The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  I did, however, think much on my great love: this property. Denied the capacity to love a husband, all I’ve ever had are friends, work and my passion for this land. My father left the property to me with the stipulation I make provision for Denise who was, of course, a minor at the time of our parents’ death. But who would inherit it after I passed? I had no children, and Andrew had none he could—or rather, would—claim.

  He chose to leave his own property to be divided among his siblings, which would seem the logical option to any rational person. But I’m not entirely rational where Peppertree Crossing is concerned. Or perhaps I am too rational? Could I really be expected to leave my property to distant cousins, or to the sister who delighted in taunting me about my childlessness? Her intolerable needling about the fact the farm would one day leave my hands eventually determined my course of action.

  Which brings us to where we are now: with you, I hope, sitting in my chair surveying this magnificent property. A property that can be yours. Ah, you notice the caution in my words? Of course, having decided not to leave the property to Denise, I should have willed it to you, and been satisfied with that as the best option. But, as you will discover, I have become a meddlesome old lady.

  Because I don’t know you—the fault of which is my own—I don’t know the property will fare any better in your care than it would with Denise. She would sell it in a heartbeat (assuming she possesses such an organ!), take the money and move somewhere that has no dirt, no flies, no drought, no hard work—and no soul.

  So, to set my mind at ease, and much to Derek Prescott’s chagrin, I have devised a way to discover whether you are, or have the capacity to become, the person I imagine you to be. Don’t worry, there will be no séances or ouija boards involved. Rather, there is a task—or, actually, several tasks—I wish you to tackle in exchange for immediate transfer of the ownership of Peppertree Crossing.

  Now, as Derek cautioned me—he scowled through my whole laying out of what I consider to be a rather ingenious plan—this is a highly unusual manner of bequeathing property. Therefore, I have also provided the option of a more traditional bequest.

  If you choose not to attempt the tasks but stay at Peppertree Crossing, you will be entitled to a share of the income generated by the property, with a larger portion paid to Matt Krueger in compensation for his ongoing work. Further, should you take this option, the title will not transfer to your name until a probationary residential period has expired.

  This period will extend to ten years and one month.

  With love and, I admit, a certain amount of glee, imagining what must now be running through your head, Marian

  Chapter Nine

  Ten years? She’d probably get less for murder.

  She wanted to be grateful for the opportunity she’d been given, but what sort of nightmare inheritance was this? An aunt with a huge estate, money, time to spend supporting this association or that club, who claimed to care—but not enough to make sure her sole heir was safe. An aunt who had left her to be abused, but wanted to play games before handing over an inheritance. An inheritance that would take ten years to claim. Ten years of being stuck in the middle of nowhere, gifted a measly income while some farmer got the bulk of the money from property she should have been free to sell?

  She reread the last passages of the letter, hoping she had missed something, but there it was, blue ink on white paper. She either agreed to complete a number of unspecified tasks in return for her immediate inheritance, or she became nothing more than a lodger for the next decade. Either way, it seemed her aunt planned for her to be stuck out here. And yet she accused Denise of being a blackmailer?

  Scritches wound around her ankles and Roni lifted her gaze from the letter clutched in her hand. Evening had drawn close outside the kitchen windows while she had tried to understand the madness of a stranger who would give her a gift and simultaneously punish her. She’d thought this inheritance would solve all of her problems, but instead it had created more.

  She rubbed a hand across her forehead. Dusk purpled a small garden beyond the kitchen window. Barely distinguishable shrubs obscured an uneven stone wall, beyond which the rolling fields of soft green crop had turned to seaweed darkness, floating to meet the last sliver of light on the horizon.

  Darkness.

  And a hell of a lot of it. Not a single pinprick of light.

  The isolation trailed icy fingers down her spine. How was it possible to see so far, yet see nothing? She should have taken up Jim’s offer to check the rest of the house, had him flick all the lights on so she wouldn’t have to wander into darkness. She had been in such a hurry to read her aunt’s letter she hadn’t even thought to lock the back door behind him, though at home in the city dead-bolting had been a reflex.

  She strode into the sunroom, skirting the suitcases Jim had left there, and slid the security chain into place. That she felt safer with multiple doors and locks between her and the outside world was ludicrous, given that the really bad things only ever happened to her indoors, but she bolted nonetheless.

  Suppressing a shiver, she gazed through the naked windows into the impenetrable darkness of the back garden—then jerked rigid as she realised she would be spotlighted to anyone standing outside.

  Scritches drowsily lifted his head as she raced back into the kitchen and slammed the door, twisting the key that protruded from an ornate lock plate. Her stomach unknotted slightly as the bolt clicked home. If there was a lock on every door, she would be fine for the one night. Tomorrow, when daylight made the unpopulated expanse slightly less terrifying, would be soon enough to explore.

  Right before she left.

  Because there was no way she would do even ten days of this solitary confinement, never mind ten years. Quickly completing the tasks, whatever they were, was her only option so she could immediately inherit and sell this white elephant. Marian’s mad legacy perfectly explained why her mother had hated it here. Manipulated and isolated, she had fled both this property and her history. That had to be why she’d used a fake identity on the birth certificate, and never got in touch with Roni, never claimed her. Maybe Denise just wanted to forget.

  She eyed the door on the far side of the kitchen, which presumably led deeper into the house. Rubbed her chilled hands together. ‘Okay, Scritch. How about you stay here while I check the place out?’ Her voice rang hollow.

  She petted the cat until he resettled on the cushion, then she crossed to the door and cracked it open, reaching around the jamb and sliding her hand up and down in search of a switch. She should have done this while it was light, instead of stewing over the terms of the inheritance. Maybe she should call Jim, tell him to come and get her right now. Forget about this whole damn deal and get back to Sydney right away.

  Where she had no home, no job, no plan. And, if she left now, no money.

  In any case, her phone showed zero reception, so there would be no calling anyone until she found the landline.

  Finally locating the light switch, she peered around the door. A hallway stretched to her left, multiple closed doors lining both sides.

  She took a cautious step. Long leather coats and jackets hooked onto redgum slabs bolted high on the walls, with boots and shoes neatly ranked on the floorboards beneath, resembled people. Watching her watching them. Creepy as all hell.

  High above, white-painted fretwork ceiling partitions sectioned the hall, the stained-glass light shades splashing a jellied mix of red, blue and green onto pale walls.

  Unless she’d got herself all turned around, the door to her right should lead into the sunroom. She took five quick steps and twisted the key. Fort Knox. Excellent. That left six doors to tackle.

  There was something terrifyingly Alice in Wonderland-ish about the setting, perhaps because the vast hall made her diminutive. Despite the chilling silence, she strained to hear over the refrigerator’s constant churn. Where were the voices, the cars, the signs of life?

  Sneakers sticking on the v
arnished timber, she inched across the hall. Her fingers closed around a brass doorknob, worn and dented, but burnished by use to a dull shine. The latch cracked and she reached in, groping through the velvet blanket of darkness.

  Buttery yellow light splashed a slice of safety across her toes as she flipped a switch. With three walls hidden by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the windowless room smelled … old. Not unpleasant, but sweet and tranquil. Books overflowed the shelves and were stacked on the floor. A huge lacquered stump, whose thick roots spread across a blue and mauve rug as though the tree grew from the floorboards, supported more books.

  Roni edged around a pair of burgundy leather wingbacks. Even in the bookshops that offered buy-a-coffee-read-for-free, where she would pinch a dirty cup from a vacated table, set it before her open book and hide in plain view, there hadn’t been this many hardbacks. And none of the muted leather bindings, the cracked gilt lettering on their spines catching the light from goose-necked brass reading lamps. She gazed around in disbelief. She’d stepped into another world, one where a person had both enough money and enough space to devote a room entirely to books. To pleasure.

  If she stayed, she would never need to fake-buy coffee again.

  Better still, once she sold this place she would be able to buy whatever books she wanted.

  Leaving the light on, she backed from the room and shut the door. A Persian runner, worn flat in the centre, the colours flaring jewel-bright toward the untrodden edges, swallowed her footsteps as she crossed to the next room. An open fireplace took up much of one wall, and a wine rack, replete with dark green or almost-black bottles, another. As her gaze drifted up to the fancy-work around the top of the walls and a sculpted flower design in the centre of the high ceiling, she steadied herself with one hand on the back of a chair. The aged leather and timber furniture, made comfortable with throw cushions and rugs, showed the marks of use, yet somehow gave off an aura of wealth. It reminded her of the women she had always been jealous of, those who managed to exude an air of superiority while dressed in jeans and casual shirts.

  Thick drapes hid the window and the room held a sweet, lingering perfume, as though a ghost had passed through bearing a fresh-cut bouquet. A bowl filled with faded rose petals fought for space on a spindle-legged table, and Roni ran a finger down the spines of the books stacked there, an eclectic mix with recent editions by Sandie Docker and Cathryn Hein and dog-eared tomes of The Grass Crown and First Man in Rome, both of which she’d read. Top of the pile lay Peter Luck’s photographic homage to ‘My Country’. An ancient rotary dial telephone sat alongside the stack, and she lifted the receiver, warily holding it to her ear and starting slightly at the loud buzz.

  Again, she left the light on and closed the door.

  Her heart pounding each time she grasped a doorknob, Roni was tempted to leave the remaining rooms unexplored. But then she would never sleep.

  A cursory inspection revealed four bedrooms, the opposing pairs separated by a bathroom with a green-and-black speckled terrazzo floor and a claw-footed bathtub, and a storage room piled with boxes and suitcases.

  At the far end of the hall, the master bedroom boasted wooden robes that could transport her to Narnia and a dresser almost as large as her kitchen back home. The eight-paned window, softly screened with ecru lace, faced … more darkness. Roni darted around a four-poster bed to free voluminous burgundy curtains from tasselled tiebacks and drew them along a brass rail, shutting out the night. Though the bed, piled with cushions in shades of white and cream, looked inviting, she wouldn’t sleep in here. The bedroom across the hall seemed more likely intended for guests, the Baltic pine bed a fraction smaller.

  Large enough to be a tabletop, the wooden door at the end of the hall between the bedrooms must lead outside, onto the verandah she had seen in the photograph. Out there would be her aunt’s chair, softened by the uncomfortable cushion stitched by her friend.

  Her environs catalogued, Roni strode back to the kitchen, disturbing Scritches as she bent to root through the duck-egg blue cupboards. They were well stocked, but beyond the basics of cereal, canned beans, canned tuna and canned soup, there was little she was familiar with. Especially not the dried … What were these things? She read the label. Lentils. The only ones she had encountered had been a stodgy brown colour, encased in the pastry of a vegetarian sausage roll, but there seemed no clear way to turn these bright orange kernels into anything edible.

  She checked the fridge, which contained a wealth of vegetables she had no intention of ever trying, and nothing in the way of ready-meals. There was, however, a small, golden-crusted pie. A judicious poke at the hole in the top revealed the filling to be apricot rather than meat, which probably explained the carton of cream also perched on the sparkling clean shelf. ‘Soup for dinner, Scritch, then pie as a reward for our restraint, right?’

  From the top row of cupboards, native animals etched in frosted glass stared down at her. A koala. A platypus. A kangaroo. An emu. And, incongruously, a palm tree. She retrieved a bowl from the platypus and placed it on the wooden counter that ran the length of the wall beneath the cupboard.

  A blue enamel wood stove took up one corner of the kitchen, but the microwave above the adjacent electric range brought a sigh of relief. Cold soup belonged to her youth, when she’d been unable to pay her utilities.

  An hour later, her meal bulked out by a couple of slices of crusty bread cut from a loaf she found in a roll-top box, she carried Scritches to the bedroom and plopped him onto the bed. ‘Right, that corner is all yours.’ She nudged her chin to where she’d piled newspapers in his carry cage. ‘But if you can keep all four legs crossed for the night, I’d appreciate it.’ She was absolutely not taking him out into the yard until it was full daylight.

  She slid into a loose T-shirt, then crawled between lavender-scented sheets, wrinkling her nose at the old-lady smell. A soft thud against the window stopped her heart. She held her breath. Another thud. And another, pounding the window in quick succession. No doubt moths batting against the glass as they tried to reach the light she’d left on. She was used to bugs. Sydney had the giant variety.

  But here, who knew what else lurked outside?

  Not the least disconcerted and evidently happy wherever she was, Scritches burrowed under the feather quilt and curled against her, his purrs making it difficult to isolate the noises. Probably just as well, with every sound unfamiliar and terrifying. Roni shuddered. Give her drunken neighbours and crazed stoners any day; at least she knew what to expect from them.

  Blanket pulled over her head, she huddled close to the cat—all she had left of her past—and tried to steady her breathing so they didn’t both asphyxiate in the tent she had created. She needed to discover Marian’s tasks and smash them.

  There was no way in hell she would stay here longer than necessary. Not one minute.

  Chapter Ten

  Roni bolted upright as the unearthly scream sliced through her sleep. The hair on the nape of her neck speared up, fear pounding in her chest.

  The scream came again, a blood-filled yodel, peaking then trailing away in a choking death gurgle.

  Her heart hammered beneath her hand, the bedcovers trembling. The faintest light showed around the edge of the curtain.

  The moving edge of the curtain. Framing the window she’d checked was closed last night.

  Her blood slowing to the icy dribble of a broken slushie machine, she kicked her legs free of the sheets.

  His golden-striped head appearing around the edge of the fabric, Scritches chirruped happily, apparently oblivious to the renewed scream beyond him.

  No, the crowing beyond him.

  Roni sagged back against the pillows, rubbing a palm across her chest. A real, live rooster. Wouldn’t be live for too much longer, once she got her hands on it. She drew her feet back under the covers and fumbled for her phone on the bedside table. ‘What’s the deal, Scritch? It’s not even five, normally I have to climb out over you. Come back to bed,
you pest.’

  Scritches disappeared behind the curtain as a bird carolled.

  ‘Fine.’ She closed her eyes. Lay there a couple of minutes. Flipped over. Lay still. Pounded the pillow. Lay still. The tumultuous bird calls filled her head, far more varied than the repetitive chime of the common koel she was accustomed to. Even with the rooster now silent, there was no way she would get back to sleep without the lulling white noise of the motorway.

  Toes curling as they met the floor, she crossed the large room, pulled open the curtains and tied them back. Leaned her forearms on the windowsill alongside Scritches as he sat staring out at the world, much as he had from their apartment. Though here, thanks to the elevated position and the open space, he actually had a view.

  Small birds swooped across the mirror-like surface of a small lake about seventy metres away, halfway down the sloping yard. Nearer the house, galahs swung on the fronds of the massive palm she’d noticed yesterday. They postured and squawked, cackling raucously as they hung upside down and fluttered in a cloud of pink-and-grey feathers, trying to knock each other from the branches.

  As a magenta ribbon spread along the horizon, rolling back the purple clouds of night, a family of magpies perched on an electricity wire burst into full-throated song, their rich warble a torrent rushing across rocks and gurgling into a deep pool. The sun rapidly ascended in a fiery ball between the two largest gum trees at the bottom of the yard, fingers of light reaching across the paddocks as though they crept through an opened door.

  Caged by the suburbs, she had never had a view to a horizon not cluttered by houses and buildings, never witnessed a sunrise that wasn’t imprinted with silhouettes of man-made structures. Arms wrapped across her stomach, she watched, spellbound, until the sun had fully emerged from beyond the distant hills, hanging pendulous in the sky like an overripe apricot.