The Secrets of Palmerston House Read online

  The incessant cawing of seagulls bore into his thoughts and he turned the ignition key. Before driving away, his eyes were drawn to Martin’s house. Where did the Blakes fit into all of this? Were they even here back then? Apart from some sketchy information about the railway line servicing the timber industry, he knew little. Another bit of the puzzle. He nosed his car down the hill.

  When he drove through the gates of Palmerston House, its beauty kicked him in the gut. Elizabeth White was a good caretaker. She’d lavished love onto the property and kept it from falling into disrepair after its long years boarded up. How could anyone leave here? He slowed the car to a crawl. He’d live here forever. Treasure its gracious rooms and splendid gardens as Harry Temple once did.

  Once the car was parked, he hurried inside, glad nobody saw him. All he wanted was to open the diary. Somewhere in there he’d find out what happened to the grandfather clock and maybe work out how to get it back again.

  ***

  1853

  Tomorrow, Eoin Ryan and his lawyer would be here again, this time to take his keys. Throw him out. Ruin his life. So they thought, but every waking moment of the past week saw Harry a little bit happier as his plans fell into place.

  Most of the precious things he’d secreted were hidden before they’d come here the first time. Except two. Eleanor’s timber trunk, and the longcase clock. The trunk would come with him but not the clock.

  Harry opened the front door at the first knock, swinging it wide to let Sam and Walter Brown through. Hardworking brothers, they’d made their way to the sea instead of the goldfields. They’d helped Harry out with his secret project as he’d built Palmerston House, and in return he’d gifted them a small parcel of land. He trusted them.

  “Lads. You weren’t seen?”

  “No, sir,” Walter’s glance went to the clock against the wall. “But, it is too fine for us. Let me sell it for you and bring you the takings.”

  “It’s not for sale, lad. Remember that please. Once in your family it stays there and for this I need your solemn vow.”

  Walter and Sam nodded at each other, then Sam spoke. “As long as our family lives, it will never be sold.”

  “Let’s get it out onto the dray. No point risking being seen.”

  After wrapping the clock in blankets from his own bed, with great care and a fair degree of groaning, the three men carried it out to the waiting dray. Laid gently onto a bed of hay, it was covered by an old sail and tied in securely.

  Harry sat on the top step and watched until the boys were out of sight. It hurt. A perfect timekeeper, the longcase clock was admired by all who saw it and he never would again. Nor will Eoin. Now, there was only the trunk.

  ***

  At exactly one minute past midnight, Eoin Ryan pounded on the front door of Palmerston House.

  Shocked and a bit drunk, Harry stumbled down the staircase, brain hazy. They weren’t meant to be here until much later to let him vacate alone and with dignity. He hadn’t finished packing his one case. Open on the floor upstairs, he needed to take the last of his clothes from the cupboard. His shoes. Best suit. Eoin surely would let him stay until morning light?

  He opened the door and Eoin brushed past Harry, followed by two of his burly men. Thugs, who’d stood silent at every poker game, ready to throw out anyone who disagreed with their master. “Where are the keys?”

  “They’re on the kitchen table. All of them. But come back in the morning, Eoin. Let me sleep here until dawn.”

  “Go to the kitchen. Get them.” Eoin directed one of the men. Then he stood in the centre of the foyer and slowly turned to view it. “Ye did a good job, Harry. She’s a beautiful house and a credit to ye skills.”

  “Eoin—”

  “Where’s ye personal things?”

  “My case is half packed. I thought you’d be here this evening.”

  Eoin waited until the first man returned from the kitchen, keys in hand, then he looked directly at Harry for the first time. “Get dressed.” He held his hand out for the keys, pocketing them immediately. “Go with him,” he addressed his men. “Throw whatever clothes he has into a case. Stay with him and escort him out once that is done.”

  “But—”

  “Move.” One of the men stepped toward Harry and he backed away.

  “Listen, I haven’t finished... Eoin? Have a heart, man.”

  Eoin turned away. His men flanked Harry and he shot up the staircase. Damn them. No time to walk through Palmerston House once more. To say goodbye. No chance to check he’d locked his hidden door. Where was the key? He stopped in his tracks outside his daughter’s bedroom. The door was ajar and he could see the trunk. The key was in it.

  “Move or I’ll carry you.” One of the thugs pushed Harry.

  “Wait! I left something in my daughter’s room. Something personal, not on the list.”

  “Should have got it earlier. Last chance, Temple.”

  He wanted to push back, to run into the room and grab the precious key. Instead he walked to his bedroom, back straight and head up. No one would manhandle him. He was a gentleman and would teach these three how an Englishman behaves. Scurrilous, underhand miserable thief. Eoin Ryan's name would be known throughout history and his descendants would bear the cross of his evil deeds. A day of reckoning would set right what was being done to him this moment.

  Harry hummed as he dressed. Brown suit, fob watch with a photograph of his wife and daughter. Shiny leather boots and suspenders. His hat. An overcoat. By now, the case was squashed shut. He’d need to find someone to sort the clothes out. Like this he wouldn’t even get a job interview and that, it suddenly hit him, was what he’d need to do.

  Still humming – which was clearly bothering the other men – Harry strode past his daughter’s bedroom without a glance. He’d find a way. Eleanor would forgive him leaving it behind once she heard about Eoin’s behaviour. The key didn’t even matter. He knew other ways in to his stash.

  ***

  “But the key will make it easier for me, you idiot!” Bernie muttered at the diary as he closed it. He leaned against the bed head, legs stretched out on the eiderdown. Harry Temple was beginning to annoy him.

  At every turn there was a new problem. A valuable grandfather clock apparently handed over to newcomers with the directive to keep it in the family. Not sell it. Well, somehow the Browns managed to offload it to George Campbell, who obviously knew the clock didn’t belong to him. If Harry wanted to stop Eoin Ryan enjoying the clock, why not rip out its mechanism? I’d have spoilt your little victory. Yes, he’d have set fire to the house and left nothing but ashes.

  What was so special about the trunk? Of all the household goods, this was the one Harry wanted to take with him. For Eleanor. Out of a sense of guilt or sentimentality? There was no description other than it coming from England with them and being in his daughter’s bedroom.

  Bernie opened the diary at the page he’d just read, his finger underlining the sentence as he read aloud. “So close. If only I’d run in there before the thugs reached me I could have pocketed the key with them none the wiser.” He closed the diary and swung his feet onto the floor. “That’s where you are.” After sliding the diary under the mattress, he slipped his shoes on and went looking for Elizabeth.

  The back door was open and he wandered into the sunshine. Directly behind the house was a strip of grass with a clothes line and vegetable patch. Just like a suburban backyard. Trees bordered the farthest boundary. Claret ash, golden elms, and Japanese maples were interspersed with gums. In a direct line from the back door, a path disappeared between the trees. Bernie followed it.

  Sunlight filtered through the leaves and birdsong filled the air. The path curved through the trees until opening on a large pond. It was almost a small lake, with all manner of plants around its banks and in the water, a riot of colour and scents. Bernie stopped at the edge, his artist’s eye appreciating the beauty of clouds reflected in the calm water. Ducks swam and squabbled. />
  To one side of the pathway, a comfortable bench at its base, an oak tree stood strong. This would have been planted when the house was built. Bernie stared up at its highest branches.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Bernie jumped as Elizabeth stepped from behind the tree, a pile of weeds in her arms.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to startle you. I thought you would have seen my tools here.” She dropped the weeds into a small wheelbarrow with a smile.

  “Actually, I didn’t. I think I was miles away, wondering when this was planted.”

  “The oak? The Temples were responsible. They brought several saplings with them from England, though goodness knows how they kept them alive on those old ships! Martha told me about it before Keith and I came to inspect Palmerston House. We came right here to the pond first, even before going inside. Once we saw the poor pond, all choked with algae, and this wondrous tree... well, we fell in love.”

  “Martha?”

  Elizabeth sat on the bench and Bernie joined her. “Martha lived here until she was about twenty-one or so. You seem so intrigued by this place.”

  “I am.” Bernie stared at the pond. “Perhaps it is the same as you. Falling in love with it. As if I’m meant to be here.”

  “I understand and am so glad I never have to leave.”

  Don’t get too comfortable, Elizabeth. He forced himself to smile at her. “In fact, I want to do more than photograph the region. I spoke to my publisher and got the go-ahead to do a pictorial on Palmerston House. History, mix of old and new photos. With your permission, of course.”

  Elizabeth beamed. “How delightful! In that case, you’ll need to speak to Martha and go to the library.”

  “And you’ll help me?”

  “Of course. Well, with the little I know.”

  Like where the trunk is. And how to get the house to himself for a few hours. All in good time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Martha sat on the sofa, Thomas at her side holding her hand. Christie ran in with a glass of water and knelt beside Martha, worry creasing her face.

  “Here, some water for you.” Christie offered the glass. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Martha stared at the trunk, not taking the water, so Christie put it on the coffee table and took Martha’s other hand. “Please stop shaking, Auntie. I’ll get rid of the trunk straight—”

  “No! You don’t understand.” Martha gripped Christie.

  “It’s my fault,” Thomas said. “I was curious about it. How it got into the attic in the first place. But as Christie says, it can go. I don’t want you upset, my sweetheart.”

  “This is where your letters were hidden? And my rings?”

  Thomas exchanged a puzzled look with Christie as Martha continued. “This is what was in the attic? Tom?”

  “Is that why you’re so agitated?”

  With a deep sigh, Martha shook her head. “I’m not some silly girl holding grudges. I’ll have the water now, please.”

  Christie passed the glass. The shock drained away and the shaking ceased. Martha handed the glass back. “Would you open it?”

  “It’s empty.”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll get the key.” Christie got to her feet and headed for the kitchen.

  “Please don’t blame Christie. I was curious because I know my parents never had such a thing and couldn’t work out how it got up there in the first place. Her love of solving old mysteries must be rubbing off on me.”

  Martha suddenly smiled at Thomas. “I’m about to complicate things further.” She released his hand as Christie returned with her house keys. “Now, dear, open the lid and read the inscription on the floor of the trunk.”

  “Why do I feel as though I’m in a magician’s show?” Christie inserted the skeleton key and turned it. With a click, it unlocked and she opened the lid. “Oh, I never saw that before. Though I only had my torch light last time.”

  “Christie!”

  “Sorry, Auntie. It says London—”

  “1840,” Martha finished.

  Thomas and Christie stared at her, open mouthed.

  “It belonged to Dorothy.” Martha spoke softly. “Mother gave it to her when she turned thirteen because she loved it so much. Before then, it was in the first guest room.”

  All three stared at the trunk in silence. Christie reached in to trace the carved inscription. The interior was smooth apart from the words and numbers.

  “Martha, when Dorothy left home, did she take this with her? Do you recall?”

  “No, Thomas. By then she wanted only modern furnishings and left this behind in her room. I’d quite forgotten about it and didn’t consider the one hidden in our attic here could possibly be the same trunk. How did it get here?”

  “And how did it get up there? Actually, for that matter, Christie, how did you get it down?” Thomas frowned. “You should have waited.”

  “It isn’t very heavy.”

  “Beside the point. If you’d hurt yourself... what was that look for?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, Charlotte dropped by and she gave me a hand so no need to worry.” Christie bit her lip as she closed the lid.

  “Well, a mystery indeed. Will you solve this one, Christie?” Thomas asked.

  “I have a wedding to plan and a business to create, so mysteries might have to take a back seat for a bit. Shall I make some late lunch, if you haven’t eaten yet? We can work out what to do with this later.”

  “I’ll come with you, dear.” Martha pushed herself onto her feet and followed Christie out.

  Thomas watched them leave and turned back to the trunk. It had to be Dorothy who’d put it in the attic. But why?

  ***

  “Well, I never saw such a thing!” Daphne stomped around the counter. “Open shut, open shut. Not even shut, mind you, but slam. Slam!”

  John Jones smiled faintly at his wife from the window, where he was updating real estate For Sale notices. “Love, there’s no point getting riled about a complete stranger. Maybe the car door doesn’t close properly.”

  Daphne came to a stop, hands on her hips. “It was an almost new vehicle, so why wouldn’t the door close? Unless he always slams it with such force and broke it.”

  “Let it go. You’ll probably never see him again.”

  “We can’t be complacent, doll. Not after those horrible people breaking in to our homes. And trying to murder our Christie! And... and attempting to blackmail you!” Daphne burst into tears. John dropped what he was doing and hurried to Daphne, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

  “Hey, what’s brought this on?”

  “I thought I would lose you.”

  “Me? Never happen. Come on, let’s go and make a cuppa.” John leaned back to look at Daphne. “Oh, you’ve made your mascara run. Go wash your face and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Daphne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. One more firm squeeze from John and then he released her. “Go on. I’ll see if some of those ginger biscuits you made are left.”

  John went off to the little kitchen out the back and Daphne headed for the bathroom, sniffing back tears. What was wrong? Months since dealing with Derek’s thug Rupert breaking into their home and destroying a room full of collectables, and every day since she’d been strong and positive. Now, one silly incident and she was a mess.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Tears streaked her make-up, not just the mascara. Her eyes were alien. Wide and startled. Get a grip, Daph! My goodness, poor Christie was the one who’d nearly perished yet here she was, making a silly fuss over nothing. Time to count your blessings. Just like her mother taught her to do when all seemed lost – their house, Dad’s job, and sick siblings.

  “John loves me and I love him.” Without a doubt, her greatest blessing and joy. Such a wonderful man, with his handsome face and way with words. A good provider who treated her equally in all things.

  Daphne attempted a smile. It failed. “Fine. I have a comfortable home and a wo
nderful job.” This was true. Their house was indeed a home, filled with their memories, plans, and promises. They’d been in this little town for over twenty years and loved every minute of it. Except, some of those memories were shattered. Beautiful crystal from their wedding. Keepsakes from their honeymoon. Tears welled up again, glistening in her eyes. Cold water on her face helped a lot. Things were just things. People mattered.

  “My friends are my rock and support.” She said it with force. Elizabeth, Martha, and Sylvia were her close friends now, ever since that night on the beach. Christie was super special. A gorgeous girl who’d been fragile at her grandmother’s funeral, but as hard as stone standing up to her nasty ex-fiancé. Yes, friends mattered. Trev, Barry, George, all the local traders really.

  “Tea’s ready, love.” John called.

  “One more!” Daphne told her reflection. “I have a big heart. It’s a blessing to me and those around me.” Her mother’s words, heard over and over growing up, and echoing across the years since she’d passed on.

  With a sense of calm, Daphne turned off the light and went to find her husband. Her smile was wide but deep down the pain lingered.

  ***

  Tired from the events of the morning and the walk to and from Christie’s cottage, Charlotte longed for a glass of Elizabeth’s ice cold lemonade as she arrived back at Palmerston House. Then she’d send the photos of the old trunk to her friend in Brisbane, see if she could help Christie uncover some of its past, or at least, origin.

  There was no sign of Elizabeth, so Charlotte took a tall glass from the cupboard in the kitchen. A sound stopped her, a creak. Another creak. She stood still, glass in hand. The door to the cellar opened a crack, then more, and Bernie appeared, not seeing Charlotte. He closed the door carefully behind himself then turned. “Holy—”

  “What are you doing, Bernie?”

  Hand on his heart, he leaned against the door. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”