“No,” Emma whispered. “No, no, no.” All she had received was his watch and a penknife, a few coins and his captain’s papers. The packet with the necklace was still unaccounted for. This didn’t help them at all.

  Chapter 14

  A Message from the Grave

  “I know you told me you weren’t hungry,” Mrs. Lockwood said, putting the tray down on the side table near where Emma was sitting in their cabin, “but I had the cook make up a small plate for you in any case, and a nice fresh brew. You’ll feel better if you eat something, my dear.”

  Emma hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon, when she and Joe had taken leave of one another, he to return to his work at Moama and she to board the P.S. Sapphire for home. Her mind had kept returning again and again to the news she was taking back to Wirramilla, until she felt ill and exhausted.

  “It’s very thoughtful of you,” she said now, “but I really don’t...”

  “Try a mouthful or two. Nothing seems so bad when you are well fed, my dear. Take it from someone who knows.”

  Emma had no doubt Mrs. Lockwood knew. She was one of the most well-fed ladies she had ever seen. Now she pulled the side table closer to Emma’s chair.

  “There. Have a pick at it, dear. Come along now, humour me.” She sat herself down on the edge of her bed, which creaked ominously.

  Emma looked at the plate. Braised mutton in a thick, rich gravy with mashed potato and some greens. Beside it was a small bowl with apple crumble. It did look inviting, even if her stomach wasn’t agreeing with her eyes.

  “Eat,” Mrs. Lockwood ordered, and Emma obediently did, first taking a tentative mouthful and then realising she was indeed hungry. She cleaned the plate and drank the tea, feeling better as promised.

  “There now,” said the older lady, satisfied. “Why don’t you take the tray back to the galley and get yourself some fresh air.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said, giving Mrs. Lockwood a kiss on the cheek.

  “Go on with you. Everyone needs a little mothering sometimes,” Mrs. Lockwood said, looking pink and pleased.

  Emma wished mothering were all she needed. Daniel would receive Hargreaves telegraph at Euston and know all was lost. Mr. Thompson would not be able to withstand Major Barnaby’s threats to expose him and could provide no insurance against the man. They still needed the necklace to satisfy the Major and she had no idea where to find it.

  Could her father cover the cost and allow her and Daniel to repay it? She couldn’t be sure. It was a daunting amount and could cripple Wirramilla if it coincided with a poor season or two.

  A willy-wagtail landed on the railing where she stood and cheekily hopped back and forth, puffing out his white chest, his black tailcoat bobbing and fluttering. Lucy believed wagtails were gossips and brought trouble and always chased them off. They were certainly cheeky little fellows.

  “You’re not helping,” Emma told him. “It can’t possibly get any worse.”

  The bird cheeped his ‘pretty little creature’ call and flew away. There had been a willy-wagtail sitting on the railing in the Merrim graveyard that last day before she’d returned to Wirramilla. It was a memory Emma hadn’t even realised she had. The Sapphire was scheduled to call at various pastoral stations along the way to deliver cargo and Merrim had been one of the places mentioned. She would take the opportunity to visit the Andersons, and the grave of Sam and their tiny son. Who knew when she would be back that way again?

  The swampy, low lying lands that marked the miles downriver of Swan Hill eventually gave way to heavily timbered countryside as they approached Merrim station later next day. Mrs. Lockwood elected to accompany Emma to the homestead. She was full of energy for such a large lady and clearly enjoyed meeting people. Emma was glad of the company. Halfway up to the homestead they met a servant girl coming down to the Sapphire, pulling a small flat-bed cart behind her.

  “It’s Deelie, isn’t it?” Emma said, recognising the Irish girl.

  “Mrs. Berry, it is. Glad I am to see you looking so fine.” Emma told the girl she was hoping to see Mrs. Anderson. “The Andersons have gone,” Deelie said. “Mr. Fraser is the manager now.”

  Emma was surprised. The Andersons had seemed very settled and content and she was disappointed not to see them.

  “Would it be all right if we visit the graveyard?” she asked.

  “Himself wouldn’t object to that, for sure,” Deelie said, and went on down to the landing.

  Emma and Mrs. Lockwood continued up the rise and then picked their way across a roughly ploughed paddock. Their destination was a stand of eucalypts protecting the graveyard in the middle of the ploughed area.

  They were not alone. A young man was sitting beside a simple wooden cross, brushing twigs off a grave mound. He had the dark hair and fine, pale-skinned features typical of the Irish. A child of about a year old, unsteady on his feet, clutched the man’s shirt. He stood as they approached, and the child sat down abruptly and let out a wail.

  “Wheest, now,” the man said softly, and gently touched the child’s head. The wail ceased.

  “Please, don’t let us disturb you,” said Emma.

  “You are visitin’ someone?” he said, his lilting accent confirming Emma’s original assessment.

  “My husband, Sam Berry.”

  “Ah, now!” He stepped aside to reveal a little way behind him the gravestone Daniel had erected on Sam’s grave. “Very sad that, all right.”

  Emma walked around to the grave, noticing for the first time the posy of wildflowers on the grave the young man was tending.

  “Your wife?” she asked softly.

  He nodded. “My Bridget. She left us six months now, but she left me this one, my little fellow.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Liam.” The little boy looked up at his father at the mention of his name, a smile lighting his face. Emma felt the familiar tug at her heart at the sight. Would it ever ease?

  “And who looks after him while you work,” asked the ever-practical Mrs. Lockwood, who had seated herself on a log in the shade of the trees.

  “Myself for the most. I look after the horses and the stable. The Missus, she helped with him with her own. Deelie, herself at the house helps out now when she can.”

  Emma couldn’t imagine a much more dangerous place for a small child than a stable. One kick was all it would take if he wandered into the wrong place. Mrs. Lockwood must have been thinking along similar lines.

  “If you need to find another place, I can offer you one up on the Darling,” she said. “That bonny lad would fit in with my grandchildren a treat.”

  “He would?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve a tribe of them and more to come most likely. And there’s always a need for an extra hand.”

  “Thank ye, I’ll think on it, all right.”

  Emma turned her attention to Sam’s grave. Daniel had done him proud with the marble headstone, nicely inscribed.

  Captain Samuel Earle Berry,

  drowned at the sinking of the Mary B

  20 May 1875 and infant son stillborn, 21 May.

  Erected by his grieving brother Daniel.

  A father and a stillborn babe and no mention of wife or mother. Well, Daniel had paid for the stone, after all. The wording was his choice. It was as if she hadn’t existed. She may carry Sam’s name, but she was not really a part of the Berry family, not any more anyway. And certainly not if Daniel had anything to do with it. She was a relic, rail against it as much as she liked.

  But where was the necklace? What did you do with it, Sam? A line from a Henry Kendall poem sprang to mind.

  Or who knows but that some secret lies beneath yon dismal mound?

  Ha! a dreary, dreadful secret must be buried underground!

  If only he could answer. The conversation between the Irishman and Mrs. Lockwood encroached on her thoughts.

  “It was my gift to Bridget for the boy,” the young Irishman was saying.

  Emma looked around. He had a pocket watch in his hand and was displaying a locket that hung off the winder.

  “I thought to bury it with herself, but then I would have nothing to show the boy about his mother.”

  “What delicate little portraits,” said Mrs. Lockwood, taking it from him. “Look at these, my dear,” she said, seeing Emma was watching. “Aren’t these the most delightful little paintings? How do they make such lovely likenesses so tiny?”

  “They are lovely,” said Emma coming to look at them. The images were delicate though a little naive, done probably by an amateur artist passing through, but he had caught the likeness of the young Irishman, so probably of the girl as well. “Your Bridget was very pretty.”

  “She was, that,” he said, as Mrs. Lockwood handed him back the watch and locket. “The Captain had a gift for you too, I saw,” he went on, speaking to Emma. “I couldn’t help but notice it you see, knowing you were soon to have a child and me having given such a gift to my Bridget and them both gone, just like that.”

  A prickling sensation manifested itself in Emma’s scalp. “A gift?”

  “That thin box wrapped in oilskin? For sure it was some trinket. Not a time to forget, so,” he went on quietly. “Jack and me it was dug the hole and we stood by next morning showing our respect when your man was laid to rest. It was after closing it up we had to open it again for the wee mite. The Missus, she wrapped him up well in a piece of stuff such a tiny wee packet he was. She was a good lady. Liam misses her.” He looked at the boy who was pulling apart the flowers on his mother’s grave. “A boy needs a mother.”

  “You saw a box wrapped in oilskin?” Emma repeated, the rest of what he said washing over her. She felt as tightly wound as a spring.

  “I did.” He looked at her and frowned. “Captain Hargreaves, it was, off the Invincible. He went through the pockets and brought everything to the Missus. He was particular we all see.”

  “What was in my husband’s pockets, exactly, do you remember?”

  “Ah, well, a pocket watch, some papers in an oilskin pouch, some small coins I recall, how much I don’t know.” He shrugged. “And the little box, wrapped in oilskin.”

  “And they were given to Mrs. Anderson? All of them?”

  “They were.”

  Emma let out her breath in a long sigh. He had seen the packet. It had been here, in Sam’s possession. It had to have been the necklace. It was the first tangible clue to its existence.

  What had happened to it once it had been put in the care of the Andersons? Had they opened the packet, found riches beyond their imagining, taken it, and run? Emma found that difficult to equate with the people she had known, however briefly. Perhaps the temptation had been too much.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” asked Mrs. Lockwood.

  “Yes, yes.” She turned to the young man. “Do you know...? I don’t even know your name,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners.

  “Brendan O’Neill.”

  “Mr. O’Neill, do you know where the Anderson’s went after leaving here?”

  He shook his head. “Deelie, herself up at the house, could know.”

  “I will ask her. You have no idea how important it is to me, what you have told me. That packet has disappeared,” she said, feeling she owed some sort of explanation. “I would dearly like to find it.”

  “It’s from himself,” Brendan said simply.

  Emma looked back at Sam’s headstone.

  “Yes.” Just not the way he imagined.

  They left Brendan O'Neill and his son at the graveyard and walked back to the homestead. Deelie, when questioned, remembered Mrs. Anderson had talked of a sister at some place at the Bendigo goldfields. She was sure they were going there, at least to begin with. Emma’s heart sank. How was she going to track them down there? They could be anywhere.

  “She wrote something down,” Deelie said, going to a drawer in the kitchen dresser and showing Emma a piece of writing paper. It was inscribed in pencil “Mrs. Peggy Anderson, C/O Post Office, Eaglehawk.”

  “Why did they leave?” Emma asked.

  Deelie shrugged. “She said it was because of Danny. You remember, the poor little one not right in his head.” Deelie looked as if she had more to say but the Sapphire’s whistle sounded at that moment, summoning them back.

  Emma was in a quandary. She wanted to travel to Eaglehawk to search for the Andersons with the one small clue Deelie had given her, but the Sapphire was heading in the wrong direction. It would be a waste of valuable time to travel on to Wirramilla and then get another boat back to Echuca. Besides, she couldn’t return home and then leave again without explanation, and the thought of giving that filled her with dread.

  These thoughts occupied her mind as she and Mrs. Lockwood made their way back down to the river. As soon as they were on board, Emma rushed up to the wheelhouse to ask Captain Bennett to delay for a few minutes, because she was leaving the boat.

  “One day, my dear, you must tell me what this is really all about,” Mrs. Lockwood said. “I sense an interesting story.”

  “Perhaps I may,” Emma replied, with no intention of doing so.

  Mrs. Lockwood waved to her from the upper deck as, with a final blast of the whistle, the Sapphire steamed into the centre of the river and on its way. Emma squared her shoulders and walked back up to the homestead. She hoped the new manager believed in the hospitality of the bush.

  Chapter 15

  Finding Mrs. Anderson

  “You are back with us again, Mrs. Berry,” said Mr. Nat Pickles, his tone a trifle querulous when Emma presented herself at the counter of the Echuca wharf office. The three days on the Daphne as she returned upriver had been long and tedious, impatient as she was to get on and find Peggy Anderson.

  “Just passing through today, Mr. Pickles,” Emma replied. “I wish to leave this letter for Captain Berry to collect when he returns from downriver. It’s most important. You will see he gets it, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” came the slightly stiff response, as if his efficiency were being called into question.

  Emma stifled a sigh. Was it her manner that upset some members of the Pickles family, or were they overly sensitive? Perhaps Mr. Pickles had been subjected to a litany of complaint about her from his sister. She thanked him pleasantly and turned to leave.

  “I hope you have made a hotel booking for tonight, Mrs. Berry,” he said. “Because every decent room is booked out for the latest excursion from Melbourne and whatever was left has been taken by those coming in from outlying places for the concert and the ball tonight.”

  Emma was dismayed. She had been planning on staying at a hotel for the night, having no intention of begging Miss Charity Pickles for a bed or of meeting old Mr. Pickles again.

  “I had best see if I can stay on the Daphne for tonight, then,” she said thinking quickly

  “It would seem like the best move.”

  “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Pickles. I do appreciate it.”

  Emma quickly went back on board the Daphne and secured her cabin for one more night, then went in search of Mr. Crowley’s cab. The streets were crowded, groups of men and women spreading across the footpath, standing around, making progress difficult. When she finally reached the Shamrock Hotel, Mr. Crowley’s cab was nowhere to be seen. She had planned on a visit to the boat yard to see how the Mary B was progressing, but more important was to book him for the morning to catch her train. She looked up and down the street, uncertain of her next move. The Shamrock’s doorman appeared at her elbow.

  “Are you wanting a cab, ma’am?”

  “I was hoping to catch Mr. Crowley. I need to book him for tomorrow morning to catch the train.”

  “I can do that for you, ma’am. What name shall I give, and where shall I tell him to collect you?”

  Emma told him and was glad when he wrote it down in a little notebook. She would not have felt confident had he relied on his memory.

  “Very well. I will make sure he is informed.”

  With her cab arranged, Emma wondered if she could walk to the boat yard. There were so many ordinary people out and about it felt quite safe. At the top of Pakenham Street, she saw a group a little ahead wandering down past the railway station towards the slip, and another lot strolling back. She went on. The group ahead paused to examine the half-built boat on the slip and Emma could see past them on the river the Mary B floating. The boat’s hull was repaired and caulked, and the framework of the upper structure rose impressively, partly clad.

  There was no activity in the boatyard, the men obviously having finished for the day. The door to the shed was closed and a shutter drawn across the window opening. Emma would have liked to look over the boat, but the plank to the deck had been removed for the night. She had to be satisfied with the progress she could see from the bank. It cheered her heart to see the Mary B back on the water.

  She began to follow the sightseeing group back up to High Street. As she did so, three men passed them, coming down. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things, but no. One of the men was Major Barnaby. Her step faltered. He was talking to the other two, who were clearly gentlemen by their dress, and didn’t appear to have noticed her yet, but she was going to walk right by him. What was he doing here? Was he checking up on her? Had he told anyone his story about the theft of Lady Annabel’s emerald necklace?

  Her heart in her mouth, Emma walked on the distance between them closing with every step. If the sun had been shining or it had been raining she could have hidden behind her umbrella, but it would look odd to raise it in the growing dusk. She kept her eyes straight ahead, as if lost in thought. One of the men raised his hat as they passed. The other man was busy speaking and didn’t take any notice of her, but the Major slid a sharp sideways glare her way letting her know he had recognized her.

  Emma’s mind froze while her body kept moving as of its own accord. A little further on she forced herself to step to the side of the road and pulled out her handkerchief, dabbing at her nose, while she looked back down toward the river. The men were standing in front of the Mary B. Was the Major telling his companions he was about to acquire the Berry’s boat? What other reason would he have for being here?

 

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