A gem of a problem, p.16
A Gem of a Problem, page 16
Brendan looked up at her. “You’re going to have to stop calling me Mister, Mrs. Berry. Brendan will do fine.”
“Well, that’s good, thank you, as long as you call me Emma.”
“I’ll try to do that.” He turned his attention back to the map. “Quarters, woolshed, smithy, stables, barn, stockyard,” he said drawing a line around the group of farm buildings clustered together a little distance from the homestead.
“That’s an awful lot. Deelie and I can help with some of those places, but we’ll leave them with you for the moment. What will you do, Deelie?”
“The house, kitchen, and here, along the creek and the sheep wash,” she said, pointing them out on the map. Brendan drew lines around the areas Deelie named.
“All right, I’ll take what’s left, the riverbank, gardens and the graveyard paddock. We each take responsibility for our own areas but help one another wherever we can. Some we can search more quickly than others.” She studied the map again. “Oh, I’ve realised, we can’t possibly search the men’s quarters. That’s a private area. If we need to do it, I’ll have to speak to Mr. Fraser again.”
“I’d better be getting back to my work,” Brendan said suddenly, pushing back his chair, as if the mention of Mr. Fraser had reminded him of what he should be doing. He gathered up Liam who was half asleep on Emma’s lap, his face wiped clean of tell-tale biscuit crumbs. She felt a pang of loss as the little warm body was removed.
“I can get started on searching the stables this afternoon, Mrs... er … Emma,” Brendan was saying. “And thank you for your offer to help us.”
Emma wasn’t yet entirely convinced Brendan wanted her help in finding a new place for the two of them, but time would tell. After lunch, she went in search of Mort and found him, a tall, gaunt man with stooped shoulders, walking up from the garden plot by the river. He carried a sack over his shoulder, a fishing rod poking from it, and a good size Murray cod, gutted and cleaned, swinging from his free hand.
“You’ve had a good day by the look of that lovely cod,” she said.
He stopped and surveyed her, peering through white eyebrows that hung like ragged curtains over his rheumy blue eyes. Emma’s fingers twitched for a pair of scissors.
“Ah, you’ll be that gel from Wirramilla,” he said, his upper crust British accent taking her by surprise.
“Emma Berry, Mr. Mortimer. I don’t recall having met you before, though if I have and have forgotten I do apologise.”
“We haven’t met, but I did see you when you were here that time,” he said. “And I’d heard tell the daughter at Wirramilla had her grandmother’s green eyes.”
“You know my grandmother?”
“It is many years since I’ve had that pleasure.”
He walked on, Emma falling in beside him. What acquaintance had he with her grandmother that he knew her granddaughter by the colour of her eyes?
“I would like a chat if you could spare the time, Mr. Mortimer.”
A wheeze that must have been a laugh shook him for a moment. “No one calls me Mister these days, young lady. Mort I’m known by on these shores.”
“Very well, if you prefer it.”
“As for a chat...” He turned his curtained eyes on her again, “that would depend on the subject.” Not about her grandmother then?
“I need to know something about the time I was here last, when my husband died.”
“Well, I’m not sure what you’d want to know, but I will do what I can. It’s not often I get to chat with a pretty, educated lady. Would it by any chance come with tea and several of young Deelie’s oat biscuits?”
“I’m sure the tea and biscuits can be arranged,” Emma replied, hoping she hadn’t fed all the biscuits to Liam.
“Mort,” greeted Deelie when they went in, her voice flat. “What have you brought today?”
He hung the fish on a hook near the door and opened his sack, producing a cabbage, several parsnips, some sprigs of thyme and parsley, and a knobby rhizome.
“Turmeric is this, Mort?” Emma asked, running her fingers over the rhizome. The spice wasn’t common to the colonial cuisine. At Wirramilla her grandmother grew it only for its medicinal properties.
“Useful to temper the strong taste of mutton on occasion. I learned a little of its use during my days in the East. I’ve been encouraging young Deelie to use it.”
“It does go right enough in a tatie and lamb stew,” said Deelie. “For a change.”
She set a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table in front of Mort.
“Well, now, you didn’t tell me you get tea and biscuits in return for vegetables. What am I supposed to give in return for a chat?” Emma asked.
“One price will cover all,” he said.
He picked up his mug and Emma noticed the way he curled his hand around it, two fingers hooked in the loop of the handle, the thumb and forefinger bent with arthritis. Perhaps there was something she could give him.
Deelie handed her a cup of tea and then busied herself by the fire. Emma told Mort the story of the lost necklace, as she had told Deelie and Brendan. He munched through several biscuits as he listened, nodding occasionally, but made no comment.
“I need to know if someone could have taken it from the homestead, during the time I was here,” she said at the end. “Do you remember anyone visiting the station at that time?”
Mort raised his teacup. “I remember the time. I was busy planting for the spring crops. I believe the gardens at Wirramilla are something special. Your grandmother's influence, no doubt. And then there’s that family you have there who must be a great boon in running the place.”
He gave her a sideways look at the last comment. He wasn’t the first to allude to the rumour of Lucy’s family having some blood relationship to the Haythornes, though the stories were probably much exaggerated. She would have to ask her grandmother about Mort, although Emma was beginning to understand Deelie’s dislike of the man and thought her grandmother would have distanced herself from any acquaintance.
“You would have seen anyone who visited, being about the place all the time,” Emma prompted, ignoring the comment.
Mort smiled to himself, which irked Emma. “Well, there were the chaps from the steamer, of course, the stern wheeler that was involved in the accident with your husband’s vessel. The captain, I forget his name now, came up to the house several times but none of the other men I don’t believe. Hugh Anderson didn’t like strange men about the homestead. He was very protective of young Mary. Lovely lass.”
“Anyone during the following week or so?”
He tapped his fingers on the table. “A salesman. Peddling some quack potions. You’d remember him Deelie? Tried to sell you a love potion. Hardly think you need it now, lass.”
Deelie either didn’t hear or pretended not to as she attended to something on the fire.
“What about anyone overland?” Emma asked. She could check with Deelie later about the salesman.
Mort didn't have anything else to add and left shortly after, taking his fish with him.
“Oh, Deelie. He really isn’t very nice, is he?” Emma said. “All those snide remarks. Does he always behave in such an obnoxious manner?”
“Likes to upset people, does Mort.”
“So I noticed. Does he pester you?”
“No, no, nothin’ of that sort, rest your mind. More of the leering kind. Not sure he wouldn’t have been dangerous to the servant girls when he was younger, though, I’m thinking.”
Emma was reminded again that Deelie was the only woman on the station. Little wonder she had taken up with Brendan O'Neill. Later that evening Emma wrote her letter to Mrs. Lockwood and put it in Deelie’s hands for delivery by the first boat calling in on its way down river.
Chapter 20
No Stone Unturned
“Good hunting,” Emma said to Deelie next morning, as they parted company at the edge of the creek where it fed into the river. She was to comb back along the riverbank while Deelie searched along the creek and around the sheep wash. The creek formed a natural western boundary between the built area, with its domesticated landscape, and the bush pastures. Emma hoped it would have been a natural boundary for Danny too. Brendan was continuing with the stables, so he could watch Liam at the same time.
The ground Emma was searching was like all areas near a homestead, free of fallen timber having been picked clean for firewood. There was the occasional hollow in a tree or stump or an area under exposed roots that needed to be scraped out. Brendan had leant her a pair of thick gloves to protect her hands which she was most grateful for as she poked and prodded, scraping out leaf litter and detritus from the hidden places. Dried leaves, twigs and bits of bark crunched underfoot as she worked her way along, accompanied by the pleasant sounds of the river and the birds. If it weren’t for the seriousness of the search it would have been pleasant enough work.
Wedged under a root she found a small child’s boot, left behind from the last flood perhaps. She hoped it wasn’t being worn at the time it was washed away. In another tree hollow there was a collection of bird bones and feathers. She located a fireplace, a burnt area surrounded by half a dozen stones, and an old tin billy with a rusted-out base. It was like searching the ghosts of past lives, but mostly she just disturbed the spiders, ants, centipedes and beetles that lived among the natural debris covering the ground and filling every crevice.
After about two hours she straightened and stretched. Her back ached from bending and creeping along. She had reached the timber landing, little more than a few piles driven into the riverbank to prevent it crumbling away with the constant wash from the boats, a handful of planks nailed on top. The water level was several feet below the height of the landing. She would have to get her feet wet if she were to search behind the piles, but it was a possible hiding place when the river was low, and she couldn’t afford to overlook anything.
There was no one around. She had seen no sign of Mort. He might be at his garden by now, but a slight curve in the river hid it from view behind the trees. Pulling off her boots and stockings, she hooked her skirts up into a bunch in one hand, and slid down the side of the bank, her other hand supporting her on the edge of the landing.
She gasped as her feet hit the cold water and she worked them into the muddy river bottom to get a secure footing. With the water up to her knees she could see beneath the landing, but it was all empty pockets between the piles and the bank. If anything had been hidden there it had been washed out and disappeared long ago.
She rested her forehead on the edge of the landing. This was an impossible task. She hoped Deelie and Brendan were having more success, but of course she would have heard from them if they had. Sighing, she pulled herself awkwardly back up to the bank.
She had mud on her legs and skirt, and her feet were numb from the cold water. There was no point in putting on her boots and stockings until she had washed off the mud. She stuffed the stockings inside the boots and clambered to her feet. Mort was standing a few yards away, watching her.
Emma started. “You could have said something.”
She didn’t think he had been there long, but she had been sitting with legs bare for several minutes. When he didn’t respond, but stood looking at her through those ridiculous eyebrows, she started up toward the homestead. Then she stopped and turned back to him.
“I meant to ask, have you ever used the turmeric you grow for medicinal purposes?”
“And what purposes may that be, Mrs. Berry?”
“For the arthritis in your hands. You boil the rhizome up into a mush and take, oh, enough to cover your little fingernail, twice a day. It should reduce the inflammation and take away much of the pain and give you some free movement in your fingers.”
“Ah, the lady of the manor distributing largesse,” he said, giving her a mocking bow.
“I would do no less for any animal with an affliction I had the power to ease,” Emma was stung to respond, before walking on. The words of Hippocrates’ oath echoed in her mind.
I will apply dietic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgement; I will keep them from harm and injustice.
She had done her duty, though not with much grace. Well, even Hippocrates couldn’t have liked every patient. She had washed the mud off her legs and feet and was putting on her boots in front of the kitchen fire when she heard Liam’s piping little voice announcing the return of Deelie and Brendan.
“You’re here, then,” greeted Deelie.
“I am. Nothing to show for my time though, I’m afraid, except wet feet and a muddy dress.”
“You should have let Bren search under the landing,” Deelie said, when Emma explained what she had done, though not mentioning her encounter with Mort.
“I would have done that,” Brendan agreed.
“I enjoyed it, if the truth be told,” Emma said as she helped Deelie set out the morning tea. “Felt like being ten years old again. You had no joy in your search either Deelie, I take it?”
“No. Just some odd bits and bobs. And a tear in my petticoat from catching on a tree stump.”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
“There’s no need, really.”
“Yes, there is. You’re not to be out-of-pocket on my account.”
“Well, thank you. The offer is kindly taken.”
“I found this in the stable loft,” Brendan said, producing a tin soldier from his jacket pocket. The little soldier’s coat was red above blue trousers and black boots and he carried a black gun against his shoulder. The paint was still bright.
“You didn’t tell me,” said Deelie, as he held the toy out to Emma.
“It’s for herself we’re searching.”
“She’s not wanting a wee tin soldier, now is she, you loony man? It’ll be young Danny’s all right,” she said to Emma. “Two in a tin there were, bought off the hawking boat but one went missing. Though Katy searched high and low it wasn't found.”
Emma took the tin soldier in her hand. It seemed to offer some much-needed hope, some proof in fact, making Danny’s little obsession real. Brendan had recognised that, though it wasn’t as obvious to the more practical Deelie. She realised he was looking at her anxiously.
“It’s a talisman,” she said, closing her hand over it. “You must have searched the stables really thoroughly to have found it after Katy failed.”
“If what you’re looking for is here, we’ll find it,” Brendan said. Deelie smiled at him fondly.
Half an hour later, tea and biscuits consumed, Deelie and Brendan went out to search several of the other farm buildings. Emma was left with Liam and the tin soldier. While he banged it on the kitchen floor, when he wasn’t putting it in his mouth, she sat at the table with her notebook and wrote up the events since she had arrived at Merrim.
When Deelie and Brendan returned, tired and dusty and empty-handed, Liam had been fed his lunch and was napping on Deelie’s bed in the alcove adjoining the kitchen. They had added the woolshed to the places that had been searched in the morning, but with no more success than before.
Emma planned to finish the riverbank past the vegetable garden in what remained of the afternoon. Deelie and Brendan had their own work to do. When Deelie refused Emma’s offer to help with the chores, she had no excuse but to run the gauntlet of Mort again.
He wasn’t anywhere in sight, as she made her way down to the river. She began her search along the bank from the other side of the landing, but by the time she had worked around the curve Mort was back. She waved to him as she bypassed the garden and orchard.
It occurred to her she would need to search those areas, but then decided there would be little point. The area was well cultivated. If there had been anything there, Mort would have found it. He could be laughing up his sleeve at them right now. It was just the sort of thing he would do, if he could, Emma was sure. She might have to talk with him again if they hadn’t found it.
She eventually reached what she thought might be the north-eastern boundary of young Danny’s roaming territory. It lined up with the far side of the hill on which the graveyard was located. The area here was just bush. Tomorrow she would search around the homestead itself and the grave paddock, where there were several stands of trees and scrub. They were fast running out of possible places. Of course, it would be the last place they looked, but that went without saying.
Mort hailed her as she went past the garden on her way back to the homestead.
“There are some vegetables you could take up to young Deelie if you would. Save me the trouble.” He gave her a cabbage and a bunch of carrots.
She thanked him and went on her way. Deelie was surprised when she came in with them.
“Isn’t himself coming up for his tea and biscuits and daily annoyance?”
“He didn’t say anything about it. Perhaps he just wanted me to be his servant for the day.”
“That would be just like him, indeed.”
Emma wondered if he didn’t wish to be further reminded of her grandmother. Which made her think of home and Major Barnaby. How long would he wait before making good his threats? His visit to her father didn’t auger well for his patience.
Chapter 21
The Needle in the Haystack
Next morning, with Deelie and Brendan searching the other farm buildings, Emma went out to search the area immediately around the homestead. The garden that had been lush and colourful when the Andersons were in residence now sported flowerbeds empty of anything but dried stalks and weeds and unkempt shrubbery. Only a white flowering oleander seemed to be thriving.
Mort obviously didn’t bother with anything except the vegetable garden, or else it was Mr. Fraser who didn’t want him wasting his time on a garden that was purely decorative.
Emma searched under the oleander and the other shrubs with her gloved hands, pulling aside the dead vegetation. She found a wooden block, split from the weather, the colour so faded it could have been anything. She peered under the water tank, supported on a stand of massive tree trunks topped by thick, rough-hewn planks. A mint plant flourished beneath the tap and a twining jasmine provided a curtain of privacy to the space beneath. The cool dimness would be an attractive place to escape to for a child. She seemed to remember Katie mentioning the tank stand. Emma’s anticipation rose.
