I jumped into the passenger seat, Johnny put his foot onto the accelerator and we moved off at a slow pace, belching smoke into the street. The back of the car was very heavy indeed, so our pace remained stately. The entire starting process had taken at least fifteen minutes.
‘Do we need to do this every time we stop the car?’ I asked.
‘Only if we stop for more than half an hour, apparently.’
He turned carefully into Onslow Road and then into Thomas Street. ‘Gleddings told me to take the corners with caution and keep the speed down. But I don’t think speed will be a problem; actually, I’m a bit worried about how we’ll go on the hills. And be sure to keep your window open – carbon-monoxide gas is being produced, and that’s deadly,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘Haven’t you driven in one of these before? Perth seems to have more of them than Melbourne.’
‘There are a lot of them about. Nasty smelly things,’ I said, wrinkling my nose.
It was a pleasant enough drive to Richmond, if you disregarded the smell from the gas producer, and my constant fear of the engine blowing up. Johnny spent the journey fiddling with knobs on the dashboard. When I asked him what he was doing he said he was ‘getting the gas to air mixture just right’. I was slightly anxious, sitting so close to him, but his manner was one of distant politeness and eventually we settled into a state of reasonable camaraderie.
And the scenery was lovely, once we’d left the industrial part of the city behind and entered the strange, vast, seemingly empty country that lay to the east of Perth.
After driving for a while through the forest, we turned off the highway, passed through the pretty village of Darlington and arrived at Richmond. It was located about sixteen miles out of Perth and stood in a clearing on the crest of the Darling Scarp, overlooking the city. Johnny pulled slowly into the centre of the village and parked. I got out of the car and breathed deeply. After more than an hour in the confines of the car, the cool, eucalyptus-scented air was marvellous. Over us – around us, because we were up high – was the upended bowl of pale and cloudless sky. Perth lay far below on its coastal plain to the west and, although it was hazy, I could just make out the blue smudge of the Indian Ocean on the horizon.
In front of us was a little railway station and beyond that were a few shops and scattered cottages set in grassy gardens planted with English cottage flowers like hollyhock and delphiniums. Fruit trees were everywhere, especially apples and pears, leafless now for winter. The landscape seemed tranquil and bucolic. But always at the edge of my vision were the gum trees with their powerful scent, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that the settlement was in a state of siege, surrounded as it was by the hoary Australian bush. Richmond was an attempt to put an English village into a space hewn out of jarrah and wattle and tuart, and it had been only partly successful.
‘Pretty little place, isn’t it?’ said Johnny.
‘It’s lovely. What do you want to do? Speak to Lena’s friends?’
‘I think we should divide and conquer,’ he said. ‘It’s not quite twelve yet. Why don’t you speak to the storekeeper? And Gleddings wants some photos,’ he reminded me. He pulled the camera out of the back of the car and gestured towards the small shop – Walker’s General Provisions. ‘I’ll try anyone else who looks interesting. After lunch we’ll drive out to the artists’ colony to speak to Lena and Henzell’s friends and colleagues.’
I stared at him. ‘Speak to the shopkeeper? How am I supposed to do that? Say, “Hi, I’m Nell, a busybody reporter from Perth who wants the gen on what’s going on here?” And I’m not a good photographer.’
Johnny threw me a wry smile. ‘Do what all reporters do. Just start up a conversation. You’re easy on the eye and easy to talk to. People like to talk. Look Nell, often it’s by talking to people like storekeepers that you learn what’s really happening in a small community. Trust me, you’ll find out lots of interesting things.’
I had my doubts. It seemed more likely that he simply didn’t want me around when he was interviewing the really interesting people. He had been annoyingly non-specific about who he was going to talk to.
And he was leaving me to do this alone. Not many people other than Uncle Pat and Rob had guessed how shy I really was. I’d learned to hide it well, plastering on a smile the instant before I entered a room, walking with my head held high and a confident stride, always fashionably dressed and immaculately turned out.
Inside, though, I was the small Irish orphan who had been left alone and unwanted when her father died. The dreadful months at St Brigid’s Orphanage had reinforced my uncertainty. Even when I reached Australia and my uncle’s loving family, the neighbourhood children let me know that I didn’t really belong. ‘It’s little Nelly Fitzjelly, straight from Dublin town,’ they’d say, in a horrible sing-song, until I learned to talk like an Australian. Even now, eighteen years later, I was still ‘the Irish orphan’ to many in the neighbourhood. I had a temper, and it caused me to rush into situations without thinking, but without the heat of temper I was often cowed by shyness. The thought of going into that shop alone and pumping a stranger for information was daunting.
‘Nell, it’s something reporters have to learn to do: go in cold and try to get people to talk. I know it’s scary – hell, I’m never sure what reception I’ll get. Sometimes you have to just tough it out.’
I made a face and he smiled.
‘Honey, I know you’re not the confident woman you pretend to be, but that’s to your advantage. Reporters who are too confident, too sure of themselves, often miss the nuances. Someone like you will really listen.’
‘Oh, all right.’ I tried not to sound sulky. ‘I’ll give it a go. When should we meet up? And where?’
We agreed to meet at one o’clock in the Richmond Hotel lounge.
He handed me the camera, pulled his walking stick out of the car and limped off in the direction of the railway station.
I pushed open the door to the general store and walked in to the sound of bells that were hung over the doorframe. It was a typical country store, with shelves from floor to ceiling that looked to be stocked with anything you could need. A beautifully polished jarrah counter ran almost the width of the shop and a tiny lady with white hair was sitting on a cane chair behind it, knitting. She glanced up as I entered and smiled. She was a model for Old Mother Hubbard as she was drawn in my Children’s Nursery Rhymes – except that she was in modern dress, of course. Otherwise, same white hair in an old-fashioned bun and the same apple cheeks. But when I looked closely, her hands were not the white hands of the lady in my book. They were the strong, brown hands of a countrywoman.
‘G’day, love.’ The knitting continued.
‘G’day,’ I replied politely. I had no idea what to ask for, or how to start the conversation. ‘Do you have any postcards?’
The knitting was put aside and she got to her feet with a few wheezy breaths. ‘Now where did Ernie put them? Ernie’s my son. It’s his shop; if he wants to take time off he asks me to look after things.’ She started rooting around on the shelf behind her.
‘Um, is that them over there?’ I had caught sight of a basket on the counter filled with cards.
She turned around. ‘Silly me. There they are.’
It was hard to believe she was real, and not auditioning for the local repertory society’s new play.
I made a show of leafing through the basket of postcards. They all seemed to be of Richmond in the spring, depicting picturesque stone or weatherboard houses set among blossoming fruit trees.
‘What a lovely place this is,’ I said disingenuously. ‘So picturesque.’
She smiled. ‘It’s a beaut place to live. I was born in Greenmount, just around the corner, in June 1870.’
She gave me a keen, expectant look. I murmured something that could be taken as astonishment at her age. She continued, ‘I came here when I married Alfred Walker. That was the twelfth of May 1887 and I’ve never left since. Alf and I had an
orchard, a beautiful orchard. But Ernie didn’t want to keep it up when his father died, and so he sold it and bought this store in ’24.’
I made a noncommittal sound and smiled. None of this was at all relevant to the matter at hand. So I tried again.
‘Orchards are beautiful, aren’t they, especially when they’re in bloom. That’s probably why you have a lot of artists and writers here, don’t you think? They must take inspiration from the lovely surroundings.’
Was I overdoing it? Apparently not, because she smiled beatifically and nodded, settling back to her knitting.
‘And convalescent homes. We’ve got a fair few convalescent homes here. They’re mostly being used for the poor injured soldiers nowadays.’ She said, as if quoting, ‘If you feed the spirit with beauty then you nourish the soul.’
Those eyes were bright little blue beads in a pink face, but there was something intimidating about Mrs Walker.
‘Still, we’ve put up with a fair bit lately,’ she said. ‘What with that murder – that was a terrible thing. He was so handsome, Rick Henzell, it was a terrible shame. And now the girls running off. I sometimes wonder what the world is coming to.’
Aha! ‘Girls have run off?’
‘Oh, it’s this war. Girls get itchy feet. They want to be having a good time in Perth, not be stuck here in the hills. And with most of the men away at the war, there’s no discipline. We had our first war bride this year. Little Dorothy Davis – Mrs Irving Glotzbach now. She went wild for the Americans, and was always on the train to Perth to go dancing with them. They gave her lots of presents, and a little bit more than she bargained for, if you get my meaning. The boy was persuaded to do the honourable thing, and they were married last January. She’s due any day now.’
‘How old is Dorothy?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nearly eighteen now. He seemed a nice boy, the one she married, but he shipped out just after the wedding and she hasn’t seen him for six months. They write all the time, though. Dorrie says that they’ve fallen in love through the letters, says that she didn’t really know him at all before he left, but now they’re madly in love with each other, because of the letters. He’s from Kansas. I suppose she’ll be heading off to America after him, once the war’s over.’
‘You mentioned that girls had run off,’ I said, prodding for more information.
‘Well, there was Gwen Burns – her father’s in Borneo with the army – she left without a word last year, leaving her mother distraught. Sent a postcard in September to say she was fine and not to worry. Not to worry! Silly child.’ Mrs Walker’s eyes were twinkling as she imparted the gossip.
‘How old was she?’
‘Gwen was almost sixteen when she left, so she’d be seventeen now.’ She glanced down to the bundle of wool, sorted out a stitch and went on. ‘Then Jane Prynne decided she wanted to be an artist’s model. Her ridiculous mother said it was fine for her to be painted like that, but she’s only sixteen. Then she ran away entirely and the next thing, Child Welfare finds her in Fremantle with sailors.’
Mrs Walker leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. ‘She got a disease and now she’s in the hospital in Fremantle Prison. I don’t know how Ruby will explain that to Roger.’
I knew that Mrs Walker must mean Jane had a venereal disease, which was horrifying. At only sixteen! I became more determined than ever that Evie would not go back to that life.
‘Roger?’ I asked.
‘Ruby’s husband, Jane’s father. He’s serving with the navy. The other two girls disappeared not long after Jane did, just after the murder. But, come to think of it, I heard they found Gwen and she’s been locked up too, now. And she’s from such a nice family.’ Mrs Walker sighed. ‘So that just leaves Lily Carter and Susan Lorrimer. No one knows where they are.’
I was stunned. ‘How can girls just disappear from home like that? How old were they?’
Mrs Walker thought about it. ‘Lily Carter is around sixteen and I suppose Susan is the same age, maybe a bit younger. It’s a difficult age for girls. They get boy-crazy and can’t think of much else besides boys and dancing. I was lucky, my Violet and Rose were both married at sixteen and Poppy at seventeen, all to lovely boys, and all settled down nicely.’ She held up the bundle of pink wool. ‘This is for Rose’s latest. My eighth grandchild,’ she said proudly.
I glanced at the matinee jacket and smiled briefly. ‘And nothing has been heard from the other two girls? Susan and, er, Lily?’ Flower names were obviously de rigueur in Richmond.
‘No, but you don’t have to look so worried, lovey. This is Perth, not Sydney. They’ll turn up. Lily had been threatening to leave for months. Who could blame her, with that mother of hers? And the murder upset Susan. She was living in the artists’ community when the murder happened and it must have been terrible for the child. Mind you, she was a communist.’
‘Who was a communist?’ Now I was completely confused.
Mrs Walker laughed. ‘Lena Mitrovic. And Rick Henzell was too, so they say. But he’s from a wealthy family, which makes it hard to believe.’
I felt light-headed. ‘And Susan?’
‘Susan is the daughter of a couple of the artists in the colony. She’s a bit of a lost soul, poor child. Idolised Lily Carter, for some reason. She’s so sharp she’ll cut herself, that Lily,’ said Mrs Carter darkly.
‘And both girls disappeared after the murder? Didn’t anyone think that was odd? That no one has seen the girls in more than a month?’ I suddenly remembered Evie’s remark that a friend of hers knew Lena Mitrovic.
‘Well, of course. Agnes Carter’s going mad with worry.’ Mrs Walker paused and the clicking needles stilled. ‘Well, she was going mad before that, poor woman. That’s the main reason Lily wanted to get out of Richmond, if you want the truth.’ She started the knitting again.
My brain was reeling. ‘Who is Agnes Carter?’
‘She’s Lily’s mother. Lost her husband ten years ago, then all three sons to the war. Dearie me, poor Agnes. She was always delicate, but now she’s nutty as a fruitcake. Billy was the last one left. He was killed in New Guinea four months ago. She lost Lance in Greece in ’41 and Andy in North Africa in ’42. So now she wanders around handing out white feathers, even to men in uniform. It’s a bit of a nuisance, really. Some of the convalescing soldiers don’t take kindly to it.’
‘I can see that they wouldn’t,’ I said. I felt almost sick with pity for the woman. Losing a husband was terrible, but then to lose all three of your sons . . . No wonder she had started acting strangely. I did have some sympathy for the daughter, because it must be hard dealing with a mother like that. But running away was a terrible thing to do to her mother. If she had run away.
‘And what do the police think?’
‘Sergeant Pell said that Lily just wanted to be shot of her mother and Susan would go anywhere that Lily went. Child Welfare are keeping an eye out for them. They’ve both sent postcards home, saying that they’re fine. As I said, Perth’s not like Sydney – they’ll turn up soon enough, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, it shows how things are changing in Richmond. None of that would have happened before the war. Murder, girls running away from home.’ She shook her head.
I muttered something in agreement, thinking furiously. Evie had said she had a friend who knew Lena and Henzell. Could Evie’s friend be Susan? Or Lily? Did she know where the girls were? I tried to remember what Evie had told us, but all I recalled was that her friend had said Lena was nice and Rick was bossy.
I cleared my throat. ‘Er, I’m a reporter with the Marvel. Would you mind if I put some of what you’ve told me into an article I’m writing about how the war is affecting young girls – running away from home and that sort of thing?’
Mrs Walker frowned. ‘The Marvel?’ she said. ‘That’s such a scandal sheet. The only part I like is “Nell’s Corner”.’
‘Oh,’ I said excitedly. ‘That’s me. I’m Nell Fitzgerald. I’m so glad that you like it.’
Mrs Walker beamed at me. ‘I love “This Old Hat” in particular,’ she said. ‘It’s my favourite bit.’
After that we were old friends, and she let me scribble away about the girls, the village, and what she knew about the artists’ colony. I took several photographs of her as well.
‘So, do you all – all you Richmond residents, I mean – do you think that Lena Mitrovic killed Rick Henzell?’ I thought I might as well ask.
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Old Mother Hubbard. ‘There’s absolutely no doubt about that.’
hat the jilted woman had killed her straying lover was the firm view of the few Richmond residents I spoke to. A tall, thin woman with tightly curled grey hair entered the shop soon afterwards, and Mrs Walker said to her with a laugh, ‘Edna, the young lady wonders if we think Lena Mitrovic killed Rick Henzell.’
Edna smiled primly. ‘Yes, she killed him. He was good-looking, but played fast and easy with the girls. Molly Buchanan is stuck with a baby now, and no husband.’
The door opened and a middle-aged man wearing the garb of a Church of England minister came in.
‘G’day, Reverend Dodd,’ said Mrs Walker. ‘This young lady was wondering if we locals had a view about the murder.’
‘Rick Henzell’s murder?’ He turned to me. He was in his late fifties, surprisingly athletic-looking, with pale green-blue eyes set in a long face. He looked like a kindly man.
I nodded.
There was a sad smile. ‘He was from a good family, but a bit wild, and very popular with the girls.’
‘He called himself an artist,’ said Edna with a sniff. ‘Hah! He avoided conscription by saying he was asthmatic or something.’
‘He was an artist, wasn’t he?’ I said. ‘I mean, he sold paintings. And so was Lena Mitrovic.’
Reverend Dodd smiled again. ‘He painted in that new style, abstract art they call it. Splashes of colour that mean whatever you want them to. Apparently he was considered to be very talented, but I can’t tell.’ He frowned, which didn’t suit his face. ‘He and Lena were communists, they say. I know we’re all on the same side now, all enemies of the Nazis and the Japanese, but . . .’
Taking a Chance Page 13