The Woman In the Green Dress Page 17

  ‘You’re here now. And that’s what matters.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She let out a huge sigh.

  ‘What you need is a drop of Marianne’s home cooking and a comfortable bed for the night. You’ve had a busy few days. A nice lazy morning and we’ll have you on the big steamer before midday and back in Sydney in time for afternoon tea.’

  She couldn’t think of anything better.

  Arriving back in Sydney was almost like coming home. Fleur pushed open the doors to the Berkeley Hotel and Mr Sladdin greeted her like a long-lost relative, ushering her upstairs, arranging for hot water and dinner to be sent to her room. Money made life so much easier—one of the few things she’d learnt since she left London.

  Except that it wasn’t her money. She emptied out her satchel and burrowed through her purse. She still had most of the fifty pounds Mr Waterstone had given her, although the hotel bill would make a serious hole in that. She had to make up her mind.

  First thing tomorrow she’d go around to see Mrs Lyttleton, hammer on the door and demand some answers and if she wasn’t there she’d find out where she lived and track her down.

  At nine o’clock sharp the next morning Fleur stood outside the Lyttleton’s offices gazing up at a sign that read Open Monday to Friday 9 am–5 pm which was a load of rubbish because they hadn’t been open for days.

  Clenching her fist, she hammered on the door and stood back tapping her foot impatiently. After a few moments, the door opened a fraction to reveal a very dishevelled-looking Kip, his hair standing up on end and his cheeks flushed as though he’d been doing some heavy work. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’ He hovered half in and half out of the partially open door.

  ‘Well I’m here now.’ And she had no intention of being put off a moment longer. She stepped over the threshold, forcing him to swing the door wide. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I really need to speak to Vera. Is she about?’

  He ran his fingers through his hair, releasing a shower of dust. ‘Um, yes. Yes, she is. We’re um …’

  ‘Who is it, Kip? I told you we didn’t want to be disturbed. I have to find these wretched papers.’

  ‘It’s me, Fleur Richards.’ She stepped past Kip and headed down the hallway past the office where she’d first sat, to a door standing ajar.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Vera Lyttleton appeared from behind a large stack of boxes, dressed in a pair of over-large men’s trousers hitched around her waist with what looked like an old tie, a smudge of dirt marking the end of her nose. The cyclamen pink scarf wrapped like a bandage around her head only emphasised her distress.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Lyttleton. It’s imperative I find out more about Hugh. I’ve been out to the Hawkesbury and all that has done is confuse the issue.’

  ‘Whatever made you do that? Come in. I apologise for the mess. Kip and I have been trying to make sense of Mr Lyttleton’s filing system. I still haven’t had word from him.’

  Fleur resisted the temptation to groan and eased between the chaotic mess of boxes and files and open drawered cabinets. She unbuttoned her jacket and set it on the back of the chair. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  Wringing her hands, Vera sighed. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate. Some of these files are confidential and Mr Lyttleton would be—’

  This was ridiculous. ‘Mr Lyttleton need know nothing about it and besides I have no idea who any of the people are. Surely another pair of hands would make matters easier.’

  She turned to Kip hoping for some support. He flicked her a wry grin but remained standing in the doorway scratching his head, looking as confused as poor Vera.

  ‘Is there some sort of a system?’ She’d always been good at sorting things out, even Mrs Black had remarked upon it when she’d attacked the store cupboard, making lists to record their supplies, keeping the rationed goods, like the coffee Hugh had loved so much, and the sugar up high where it couldn’t be knocked over and wasted. And she could balance books and read a ledger. Not that she imagined she’d be doing anything as complicated as that. The chaos had to be righted first.

  ‘I’m thoroughly embarrassed by the whole matter. When Michael left I had just a few days to pack. Everything was such a shambles. He was called away the very day we signed the new lease and since then …’ She lifted her shoulders and let them fall, heaving another sigh.

  Fleur rolled up her sleeves and peered at the first of the boxes neatly labelled with a series of letters and two dates. ‘Didn’t you say Hugh came to see Mr Lyttleton before he enlisted?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he told me.’

  ‘And I know he was in France in 1916 so anything after that we can discard. You told me he’d written notifying Mr Lyttleton of our marriage. I’m certain the file would be under the original date. And we can discard all of these boxes. She moved around the room looking at the alphabetical listing. ‘We only want those boxes marked R–T.’

  ‘Oh, of course, Richards, how very clever of you.’

  This time she got a wider smile from Kip and he started moving all the boxes labelled otherwise to the back wall.

  ‘And the dates on the filing cabinet are more recent so we can ignore those for the time being. Have you got a hammer or a screwdriver?’

  ‘A hammer?’

  ‘To wrench the lids off.’

  Kip delved into his pocket and produced a penknife attached to a lanyard. ‘This’ll do it.’ He flicked open an evil-looking spike and proceeded to lever the lid from the first of the chests.

  Bundles of files were neatly stacked and bound with string. She lifted the first out; ‘Rathwell’. Re Ra Ra Re Re. ‘No, this isn’t the right one.’

  The next four boxes were dated after 1916 so those were moved to the back of the room as were all those with letters other than R–T. Finally, they were left with three tea chests.

  ‘My dear, you are so clever. I felt as though I was hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack.’

  Kip removed the lids of the remaining boxes and pulled the files out, stacking them on the desk top while Fleur flicked through the names and checked the dates. Vera might be thoroughly disorganised but Mr Lyttleton was nothing of the sort. She could well imagine him arranging something as complicated as repatriation of the troops if he had this kind of mind.

  Having taken the next bundle out of the box she flicked through the files. RICHARDS, bold as brass. ‘I think I’ve found it.’ Fleur handed the file over to Mrs Lyttleton, her hands shaking. ‘Why don’t I go and make a cup of tea while you check to see if it is the right one.’ Whatever had made her say that? All she wanted to do was rip the neatly tied black ribbon off the file immediately.

  ‘Kip will do that.’

  He grunted his agreement with a look of disappointment and eased through the muddle of boxes to the door while Mrs Lyttleton took forever to clear a space on the desk, sit down and untie the ribbon.

  Fleur’s mouth dried. At long last some answers. Resisting the temptation to peer over the woman’s shoulder she stared out of the window at the buildings across the road wondering if the keys to the Curio Shop might be inside the folder.

  ‘Right. I see.’ Mrs Lyttleton straightened up and pulled the scarf from her head.

  Fleur was at her side in a moment.

  ‘You were quite right. Look, here’s Hugh’s letter with his instructions. Following the death of my brothers please accept this letter as my last will and testament. In the event of my death the family legacy should pass to my next of kin.’

  Fleur shot a look at the date at the top of the letter. December 1917. ‘But we hadn’t met then. I wasn’t Hugh’s next of kin.’

  Vera reached out and patted her hand. ‘That’s what it says.’ She passed another sheet of paper to Fleur.

  It contained a list of properties. Mogo Creek she recognised and the old Curio Shop but Wilcannia and White Cliffs made absolutely no sense at all and Gauermanngasse 2–4 1010 Wien made even less. It sounded like a string of swear words.
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  ‘There’s also reference to several bank accounts.’

  Fleur suddenly remembered the words of the old man. ‘Do you know if Hugh’s personal belongings have been returned yet? Mr Waterstone said they would be forwarded to you.’

  ‘Oh dear. One step forward and two back. No, I don’t know. And we haven’t found the keys for the old Curio Shop either.’

  Fleur propped herself on the corner of the desk, her fingers lifting and dropping the handle to the drawer. There was something soothing about the rhythmical clatter as it fell, like a metronome.

  Kip appeared with a tray and Mrs Lyttleton closed the file and moved it aside. ‘Milk and sugar, I seem to remember.’

  Fleur stood, her fingers still hooked through the handle on the drawer. It pulled open. ‘Oh I beg your pardon.’ She moved around the desk and went to push the drawer shut when her eyes lit on a large bunch of keys, each neatly labelled with a beige cardboard tag. She lifted them out. They were heavy, putting her in mind of a medieval lady of the castle walking down the ramparts, with clanking keys dangling at her waist. ‘Do you think one of these might belong to the Curio Shop?’

  Mrs Lyttleton peered over the rim of her cup. ‘Where did you find those?’

  ‘In the drawer. They’re labelled.’

  ‘I had no idea. Have a look.’

  Each key had a tag tied to it, the same neat handwriting. Names and more names. None with Richards on it. Her shoulders slumped. For one glorious moment she’d thought she might have stumbled upon something useful. She turned over the last tag: Atterton 84 Hunter Street.

  ‘I think I may have found it.’ She fingered the ornate key, the top fashioned into the shape of a raven, then clasped it in the palm of her hand hefting the unexpected weight. The idea of the lock it would open set her pulse racing.

  Someone’s tea cup clattered into the saucer.

  ‘What number in Hunter Street is the Curio Shop?’

  ‘Number 84.’

  She was right! ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Atterton?’

  Mrs Lyttleton’s mouth twitched and her brow creased. ‘No. No, it doesn’t ring a bell.’

  Atterton rang the loudest bell for her. The old Atterton place. That’s what The Skipper had said.

  ‘Let me see.’ Vera turned the label this way and that. ‘Eighty-four is definitely the number of the Curio Shop.’ She pulled at the long ribbon and dangled the intricate key tantalisingly between her fingers.

  Fleur couldn’t contain herself a moment longer. She snatched the key from Vera’s fingers. ‘I’m going to go and try it. Can you see if you can find any record for the Attertons. The man at the Settlers Arms called Mogo the old Atterton place.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too hard. There’s only one box for the A files.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’ Kip was on his feet, grabbing his cloth cap from the hat stand in the corner, hardly able to contain his excitement. ‘Just wait a minute and I’ll go and find some tools. We’ll need to prise the boards off to open the door.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Vera, you told me I was Hugh’s beneficiary and number 84 Hunter Street is part of that estate. We have it in writing.’ She slapped her shaking hand down on the manila folder. She would not be stopped. Not now. Not after all the waiting, and what harm could it do? They might find something that would lead her to Hugh, or at least make sense of the old man’s words.

  ‘Very well. If Kip goes with you. I couldn’t countenance anything happening to you. I would feel personally responsible.’

  ‘I doubt anything will happen. I shall simply see if the key opens the door and have a look inside.’

  ‘Be careful. The place has something of a reputation.’

  The memory of Glad’s words made her nerve endings tingle.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Kip appeared at the door, his face flushed, clutching a canvas tool bag in one hand.

  ‘Come straight back here and tell me …’

  Kip closed the door on Vera’s words and took off up the road at a gallop, leaving Fleur wondering what she might find. He must have sensed her hesitancy because he cast a glance back at her and gave a wide smile and stretched out his hand. It firmed her resolve and made her go and unlock The Curio Shop of Wonders.

  Twenty-Two

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  Nobody spoke as they reined their horses to a stop on Windmill Hill. Della gazed down at the sprawling vista of Sydney. The new hospital, the big Catholic church and the prison stood out, their sandstone façades bright in the afternoon sun, and beyond were the Domain and Government House with wide stretches of lawn, groups of trees and well laid out flower beds. So different from Mogo, where the she-oaks whispered in the wind and the fluffy grey flannel flowers carpeted the ground.

  Stefan gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘It’s very like some of the larger European towns, somewhat confused in the older parts, as though the buildings were built pell-mell with neither plan nor direction. The newer areas not so.’

  ‘But it’s ’ome and I’m happy to be here.’ Bert sat astride the huge bay, his legs not long enough to encompass its wide girth but his eyes shining. It hadn’t occurred to Della in the last few days to wonder about Bert’s origins or how he came to be travelling with the Captain. They seemed to have such a natural understanding. He treated Bert with an amused tolerance that belied his status. ‘Were you born in Sydney, Bert?’

  ‘Dunno. First I remember is the orphanage out Parramatta way. Dumped, left with nowt but a name as long as me arm.’ His mouth turned down at the corners and her heart clamped. She couldn’t imagine her childhood without Ma and Pa.

  ‘Did a runner wiv some other boys ’bout seven years ago.’

  ‘Seven years!’ He was hardly more than twelve now, too young to have hair on his face. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Dunno much about the kid I was. Only know what I know about Sydney. Grew up down there. Always found a way to earn a shilling or two.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘Then I got me barrow and things looked up.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  He sniffed and stuck out his jaw. ‘I didn’t nick it.’

  ‘Nobody said you did, Bert.’ Stefan ruffled the boy’s hair and shook his head, his eyes full of compassion for Bert’s sudden outburst.

  And she knew why. Stefan’s story of his childhood explained that, and the reason he treated Bert with such respect. He’d worn the same boots, walked a similar road and was repaying as only he would.

  ‘There’s a few more ships in port since I arrived.’ Stefan neatly changed the subject, saving poor Bert from his memories.

  Thirty or so three-masters lay moored with their flags flying and the usual number of small boats skimmed the surface of the water, crisscrossing in all directions, and at the various wharves and quays of the major merchants, ships were unloading. A boy with a barrow could do well for himself, even better if he had a patron like Stefan.

  ‘Let’s make our way into the town. I’m sure you’re keen to see Mrs Atterton.’

  Now the moment had come Della wasn’t too sure if that was the case. ‘Aunt Cordelia can be very determined.’

  ‘She is your aunt?’

  ‘My father’s younger sister. Did I not mention that?’ She hadn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to be connected by blood to a woman who organised raids on poor defenceless women and children.

  ‘I’m sure there will be a simple explanation.’ Stefan’s eyes narrowed, his expression belying his platitude. ‘I shall accompany you.’

  This was something she had to do alone, not hiding behind the greatcoat of this man, not matter how safe and secure he made her feel. ‘I would rather arrive alone. Thank you for the thought but it is my responsibility.’ She sounded so pompous. Would he insist?

  A mixture of emotions flickered across his face and then he gave a disgruntled sigh. ‘Very well. We will leave you at the end of Hunter Street and wait while you go into the shop. Bert has the horses to return
to the stables and I shall be at the Berkeley Hotel. Should you require any assistance send a message.’

  ‘I won’t be far away Miss Della, you just shout.’

  She could imagine that. Bert lurking in the street waiting to see if she needed any help. She wouldn’t. She had every intention of getting to the bottom of Cordelia’s involvement. During the journey to Sydney she’d tried to convince herself she’d jumped to conclusions and Cordelia knew nothing of Gus and Dobbin’s actions, that it would all prove to be a misunderstanding. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  The crush of people grew as they reached the more built-up areas and the last few miles into the town seemed to drag. Then they arrived at the end of Hunter Street and the time had come to face Cordelia.

  Stefan leapt down from his horse and held out his arms to her.

  She slid down into the comforting warmth of his embrace. Over the past few days she’d come to admire him more than any man she’d ever met. Not only for the stand he was taking against Gus and Dobbin but also for the compassionate way he treated Bert. ‘Thank you for the escort, the use of your horse and the company. I have enjoyed the last days more than any I can remember.’

  His warm hand encompassed hers. ‘Don’t hesitate to call upon me if you have any concerns. I shall make an appointment to speak to the Governor about the attacks and drop you a note to let you know when I am to see him. As I said I would appreciate it if you would accompany me. Your knowledge of the local tribes and the indignities they have suffered would be of great assistance when I put my case.’

  Bert passed her small carpet bag down to her. ‘Take care of yourself, Miss Della.’

  ‘Thank you, Bert. I’ll see you soon, I hope.’ She hefted the bag onto her arm and with more confidence than she felt strode off down Hunter Street.

  Nothing had changed. She passed the grocer, the saddler and the stationers and nodded to the woman sitting outside the drapers knitting in a small patch of sunlight, before coming to a halt outside number 84.