was back in town.

  I closed my eyes tiredly, but even the lids felt heavy. Will Akermann, murderer. I would never have looked in his direction but that didn’t really mean much. I did seem to be particularly lacking when it came to intuition. And the Discovery was now out in the open anyway, or soon would be, so it was all for nothing. It occurred to me that we had started this journey by searching for Kata, even if we hadn’t yet known her name, and then shifted to her daughter, Matija. Now, it was the turn of her daughter. Alice May Logan. I fervently hoped that there would be more shifts to come, and that she was not the end of the line. Because I wanted a whole reunion of Majic descendants, and I wanted them to flood the town and face up to the Sheridans. After one hundred and fifty years, it was about time that justice was served.

  Chapter Twenty

  A joke for your competition: a middle-aged woman has a near-death experience where God says to her, ‘Go back, my dear, it’s not your time for fifty more years.’ Thrilled, the woman decides that with so much life, she might as well have a makeover. She dyes her hair, has a facelift, boob lift, liposuction, collagen implants. Shortly afterwards she is crossing the road when she is hit – smack! – by a truck and killed. At the pearly gates she says, ‘But, God, you said I had fifty more years!’ ‘Sorry, my dear,’ replies God. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

  I slept for eleven hours, which was a record for the past twenty years. Unfortunately, given I crawled into bed at four-thirty in the afternoon, this meant I woke in the very early hours of the following morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not a common state for me regardless. I lay in bed for a while thinking about Ruby, and whether proffering overseas aid might not be a learning experience for her; or whether those requiring such aid hadn’t already suffered enough. From there it was a smooth segue to Scarlet and Lucy, and how odd it felt to have your babies having babies. I could not imagine either of them with a child, but I suspected that was more my problem than theirs.

  After twenty minutes or so I decided I had not been supportive enough and made a mental note to look at Ruby’s website, then ask the other two when their initial ultrasounds were due, whether they wanted company, what I could do. But the situation was complicated by Lucy. Any impulse to rush out and buy baby outfits or toys or any requisite paraphernalia was tempered by having to avoid insensitivity. And I myself was conflicted; on the one hand I admired her decision and recognised it was a sound one given the circumstances, but on the other I was beginning to realise that I really, really, wanted her to keep it.

  Matija slipped like quicksilver into my head and I wondered how she must have felt, relinquishing her own child. From some research undertaken years ago, for an article on diseases that no longer packed their previous punch, I knew that typhoid was a dreadful illness that got steadily worse over about four weeks. Symptoms were obvious from the first. Even if Matija hadn’t remembered her own mother’s death, she would have known something was seriously wrong. Typhoid outbreaks were common, especially before Melbourne gained a sewage system later that century.

  It must have been agony, not just the illness but the knowledge that soon her daughter would be utterly alone. No father, no family, no support. Postponing hospitalisation as long as possible would not have been an option, as it came with the risk of infecting others. Unless Matija knew someone willing to take the child, it was likely she either relinquished her to an orphanage herself or had the decision taken out of her hands. If I was her, I would then have simply curled into a corner. The agony of the separation, and knowing the bleak childhood in store for my baby, would have made me pray that death came fast.

  The bed was uncomfortable now. I rose and had a slow shower, w
elcoming a brief respite from the collar. My right leg ached and I guessed I’d pulled a muscle when I’d managed to fall on top of it yesterday. I rubbed in some ointment and watched the flesh wobble, which didn’t help my mood. Finally I dressed and wandered down to my study to turn on the computer. From the flurry of emails that dropped into my inbox, it seemed I had been the only one sleeping.

  From: Ali Cornish

  Date: Thursday 16 August 2012 4.46PM

  To: Nell Forrest

  Subject: re: updated publicity photo

  Dear Nell,

  There is a bit of noise down here about a presumed murder-suicide in your lovely little town that may have actually been a double murder? The word is that those involved were members of some secret society and there was a deep dark historical secret? I was wondering if (a) you knew anything about it, (b) thought there might be a feature article there, and (c) had time to write something up quickly. I can send a photographer up tomorrow. Let me know asap.

  Best,

  Ali

  Ali Cornish

  Features Editor

  From: Lucy

  Date: Thursday 16 August 2012 6.20PM

  To: Nell

  Subject: Dad

  I hate him.

  Love,

  Lucy

  xxxxooxxx

  From: ashley.armistead@police.vic.gov.au