by Irene Sauman
SADDLED WITH DEATH
An Emma Berry Murray River Mystery
A novella series prequel
Irene Sauman
Jakada Books
PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
Copyright © 2017 by Irene Sauman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Saddled With Death.
Published by Jakada Books
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover design: Mirna Gilman, BooksGoSocial
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (ebook)
Creator: Sauman, Irene, author.
Title: Saddled with death / Irene Sauman.
ISBN: 9780994503152 (ebook)
Series: Sauman, Irene. Emma Berry Murray River mystery ; novella prequel to bk.1
Subjects: Historical fiction.
Mystery—Fiction
Murray River Estuary (N.S.W.-S.A)--Fiction.
CONTENTS
1 - Arrivals
2 – Over Dinner
3 – Trouble Brewing
4 – Trouble Realised
5 – What Happened Next
6 – Some People Disapprove
7 – Mrs. Appleton Accuses
8 – A Revelation
9 – A Sharp-Edged Confrontation
10 - Aftermath
A GEM OF A PROBLEM – Book 1 Sample
About the Author
Acknowledgements
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my children,
Janine, Karyn and David
Making life worthwhile.
Adelaide Observer Saturday 8 March 1873. The Sandridge town pier presented a very busy appearance on Monday, in consequence of the embarkation of the horses shipped by Messrs Warren and Lalor on board the ship Berkshire for Madras and Calcutta. During the last few years the quality of the animals shipped for the India market has been steadily advancing, until at last in order to find horses of the proper stamp and breeding, the dealers who supply the India market have found it necessary to travel from one end of Australia to the other in order to keep up the standard of excellence.
1
Arrivals
Emma Haythorne watched with interest as the short, thickset figure of Mr. Vernon Appleton made his way awkwardly, cane in hand, down the plank linking the paddle steamer, Mary B and the river bank. He had a stiff right leg that didn’t bend at the knee, so a sideways motion, dragging the stiff leg behind, was the safest way on the narrow plank. It seemed all eyes were on him as he descended and he was aware of it. A crew member, who stood on the bank to assist the last few steps, was waved irritably away.
“Good to see you.” George Macdonald extended his hand in greeting to his half-brother. Mr. Appleton looked up at the taller man without a smile and gave the hand a perfunctory shake.
“You remember our sister-in-law, Dora, and young Anthony,” Mr. Appleton said, as a handsome middle-aged woman joined him on the bank, followed by a young man of perhaps twenty, who had a similar build to his uncle, though not yet as broad as he might be in later life.
George Macdonald welcomed them both politely. Twenty-three-year-old Bea Macdonald and her brothers greeted their uncle, aunt and cousin in turn. Everyone seemed a little formal, but it was many years since they had seen one another so that perhaps wasn’t surprising.
“Miss Haythorne. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Emma smiled at the tall, bearded man who appeared at her side.
“Captain Berry. How good to see you. No, I’m afraid Mrs. Macdonald is ill and I’m assisting Bea in taking care of her and the household.”
Behind the Captain several of the crew were off-loading some light luggage. The steamer rocked slightly as a gust of wind whipped down, rippling the water and shaking the leaves of the gum trees that lined the bank. Emma pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Winter was settling in.
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Daniel Berry said.
Emma glanced across the river at the grey-green bush beyond and then back to her companion.
“I doubt Mrs. Macdonald will leave her bed again,” she replied quietly. “She grows weaker by the day. It’s really just a matter of keeping her comfortable.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Emma nodded. Her attention was drawn to the woman now carefully edging her way down the plank, a girl of about eight following, clutching her hand. The woman gratefully accepted the assistance of the crew member as she neared the end and stepped onto the river bank.
“May I present Madame Gabriela Fournier and her daughter, Sachi,” Mr. Appleton announced, more enthusiasm in his voice than she had heard so far. The woman looked to be in her early thirties, not very tall, but elegant. Emma could tell that her mourning attire was fashionably cut, from pictures she had seen in the mail-order catalogues. But it was Madame Fournier’s companion, following her casually, hands in his jacket pockets, who took Emma’s eye. Strikingly handsome, tall and straight, his clothing immaculate, his dark hair swept into a wing on one side. How long did he spend in front of the mirror each morning to achieve that effect? “And her brother, Mr. Claude Devereaux.”
“These visitors then have come to pay their respects?” Daniel Berry said, smoothing his beard. Mr. Devereaux’s appearance must have reminded him of his own.
“Pure coincidence, Captain. They are returning from a visit to England and apparently decided on taking a detour along the river to visit family before continuing home. I’m not even sure they know of Mrs. Mac’s condition, as they have been away for some six months. Mr. Appleton has a property west of Melbourne and his sister-in-law keeps house for him. I know nothing about their travelling companions. French, it would appear?”
The visit had been heralded by a telegraph sent from Fremantle to Adelaide and then to Wentworth, before being carried the last thirty miles to Nettifield by steamer. The imminent arrival of half a dozen visitors had been greeted with some dismay, given the sad circumstances at Nettifield, but the place was made as ready and welcoming as possible.
Beds had been moved in from the shearers’ quarters and extra linen sent over from Emma’s home, Wirramilla, with one of their domestics, dark-skinned Janey Wirra, accompanying it. Nettifield boasted only one Irish maid so an extra hand was most welcome. Emma’s mother would have come herself but a useful person, rather than someone fussing around and giving directions, was of more practical benefit. Emma could thank her grandmother for managing that.
Daniel Berry cleared his throat. “They are French. Met on the voyage from England apparently. I can tell you that Devereaux is a pleasant enough fellow, and is hoping to see some good horses, and Mr. Appleton enjoys the company of Madame Fournier.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “You learned all that in a few hours’ travel?”
He shook his head. “They came aboard last night while we were still loading cargo. I’ve seen them for dinner as well as breakfast.”
“How intriguing.”
Emma looked more intently at the visitors. Mr. Appleton was standing now beside Madame Fournier as they spoke to the Macdonald boys. Was the woman widowed or in mourni
ng for another family member?
“He certainly seems well disposed toward her,” she commented, interested to hear more.
“Emma, come and be introduced,” pixie-faced Bea Macdonald called. “Sorry, Captain, but my need is greater.”
“Perhaps I will see you back home on my return trip,” Daniel Berry said, then hesitated, as if realising that Emma’s return to Wirramilla could mean the end of her being needed at Nettifield. “By the way, my brother, Sam, will be joining the Mary B at Echuca. He has had his fill of the gold fields at last.”
“You must be pleased about that. I look forward to meeting him.” If Sam Berry was anything like his older brother she was certain she would like him, especially if, unlike his brother, he was not spoken for.
Daniel Berry tipped his cap and turned back to his steamer. Bea drew Emma into the group and introduced her. Mr. Appleton and his sister-in-law nodded to her in a politely disinterested way. Anthony Appleton showed a little more interest, managing a slight smile with the incline of his head, but it was Mr. Devereaux who outdid them all, bending over Emma’s hand with a murmured “Enchente.” Well, he was French, and they were inclined that way. Madame Fournier smiled and gave Emma her hand.
“Come now,” urged Mr. Macdonald, “it’s too cold to be standing around down here. The boys will carry up the luggage.”
“And tea will be ready in the drawing room in fifteen minutes,” Bea added brightly.
The Macdonald boys did as they were bid and gathered up the bags that had been unloaded from the steamer. The Mary B was already pulling out into the river as the party moved up to the homestead a hundred yards away on rising ground, sounding its whistle as it did so.
The Nettifield homestead was looking smart, with a fresh coat of paint on the gutters and window frames. George Macdonald had harried his station hands and his sons in tidying and painting, weeding the garden beds and ensuring everything was in order about the farm buildings and the yards.
The proper work of the station had been put on hold. The sheep could look after themselves, as the autumn rains had brought good grass, but Matty Macdonald, Bea’s elder brother, had confided to Emma that the station was in danger of not meeting the next delivery of horses for the Indian remount trade. Matty had wondered why his father suddenly cared about how the place looked, but Emma thought it perfectly reasonable that Nettifield put on its best dress for the visitors. And it had given everyone a bright prospect in the middle of a sad situation.
The homestead was a timber clad building nestled in a mature garden, but with clear views down to the river. It had deep verandahs, those on the far side being enclosed with half-height walls and canvas blinds for extra sleeping accommodation. Not the warmest rooms at this time of year, being used mainly in the summer, but it was to these the guests’ luggage was taken. Bea gave the ladies a quick tour of the facilities while Emma went out to the separate kitchen building, attached to the back verandah, to help with the tea.
“Are they very posh, Miss?” Tillie, the Irish maid, paused in her task of slicing the ham. She looked a little anxious.
Emma laughed. “A little posher than we are I think, Tillie. They don’t have any servants with them, though. They’ve been sent on by sea to Melbourne with the rest of the luggage - steamer trunks and hat boxes and what not. At least we won’t have any strange valets or ladies’ maids looking down their noses at us.”
“But more work for us,” said Janey, feverishly buttering a stack of bread.
“Probably. It will only be for a few days,” Emma consoled.
“I need to take a small plate in to Ma,” Bea said coming into the kitchen in a rush.
“I can do that, Bea. You go and entertain your guests,” Emma said. “You know your menfolk aren’t too comfortable with drawing-room talk and I can’t see Mr. Devereaux or his sister being interested in sheep.”
“Thank you, dear, I will. Tell Ma all about them, won’t you, and I’ll bring Aunt Appleton in to see her shortly.”
Bea went off again and Emma helped Janey and Tillie put the trays of food together. She left them to deliver it all to the drawing-room, while she prepared tea for Mrs. Macdonald and took it up the hall to the front bedroom. She paused outside the door for a moment, to prepare herself. Instead of the robust, healthy woman she had known all her life, Mrs. Macdonald was now weak and shrunken, her skin grey.
She was lying back in bed propped up on her pillows, her face turned toward the windows. Mr. Macdonald had raised the bed with rounds of timber cut from a thick tree branch so it was high enough for a clear view down across the river. A fire burned in the corner fireplace and the room smelt of wood smoke and medicines. The patient turned her head slowly and gave a small smile as Emma came in.
“You saw your visitors arrive, then?” Emma said in greeting.
“Aye,” came the reply from a dry throat. Emma helped her sit forward while she plumped up the pillows and set a folding tray in front of her. Mrs. Macdonald sipped thirstily from the teacup, before nibbling the edge of a sandwich and crumbling a piece of cake. Her plate always looked as if she had eaten more than she really had. Emma poured her a second cup of tea and sat down again in the bedside chair.
“Bea said she would bring Mrs. Appleton in to see you later.”
“Dora. That will be nice.” The ironic tone suggested anything but. “How is young Anthony?”
“Looks like a nice lad. I haven’t spoken to him or heard him speak, for that matter. Mr. Devereaux is quite charming. And his sister seemed pleasant.”
She was about to add something about whether the woman had lost her husband but thought better of it. Death wasn’t the best subject for a sick room.
“What about Vernon? How is he?”
Emma paused for a moment. “He didn’t seem very friendly, but perhaps that’s just his manner. Captain Berry says he enjoys Madame Fournier’s company. Perhaps there’s a romance in the air.”
Mrs. Macdonald’s hands moved restlessly on the cover. “You know I would like to see you and Matty settled, Emma, don’t you?” she said, her voice querulous. Emma did. “That ten-year arrangement is all very well, but you know I won’t be around to see it.”
Emma wished Matty had never told his mother about that particular discussion, but perhaps he had felt compelled to quiet her. At least, no one else in either family knew about it. She suspected her own parents would be surprised at the idea. Matty had suggested --when she was seventeen and he nineteen--that they throw their lot in together if they were both still unmarried in ten years’ time. Hardly a romantic proposal. Emma considered herself as practical as the next girl, but the romantic interludes she read of in her Trollope novels held a charm she found difficult to completely put aside. Perhaps someone would yet come along and sweep her off her feet. There were still a few years left before that ten had been reached, and she, at least, was in no hurry to get to it.
“It’s not really practical right now, you know,” Emma said, not being able to come up with any other excuse and realising also how weak that one was.
Mrs. Macdonald sighed. “Matty said the same thing to me yesterday. I suppose I must accept it, but it is hard. If I keep on at him about it he’ll likely stop coming in to see me. And so will you.”
“I’m sure neither of us will do that,” Emma assured her, but she did hope the subject would not be raised again any time soon.
Mrs. Macdonald gave another sigh. “Can you draw the curtains, please, Emma. I’ll just have a little nap.”
“Of course, can I get you anything else? Are you comfortable?” She looked toward the collection of herbal remedies on the bedside table that her grandmother kept well stocked.
“I’m fine, dear.”
“I’ll tell Bea no visitors for a bit then, shall I?”
“Thank you, dear.” She was asleep before Emma left the room.
“Tis really odd, I’m thinking,” Tillie was saying when Emma entered the kitchen. The maid was loading cups and plates int
o a trough of suds. Emma winced as she heard the crockery being roughly clinked together.
“Don’t load the trough so full, Tillie. All the cups and plates are getting chipped.”
Tillie gave her a sullen look and went on with what she was doing. Janey raised her eyebrows at Emma, who just shook her head. Tillie wasn’t her responsibility.
“What is it that’s really odd?” she asked instead.
Tillie didn’t answer immediately. Emma looked enquiringly at Janey.
She shrugged. “Mr. Appleton and Mr. Macdonald don’ seem to like one another much.”
“That Mr. Appleton,” Tillie said, turning from the trough, “visitin’ a house and behavin’ that way. That’s not the Irish way, that’s for sure and certain. Not at all, it isn’t.”
“Really?” Emma hadn’t seen Tillie so indignant about anything before. “What has he done, exactly?”
“He looks like he has a bad smell under his nose,” Tillie said, “and the Master is the smell.”
Emma winced as the girl thumped a plate down on the drainer.
“That might just be his manner, Tillie.”
“Bad manners then, is what I’m thinking.”
“Are they still in the drawing-room?”
“The men have gone to look at the horses,” Janey said. “The ladies are waitin’ on more tea.”
“I’ll take it.”
It was time she got to know the guests. They seemed interesting, at the very least. She took the tray with the fresh pot into the drawing room. Dora Appleton was sitting at one end of a sofa and Madame Fournier at the other. Sachi was in between, sitting as close to her mother as possible. Or as far from Dora as possible, she wasn’t sure which. She put Mrs. Appleton at around forty, someone who had been very attractive when younger, and was still handsome, but with a hardness now she could see around the mouth and eyes. Madame Fournier, by comparison, was very pretty, with a fresh round face framed with curls.
Mrs. Appleton watched as Emma set the tray on the low table between the sofas and looked in sharp surprise when she sat down on the opposite sofa beside Bea and began to refill the teacups.
“Do you live here, Miss…er… Harthorne?” Dora Appleton asked, clearly puzzled as to Emma’s social position.
“Haythorne. No, Mrs. Appleton. My family own Wirramilla, further up river, about a two-hour ride away. You will pass it on your way home.”
Mrs. Appleton looked relieved. That put Emma on a par with Bea so the woman clearly knew now how to treat her.
“Emma is helping me look after Ma,” Bea said, giving a grateful glance at her friend. “I don’t know how I would manage without her.”
“That’s what friends and neighbours are for,” Emma responded, as she handed around the teacups.
Madame Fournier nodded in agreement. “That is very true, very true, Miss ‘Aythorne. I shall miss my friends back in Paree. They have been, how you say, support, after my poor Louis … but,” she shrugged her elegant shoulders, “my mother is ‘ere, in the colonies. What can you.” So, she was a widow.
“Whereabouts in the colony do your family live?” Emma asked, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation about the importance of mothers.
“Bendigo. The gold fields.” She grimaced. “All dust and holes and rough men. But Claude tells me the city is not so bad, n'est-ce pas?”
“It has some lovely buildings now. The rawness is wearing off,” said Mrs. Appleton.
Madame Fournier too a sip of tea but did not acknowledge Mrs. Appleton’s remark. “My brother tells me our mother’s home is a new construct. Very comfortable, he say. I hope it is so.”
Emma held out a plate of Janey’s oat and treacle biscuits to Sachi, who delicately took one.
“Merci.”
Emma smiled at the girl. Mrs. Appleton sniffed.
“Perhaps you would like to see Ma now, Aunt,” Bea suggested.
“Oh, she is sleeping right now,” Emma said.
“She sleeps a lot, I’m afraid.” Bea was apologetic. “I will look in on her shortly. I know she will want to see you, and Uncle Appleton as well.”
“Sad, very sad,” Dora Appleton raised her handkerchief to her eye, although there didn’t appear to be any tears.
“Whereabouts did you travel in England, Mrs. Appleton?” Emma asked. “I have never been there myself, but I have read a great deal about the countryside and about London.”
“That’s nice, but reading is hardly the same as seeing the real thing, of course, Miss Haythorne,” Mrs. Appleton said. “We went to visit Vernon’s sister and other family members in Sussex. Beautiful countryside. Vernon insisted Anthony and I go along too, of course. It’s important to keep up family connections, isn’t it? I’m sure they will be very useful to Anthony during his life. Vernon’s sister’s husband holds a high position in the Colonial Office, and Vernon had a lot to discuss with him about the conditions in the Victorian colony, Vernon being a JP of course, and much consulted in our district.”
She went on to describe the numerous cousins, and several great aunts and their various houses, which, though very nice in their way, were apparently nothing as grand and spacious as their own Hillcrest.
“It is very pleasant to have a nice home, is it not?” Madame Fournier put in at that moment.
Emma and Bea both agreed, but the pinched expression that quickly passed across Mrs. Appleton’s face suggested something else. It was almost as if Madame Fournier was picking at a sore spot that she knew Mrs. Appleton suffered from.
“We had a lovely time in London,” Mrs. Appleton continued. “One day, we saw Queen Victoria driven in state to the opening of Parliament. But there were thousands out to see her, you know, great throngs of people in the streets, including the rougher elements of society, amazingly well behaved, really, though the weather was most inclement, threatening snow. The Queen wore a yellow satin gown with a large pink bow at the back. You know, my dears, it did not suit. She is too short and heavy for such a thing. Prince Albert would have advised her against it were he still alive.”
“How very interesting,” Emma said quickly, as Bea gave a small cough.
Bea obviously remembered poring over the London news with her and reading the article about the opening of Parliament the previous year. It was the first the Queen had attended since Prince Albert’s untimely death almost a decade earlier, and it clearly told how the Queen’s dressmakers had successfully persuaded her to forgo the pink bow.
Sachi was restless and Madame Fournier excused herself and took the girl out into the garden. They had no doubt heard the stories before. Mrs. Appleton watched them leave.
“One is thrown into the company of people in the confines of a ship whom one might not associate with in the ordinary way,” she said obliquely.
It was a few minutes later, when she was recounting her visit to the Tower of London, that she stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, as if something had caught her attention. Bea took the opportunity to excuse herself to look in on her mother, giving Emma a regretful look as she did so. Emma, not wishing to be stuck with the garrulous woman, stood and began gathering up the teacups and plates. As she did so, she glanced out the side window and saw what had caught Dora Appleton’s eye—Vernon Appleton in the garden talking to Madame Fournier. Mrs. Appleton seemed riveted to the scene.
“Perhaps you would like to take some time to unpack,” Emma suggested. Dora Appleton came to herself with a start. “I’m afraid we can’t provide a maid for you. The girls will be occupied preparing dinner.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” she said, getting to her feet. “I understood that, when I sent my maid on with my luggage.”
Emma felt, for some reason, that the maid was as much an invention as the sighting of Queen Victoria.
2
Over Dinner
When Emma entered the kitchen later she found Bea sitting at the table, scratching at a piece of paper, and Janey and Tillie preparing dinner.
“What on earth is it?” She looked at Bea’s piece of paper. It had a lot of crossings out around a line drawn in the middle.
“I’m trying to work out the seating for dinner. Dad asked me to seat Uncle Appleton as far from him as possible.”
“My goodness. Why?”
“He didn’t say, except that it would make for a more pleasant meal. Surely, they haven’t quarreled already? He’s only been here a few hours.”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. I only saw your uncle for a few minutes at the landing. I must say, he didn’t seem overly happy to be here. Why trouble to make the journey to visit if they don’t care for one another?”
The detour meant over a thousand miles of river and a two-hundred-mile train journey to reach Melbourne. One day steaming by sea from Adelaide would have achieved the same end.
“I have no idea, but it’s very unpleasant.”
“Perhaps there’s an old problem they need to sort out.”
“But what will I do?” Bea asked. “Uncle Appleton will be insulted if I sit him at the end with the boys.”
“Sit him beside Madame Fournier. That should make him very happy, though I wonder if your Aunt Dora will like it.”
“Why ever not?”
“I suspect there’s a little tension between them. Perhaps she doesn’t care for Madame Fournier’s friendship with your uncle. I can’t imagine what it’s been like with all of them stuck together on a ship for all those weeks.”
“Why would she be concerned about a friendship? Perhaps she just doesn’t like the French,” Bea suggested.
“Perhaps. Here, let’s have a look at that table arrangement.” She took the pencil from Bea. “Now, if we put your dad at the head as usual, we could put Jim and Matty on either side, and then…” Emma wrote names down rapidly. “There. What do you think?”
Bea studied the result. “But look where you’ve put Aunt Appleton, Emma. Next to Mr. Devereaux. If she doesn’t like the French that is not the best place. And she can see Madame Fournier across the table next to Mr. Appleton.”
“I doubt she would mind sitting next to Mr. Devereaux,” Emma said. “And it might keep her from talking all over us. You nearly put your foot in it earlier, you know.”
“Oh, I know. I’ll be more careful in future,” Bea promised. “But it was so obvious she hadn’t seen the Queen opening parliament, it took me by surprise. I will be on my guard now. We mustn’t embarrass her, no matter how boastful she is. That would be incredibly bad manners.”
“She probably thinks we are just country bumpkins who know nothing about the world.”
“Hmm.” Bea turned her attention back to Emma’s seating arrangement, “I see you’ve put yourself on Mr. Devereaux’s other side, you forward girl.”
“Well, someone has to sit there. And see, you will be able to gaze at him from across the table. You have a far better seat than I.”
Janey looked up from her potato peeling, and grinned. “Ooh, I’m goin’ to watch that. What’ll Captain Berry think?”
“You are getting to be as bad as your mother,” Emma scolded.
The Wirramilla housekeeper thought Emma and the Captain would make a good match, despite Emma explaining that he wasn’t available. Even if she had been interested. Which she wasn’t. Tillie looked from Emma to Janey, eyes wide at the badinage between mistress and servant. Emma hoped she wasn’t learning bad habits. Bea wasn’t likely to be firm enough to deal with it.
“In any case, you will not be watching,” Emma went on. “Tillie will serve and you will stay in the kitchen to look after the cooking. As you are the more experienced cook,” she added, to soften the order. “That’s all right, isn’t it Bea?” After all, it was her kitchen.
“All right. It will have to do, I guess,” conceded Bea, whose mind seemed still to be on the table arrangement.