The Secrets of Palmerston House Read online

  A few steps further down the track she stopped again when the crunch of rubble, as if underfoot, caught her attention. She glanced back, expecting to see Martin, but nobody was there.

  How odd. Walkers rarely strayed up this track, being narrow and quite steep in parts, winding back and forth across the cliff face. Smaller paths, barely visible, forked off in places but Martin had cautioned her against investigating them alone.

  “Hello?”

  A rabbit bounded past and she jumped. With a shake of her head, Christie followed the rabbit toward the beach.

  ***

  Bernie stepped out from a crevice in the cliff, careful not to make another sound. He watched Christie walk away, admiring how her jeans fitted. Even from this view, she was prettier in person than the images he’d found online. Very nice, if you like the descendants of thieves. She disappeared from sight.

  He reached into the crevice and retrieved a backpack. He took out an almost empty plastic bottle of water and drank rapidly, before crushing the bottle. The lid he returned to the bag, but he tossed the bottle into the undergrowth.

  From a pocket he pulled out a compass. Old, of English seafarer design, it glinted as the sun caught its brass outer. Bernie watched it adjust, then took a few steps to his right. There was the faintest track here between chest-high bushes somehow growing at a ridiculous angle over and around the steep cliff.

  Compass back in his pocket, he pulled a pair of heavy gloves from the backpack. He worked his way between the bushes, swearing under his breath as his arms were scratched. Two steps in and the ground sheered away. He sat on the edge, one hand on a sturdy branch and the other shading his eyes against sun-glare from the sea.

  If he had the right equipment, he could use the shrubs to climb from. Bernie extracted his small camera from a pocket inside his jacket. He spent a few moments shooting images of every inch below and around himself, then sat for a while, staring at the horizon.

  Chapter Four

  Christie let herself into the old hairdressing salon she’d purchased a few months ago and closed the door behind her, leaning against it to survey what would soon be her new business. So far, she’d removed the old sinks, mirrors and reception desk, with some help from Martin.

  Barry Parks wandered past the window with a nod and Christie flung open the door with a wide smile.

  “Welcome to my new project, Barry!” she waved dramatically inside. “Just when you thought it was safe to expect a normal job.”

  “This looks a whole lot easier than that cottage of yours.”

  “Why? Is it the lack of hidden entry ways, or the absence of decades old carpet? Although...” Christie frowned at bright orange linoleum covering every inch of the floor.

  Barry grinned as he opened his iPad. “What’s the plan? Old-world charm or cutting edge modern?”

  “Neither. How many rooms can we fit in here?”

  “Rooms?” Barry gazed around. Longer than wide, the shop was an open space, with a door in the back wall. He wandered down and peered through to a small kitchen and tiny bathroom. Beyond was the back door. “What’s out there?”

  “Well,” Christie moved ahead to unlock the door. “That’s the other thing.”

  She opened it onto an enclosed, concrete yard with a broken clothes line. It was about half the size of the shop. Barry looked at Christie with an expression she knew from his days restoring the cottage.

  She smiled. “You’ll love it.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I’ve checked with council and as long as we comply with fire safety and some other rules which I forget, they have no issue with internal changes. And out here I can landscape and enhance unless we go higher than the building.”

  “I’m getting worried now. Since when do you speak to council?”

  “Best way to overcome objections is to present a viable proposition.”

  “To me.”

  “Well, I didn’t want you wasting your time, in case they didn’t see things my way.”

  Barry laughed. “What is it you want me to do?”

  In a serious tone, Christie lowered her voice. “Barry, do you have any idea how much the ladies of River’s End have been missing out on?”

  He groaned.

  ***

  Thomas and Randall strolled through the meadow to Martin’s house, leaving his old four wheel drive on the other side of the gate. There’d never been a driveway to the house and Martin liked it that way. As a young man, Thomas used to set up his easel near the cliff edge and paint for hours. Back then it was council-owned land and accessible to anyone wanting to use it, not that many folk did. Being so high up and with limited windbreaks, once winter came along the land was buffeted and colder here than in town. Martin didn’t care. He’d built the house to suit the seasons and spent most of the winter painting in his studio.

  “I wonder what Christie will think about that?” Thomas asked Randall, who looked around expectantly at the sound of her name. “Yep, you love her every bit as much as we do.”

  “Who are you talking to, Thomas?” Martin came around the corner of the house, holding his mobile phone. “Hello, dog.” He patted Randall as his dog circled him with a whimper of delight.

  “The dog of course. See anyone else here?”

  “I’m more concerned about you talking to yourself.”

  “Been doing that my whole life. Sign of high intelligence, I’m told.”

  “Who told you such a thing?”

  Thomas feigned offence. “Well, I did. Most intelligent person I know.”

  “Right. Coffee?”

  “Might as well. Got another hour until lunch with Christie. Speaking of which, how was last night?” Thomas dropped an arm over Martin’s shoulders as they walked. “Did you burn dinner?”

  Martin rolled his eyes. “How was your night? Did you manage to feed yourself without Martha to look after you?”

  “Funny. Randall and I enjoyed a nice steak. Cooked the way I like it.”

  “Black.”

  “Properly cooked. None of this medium rare business. What’s with the mobile phone?” Thomas followed Martin up the handful of steps onto the long deck. The remnants of a candle remained on the table and Martin collected it on his way past.

  “Just had a call from Tony, the principal up at Camp Hawk.” Martin headed inside, Thomas and Randall behind him.

  “Ah. Your special project camp.”

  “They have a new intake of students in two days and Tony has to attend a funeral interstate.” Martin filled the coffee machine with water. “He’s also the art teacher and to go a full week without one is not fair on the kids. Not when they’re only there for three weeks.”

  Thomas settled onto a stool at the long bench between the living room and kitchen. “So, they need you.”

  “I’m getting married in a few weeks, Thomas. There’s so much to organise.”

  With a chuckle, Thomas shook his head. “Son, you just need to show up. Christie is surrounded by people who will help her.”

  Martin considered this as he watched coffee trickle into one, then the other cup. When he joined Thomas with their drinks, his forehead was furrowed. “It isn’t just the wedding.”

  “I can see that. But you can’t watch over her every minute. Christie is safe. She’s with Martha and me at night and I’m pretty certain the new project of hers is occupying her at the moment. We’ll all help out. You go.”

  “You’re having lunch together?”

  “At the bakery. Want to join us?”

  “No. I’ll give her a call and see if she’ll drop round afterwards, so leave it for me to tell her. Unless she’s okay about it, I’ll say no.”

  Thomas grinned. “As long as nobody thinks you’re skipping out on the big day.”

  ***

  Charlotte lay on her bed, eyes on the same spot on the ceiling for the last ten minutes. Elizabeth’s kind words earlier had reminded her of the day she’d arrived.

  There she’d been, totall
y lost going up and down dead end roads. Exhausted from a full day driving, nothing to eat in hours, tears streaking her face, and with a giant map open on her steering wheel, she’d veered out of a side road almost into the path of a police car. Her heart had almost stopped when the patrol car’s lights flashed.

  After pulling over, she’d brushed the tears away but her hands refused to stop shaking. Everything in her life was out of control and this was possibly the final straw. Agitated, she’d watched the approach of the police officer in her side mirror, his walk cautious and hand on his holster. Oh God, had she broken some laws? Without a thought, she’d flung the door open, wanting to explain she was not dangerous.

  “Hold it there, ma’am.” His voice was deep. Why she’d noticed was beyond her. She put her hands up for some reason before realising the road map was in one of them. She let go and saw him watch it drift down. He was a little bit older than her, she guessed. Solid but from muscle, not fat. A kind face with keen eyes. He’d gently scolded her for driving and reading the map at the same time, then asked where she was going. Senior Constable Trevor Sibbritt. Trev. Before she knew it, she was following him to Palmerston House, and he’d stayed to make sure Elizabeth got her settled.

  With a sigh, Charlotte sat up, putting her legs over the side of the bed. Trev was a good man and in another lifetime she’d allow him to court her, for that is what she knew he wanted. Old-fashioned the word might be, but it fitted the respectful, if slightly hesitant way Trev usually spoke to her.

  She pushed those thoughts away. The bigger problem at hand was Bernard Cooper. His words from last night taunted her.

  “Had a lovely chat. Pushed her wheelchair down to that nice little lake at the institute you stuck her in. She was quite happy to talk about her daughter. The acclaimed psychiatrist who took a sabbatical. Her mind is a whole lot better than you think.”

  Charlotte reached for her phone on the bedside table and dialled. She curled her legs back underneath herself.

  “Lakeview Care. Maggie speaking.”

  “Maggie, it’s Charlotte Dean. How are you?”

  “Oh, Dr Dean! How nice to hear from you. I’m quite well. You’d like to speak to your mother?”

  “Actually, would you have a moment? I would like an update.”

  There was hesitation on the other end of the line.

  “What is it Maggie? Is something going on with my mother?”

  “Not as such. But she had a visitor and since then asks about you every day. When you are coming to see her. That kind of thing.”

  “What visitor?”

  “Oh, I thought you’d know. Your cousin, Bernard. He seemed very fond of Angelica and spent a lot of time here. They went down to the lake and had lunch together. She really brightened up.”

  Charlotte lay back on the bed, eyes tightly closed.

  “Dr Dean?”

  “Maggie, he’s not my cousin, so please make a note he is not to visit again. Okay?”

  “Oh my! I am so sorry. He was very convincing.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “Dr Dean, when will you be coming to see your mother? Just so I can let her know when she asks.”

  Her heart felt like it would explode, so fast it beat. One breath. Two. This wasn’t working.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry. Tell her I love her. I’m away. I’ll call when I’m back.”

  She hung up and turned on the bed to curl up in the foetal position.

  ***

  Trev checked his phone while waiting for his order at the bakery, clearing junk emails and reminders. The latter were of no value anyway, because he missed them time and again. There were two text messages. One from Thomas, asking if he’d seen a speeding SUV. He scratched his head. Cooper. Bernard William Cooper. He’d go see Thomas and find out why he’d asked. The other message was from his mother. The weekly check in. When was he coming home for a visit? Would he be bringing a lady with him? Would he ever give her grandchildren?

  He replied with a smile. Soon. No. What about a kitten instead? Their regular joke. Except deep down she was concerned he’d never marry. She was alone now, since Dad had passed away, and a few hours’ drive from here. In spite of his suggestion she move closer, her heart was with the town he’d grown up in. He did need to visit though.

  “There you go, Trev.” Sylvia handed him a white paper bag. “It’s hot, so don’t burn yourself.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be careful.” He turned from the counter, almost straight into Thomas, who glanced over his shoulder. Trev followed his glance to Martha and Christie, settling down at a table near the window.

  “Pretend we’re having a normal conversation.”

  “Hello, Thomas. Normal, as opposed to what?”

  “And keep it quick. Don’t want to concern the bride. Either of them.”

  “What’s up?” Trev stepped to one side to let other customers past and Thomas followed, his forehead creased. “What are you worried about?”

  “Not worried. Curious. Have you seen anyone in town with a darkish kind of SUV? One of those smaller ones.”

  “Ah. I just read your message. Yes. Had a chat to someone last night about going too fast.”

  “Good. Good. Who?”

  “Why do you ask? What do you know about him?”

  Thomas raised a hand to wave at Martha. “Supposed to be ordering lunch. He was up the road from the cottage in the dark last night. Went hurtling past spraying stones all over.”

  “Probably just lost.”

  “Then he should have asked me for directions.”

  The heat from Trev’s pie seeped uncomfortably into his hand and he moved it to the other one. “It’s normal to be a bit suspicious, a bit worried after what happened to Christie. He’s just a visiting photographer. Seems harmless.”

  Relief flooded Thomas’ face and Trev patted his arm. “Have lunch. Relax and enjoy your family, okay? I’ll keep a watch out.”

  With a nod, Thomas got back in line. On his way out, Trev waved to Martha and Christie. The events of a few months ago stayed fresh. Only time would settle everyone back down. No more break-ins, vandalism, and attempted murder, thanks very much.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh! You captured the pond perfectly!” Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table next to Bernie, looking at a series of photographs on a small laptop. Both had empty teacups pushed to one side.

  “I love the old trees around it. Makes for a pretty backdrop.” Bernie clicked his mouse and a close-up of a duck appeared. “Can’t resist these fellows. See the colour on his wings?”

  “Hers, actually, but yes. How did you learn to take such beautiful photographs, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Just have a good eye, really. Did a course and got a lucky break. Now, see this one?” Bernie clicked again, eyes not leaving the screen. “It almost looks like the garage was once a stable block.”

  “Well, it was. A long time ago of course before cars became the new horse and buggy, I imagine.”

  Bernie sat back in his chair, his attention now on Elizabeth as she continued. “There were always horses kept here, right up until the Ryans left, but those stables were changed into a garage, and groundkeeper lodgings, long before then. New sheds went out in the paddocks for the pleasure horses.”

  “You said the Ryans. You mentioned a Martha Ryan earlier.” He reached for his teacup.

  “Let me refill it, dear.” Elizabeth poured more tea for them both. “Martha’s great-great-grandfather was the first Ryan to live here. I don’t know all the history – George Campbell is the best one for local knowledge – but I believe they moved here in the middle of the nineteenth century.”

  “Thank you. The tea is lovely. So, who built the house?”

  “You really are interested? Come with me and I’ll show you a bit of history,” Elizabeth took a quick sip of tea before getting to her feet. “We have a few photographs of our own here.” She led Bernie to the long hallway in the direction of
the foyer. Normally it was dimly lit, but Elizabeth flicked a switch and a row of downlights came on above a series of photographs on one wall. She went to the farthest one.

  “Starting with more recent times, this is Patrick and Lilian Ryan, and sitting in front of them a very young Martha and her older sister Dorothy. Martha lives right here in River’s End.”

  Bernie peered at the photograph. “Didn’t you say the Ryans left though?”

  “Lilian and Patrick moved to Ireland a long time ago. A few years later, Martha followed them and only came home last year. Quite a story on its own.”

  “But she doesn’t live here. At Palmerston House.”

  “No. Over time all the Ryan properties were sold, except the original stationmaster’s cottage up the hill. Thanks to her great-niece, Christie, the cottage is now hers, all restored and beautiful. Now, let me show you the next photograph.”

  Elizabeth progressed down the hallway, telling Bernie little snippets about each one, until reaching the final frame. The family in this photograph were serious, dressed in black finery in a formal pose.

  “That is Eoin Ryan and his wife, Mary. The first Ryan family to own Palmerston House.”

  “He built it?” Bernie ignored the photograph, staring intently at Elizabeth.

  “No, although I believe his timber company provided part of the structure.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I’d suggest having a chat to George, or popping into the library at Green Bay if you want a lot of detail.”

  Bernie kept his eyes on Elizabeth, smiling with his mouth only. “I love history. Nothing like knowing who forged this country. So, do you know the name of the man who built it?”

  “Henry Temple did. Built it and lived here for a few years, I think.”

  “Sold it to the Ryan family, I guess.”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t sell it. We need more tea. You’ll love this part!”

  ***

  1853

  Harry Temple staggered through the open gates, his horse wandering behind, its reins dragging on the ground. Moments earlier he’d fallen into whiskey-induced sleep on its back and slipped off with a thud. Unhurt, he couldn’t work out how to mount again, so walked. Or stumbled.