by Sue Williams
‘Well, I just hope they’re grateful to you, Mum.’
Near the road, a flock of little corellas sat on a bore-water pump. They dipped their heads up and down, drinking from a spurting leak.
‘So, what questions you planning on asking at Hocking Hall?’ he said.
‘I’m considering that at the minute. Making a list. Happy to hear suggestions.’
‘You going to talk to Mona Hocking-Lee’s sister?’
‘Yep, probably.’ Stripes of golden wheat stubble flashed by. What sister?
‘Her name’s Alexandra.’
‘I know, yep. I’ll be talking to her.’
Brad stopped to decant some petrol into my car, still sitting by the road near Ernie’s shack.
‘Alexandra’s got an antiques shop, in the main street of Muddy Soak,’ Brad said.
‘Course she does.’
‘You could go there first. It’s on the way.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But, remember, they don’t get along, not since, you know…’
‘Yep, yep.’ Bloody kids.
Back at home, I limped around the place, going through my normal routine of closing up for the night, checking and rechecking all the burners were turned off, wiping down my stainless steel counters and the flystrips, mopping the chequered floor.
Shop closed, we got on with tea. Fish and salad, minus the fish, since Brad (while I was at Perry Lake, busy being bitten) had decided I would become a vegetarian, to reduce my carbon footprint and the misery we humans have imposed on all creatures, including fish. So he’d gone through the fridge and binned the salmon.
‘Fish may not be cute and cuddly and have eyelashes, Mum, but they can feel pain. More than probably. If you watched more TV, you’d know all this. You’d know, for instance, that an octopus can plan, can figure out how to defend itself with a coconut shell it’s found. They’re capable of making all kinds of decisions. Don’t tell me that an animal that can plan like that can’t feel pain.’
‘Jesus, Brad. I can’t believe you’ve thrown out good food. What a terrible waste.’ I put down my fork and stared out the window. The sun was setting. It looked as though someone had taken a blood orange and smeared it across the sky.
‘Now, listen,’ I said. ‘We’d better pool resources. Tell me what you know about this Alexandra.’
‘It was in the Muddy Soak Express. Big story, didn’t you see it? Their father, James L. Hocking, left his estate, including Hocking Hall, to Mona when he died eight years ago. He left next to nothing to her sister. Just an allowance. Alexandra was married at the time to Grantley Pittering.’
‘As in Pittering and Son?’
He nodded.
I ate a lettuce leaf.
‘So tell me, Mum, what information do you have to pool?’
I glared. ‘I’d have time to look things up too, Bradley, if my days weren’t filled right up with running everything.’
Galvanising Brad. And Ernie. The shop. Galvanising every damn thing for everybody else.
I started early. Soon I was into red sand hills and abandoned farms. I passed a derelict homestead, a mass of broken timber, red-brick chimney standing all alone. Maybe I should start up one of those schemes like they have in Wycheproof. Rent out a house for a dollar a week to some nice family and boost the population. Ernie’s shack. Brad could do it up. Although we’d need to choose a family that likes takeaway.
I unstuck my thighs from the car seat, massaged my dog-bitten leg. I sailed on through Hustle, past their public toilets. I refuse to use those toilets, no matter how badly I need to go. Those bastards nicked the design from Rusty Bore, back from when we had a public toilet.
Grey wheat stubble thickened to shimmering green as I got closer to Muddy Soak. I passed a fancy farm stay, excessively surrounded with lacy ironwork verandahs. The rounded Dooboobetic Hills were hazy in the distance.
I crossed the river, more a string of muddy waterholes than a raging torrent, as I entered town. Red banners hanging from every street pole proclaimed the Christmas Fringe Festival. I parked outside Déjà Vu Antiques Boutique, in the tree-lined main street. Everywhere you looked in Muddy Soak, there was green. It was a place well-endowed with shady trees, football teams, fringe festivals, drama groups. And antiques boutiques.
There was a closing-down-sale sign in the window.
I snapped off my seat belt, stepped out of the car.
I opened the shop door and three anorexic dogs leaped towards me with a surprising abundance of licking and enthusiasm for such bone-bag animals. I staggered back, guarding my bitten leg. Italian greyhounds, I found out later. They wore diamante collars and fleecy blankets.
A woman stood at the cash register, on the phone. ‘Well, you’ll just have to. Sort. It. Out. Grantley.’ She wore more silk scarves than I would have considered possible, all different colours. Latin music strummed in the background.
The dogs took turns to sniff my nether regions. I pushed them away and looked around. Antiques boutique? A dump for junk, more like. Inside a glass case by the door, a stuffed parrot in moth-eaten red stood on a dusty branch. A sign below: Our dearest Rufus. We’ll never forget you. The place was chock-a-block with chipped plates, bent saucepans and a sea of books. I screwed up my nose at the smell of incense. A multitude of Chinese lanterns, red and white, hung from the ceiling.
‘No. You will pay me now. I’m not taking any more of your excuses.’ She slammed down the phone.
One of the dogs barked, a deeper sound than I’d expected.
The woman strode over, grabbing the dogs by their collars. ‘Get here. Traitors.’ The last word was just a hiss. She was a woman who jangled as she moved. ‘Can I help you?’ No welcome-smile.
I collected myself. ‘Alexandra Hocking?’
‘Depends who’s asking, darling.’
‘Mona left this behind in my shop.’ I held up the briefcase.
‘What kind of shop?’
‘The Rusty Bore Takeaway. We’re known for our quality fish and chips…’
‘Friend of Pauline Hanson’s are you?’ She laughed, a hard tinkle like a detonating chandelier.
For years the female fish and chip shop monopolist has been saddled with the flak created by that woman, her destruction of our good name. ‘There are hundreds, probably thousands of towns in Victoria,’ I said. ‘And almost every one of them has a takeaway shop. Not a single one is run by Pauline Hanson. So, no, I don’t know her.’
‘Hit a nerve, my sweet?’ A nasty smile. ‘Anyway, Mona wouldn’t go anywhere near oil. My precious sister doesn’t do grime.’ She blinked her long black eyelashes.
‘Well, she came in,’ I said, ‘and I think the case belongs to Clarence.’
‘What’s Mona doing with Clarence’s case? And why’s it all torn?’ Her irises were purple. Contacts maybe.
‘I don’t know.’ I held it out for her to take.
She didn’t take it. ‘Take it back to Mona, sweet pea.’
‘Um…I don’t know where she is. Do you?’
‘I wouldn’t have the vaguest idea where Mona is at any given moment.’
‘You don’t see her often?’
‘Just who are you?’ Her eyes were post-box slits. ‘The police?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here. Are you going to take this briefcase or not?’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘That’s a not, my honeydew. I don’t go near Mona or her toxic grandson, not anymore. Take it to Mona’s lovely little PA.’ She waved a hand towards the door. ‘Ravi’ll look after it.’
I tried another tack. ‘I see you’re closing down,’ pointing at the sign.
‘Yes. Time to move on, I’m starting a B&B not far from the Soak. You could send along your customers.’ She laughed, more shattered glass.
‘At Hocking Hall? It would make a terrific B&B,’ I said.
She stared at me a long moment. ‘Yes, wouldn’t it. Not Mona’s thing though. Too busy with a
ll her charities.’ She paused. ‘But Mona won’t be around forever, will she?’
Back in the car, I passed the derestricted sign south of town. There was uninterrupted green hedging to the left, paddocks of greying grass to the right. Black cattle nosed around the grass, winding long strands around their tongues. Then, on the left, there was an opening in the hedge. Tall pink gates, a sign, ‘Hocking Hall’. I pulled in, stepped out and pressed the intercom.
‘Cass Tuplin to see Mona Hocking-Lee,’ I said.
‘Mrs Hocking-Lee is away. Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but…’
‘I’m afraid we don’t admit visitors without an appointment.’
‘I need to return a briefcase.’
Some rustling, as though someone was looking through papers. A murmured conversation.
I leaned in, resting my arm against the wall. ‘Actually, the briefcase looks quite expensive.’
More rustling. The gates opened with a hum.
I steered along the driveway, a gravel ribbon lined with trees, leading to wide green lawns, and the spouting lion fountains I’d seen on the internet. Finally I saw the house, large, turreted and surrounded by verandahs.
I parked by the sign that said ‘Visitor parking.’ Another gate, another intercom. No rustling this time, the gate hummed open.
A young man met me at the door. He had dark brown eyes, straight black hair, a sculpted face, the kind of body one of those Bollywood movie moguls would snap right up. His shirt was more unbuttoned than was warranted, in my opinion. Presumably this was Ravi. He held a mobile against his ear and waved me towards a room without interrupting his phone call.
I tip-tapped across the marble floor into a large, dim room. Brown leather armchairs were arranged around a fireplace. Bookcases lined three walls. I took a squiz, running a hand along the shelves: all kinds of books; cracked leather covers, creased paperbacks, rows of slim journals with wearying names—Ecological Economics, Corporate Social Responsibility, Business and Sustainability. Near the floor, two shelves of mystery books. Old ones, with lurid covers.
‘Look, Grantley, Mona isn’t here at the moment.’ Ravi spoke from the doorway into his phone. ‘I’ll let her know you called.’ An English accent. He saw me looking, closed the door.
I stood near the door, listening carefully.
‘Clarence? I have no idea where he is. Isn’t he at work with you?’ Ravi’s voice was muffled.
I pressed my ear against the door.
‘What?’ Ravi’s voice rose a few notes. ‘Mona will be very concerned about this. She’s terribly keen for this intern thing to work out. That’s the only reason she agreed to your excessive fee.’
I looked around. There was nothing homey about the room, no family photos, footy trophies or kids’ basketball awards. A wall full of photos of Mona at business dinners, collecting awards. She was a woman who knew how to look good in her clothes.
‘What do you mean he’s stolen your property? What kind of property?’ said Ravi.
I held my breath.
‘Personal? Look, Mona will need full details.’ He paused. ‘Absolutely not. No. Anyway, I don’t have the authority to make that kind of payment.’
I peered at her awards.
Fairleigh Special Programmes Award presented to Balance Neutral for outstanding practical work in the field of sustainability.
LiveWell Best Practice Not-for-Profit Award. For Balance Neutral.
Good Giving Guide Award. Balance Neutral again.
‘I have someone here,’ said Ravi. ‘I really must go. Yes, yes, of course I’ll let Mona know.’ The snapping sound of a phone closing.
The door opened and Ravi walked in, swinging his hand onto his hip.
‘So what’s all this about a briefcase?’ He looked me up and down, taking in my bandaged leg.
‘Cass Tuplin,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘And you are…?’
‘Ravi Gounder.’ He shook my hand for only the briefest moment.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Mrs Hocking-Lee left this case with me. I thought I should return it.’ I held it out.
He took the case from my hands, turning it over, studying it. ‘This isn’t Mona’s.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Oh,’ I waved a hand, ‘she asked me to hold onto it for a day or two. I understand it belongs to her grandson, Clarence. He’s renting Mr Jefferson’s charming lakeside cottage. The one near Rusty Bore. I am his agent.’ I used my most dignified tone.
‘Clarence is in Rusty Bore?’
‘Yes, in the environs,’ I said. It didn’t seem the moment to mention Clarence and his handcuffs. ‘You know Mr Jefferson, of course? I believe he and Mrs Hocking-Lee go back a very long way.’ Ernie would understand the imperative for a little fiction.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Oh? I must say I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned him. Perhaps,’ I paused. ‘Well, their relationship is quite personal.’
Ravi’s face darkened.
‘Not that personal,’ I said quickly, and added a light and tinkly laugh. Maybe Mona and Ravi were an item. Maybe she’d been a woman with a lot of pent-up energy. Although my guess was Ravi wasn’t primarily focused on the energy of women.
‘He’s always been a father figure for her, I understand. Mr Jefferson is quite elderly. He doesn’t have quite…the vigour he once had. Anyway,’ I paused, thinking quickly. ‘The point is, I have some disappointing news. I’m afraid there’s been some damage to the cottage.’
Ravi looked like he was having trouble taking all this in. I’ll admit I was having a bit of trouble keeping up with it myself. ‘What kind of damage?’ he said, running a hand across his forehead.
‘Well, a lot of broken crockery. All of Mr Jefferson’s lovely willow pattern plates, smashed into tiny pieces. He was terribly fond of those, they were his mother’s. I always told him it was a mistake to leave items of sentimental value in a rental cottage.’ I clicked my tongue. ‘There’s some structural damage too, I’m afraid. A door has been torn off its hinges. And,’ I paused, ‘there was a lot of ripped-up women’s clothing in the bedrooms. Mr Jefferson was rather shocked about that, to tell you the truth.’
Ravi swallowed.
‘You’re sure you don’t know Mr Jefferson?’ I said. ‘Ernest Jefferson. You must have heard of him, surely. He has a whole suite of agricultural machinery businesses throughout the north-west. Terribly successful.’ Well, Ernie did have a rusting pump by Perry Lake he’d once tried to flog off to Vern.
Ravi, looking bewildered, shook his head. ‘I don’t understand any of this. What’s Clarence doing in Rusty Bore?’
‘Something about writing a book.’ I gave another little laugh.
‘Book? Clarence? He can’t even spell.’
‘Really? And after all those bedtime stories Mr Jefferson read to him when he was small. Oh, he will be disappointed. He’s been so looking forward to the book. Although I’m not sure what it’s about…?’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘as you can imagine, Mr Jefferson is keen to resolve all this with as little fuss as possible. The trouble is…well, I’ve had no success at all contacting Clarence. He’s not at the property. Perhaps if you could try to phone him? I’m happy to wait,’ I said with an officious smirk.
He snorted. ‘No point in calling Clarence.’
‘Oh?’
Ravi gave me a dishwater smile. ‘Family business. There’s no need to go into…’
‘I see. Well, if you could perhaps call Mrs Hocking-Lee?’
‘The trouble is,’ he ran a hand through his hair, ‘I’ve just tried her mobile, it’s switched off. It’s been off for days, actually.’ He paused. ‘Oh dear, this is all rather inconvenient.’
‘Isn’t it.’ Another light click of my tongue. ‘And she’s due back when…?’
‘Well, yesterday. I don’t know what could have delayed her. It’s unlike her not to let me know,’ he
said.
‘Ah. Now that is a little worrying.’ I leaned in closer and adopted a confidential tone. ‘I’m actually a bit concerned for Mrs Hocking-Lee, Ravi. I do hope everything’s all right, but…’
‘But what?’ Poor Ravi. His eyes were restless pools of black-gloss ink.
‘You know I really don’t have a good feeling about this. Mrs Hocking-Lee seemed terribly…anxious when I saw her on Saturday. And with all that torn-up clothing, well…I hope Clarence isn’t a violent person?’
‘Violent?’ Ravi’s eyes widened. ‘But he would never harm her. Surely?’
A pause.
‘Mona works so damned hard.’ Ravi seemed to be talking to himself. ‘It’s simply unjust she’s been inflicted with that appalling grandson. She gives him everything, money, that car, his own flat here in the hall, but no, he has to steal and cheat. She’s tried everything. Threats, bribes, motivational therapists. He’s just…’
Yep, I understood. A dropkick.
‘Any recent disagreements?’ I said. ‘In particular…?’
‘Well, there are so many…’ he paused.
I waited. The key to effective grilling is knowing when to wait.
‘He said she’d held him back from his dream.’
‘And that was…?’ I said.
‘He wanted to be a professional gambler.’
‘Oh? Is that an actual occupation?’
Ravi snorted. ‘She thought the internship with Grantley…’
‘Grantley’s a professional gambler?’ I said.
‘He was. Unsuccessful. Now he’s an accountant.’
An accountant with a past as an unsuccessful gambler. Not the best of looks.
‘Well, Mr Jefferson is quite worried,’ I said. ‘In fact, he said to me this morning, as he wrung his work-worn hands, “Cass my dear, the only responsible course of action for us now is to phone the police.” You know, Ravi, it was truly heart-wrenching to see the pain in that poor man’s honest face.’
‘Police.’ Ravi’s eyes bulged.