by Morgana Best
I had expected a ‘Welcome to the Ghost Tour’, or some such words of exhortation, but Scotty simply grunted, “Follow me,” in a heavy Scottish accent. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The guy completely gave me the creeps. Something wasn’t quite right.
I tucked my flashlight under my arm, grasped my pen, and launched into questioning. “Scotty, how long have you lived in this area?”
“Long time.” The words came out as little more than harsh grunts.
Unperturbed, I pressed on. “Are there many sightings of ghosts in Morpeth? Have you yourself seen any?”
Scotty stopped and turned to look at me. He held the hurricane lamp up to my face. I felt unnerved, so steely was his gaze. A chill overcame me; the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a premonition of danger, but it passed as quickly as it had come.
“Are you a detective?”
I was unsure as to whether or not he was being sarcastic, so shook my head and fell back into stride with Melissa.
After a few minutes, we turned into Green Street and stopped again outside the settlers’ cottage. Any fears that the dour Scotty would prove to be a boring tour guide were at once put to rest. “This was one of the first cottages in Morpeth. It was owned by Eliza Campbell. Her husband owned one of the pubs, and every night, Eliza was frightened for the safety of her children. She had seventeen children, but some died. The drunks used to gather outside the cottage at night. There was just that thin wall there between them and the pub.” Scotty gestured in a sweeping motion to the left. “Eliza was happy all day, but once the sun went down, she was terrified all night, waiting for her husband to come home.”
“I didn’t know he could speak more than three words at once,” Melissa whispered in my ear.
I elbowed her. “Shuuush!” Again I questioned Scotty. “Was it Eliza’s son, Stephen, who drowned in the well behind Campbell’s Store?”
Scotty grunted. “Who told you that? Are you a lawyer?”
I still didn’t know if he was being sarcastic. “No, but I was told that, and I’d like to know. Also, I was told that Eliza has been seen in this cottage window looking in the direction of the well for her son.”
Scotty grunted again, more loudly this time. “Eliza does not look out this window. She’s not here.” He turned his back and walked down the lane in the direction of the bridge. I was starting to worry about my mortgage again when I heard Scotty mutter, “The spirits here are more recent.”
We walked back to the river in silence. Scotty pointed down the river, but there was nothing to see in the dark. Again, I felt a presence of an unknown being, but then the impression went away. Still gesturing down the river, Scotty spoke. “That’s where the ship St. Michael capsized in the river in December 1841. So they say. I wasn’t around then.”
The botoxed couple and Melissa laughed. Another sensation of unease passed through me.
Scotty continued. “St. Michael was a sea-going ship, and in the 1820s, it traded between NSW and the Pacific Islands, but then some traders from Sydney converted it into a store ship and moored it here. It was the only store ship for years. Pretty soon after that, Edward Close built a stone warehouse down over there and a hotel up that road over there. The business in the area grew so fast that it was no longer needed. It was put up for sale in February 1841, the month before poor old Baxter Morgan was unjustly hanged.”
“Baxter Morgan!” I exclaimed.
Scotty loomed over me and fixed me with his beady-eyed stare.
“Baxter Morgan?” I repeated. “Did you say 1841?”
Again Scotty peered into my face. “Why do you want to know, lassie?”
I thought his question odd; surely my question was reasonable. I was wondering how to answer when Scotty spoke again.
“Poor, old Baxter Morgan was unjustly accused of being one of the Jewboy Gang. He was hanged in March 1841. He was framed for the murder.”
I didn’t dare ask another question, but thankfully Mr. Botox did. “I’ve never heard of the Jewboy Gang. Who were they?”
“Scum of the earth!” Scotty spat his words vehemently. “Bushrangers. Seven of them. An escaped convict by the name of Davis got a gang together of other escaped convicts and a couple of fools. They had double barreled guns and pistols and good, fast horses. They were from Sydney but were pressed out to up north of here. They were thieves, but careful never to kill any man, but one day one of them, Ruggy the Irishman, shot a man and killed him. A small party hunted them down, and took them alive. One of them escaped but was later found. It is said that twenty shots were fired but no one was killed. One of the civilians swore he saw two men escape, and named one of them as Baxter Morgan. Even though poor old Baxter Morgan was a gentleman and well respected, he was taken to Sydney and hanged with the gang. His property was taken from him. I’ll show you.”
I was trying to take it all in. Baxter Morgan was hanged two centuries ago. That was not murder. At any rate, why would anyone be concerned about such an old event these days? Surely the Society didn’t want me to solve a murder that was over one hundred and fifty years old? It made no sense to me. I was still lost in thought while Scotty led us up Tank Street and into High Street. We turned a couple of times and it was too dark to see the street signs. “There,” he exclaimed.
The house in front of us was small. I couldn’t make out any details as it was dark. No lights were on inside the house, but given the hour, that was no surprise. I did see some children’s toys in the front yard.
“The Widow Palmer. Her husband was a wealthy man but his luck went bad and he lost his government contract. Soon afterwards he died in an accident, so they say. He’s not around here now. If the treasure had been found, this wouldn’t happen to other people, living in poverty, dying before God took them.” Scotty paused and looked at me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making notes.”
“What for?”
“I’m a journalist and I’m doing a story on Morpeth ghosts. I won’t mention the Widow Palmer of course, but I would like to write about Baxter Morgan. Would you mind if I phoned you early this week and asked you more questions?”
“No, you cannot, lassie. You can ask me now.” Scotty clutched at my hand and dug his fingers into my wrist. “You need to solve the murder of Baxter Morgan.”
I pulled my hand free and jumped away. “I thought he was hanged by the police, not murdered.”
Scotty loomed over me. My statement appeared to have angered him. “Murder it was, lassie. Whoever falsely accused Baxter Morgan as good as murdered him. It was murder, for sure.”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.
Scotty rubbed his chin. “And, if you find out who murdered poor old Baxter Morgan, you will find the treasure.”
I mulled that over, which was difficult as I was freezing. The mist was damp. It didn’t make sense to me, but then again, if I’d been sitting in front of a fire with a glass of red in my hand, it might have made perfect sense. “How will that help find the treasure? Wouldn’t the false accuser have spent it?”
Scotty laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. Tingling passed through me and at the same time I fancied I saw his eyes glow red, then caught myself for being so fanciful. “The treasure is still there. The ghost of poor old Baxter Morgan will find the treasure when his accuser is named.”
Okay, that was weird. I knew I shouldn’t ask. “And how do you know this? Do you talk to Baxter Morgan’s ghost?”
Scotty’s tone was serious. “Aye. I speak with him all the time.”
Everyone just stood there, dumbstruck. Nothing stirred in the chill night.
Chapter 7
Who was Baxter Morgan and why was it necessary to solve a murder from well over one hundred and fifty years ago? I had no idea, so I gave up for the moment and sat in my office researching the Morpeth ghosts. I’d already handed in my story to Skinny Troll, but was now looking up some facts. After all, Skinny was not too interested in facts.
I’d been to the Rare Books and Special Collections Library in the Fisher Library at the University of Sydney and had come across A Geographical Gazetteer of the Australian Colonies, dated to 1848 and written by a W. H. Wells. It said there had been five pubs in Morpeth at the time whereas Gavin King had said there had been eighteen.
Hardly earth shattering research, but I can’t help myself. I just have to uncover all the facts. When I was at university, the professors even gave me a Footnoting Award as a joke. I can’t even resist the urge to say that the gazette’s full name is, A geographical dictionary, or, Gazetteer of the Australian colonies: their physical and political geography, together with a brief notice of all the capitals, principal towns, and villages, also of rivers, bays, gulfs, mountains, population, and general statistics, or that the author’s full name was catalogued as Wells, William Henry, 1817?-1860. At least I didn’t mention the call number. Oh okay, here it is: elkin 207 in the Special Collections Database. Research is my addiction, on an equal basis with coffee.
I had called Gavin and pointed this out, but he didn’t seem to care. I had told him that Scotty’s tour disagreed with his on many points, and he had said that Scotty was a silly old man with a good imagination.
I was glued to the computer when Skinny opened my office door hard and hit my chair. My office is a converted storeroom, and the door is directly behind my back. The storeroom hasn’t exactly been converted; there is just a computer with desk and chair up one corner, and the rest is still a storeroom.
“Not as bad as what you usually write, Misty, apart from all your usual typos.”
I was taken aback. This was high praise indeed.
“You do have too much filler, so you’ll have to fix that.” Skinny snorted rudely. “Our readers won’t care that Henry Wells said there was a large government wharf, a customs house and officer, a coal mine, five inns, a soap and candle factory, a butter factory, a metal factory, five large stores, a flour mill and one hundred and seventeen buildings in 1848. Facts, Misty, you always have too many facts, too many facts and too many typos.”
Skinny slapped the article down on top of a box of printing paper and scratched out a section with a red pen that she’d just taken off the shelf.
“However, this bit about the treasure is okay, I guess,” she continued. “Write two more paragraphs on the treasure, and then resubmit. Don’t get Gavin King offside by saying his information could be wrong. His photos were excellent, especially the one of him with the big orb.”
After Skinny left, I rewrote the two paragraphs rather quickly. I was a bit cross about the fact that the orb photo would appear with my article, but kept reminding myself that this was a paranormal magazine and not a research paper.
I was just reading the fascinating story of Mortimer William Lewis Junior, the architect of the Morpeth Courthouse (it was so sad that his daughter and his mother-in-law died from scarlet fever two days apart in November 1854), when Skinny again opened the door hard onto the back of my chair. “Misty, this will do. I’ve edited it, of course, to make it suitable, to take it to the next level. The readers will be interested in the treasure. Head back to Morpeth for the week. I’ve booked your accommodation at a cheap motel in nearby Maitland. This is not a holiday. We’re going to run your article—with my heavy editing of course—as a teaser, and then in an upcoming issue, we’ll do a feature on the Morpeth ghosts. Leave now and drive there. There’s no time to buy new clothes.”
I was confused. “Why would I want to buy new clothes?”
Skinny hesitated. “Oh, sorry, Misty. I haven’t seen you in any new clothes lately and I thought as you’d put on weight, you couldn’t fit into your old ones.”
With that, Skinny closed the door to my storeroom. I pinched my love handles between my fingers, testing them for size. Everyone has those, right? I felt quite upset. I had not uncovered a shred of information about Baxter Morgan, much less his murder, and I was also worried about Diva. I’d have to find a cat babysitter at short notice.
Chapter 8
I was tired and stressed by the time I arrived at the cheap Maitland motel. It looked nice from the outside, and the lady at reception was friendly, but my room was a disappointment. The room was tiny, and the bathroom was decidedly spartan.
I threw my duffel bag on the decaying yellow bedspread, pulled some teabags out of a zipped section and boiled the jug. I had developed a weird liking for Lapsang Souchong tea during my recent visit to England. After I made a cup of tea and devoured the motel’s sole cookie offering, I called Gavin King, expecting to get his voicemail, but he answered.
“Hi Gavin, it’s Misty Sales. I’m actually back in Morpeth. Thanks for the photos. The editor loves them. The magazine wants to do a big feature on Morpeth, so could we set up a time for me to interview you, please?”
To my surprise, he didn’t seem at all pleased. “Look, Misty, I’m a bit concerned. I’ve gone through some back issues of your magazine and saw you did a big article debunking ghost photos. How do I know you’re not going to do something like that to me? I have a big book contract coming up and it’s worth a lot of money to me.”
I groaned inwardly. “Gavin, seriously, we’re not that type of magazine. In that article you mentioned I simply pointed out some of the outrageously faked photos. Our magazine isn’t into debunking—our magazine is about the paranormal. Our readers believe in the paranormal.”
I hoped I had convinced him. I was wrong.
“You made comments to me about orbs on the tour the other night. You said they were not paranormal. I tell you, some of us have seen faces in the orbs.”
It would have proven wise for me to keep my mouth shut at that point. Alas, I did not. The researcher in me just has to spew forth facts. “I’m sure you thought you could see faces in the orbs, but that’s what’s known as matrixing. It’s the ability of the brain to attach familiar shapes to unusual objects, such as seeing familiar shapes in clouds or seeing a face on the moon. Just go to any paranormal website by actual paranormal investigators, and you’ll find that orbs have been debunked for well over a decade now. If a particle of dust or water is near the camera lens and out of focus, it’ll appear on a photo as a solid orb. Chromatic aberrations also come into play and modify the blur spot. Would you like me to explain chromatic aberrations?”
“No!” Gavin almost yelled. “No, please don’t. I didn’t understand a word you said! This is a strange way to reassure me that you’re not doing an exposé, sensationalist piece on me.”
I mentally slapped myself. “No, I’m not, and the editor was very taken with the photo of you and the orb. It’s a paranormal magazine. I’m just a journalist there, and my instructions are to do a feature on the ghosts of Morpeth. No exposé at all, seriously.”
“Okay. I can meet you anytime tomorrow morning.” Gavin still sounded a little wary.
One ghost tour guide down, one to go. I had no phone number for Scotty, so decided to do some research on the net to check out his story. I set up my laptop and again googled Baxter Morgan, but still uncovered not much at all and certainly no mention of any treasure.
After some digging, I hit the jackpot. Finally, some information on Baxter Morgan. From all accounts, Baxter Morgan had been a very wealthy man, so treasure wasn’t out of the question. I couldn’t find a thing about his execution. It did seem strange that he was executed, given his wealth and position, and the little I could find spoke highly of him.
I tried the death records on the NSW Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages website and searched early church records for the years 1788 to 1945. Luckily, it was a free search, as I couldn’t find a record of his death. I searched for members of the Jewboy Gang, all of whom were executed on March 18, 1841, but could only find the death records of the gang members Edward Davis (spelled Davies in some newspaper accounts) and John Marshall.
I googled until I fell asleep. I awoke just before dawn, and realized my predicament. No coffee machine was in sight. The co
ffee shops in Morpeth would not open until nine, and I wouldn’t last that long. Then it hit me. There would have to be a McCafé in Maitland. In fact, I knew there was one just off the New England Highway. I hurriedly showered and dressed, and then drove south for my first caffeine hit. In Australia, we call McDonald’s ‘Maccas’. Every Maccas in Australia has a McCafé , which in Oz is an actual, full coffee shop. In fact, the first McCafé in the world was opened in Melbourne, Australia, in 1993. Years later, McCafé extended to the USA, but not as a fully fledged, separate coffee shop like we have over here.
After a leisurely breakfast of three cups of coffee and three berry friands, followed by nearly getting wiped out by a car in the confusing exit from Maccas, I made my way to Morpeth.
It was intriguing to see inside Eliza Cantwell’s cottage, now a New Age gift shop. The shop was run by Jennifer, who did tea leaf readings, and who was friendly and welcoming. The shop was filled with crystals, incense, various religious figurines, and the most amazing array of singing bowls. I selected a beautiful indigo one on a gorgeous blue cushion and Jennifer showed me how to make it ring, and booked me in for a reading in just over an hour.
I decided to fill in the time by going on the history tour in the covered, horse-drawn carriage drawn by the Clydesdale mare, Juliet, who was quite a hit with the tourists.
One of the pick-up points for the tour was the Morpeth Trading Post, run by Christine, the wife of Dieter who runs the horse-drawn—the Juliet-drawn that is—history tours. Never in all my life have I seen so much second hand stuff packed into one spot. Antiques, pre-loved stuff, old tools, you name it, it was all here and piled up high. They could do a whole episode, well, even a whole season, of Bargain Hunt just out of this one store.
I could hear Juliet clip-clopping down the street when Gavin drove up. He got out of his car and signaled to me. I crossed the road.