by Evans, Ilsa
Date: Thursday 16 August 2012 7.05PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: further information required
I have tried both your landline and your mobile but neither appear to be functional. Please confirm receipt of this email. We would appreciate if you could attend the station at some time tomorrow to elaborate on a few things in your statement. Just tying up loose ends. Does 11 am suit?
Ashley Armistead Detective Sergeant
Northern Metropolitan Region
Victoria Police
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday 16 August 7.12AM
To: Nell
Subject: further questioning?
Did you get asked to come down to the station tomorrow for more questions???!!! Ashley Armistead just called me and I’m a little freaked out! Not helped by Lew being so distracted by his Alice research that he’d barely notice if I was arrested. But Nell, I’ve never been asked to ‘come down to the station’ in my life. And the timing! Words cannot express the debacle at the centre today, and tomorrow will be worse. Perhaps I will turn to a life of crime. It’s got to be easier.
Deb
PS Awkward stuff but I thought I should let you know that my sister is in town for a week.
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday 16 August 8.26PM
To: Mum
Subject: Goodnight!
Dad and Tessa told us about the baby. I think I’m going to vomit. We went out to dinner with them. Dad was really mean to Lucy, too. Can I come back with you after the thing in town tomorrow night? I’m sick of it here. Don’t tell Ruby and Lucy.
Love,
Quinn
From: Petra
Date: Thursday 16 August 2012 9.11PM
To: Nell
Subject: Looking good
Why do you even have phones??? Got a call from your lover and he wants to meet up tomorrow. Must be my fatal charm. Sorry about that. I spoke to your real estate guy – looks very promising. He’s going to show us through 10 am Monday. How tired are you? I can barely keep my eyes open!
Cheers,
Petra
From: Darcy
Date: Thursday 16 August 2012 9.43PM
To: Nell
Subject: What the hell?
Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Lucy? What’s going on here, Nell? I know you feel aggrieved and no doubt you have cause, but I thought we were moving on? At least for the sake of the girls! Instead I find you’re playing games. Not impressed.
Darcy
From: [email protected]
Date: Friday 17 August 1.12AM
To: Nell
Subject: update
Good news & bad news. Alice May Logan does not appear in any orphanages etc. But I’ve found another reference to Matilda. She’s mentioned on an 1887 order requiring her to ‘prove by evidence of a medical practitioner that she be free from syphilis’. That means she was working as a prostitute. Her address is given as Little Bourke Street, pretty notorious for brothels then. However there’s a note re a dependent child in Dudley Flats (a slum area of the city), for whom she is paying boarding fees. No other details but little doubt it’s Alice. Best-case scenario is she continued there after M’s death the following year, probably unlikely given it was a business arrangement. Worst is she died off record, not uncommon for a child left without support. Poor little bugger. I’ll keep looking but am running out of avenues. Off to bed now.
Lew
I dropped into the computer chair. Matija, that bright-eyed little girl leaning on her mother’s knee, had become a prostitute. How long after Avery’s desertion had that seemed a viable solution? Was that why she had never returned to Majic, or had she been turned away? What about James Junior, with his heartfelt ‘the door is always open’, why hadn’t she tried knocking there? Or maybe the door had only been open while her purity was intact. It was all so dreadfully sad, even though the main players had been dead for many years. Not to mention infuriatingly unfair.
My sigh carried the weight of women through history. I went out to the kitchen and made coffee, then sat in the family room. With the lights on, the darkness of the windows framed my own reflection. I looked better a little blurred. I ran my fingers through my hair and watched as the window gave me a halo. Had Matija grown up to resemble her mother, with those batwing brows and pewter eyes? Had Alice? Or perhaps she never had the chance to grow up at all, instead vanishing into the fabric of a society where poverty devoured compassion. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, survival of the fittest.
I sipped my coffee, trying to concentrate on anything other than Matija and her child. God knew I had enough on my plate. But each time I forcibly moved her to one side, thinking instead about my own offspring, particularly the expectant two and the one who was planning to flit overseas and offer aid, or Darcy, or my father’s shop, Matija slithered back into focus. Touting for custom along Little Bourke Street, staring at the blood on her handkerchief, sitting on the side of a makeshift bed and gazing helplessly at her daughter, trying to weigh up her limited options.
What a pity she never did the horizontal limbo with young James. If she had, she might have been able to shift paternity. There were no DNA tests back then. At least she would have died knowing the child was secure, even if the elder James was still around. It might not have been moral, but then nothing in this story was. I played with the thought while I made toast and then, midway between the buttering and the eating, it took hold. Once it did, it started to actually make sense.
Because who was to say that she hadn’t? After all, they were engaged for some time, plus both young and living in the same house. And there did seem to be some level of community disapproval of Matija. According to Betty Rawlings’ grandmother, it was ‘like mother, like daughter’, while the original Svetlana used words like ‘the girl’ rather than ‘young lady’, while clearly sympathetic to the Sheridans. Feelings run high for the family who have long been thought badly used. The key word being ‘long’, suggesting that Matija’s approval rating had been shaky even prior to flight. If this censure had anything to do with a general generosity, then there was every chance she had also been generous with the strapping young lad who was on hand. So to speak.
I took my toast over to the couch, my depression having been blunted by a bubbling excitement. Matija was property-less, motherless and essentially fatherless; her only currency would have been sex appeal and the discovery must have seemed like power. After a bleak childhood, who could really blame her? Perhaps she was searching for romance, or security, or family – and perhaps, like vulnerable girls everywhere, she was naive enough to think she could trade. All that was needed then was for her to have done so during the few months between Avery Logan leaving Majic and her running away to join him. Perhaps a comparative effort, or a farewell gesture, or maybe they just got wedged in a doorway and one thing led to another. Happens to the best of us.
Regardless, she herself had not been willing or able to return to Majic. Not before or after her illness. Perhaps it was pride. But pride would count for nothing when measured against the life of a treasured child. If I had been her, in that situation, I would have done anything. Including rewriting history to manipulate the future. The first thing I would have done is write a deathbed confession to James explaining that I had had his child, and I would have moved the birth date a few months to fit the tale. Then I would have told him where she was and that my last wish was for him to raise her. The door is open. All will be well.
I finished my coffee and toast, thinking furiously. I couldn’t risk Alice being collected directly from those boarding her, because they probably knew her real name, not to mention her father. And what if James didn’t answer the letter or,
even more plausible, his father intercepted it? His dislike of me would only be worse since I jilted his son. But there was an alternative with a built-in backup. If I passed Alice to the orphanage, registering her father as James Sheridan II along with his contact details, it would mean that even if he failed to arrive, the authorities would contact him at some stage. Handing her over was a prospect I dreaded but, God willing, it wouldn’t be for long. A small price to pay. All I needed was to obliterate Alice May Logan, the girl with the deadbeat father and prostitute mother, along with her birth certificate, and create a girl with a future. Alice May Sheridan.
I slumped back in the couch, drained but elated. It fitted; all I required was proof. Young Alice hadn’t disappeared at all, she had simply been reborn. Gusto padded into the room and looked at me with sleepy surprise. He stretched his front legs forward and thrust his butt into the air, opening his mouth in a huge, tongue-curling yawn. I jumped up, reinvigorated by anticipation. ‘Alice May Sheridan, Gusto. That’s who we’re looking for.’
I hurried from the room with the dog following. Back at the computer I began a search for orphanages around Matija’s area. The major one of the time was the Melbourne Orphan Asylum, founded in 1853. I spent the next hour and a half trying to find online records, being bumped from one archival site to another. Finally I pushed my chair back, frustrated. It was nearly eight o’clock. I drummed my fingers on the desk and then reached for the phone.
‘Hello?’ Lew’s voice was sleepy.
‘Lew, it’s Nell. I’m sorry to call so early but I need a name checked.’
‘A name?’ He yawned. ‘Like … a name? Huh?’
I hurried on. ‘You said yesterday you’d checked the orphanage records, which must mean you have access. Do you?’
‘Well, yes.’ He sounded a little more awake now. ‘But I can’t give it to you.’
‘That’s okay. You check it. Alice May Sheridan.’
‘Sheridan? But she was Logan’s child. Hang on.’ He paused. ‘I see. Yes, yes it could be. Okay, you’ve got me interested now. I’ll give it a go and ring you back.’
‘No, I’ll hang on. And keep my fingers crossed.’
The phone clunked in my ear. I imagined his wheelchair gliding smoothly towards wherever he had his laptop. Then I counted to twenty, and twenty again. Gusto had curled up by the filing cabinet but as I looked at him, he began to wag his tail in happy sweeps across the floor. It was another ten minutes before Lew returned. He was breathing heavily and I knew before he even spoke. My stomach clenched.
‘Nell, you are brilliant! You’re right! She was received 8 November 1888. But her name isn’t registered as Alice May Sheridan.’ His voice contained an undercurrent of glee. ‘It’s Alice Mary May Sheridan.’
‘So she threw in an extra name. I wonder why?’
‘Think, Nell. I’ll say it again. Alice Mary May Sheridan.’
I frowned, and then realisation dawned. ‘Oh my god. Of course. Wait.’ I swivelled to stare at the whiteboard containing the Sheridan genealogy. And there she was. ‘My god. Mary May. She was here all along. Why didn’t we see that! Born 1885. Look at the gap between her and the brother! Hell, her father didn’t even get married until 1892! She was seven years old!’
‘Right in front of our bloody eyes. Unbelievable. But now we’ve found her. Actually, you found her. How did you know?’
‘Guesswork, and a bit of brilliance,’ I said modestly. ‘Hey, what’s her birth date on the orphanage records?’
‘23 September 1885. Matilda brought it forward three months.’
‘She had no choice,’ I said defensively. ‘Paternity had to be plausible.’
‘Yep. And she was released from the orphanage on 21 January 1889. I don’t have the name but can find that out. A hundred bucks says it was young James. Collecting his little cuckoo and taking her home.’ Lew paused and then suddenly bellowed, ‘Well, fuck me!’
‘No, thanks. Deb’s a friend.’
‘Nell! Don’t you realise what this means?’ He lowered his voice but the excitement still ricocheted through his words. ‘She had no Sheridan blood at all! With the death of her brother, she became the sole heiress and got the lot! There are no fucking Sheridans! The last one died in, what … 1916!’
I was still gazing at the whiteboard. ‘Then they’re all descended from Petar Majic, not James Sheridan. Every single one. This is unbelievable.’
‘And this is a secret worth killing for. Hold on, Nell, my mobile’s going off.’
I tried to absorb the information but it felt too large to be legitimate. No Sheridans at all. Despite the machinations of that original Sheridan, it seemed that fate had stepped in to ensure that justice was served, eventually. I circled Mary May’s name with black texta and then wiped out the line between her and James II. That gave our discovery both life and clarity. Later on I would rewrite the entire thing.
‘Nell, I have to go.’ Lew came back on the line, his voice even more energised. ‘Guess who just called? James Sheridan himself. The mayor, that is. I want to tell him. D’you mind?’
I shrugged. ‘Go for it.’
Gusto leapt up, ears pricked, and rushed out. Soon after, he began barking furiously in the family room and I could hear his nails scrabbling against the glass.
‘Hey! Stop that!’ I followed quickly, annoyed to have my concentration interrupted. The picture window now glowed with a dappled morning light that sifted through the trees. I walked over to Gusto and peered outside. ‘You silly boy. It’s just a dog.’
He looked up at me and back towards the focus of his attention. But at least he had stopped barking. I ruffled his fur as I sat down on the armrest of the couch. Lew was wrong; this wasn’t a secret worth killing for, rather it was a secret that could have saved lives. If Will had known this, or Sam been given the chance to uncover it, then he and Ned may well have been spared. Because they had been murdered to protect the Sheridan name and assets, when there was no name and the assets were always perfectly secure. The rightful family had them all along. The irony was tragic.
I remained where I was for some time, lost in the paradox. I wondered how the mayor had taken the news, that dapper little man so proud of his ancestry. Would he see it as justice prevailing, or unbearably injurious to reputation? Perhaps he would see it as a secret worth killing for. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes my imagination took on a life of its own.
The doorbell rang and Gusto belatedly switched focus, running out to the hallway and positioning himself at the front door. I rather hoped it was Petra, or at least someone with whom I could share my brilliant powers of deduction. Why should Lew get all the fun? But instead, to my utter shock, particularly given my last line of thought, I opened the door to reveal James Sheridan himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Really enjoyed your column on mothers and daughters last weekend. It reminded me of my favourite Oscar Wilde quote: ‘All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.’
‘May I come in?’ he asked, his customary smile nowhere to be seen. ‘I’ll only take a minute of your time.’
I stood back wordlessly. Given the door was already open, it seemed I had little choice. Although it did occur to me, not for the first time, that manners brought restrictiveness with their security. Death before dishonour. ‘Victim invited murderer in for warm beverage’, say police, ‘but it was a cold day, so at least she was polite.’
He stepped into the hallway, with Gusto sniffing curiously at his ankles. ‘Thank you. How is your injury?’
‘Ah, fine, thanks. Just fine.’ I cleared my throat. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Yes, of course. Um, sorry to come by like this unannounced, but … look, I shouldn’t have come at all. I’ll go.’ However he made no move to leave, instead staring at a point just over my shoulder, clearly hoping that I would insist he stayed. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?’
‘T
hat would be lovely,’ he replied with an earnestness that was reassuring. He followed me into the family room and stood at the bench while I turned on the kettle.
‘Which one?’
‘Tea, please. White with two.’
Gusto had now lost interest, returning to the windows to check for intruders of the canine variety. I examined my visitor surreptitiously as I worked. I didn’t even know whether to call him James or Mr Sheridan. He seemed paler than usual, and slightly disoriented, his habitual veneer of oiliness conspicuous by its absence. He picked up the festival flyer from my pile of junk mail on the bench and stared at it.
‘Here you go.’ I passed him a mug and wrapped my hands around my own, waiting.
‘I was going to visit you anyway, you know. Decided after I heard the news yesterday. Apologise on behalf of the family. Terrible thing Willy Akermann did. Terrible thing. I feel a little responsible.’
‘Why would you be responsible?’ I said, surprised.
‘Well, he is family. Married to my niece. And, see, after you came to the centre that first day with the broken plaque, we were talking about what it could mean. I said it’d better not be anything too earth-shaking, not on the eve of the biggest thing to hit Majic since the sunset ride. Then I said –’ he paused to pleat a corner of the flyer ‘– that I was relying on him to keep everything in order.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t ask him to kill people.’
He shook his head. ‘I put a lot of emphasis on duty though.’
‘I think you’re overestimating the power of your words.’
‘And I think you’re underestimating them.’ He smiled, for the first time, but it only lasted a moment. ‘I know I didn’t incite the actual murders, and I know it’s not my fault per se, but I do think I have to take on board the fact Will thought, on some level, he was being community-minded, family-minded. I did fuel that.’