by Irene Sauman
****
Emma lay awake. It always seemed harder to get back to sleep when you’d been wakened in the middle of the night. The feeling of wanting her own family faces around her, that she had felt two days ago, had returned with renewed vigour. That strangers had been sneaking around in the night and murdered someone was unsettling to say the least.
To stop herself listening for any little sound she tried to conjure up an image of her grandmother in the stillroom at Wirramilla, concocting some healing herbal potion, bunches of dried herbs hanging above the fireplace. Another fireplace, this time the kitchen, Lucy Wirra in her armchair taking her morning tea, her daughters Janey and Sal bustling round, son Jacky poking his smiling face in at the door looking for a treat. Her father reading the papers over breakfast in the morning room, her mother with her letters…
The rattle of a cup woke her as Janey put it, none too gently, on her bedside table. She opened eyes that felt gritty and saw that Bea’s bed was already empty.
“What time is it?”
“After seven,” came the short reply. Apparently, she hadn’t yet been forgiven her remarks in the middle of the night. There was no point in saying anything. Janey would resume her normal behaviour in her own time. “Mrs. Macdonald is asking to see you,” the girl added on her way out.
Emma didn’t even have time to say ‘thank you,’ something else that would be held against her. She took a sip of tea. Half cold, of course. She dressed quickly, feeling a step behind everyone else. Had the boys discovered any evidence of horse stealers?
She took her cold tea back to the kitchen without a word to Janey. Only she and Tillie were there. She heard voices coming from the drawing room as she passed on her way to Mrs. Mac’s bedroom. Sounded like Mr. Devereaux and his sister. Perhaps they were discussing the events of the night.
She knocked on the bedroom door. Mrs. Macdonald was looking more drawn than usual.
“How are you feeling? Do you need something?” Emma asked, crossing to the bed.
“Perhaps a little of that tonic your grandmother sent last week,” Mrs. Macdonald said, turning her head to look at the collection of bottles and jars on the bedside table. “It does my throat good.”
Emma poured some into a measuring glass. The tonic contained a little laudanum and honey among other things. She helped Mrs. Macdonald to sit up and sip, then plumped up the pillows and made sure she was comfortable.
“Ah, that’s better. Thank you, dear.”
“Janey said you wanted to see me. Was it about anything in particular?”
Mrs. Macdonald gave her a look reminiscent of her better days. “What is going on, Emma?”
Had Mr. Macdonald told her about Vernon’s death or not?
“Why do you think something is going on?” she ventured.
“I heard George go out last night. The sleepout door squeaks and I heard Jim’s voice. He didn’t come back for ages. When I asked him this morning he said Vernon had an accident in the stable, and I wasn’t to worry about it. When someone tells me not to worry that’s exactly what I do, of course, because it means they aren’t telling me everything. They’ve had a fight, haven’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
That was true. She didn’t know if they had or that Mr. Macdonald was responsible for what had happened. But would telling her about Vernon’s death worry her more than what she was imagining?
“Is he injured?”
Emma closed her eyes, the vision of Vernon Appleton in a pool of blood on the stable floor vivid in her mind.
Mrs. Macdonald tried to lift herself up on one elbow but fell back onto the pillows with a gasp.
“Oh, dear Lord, he’s dead, isn’t he? George has killed him. I knew there was going to be trouble after that argument.”
“No, no. We don’t know who was responsible. It may have been horse stealers. We think he might have disturbed them while they were getting the horses from the stable and was attacked. And Mr. Mac was sending for the police this morning as well.”
“Horse stealers? Are you serious?”
Emma nodded, hoping madly it was true.
“Was he shot? I didn’t hear a shot.”
“No, he wasn’t shot. I guess they didn’t want to alert anyone.”
“So how was he killed, then?”
Emma hesitated for a moment. “He was knocked about the head with his cane and, and then stabbed with something. Everyone’s out looking for evidence that someone was around last night.”
Mrs. Macdonald stared at her silently as she absorbed the news. “But you don’t know for certain it was horse stealers killed him, do you?” she said at last.
“No, but several horses were out of their stalls. Someone had let them out.”
The questions raised last night niggled at her. She started as a hand clasped her arm with surprising firmness. Mrs. Macdonald was watching her closely.
“Find out for me, Emma,” she said. “I doubt anyone else will tell me the truth if George wants to hide it from me. Bea and the boys will do as their father tells them. And I need to know.”
“You want me to find out what happened?”
“I don’t want to go to my grave suspecting George of being responsible for something he didn’t do. And if he did…I need to know that, too. Promise me now.” Her grip tightened. “George and Vernon never had a good relationship. Vernon always blamed him for the damage to his leg.”
“But the police are being notified.”
“They’ll arrive days after the event, after Vernon is buried and then they’ll only know what they’re told, won’t they?”
Emma knew that would be so. Hadn’t she said as much to Bea and the boys in the stable?
“I don’t know what I can do. I have no authority to be asking questions.”
“Tell them I said so. It should count for something still, at least with my family. The visitors, well, they won’t know any better...”
Mrs. Macdonald’s voice cracked. Emma gave her some water and she sank back onto the pillows, exhaustion taking hold. Emma promised reluctantly that she would do what she could.
“Would you like more tea, or something else to eat?” she asked, eager now to get out of the room and gather her thoughts.
Mrs. Macdonald eyes closed. “Just do this for me,” she whispered.
6
Some People Disapprove
As Emma left the bedroom, Madame Fournier appeared at the drawing room door, holding Sachi by the hand.
“Miss ‘Aythorne, how dreadful,” she said, her look anxious, her free hand going to her chest. “Poor Mr. Appleton. This is dangerous place. I hear about bushrangers. Claude and I, we must leave. A house in mourning, it do not need guests.”
That was true enough, but if it turned out not to be intruders who had killed him it was someone on the property, which meant their visitors needed to stay until the matter had been resolved.
“It is dreadful indeed, Madame. But as for you leaving today, you were told last night, that would depend on a steamer being able to accommodate you. There is no guarantee.” She didn’t know if Mr. Macdonald had put out a signal for a steamer to call in. “But rest assured, no one expects you to leave in haste.”
“That is very kind, but we impose.”
“Mama, can we take a walk?” Sachi asked, tugging at her mother’s hand. “We were going to go the different way, Mama. And Hux needs out.”
“Oh, very well, cherie. But I must talk to oncle Claude and we will pack to be ready.”
“Oh.” Sachi let herself be led away.
Emma went on to the kitchen. She found Bea on her own testing the hot irons on the hob, a basket of clean laundry on the floor. The living still had to be catered to. Tillie and Janey would be cleaning out the fireplaces, dusting and making beds at this time of the morning. A large pot simmered on the stove, giving off rich smells of meat and onion.
“Emma, where have you been?”
“Talking to your mother.”
>
“You didn’t tell her, did you? Dad said we weren’t to tell her about Uncle Vernon just yet.”
“Well, she asked me outright what was going on,” Emma explained, somewhat annoyed. Mr. Macdonald would be annoyed at her now. “I tried to skirt around it, but you know your mother, she wouldn’t be put off and anyhow, she already suspected it was something serious.”
“So, she knows he died? And how?”
Emma nodded. “Have the boys found anything?” she asked, wanting to get off the subject of what she had told Mrs. Macdonald
“No. They’ve had Tommy Waradjee check for tracks all around the place, but all they can find are their own tracks from yesterday.” Tommy Waradjee was a black stockman and as expert a tracker as any of his race. If he said unknown men and horses hadn’t been around last night, then they hadn’t.
“And they haven’t found the cane?”
“No. Jim says it’s probably in the river.”
“Do you suppose it could have been one of the station hands?”
“What reason would they have to kill Uncle Vernon? What reason would anyone have?”
Emma had to admit she couldn’t think of any, except for Mr. Macdonald. He was still looking as the most likely, in fact the only person who had a reason for attacking Vernon Appleton, regardless of the issue of two different weapons. From Bea’s furrowed brow Emma could see that was on her mind as well.
“I suppose the men have been questioned about anything they might have seen last night?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Dad.”
If he would tell her.
“May I have some breakfast, now?”
Bea and Emma turned as Mrs. Appleton advanced into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
“Tea and toast?” Bea offered, swinging the kettle over the fire.
“Thank you, that will do nicely. Such a dreadful business this. But it’s fortunate that I’m here to take over, as the elder female family member, since your mother isn’t well enough, Beatrice.”
“Yes, thank you, Aunt.”
“Your father is having the grave dug as we speak, so the burial will take place as soon as it is ready.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“And I understand they haven’t found any evidence of horse stealers. I hope the perpetrator isn’t closer to home.” She glanced sideways at Bea and stopped. “Could he have been mistaken for someone else, perhaps?”
“Who?” Bea demanded. “Why would anyone want to kill anyone here?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, dear. Why would anyone want to kill Vernon, is what I would be asking.” The question hung in the air. “There seems to have been quite some activity going on last night. I believe you had something to do with that, Miss Haythorne. Very commendable of you, I’m sure. But I will handle the matter from now on. It isn’t fitting for young unmarried girls to be dealing with the mortal remains of the deceased. I do hope you haven’t told your mother of your doings, Beatrice.”
“Of course not, Aunt,” Bea said, giving Emma a quick glance.
Emma turned away, not wanting the woman to read her face. Dora Appleton was right about her role, and it was only fitting that she should take it on, but did she have to sound so pleased about it and so—patronising?
There were footsteps on the verandah and Matty came in and leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. He didn’t look happy. Mrs. Macdonald was right. They needed to know the truth for the suspicions were eating them up.
“How are you this morning?” Emma asked him.
“I’ve just been speaking to Mum,” he said, staring at her.
“Ah.”
She would have the whole family annoyed at her soon. She was aware that Mrs. Appleton was watching them closely.
“Is there something else wrong?” she asked, her tone more imperious than Emma cared for.
“We’re all upset about Uncle Vernon,” Bea said, doing her usual job of smoothing things over.
“Of course, you are,” Dora Appleton replied. Emma doubted the woman was convinced.
“Can we take a walk?” Emma asked, going up to Matty quietly. She collected her shawl from a hook on the back of the door and went past him to the verandah. He followed as she stepped down and continued around to the side garden.
“Your mother asked me what had happened. I couldn’t lie to her Matty,” she said, as he came up beside her. “I knew if your dad hadn’t told her the whole story that he didn’t want her to know, but I couldn’t lie when she asked me straight out.”
“I suppose not,” he said somewhat grudgingly. “It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
“It is. And then, Mrs. Appleton…”
“What about her?”
“Oh, she does rub me up the wrong way. As the elder female family member—her words—it’s only right that she should take charge of preparing your uncle for burial. But she appears to believe that means putting Bea and I in our place as well.”
“Ah, well we can’t have that happen, can we?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You do have a habit of, well, of exerting your will, let’s say. A bit like Aunt Appleton.”
“I’m not at all like Aunt Appleton,” Emma insisted warmly, turning to face him. “And I only exert my will, as you call it, when it seems necessary. You have to admit that your Uncle’s injuries needed to be examined and the truth discovered.”
“The truth is yet to be discovered, isn’t it?”
Emma stepped into a welcoming patch of sunshine past a spreading oleander but found only a chill wind, the lazy kind that went through you instead of around. She settled the woollen shawl higher around her neck.
“Yes,” she said. “But at least we know what it is we are dealing with.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“Well, as there’s apparently no evidence of any intruders or horse stealers, then someone here at the station attacked your uncle. Your mother has asked me to find out the truth.”
“And you can’t wait to start—investigating,” he said. It sounded more as if he meant sticking her nose in.
“I’ll ask questions, yes. I was hoping your uncle had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but if that’s not the case, then I think it more likely that he brought his problem with him, rather than found it here on the station, don’t you?”
“Except for the problem with Dad, of course.”
Still at the top of a list of one, but she wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“Who knows what lurks beneath the surface. Perhaps Mr. Devereaux didn’t like your uncle paying attention to his sister. Perhaps your uncle made a proposition to Madame Fournier and she had to fight him off.” She couldn’t really imagine either of those things, in reality. “Matty, something was said during the argument your father and uncle had yesterday, about money owed.”
“Oh, yes? You think Dad killed him because we owed him money?”
“Matty.” Emma’s frustration bubbled over. “Can’t you just answer the question? Can’t you see I’m trying to help? Or would you rather the police ask these questions?”
“Wanting to know about our business is supposed to help, is it?”
“Yes. Stop fighting me. This isn’t like you. Do you really think I want it to be your father? Help me prove it wasn’t.”
“Can you? Can you prove it wasn’t Dad?” The haunted look in his eyes told Emma all about his fears on that score.
“Tell me about this money.”
Matty sighed and rubbed his hand across his head before answering.
“Money was invested in the stable so we had the proper facilities for the Indian market. Uncle got a twenty-five percent return on the horses we send.”
The Nettifield stable was a model of its type, with its solid timber-clad walls and brick floor, and the chutes from the hay loft down to the manger in each stall. Emma understood now how they had achieved that.
“Well, the relations
hip between your father and your uncle can’t have been all that bad if he invested money in your business.”
Matty shrugged. “I don’t know the details. It was some years ago, when Uncle Allan was still alive.”
“Uncle Allan?”
“Aunt Appleton’s husband, Vernon’s younger brother.”
“Oh, so it may have been Allan who made the investment and Vernon inherited it, along with Allan’s share of the property?” Emma clarified.
“That could be.”
“Was Vernon unhappy with the return he was getting?”
“It wasn’t happening fast enough for him, apparently.”
“Was he demanding the investment be repaid?”
“Not that I know of. Dad’s not said.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
It saddened her. She was afraid it had just added to the weight on the scale against Mr. Macdonald. No wonder Matty was worried.
She started, as a man appeared between the homestead and the stable, a rifle slung over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a dark wool jacket, light-coloured moleskin trousers and brown calf-length boots, the lot topped with a wide brimmed, felt cabbage-tree hat.
“Dad’s got some of the men out. Patrolling I suppose you could call it,” Matty said, in response to her look. “Until the police arrive anyway.”
“So, he has sent for them, then?”
“Did you think he wouldn’t?”
Emma hadn’t been sure. Even now, he could just be going through the motions, playing a bluff.
“Would they stop anyone trying to leave? Madame Fournier was talking about leaving today, if a steamer comes by that can take them,” she said. “And we need to keep everyone here until we know what happened in the stable.”
“All under control, Em.”
In other words, mind your own business, but that was exactly what she couldn’t do.
Jim came around the corner of the homestead at that moment with Mr. Macdonald. Alex, Claude Devereaux and Anthony Appleton followed. No words were spoken. Matty joined them as they went around the back of the kitchen building to the laundry. They’d be carrying the body of Vernon Appleton up to the graveyard in a few minutes.
She didn’t want to go back to the kitchen. A walk to clear her mind was what she needed. She walked down the slope to the river and through the gumtrees lining the bank. The water coldy reflected the deceiving sunshine. Invisible birds chirped and sang above her head and a magpie swooped away, startling her as she passed close below his perch.
How was she going to discover who had killed Vernon Appleton? And if it had been Mr. Macdonald would she ever be welcome at Nettifield again? The questions made her stomach ache.