The Woman In the Green Dress Page 14

  ‘Steady on, steady on.’ He raised his hands.

  ‘Cor blimey. What a stink.’ Bert reappeared, grabbed at his nose, pinching his nostrils tight. ‘Are we staying, want me to unsaddle the ’orses? They’re starving and so am …’

  The scalpel reappeared and wavered in Bert’s direction leaving his eyes wide and his mouth gaping like a landed fish …

  ‘I told you to wait outside. Get out.’

  The girl toyed with the stiletto and glared, blood ringed her fingernails and she kept turning her head, darting a glance over her shoulder. Stefan took a couple of steps further into the room. A jumble of feathers and fur covered the workbench, pelts hung from the rafters, and bird’s nests crammed the spaces between the bottles and jars. Whatever was she up to?

  She swivelled around and placed herself in front of the fire.

  A long drawn-out groan answered his question. He ducked around and stopped dead. A New Hollander wrapped in some sort of filthy animal skin sat on a small stool in front of the fire. He took a step closer and peered at the young man. One shoulder was uncovered, revealing a gaping wound, fresh blood trickling down his muscled arm. He’d put money on the fact that the ball came from Gus’s musket. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m trying to get the musket ball out. It’ll fester if I don’t.’

  ‘No, it won’t, not from the musket ball, only from the treatment you’re dispensing. Let me have a look.’

  The man’s eyes widened in pain as she dabbed at the blood oozing from the ragged hole.

  ‘You’re more likely to kill him probing. It’s the lubricant on the wading that causes the problem. Let the body heal itself. Have you got any alcohol?’

  ‘I’ve given him some already. It hasn’t lessened the pain.’

  ‘I’m not surprised if you’ve been poking around in there. Is there an exit wound?’ He peered over the man’s shoulder.

  ‘No, it’s lodged in the muscle. I’m trying to dig it out.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. Better off leaving it there.’ He’d seen men die all too often from the interference of well-meaning quacks, come close himself. All the prodding and poking was worse than any musket ball, then gangrene struck and the limb had to be amputated. ‘Better clean it and bind it up.’ He pulled the lid off the flagon sitting on the table and sniffed. Rotgut, but alcohol all the same. ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s rum.’

  ‘Of sorts.’ He drew the cloth out of the man’s hand and dabbed at the seeping blood on his skin. ‘This’ll sting.’ To give the fellow his due he hardly moved, only his jaw clenched as he tipped a healthy slug into the gaping wound. ‘Right now you need some clean soft cloths. Petticoat or shirt for bandaging. Have you got that?’

  She produced what looked remarkably like a pair of cotton bloomers from a box under the table and ripped them into strips, the colour dancing on her pretty cheeks.

  ‘It’d be better if we stitched it up.’ Her words brought him up short.

  ‘It would, if you had a strong needle and some stout cotton.’

  She didn’t answer, instead reached over to the workbench and retrieved a leather pouch. Above on the shelves stood bottles of preserving solution, bell jars, piles of cotton and tow and large rolls of wire and trays of sharp stilettos. With a degree of reverence, she pulled a curved needle from the pouch and skilfully threaded the cotton through the eye.

  ‘You seem well prepared.’

  She tilted her chin in challenge. ‘I’m a taxidermist by trade.’

  Which would account for her lack of the vapours and the contents of the shelves, the neatly laid out tools, pincers and scissors, a variety of needles and a roll of wire and catgut. His lips twitched. If he’d been aware of the range of knives and stilettos at her fingertips he might have taken more care. There was no doubt she could defend herself quite adequately, and was better equipped to deal with a gunshot injury.

  ‘I can stitch up his skin. It was the musket ball. I felt I should remove it but without any assistance it was difficult. I seemed to be inflicting more pain on Jarro than necessary.’

  She knew the boy’s name. ‘Jarro?’

  Without answering, she dunked the needle and cotton in the cup of rum then began to pull the sides of the wound together with neat stitches. A hell of a lot neater than the cobbling that ran from his thigh to ankle. Providing the young man’s fever didn’t worsen it was unlikely he would suffer from more than the occasional bout of stiffness in cold weather.

  After each small stitch, she tied the thread off and continued patiently. Once she’d secured the last knot she raised her head. ‘This wasn’t the first raid on their camp …’

  The statement hung in the air, her implication clear. ‘I am not responsible, Miss. I did everything in my power to prevent the attack and bring it to an end.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Ask your patient.’

  ‘Jarro, did this man hurt you?’

  When the New Hollander shook his head, her face softened and her shoulders relaxed.

  ‘I intend to pursue this appalling outrage and bring it to the Governor’s notice. I know the men responsible.’

  Now he had her attention. She folded the cotton around the needle and slipped it back into the pouch, her dark eyes never leaving his face.

  ‘Their names are Gus and Dobbin. They are in the employ of one Mrs Cordelia Atterton who runs a shop in Sydney called The Curio Shop of Wonders.’

  Her brows came together in a tight frown and he fancied the colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Mrs Cordelia Atterton of Hunter Street?’

  ‘The very one. You know of the establishment?’

  ‘I do. Yes.’

  ‘Let me assure you the matter will be raised with the authorities.’

  She jumped to her feet, his words offering little assurance. ‘The Curio Shop of Wonders, you say. Not The Taxidermy Shop?’

  ‘No, I am not mistaken. I met Mrs Atterton and she gave me a tour of her premises. She was particularly proud of the collection of native curios and implements and invited me to join her collectors. Something I admit I did with great enthusiasm, not knowing what evil they would perpetrate.’

  ‘Her shop. Native curios. Mrs Atterton.’ She let out a sigh and sank down on the three-legged stool and dropped her head into her hands.

  When the poor girl lifted her head she gazed at the boy, who had pulled the dirty skin over his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Jarro. So very sorry.’ Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Get away from me!’ The raucous shout sliced the quietness.

  ‘Charity!’ She leapt to her feet. ‘Jarro! Go now. Out of the window.’

  The boy shot to his feet and vaulted through the open shutter at the back of the room, appearing none the worse for his suffering.

  ‘Get away from me!’ Bert’s indignant shriek echoed, followed by a solid thud and a scream.

  Stefan belted through the door and slid to a halt, unable to curb his laughter at the sight of Bert dancing around the puddles trying to avoid a thrashing from a black-haired harridan brandishing a soggy mop.

  ‘Madam!’ His voice cut the air and the wretched woman stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Oh! Am I glad to see you, Capt’n.’ Bert sidled over and stood in his shadow.

  ‘Captain? What Captain. I don’t see no Captain.’ The red-faced woman blustered and threatened Bert with a slightly less vicious swipe.

  ‘Captain Stefan von Richter of the court of Vienna, aide-de-camp to Baron von Hügel, at your service, madam.’ He executed an exaggerated bow and clicked his heels which brought the woman to a standstill, and a grin wider than her bucket to Bert’s face.

  She sank into some sort of fumbled curtsey, displaying her hobnail boots and a fair amount of pudgy calf. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Captain. We wasn’t expecting no visitors.’

  ‘I require refreshments for myself and my man.’


  Encouraged by his words, Bert stepped out from behind him, straightened his shoulders and puffed out his bony chest.

  ‘And for my horses. I have funds which I feel certain will suffice.’

  ‘There will be no need for that.’ The girl appeared at the door of the workshop sporting clean hands and tamed hair, nothing to indicate that five minutes ago she’d been up to her elbows in blood. ‘Charity, please go and set the table. There’s plenty of mutton stew left over from last night, make some damper and put the kettle on the hob.’

  Performing some sort of odd reversal, the woman edged her way back into the cottage. As soon as she was out of sight, the girl lifted her skirts and rushed to the back of the workshop.

  Curiosity aroused, he followed. When he rounded the corner, she stood a good fifty feet away staring down the narrow pathway which disappeared into the tree line.

  She turned and walked back towards him. ‘He’s gone.’ With a loud sigh, she straightened her skirt and shoved her hands into her pockets. ‘Charity is terrified of the Darkinjung and a liability with a musket in her hands. Jarro would be worse off than he is now. She’s a crack shot. Are you sure he’ll heal? I really think I should have taken the musket ball out.’

  ‘Providing he fights off the fever he’ll recover quickly.’

  ‘The women will see to that. Some of their medicines are far more effective than anything I can offer.’

  This was just the sort of thing he wanted to learn about the New Hollanders. What he’d hoped to discover on the trip with Gus and Dobbin. A fine mess he’d made of that. He’d make damn certain the two men got their comeuppance when he returned to Sydney.

  ‘Come back to the house. Charity will have food ready. I’m afraid I can only offer you tea to drink. I used up all the rum.’ She bestowed a radiant smile on him, her eyes sparkling with merriment. What a mass of contradictions. He resisted the temptation to take her arm, instead he walked by her side watching the play of emotions on her face.

  ‘Who is Baron von Hügel?’

  ‘It’s a long story. He holds positions of power in the Austrian government and I have the privilege to serve him.’

  She frowned, ‘Aren’t you English? You sound like an Englishman.’

  ‘Brought about by a string of English tutors and many years travelling. Enough of me. What is your name?’

  ‘Della, Della Atterton. Oh!’ Her hand covered her mouth and her big brandy-coloured eyes widened.

  Atterton. That would explain her interest in the Curio Shop. What was her relationship to Cordelia Atterton?

  ‘I hadn’t intended to tell you that until I found out a little more.’

  They’d reached the yard where Bert, obviously recovered from his mop lashing, had found water for the horses and was busy wiping them down.

  ‘There’s plenty of feed in the stable.’ Miss Atterton pointed to another building which formed a side of the yard. ‘Help yourself then you can either leave the horses in there or let them out in the paddock behind the vegetable garden. They won’t come to any harm and the creek runs through there so you won’t have to cart water.’

  Bert tipped his hat and winked then raised an eyebrow in question. ‘Yes, Bert go ahead. We will avail ourselves of Miss Atterton’s hospitality.’

  ‘Atterton, that’s—’

  ‘Thank you, Bert. Off you go.’ The boy was far too sharp for his own good. Fortunately, he was learning to keep his mouth shut. He threw a puzzled frown and led the three horses towards the stable.

  ‘Come and sit down. We’ll eat on the verandah if you don’t mind. The sun is such a pleasure after the storm. I’ll arrange some tea.’

  The sun was indeed a pleasure. It picked up the highlights in Miss Atterton’s glorious hair, the colour of roasted chestnuts, and that’s where her physical resemblance to Cordelia Atterton ended. Cordelia was all jutting bones and sharp angles whereas Della was delightfully rounded. However now was not the time to be sideswiped by her charms. He wanted to find out what lay behind this fortuitous coincidence.

  He lowered himself onto the bench and stretched out his leg, his thigh screaming after Dobbin’s attentions and the extended time in the saddle. A wonderful vista spread before him. The creek meandering through the fields, the wind whispering in the casuarina trees still jewelled with the morning’s dew. Hills ringed the entire property, giving it a safety and seclusion he envied.

  Miss Atterton reappeared, armed with three cups of steaming tea. ‘The damper will be a few more moments but I thought you might like a drink now.’

  ‘Thank you. I would. And I expect Bert would too. We’ve had nothing but water since the evening before last at the Settlers Arms. I rather expected to return there last night but nothing progressed as intended.’

  She leant back against the verandah rail, both hands clasped around the cup. ‘I’d very much like to know more. The Dark-injung people have been suffering these raids for some time. It shouldn’t be happening. How are you involved?’

  ‘Let me start at the beginning. I arrived in the country only a week ago and had business in this area. When I met Mrs Atterton at Government House she suggested a trip with her collectors.’

  ‘Collectors! Gus and Dobbin are not collectors. They are hunters. They supply the skins I use for my taxidermy. The specimens are sold in the Sydney shop. The Taxidermy Shop. It belonged to my father. I am now the owner. I had no idea Cordelia had changed the name or the nature of the business or that she attended functions at the Governor’s as Mrs Atterton. She’s not married.’

  And now he had the answer to another of his questions. Those beautiful displays of the birds and the water mole were her work. But what of the artefacts and women’s clothing?

  Miss Atterton pushed off the verandah rail and started to stride up and down. ‘And I certainly wouldn’t condone the raids on the Darkinjung. They are my friends. What on earth does Cordelia think she is doing?’

  Eighteen

  Mogo Creek, Hawkesbury, NSW, 1919

  Fleur spun around, the sound of her pounding blood filling her ears. A figure, not tall, stooped, rounded shoulders, hat shading the face. The sunlight streamed in from behind, robbing him of any features.

  ‘Oh!’ She wiped her fingers on the seat of her trousers and took a step closer. He didn’t look too intimidating, old and leaning heavily on a cane.

  ‘I called but no one answered.’ She sounded pathetic, her voice laced with guilt. It should, she was trespassing. No doubt about it. ‘My name is Fleur. Fleur Richards. My husband, Hugh Richards, owns this property.’

  ‘Where is he?’ The man’s voice was gruff, rusty, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Grief seeped in, made her words wobble. Every one of Hugh’s promises crowding her heart now she’d finally arrived at Mogo.

  She turned away, taking in the rows of tools, the neat line of jars and tins on the thin shelf. The practicality of it all gave her a sense of order; perhaps not everything in the world was upside down or topsy-turvy. Maybe she hadn’t acted on a whim.

  Once she’d regained her composure she turned back to the old man. He’d perched on a stool and had pulled off his hat revealing a head of closely cropped steel-grey hair. His face was like old leather, covered in fine wrinkles and large freckled age spots. When he lifted his head his eyes swam with tears. ‘He’s not back then?’

  She shook her head. ‘Do you know Hugh?’

  His eyes narrowed and raked her with a calculating gaze. ‘Your husband, you say?’

  ‘Yes, we married in London. That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to find his family.’ Hoping to find Hugh, if the truth were known.

  He gave a start and sat up straight, one hand held out in front of him, his wrinkled palm turned. ‘You’ve got something for me, have you?’

  She took several steps back, her spine bumping against a set of freestanding shelves and sending a series of rolled leather packets down onto the floor with a
thud. ‘No, no I haven’t. I’m sorry.’ Goodness, what did he want? Then she remembered the young boy waiting at the door of her hotel room. She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out one of Mr Waterstone’s pound notes.

  ‘I don’t want your money.’ His shoulders slumped and he propped his head on his hands. ‘So he hasn’t come back?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Should she tell him? Tell him they thought Hugh was dead. ‘I’m sorry. You startled me. Do you know Hugh? Are you related to him?’

  ‘Always thought he’d be the one to sort it all out.’ He levered himself to his feet with a sigh. ‘Well, that’s it then. Where is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have no idea—’

  ‘The family heirloom, for what it’s worth. You’ll know when you find it. And get it to me fast before it’s too late.’ He gave an annoyed grunt and stomped off on legs bowed from years in the saddle.

  The air rushed out of her mouth and she sank down on the stool. Her hands were shaking and her heart beating a thunderous tattoo. What was he talking about?

  She couldn’t leave now. Not when she’d come so far. ‘Wait. Wait.’ She jumped up and followed the old man outside. He was standing, staring out across the ridge, hat pushed well back showing his freckled forehead.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, I should have explained.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. Not your fault. How did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s dead. I haven’t received a telegram.’

  His mouth was set in a grim line belying the laughter lines about his eyes. It made her feel guilty. ‘Could you spare me a few moments. I’d like to explain why I’m here.’

  The corner of his lips twitched. ‘Persistent little thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have a reason for that.’

  He sniffed and pulled his hat down, covering his eyes. She couldn’t tell whether he was angry, amused or simply fed up with her. ‘Come on. We’ll have a cuppa.’

  He led the way back inside the workshop, stooping to pick up the rolled pouches from the floor where they’d fallen.