Ill-Gotten Gains (14 page)

‘Come on, Nell.’ Ashley was grinning at me. ‘Think about it. James is rewriting the past, hedging his bets. He may not have killed Petar, but by god, he’s taking advantage of the opportunities that have been presented.’

‘He may have been genuinely in love with her too,’ said Deb, who obviously preferred the romantic interpretations. ‘It may have been jealousy. He’d have watched her and Petar together, so happy, and been burning inside. So when he got his chance, he just wrote Petar out of the equation. Hey, that might have even been the reason he did away with him!’

Lew cocked his head at her. ‘You do realise that this is your great-great-great-grandfather, my love? Should I be worried that it runs in the family?’

‘Yes,’ replied Deb promptly. ‘So don’t give me any reason to be jealous.’

‘Fat chance!’ Lew gave a hearty laugh. ‘What the hell am I likely to get up to? Now you, on the other hand …’

Silence stretched as they exchanged a meaningful look. Deb got up to give him a kiss. I guessed this was a conversation of long standing.

Ashley cleared his throat. ‘Okay, Lew, now you’ve got my attention. What’s next?’

‘Well, clearly they set about raising the blended family.’ Lew flicked at the laptop and the screen returned to the picture of Kata with her children. ‘There’s young James and the baby George, born in 1869, and of course our mystery girl is Matija, on her mother’s right.’

I was staring at Kata’s face. With this fresh information, I expected to find sadness there, or even an expressionless glance that spoke volumes. Instead, beneath her batwing brows she met my eyes with a stoic candour that suggested she had made the most of things. I spoke slowly, still staring. ‘I think it wasn’t quite what she’d had, but it wasn’t too bad.’

‘Until she died,’ said Lew with unnecessary abruptness. ‘Typhoid. She and the baby both, in 1872. Good old James was the informant for that death too, but this time he listed her as a married woman.’

Ashley laced his fingers under his chin, à la Sherlock Holmes. ‘If I was James, I’d have married off my son to Matija as soon as the pair reached maturity. Then there’d have been no question about the inheritance at all.’

‘Well done, my man!’ Lew shot him a look of approval. ‘It appears that’s exactly what he planned. But it took me a while to get to that stage. The 1881 census only names the head of the household but there’s a fourteen-year-old girl living there so that has to be her. Yet by the 1891 census, she’s gone. The
Majic Gazette
set up operations in 1886 and the Sheridans feature in almost every issue, but not her. So there was a five-year window where she vanished. No death certificate either. I was stumped for days.’

‘But you eventually found something?’ I asked as the silence stretched.

‘Sure did! Never give up, that’s my motto.’ Lew refilled his glass and took a swig, then helped himself to cheese while the rest of us waited impatiently. Finally he looked up with a smile, enjoying his moment. ‘So … well, as often happens with this stuff, all you need is a break. See I’m also working on another project, for a lady who used to own a business in town, Svetlana’s Haberdashery. She retired last year and is now writing a history of the shop. Sounds boring, but it’s not. Mainly because when she took over the shop thirty-odd years ago, it came with all the paperwork since the place opened in 1884. Including letters.’

‘In 1884 …’ I calculated rapidly. ‘Matija would have been seventeen.’

‘Yep. Fortunately the original Svetlana was a prolific correspondent and a bit of a gossip. But it’s one unsent letter dated February 1885 that helps us.’ He pressed a key and Kata was replaced by spidery handwriting containing so many flourishes that one line bled into the next. Petra got up to move closer but Lew, anticipating the difficulties, had zoomed in on a particular paragraph. The sentences filled the screen.

‘My guess is that they
weren’t
successful,’ added Lew, once he was sure we had finished reading, ‘because there’s simply no mention of her after that date. The letters only refer to her once more, in 1892, when James Junior marries Victoria Fletcher. And only a brief mention, when the author wishes him better treatment than he received in 1885.’

‘He waited for her a long time,’ said Deb wistfully. ‘Seven years.’

Ashley was still leaning forward. ‘So … what happened to her?’

‘Don’t know. The problem is I have no idea what name she used. The letter refers to her as Matilda, which suggests she’s not using Matija any more, but there’s no surname. It could be Majic, or Sheridan, or she changed it altogether after she left so that she couldn’t be traced. Then at some stage she probably married.’

‘And had children,’ I said slowly. ‘Which means there could be an entire branch who have a prior entitlement to … well, everything.’

‘Exactly.’ Deb looked at me. ‘Meaning my family appropriated an estate that didn’t belong to them.’

‘So that’s the Discovery,’ I continued wonderingly. ‘Sam was right. It
is
huge.’

Ashley was staring at the screen. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘Certainly worth killing for.’ Lew transferred the laptop onto the coffee table and rubbed his legs. ‘I spoke to a lawyer mate and he said it’s murky. In their favour is the fact they tried to track her down, but there’s also no doubt James Sheridan manipulated legal documents. That’s fraud. If Matija has descendants, it’d certainly be worth them taking action. Probably too late to reclaim Sheridan House but there were other assets that the Sheridans have profited from. There’d be a case for compensation.’

‘Not to mention the damage it would do to their reputation,’ said Petra, giving Deb a sidelong glance. ‘Sheridan House shouldn’t be Sheridan House at all. All those streets and roads named after them. The businesses. Oh my god, what about the commemoration this weekend? The statue of James and Petar! Best mates!’

‘Yes,’ said Ashley again. He rubbed his chin. ‘So you think this is what Sam meant?’

Lew nodded. ‘I reckon he got about as far as I have. He’d have had more source documents so moved faster. But he wouldn’t have tracked down the girl. Not enough time.’

‘And there we have our motive,’ I said. ‘Not just to bury what they’d already discovered but to stop them going further.’

‘So we have to decide what’s next.’ Lew leaned over and switched off the data projector. The hum stopped abruptly. He waited a few moments before continuing. ‘Ashley, obviously you’ve got your own agenda. But the rest of us –’ he glanced at Petra and I before finishing with a rueful look towards his wife ‘– we need to decide whether we want to go forward. If we track her down and find descendants, we’re opening a huge can of worms. The repercussions could be … pretty bloody massive. I admit I’m curious but I’ll put it to a vote.’

‘Before you decide,’ put in Ashley, regarding us all, ‘can I just ask that, if you go ahead, I’m given a couple of days before you start actually talking about it? Because if your theory’s correct, then the only other person who knows all this –’

‘Is the killer,’ finished Petra.

‘If there
is
a killer,’ said Ashley judiciously. ‘But it does give me a fresh avenue of inquiry. Grounds to re-interview a few people … of interest.’

‘I expect it does.’ Lew looked at him evenly and then turned to me. ‘I reckon after we’ve given Ashley here a chance to tie things up, you should write a big-arse article about it all. That is, if we decide to go ahead. Otherwise we just back out now. Forget we even went this far. So … in or out? What d’you reckon?’

‘In,’ said Petra without hesitation.

Deb sighed softly. ‘Me too.’

I stared at the blank screen, still seeing the image of Kata even though she was long gone. Her batwing brows, so like her brother’s, her stoicism, her little family. And then I nodded, because there was really no choice.

I wanted to say thank-you for your ‘Martha or Mary?’ column. My sister is a Mary, with career, travel, a wardrobe of clothes I’d kill for (rather pointlessly, as I couldn’t fit into them), while I’ve been pigeonholed – from childhood – as the Martha, homemaker extraordinaire. I’ve always been a little jealous but when I shared your column, my sister said she was jealous of me! We’ve resolved to bring up our daughters as Mary-Marthas, and tell them they can have it all.

Lucy arrived the following morning before Quinn left for school. I was sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper by holding it at eye-level, an endeavour that required frequent rests and almost as frequent obscenities. I hadn’t even heard the doorbell so got something of a shock when I next lowered the paper to find Lucy standing just by the couch, staring at me. It didn’t say much for our resident dog or, indeed, for my security detail.

‘My god! Lucy! How long have you been there?’

‘Only a minute. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine. And you?’

‘Good. Um, I’m starting work a bit late this morning. Can I talk to you for a while?’

‘I’ve been
trying
to talk to you since Sunday. I left three messages, and one on Ruby’s phone as well. I even dreamt about ringing you last night!’

Lucy slid herself across the side of the armchair, the rose tattoo on her ankle flashing beneath her long skirt. She folded her legs decorously and grinned at me. ‘What an exciting life you must lead, Mum, if that’s the best dream you can come up with.’

‘You wait till
you
become …’ I stopped abruptly, which only served to emphasise the stupidity of my comment. Lucy met my eyes unblinkingly, her smile still in place.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, one of them.’

‘Luce!’ Quinn tossed her schoolbag aside as she went into the kitchen. ‘What’re you doing here? Wanna give me a lift to school?’

‘No. I need to talk to Mum.’

Quinn rolled her eyes, either at the lack of a lift or the thought of talking to me. She dropped two slices of bread in the toaster and positioned her face directly above it, staring into the elements.

‘Coffee? Tea?’ I asked Lucy. ‘I’ve still got some of your organic green tea there.’

‘Yum. I’ll get it.’ She swung herself up. ‘And coffee for you, I’m guessing.’

‘Kettle’s on,’ said Quinn, placing a hand on her forehead to check the temperature.

I dropped the newspaper on the coffee table and watched as they shared the kitchen. Quinn was very much like her eldest sister Scarlet, both in looks and personality, while Lucy was like none of them. It was as if she had been handed a different script. There was a translucency to her skin, not uncommon with pale blondes, that made her seem fragile, almost semi-permanent. If it wasn’t for the fact I had popped my head up at the very moment she emerged, I would have thought there had been some type of baby swap. Although why anyone would want to give her away, I don’t know.

Quinn painted her toast with butter and topped it with sliced banana. She reached for the sugar bowl.

‘No,’ I said firmly, holding up a hand to prevent argument.

‘Why? It’s healthy, it’s got banana. Why can’t I put a bit of sugar on? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Mum’s right,’ said Lucy as I shook my head. She was putting the finishing touches to our beverages, which unfortunately included sugar in my case. ‘Sugar’s poison. And addictive.’

‘Hypocrite,’ said Quinn to me, before ostentatiously turning her back to eat.

Lucy brought two mugs over to the coffee table, carefully placing mine within reach. I thanked her and then we sat facing each other. I didn’t know whether she was waiting for Quinn to leave, or trying to find the right words, or even hoping that I would start. How did one begin a conversation about giving up one’s grandchild? As inevitable as I knew it was, did I even
want
this conversation? Talking would make it real.

‘Enjoy your
sugar
,’ said Quinn, slinging her schoolbag on her back. She waited for my attention so that she could cast a withering glance. Seconds later the front door slammed.

‘I thought I’d give you a few days to get over the shock,’ began Lucy immediately. ‘And I know you’re disappointed in me. I just wanted to tell you that although I didn’t mean for this to happen, I do know what I’m doing. I’ve even spoken to a counsellor at the clinic. I know it’ll be hard but I also know that this is the right thing to do. For me and the baby.’

I swallowed a sigh, lest it give the wrong impression. ‘Luce, firstly I’m disappointed
for
you, not in you. There’s a big difference. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen – and however it did,’ I hurried on before she could share the details, ‘the truth is with a bit of bad luck,
I
could have been in your shoes at your age. Most of us could. And I’ve never made a secret of the fact Quinn was an accident. I was just fortunate to be in a stable relationship so I wasn’t faced with your choices.’

‘Do you regret her?’ asked Lucy suddenly. ‘Like, I know you love her, but do you ever think about how different things would be if she hadn’t happened? You could have gone overseas when Dad left, maybe done something more with your career.’

‘Never,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s very, very hard to regret a baby once it arrives.’

Lucy took a sip of her tea and then stared into the mug.

‘I have to ask, sweetheart. Did you ever consider the, um, alternatives?’

‘If you mean abortion, yes I did. Even made an appointment. But … no.’

‘Okay. It's only that ... ’ I petered off as I read the resolution on her face. I took a deep breath. ‘But it’s your decision. And I just want to get one thing straight. I’ll support you no matter what you decide. One hundred per cent. If you decide you want to keep the baby, even if you make that decision five minutes after it’s born, I’ll help you in any way I can. And if you do go through with the adoption, then I’ll respect your generosity and your strength. I admit I’ll find it difficult, because I can’t imagine being able to do that myself, but I’m not you.’

‘I do want to do this,’ said Lucy in a low voice. ‘Very much.’

‘Just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons then. Not because it’s a punishment, that’s absurd. Also not just to make someone else happy, that’s equally absurd.’ I paused. ‘Can I ask who the father is?’

Lucy put her mug down. ‘Jasper Stenhouse. I went out with him last year for a bit. Nice guy, but before you ask if there’s a future there, there’s not. Like, we get on and all but he’s got some issues to sort out. See, he thinks he’s gay.’

I blinked. ‘Ah …’

‘I know.’ She grinned. ‘Sort of ironic, isn’t it? He’s totally supportive but he doesn’t want to tell his parents unless he has to. He says his mother would probably try to adopt the baby herself and apparently she’s a bit of a bitch. I don’t want that anyway.’

‘It’ll be even harder, you know.’ I held her gaze. ‘With Scarlet pregnant, and also your dad. Have you told him yet?’

‘No. I wanted Scar to have her moment, because I sort of robbed her of it with you. I’ll tell him when he gets down here tomorrow. Or maybe Friday.’

I frowned. ‘Luce, you didn’t rob Scarlet of anything. You’ve got to stop thinking she has some sort of superior claim to this. From what I understand, her pregnancy was just as accidental as yours. If anything, she jumped on
your
bandwagon!’ I smiled, and then let it slide away. ‘And both pregnancies are going to have the same result, a baby.’

‘It’s funny to think of it like that, isn’t it?’ Lucy put a hand on her flat stomach. ‘A baby!’

I nodded, but inside my heart hurt. She looked about fifteen years old.

‘There was something else I wanted to tell you,’ said Lucy, her face still again.

‘Oh god. What?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. No, just about me going back to uni. I know you were really disappointed when I dropped out, but all this –’ she waved a hand towards her stomach region ‘– has really got me thinking. And, Mum, I want to stay in retail. I love it, I really do. Grandma said that she’ll take me on as permanent. Not Ruby because she’s crap.’

‘Is she?’

‘Oh yeah, totally. She says so herself. But I love it. It’s …’ She stared at the window as she searched for words. When she looked back, her face was shining. ‘It’s
empowering
. Like you’re the expert; you can match books with readers and pick out presents for grandchildren and stuff. And you can be creative. Like I made “what the staff recommends” cards last week, and stuck them on books we’d read, and people were
looking
at them. Oh, and Grandma said I can use the wooden display case for healing crystals and gemstones, you know the ones for luck and shit like that. People
love
them, and they make
great
gifts. I had to pitch that idea, you know, like with a proper proposal. Costings and everything.’

I smiled as she ran down, mainly because her enthusiasm was infectious. I did like to see my girls happy. I just hoped that this was not another choice she might regret.

‘Oh, and Grandma has said she’ll pay for me to do a certificate in retail through Bendigo TAFE, and then I can work my way up to a diploma of business management!’

‘Really? Oh, Luce,
that
’d be great. You’d have some qualifications.’

‘You and your qualifications.’ Lucy looked at me fondly, as if I was a quaint relic from another time. ‘They’re not everything, you know.’

‘A statement which is most often used by those without.’

‘Whatever.’ Lucy waved a hand, relegating qualifications to the ether. ‘I don’t mind
doing
them, I just don’t worship them the way you do. D’you want another coffee?’

I resisted the urge to retaliate, mainly because if she went ahead with her plan, I was getting a version of what I wanted anyway. It was better than nothing. ‘Yes, please.’

Lucy leapt nimbly to her feet and collected both mugs. ‘D’you know what I really want? To take over Renaissance when Grandma retires.’

I twisted around to watch her enter the kitchen. ‘Have you told her that?’

‘Nah, not yet. I’m gonna wait till I’m indispensable.’

‘Not a bad plan. By then you’ll probably have your diploma too.’

‘Good one, Mum.’

I returned her smile even though I didn’t really see what was funny. A kookaburra broke into rollicking laughter just outside the window, the merriment answered by another further away. I straightened again and adjusted my collar.

‘So, you’re really going to sell the house?’

‘I honestly don’t know. I suppose I’ll talk to your father, sort out the options.’ The kookaburra shrieked with laughter. I waited until it finished. ‘It’s complicated.’

Lucy placed a fresh coffee in front of me and curled back into the armchair. ‘You need to take a leaf out of my book.’ She grinned as I raised an eyebrow. ‘No, not
that
. But working out what
you
want. Anyway, if you do sell, why don’t you move into your father’s old shop?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You know, that old shop where you said your father was the butcher. I think they’re turning it into units or something. It’s got a For Sale sign.’

I blinked, trying to absorb the information. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Oh, Rube and I are parking there because Main Street has to be left for visitors this week. So I was like, Look there’s that old butcher shop that Mum’s dad used to have, and Ruby goes, Wow, it’s –’

‘Have they pulled it down?’

‘No, but the sign has a floor plan on it. They’re building something across the road too.’

‘My god.’ I picked up my coffee and held it to my mouth to buy time. My father’s shop. That end of the main street, which curved to one side, had been sidelined over forty years ago when the street was straightened to meet traffic lights at the highway. What had once been the start of the shopping strip became a dead-end offshoot, with relocation assistance given to all affected. My father had been one of those, shortly before he shot through to England and began his life anew. The shop had been just one of the many things that he had left behind.

But this was a curious turn of events, very curious indeed. Sawdust and pewter, warmth and security. Still thinking, I put my coffee down and smiled at my daughter. ‘So I suppose you’ll be heading to work in a moment. Want to give me a lift?’

*

Thirty minutes later I was standing in what was now apparently called Sheridan Lane, though I wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or bad. The large shop that I remembered being on the very end had been razed, leaving a gravelly expanse that was being used as a car park. Beside this was a joined pair of Edwardian shop fronts in rather shabby condition. Both had an inset doorway, situated adjacent to the other, with boarded-up windows on the side. The facia boards carried faded descriptions of their original calling, and the decorative cast-iron cresting above was stippled with rust. Pilasters peaked decoratively on either side of the cresting, despite serrated flakes of peeling paint, and then gave way to a more sedate upper storey that was broken only by the pair of three-panelled bay windows. These too were boarded but, unlike the bottom windows, were free of graffiti.

The left-hand shop had been my father’s butchery. Its twin, according to the sign, had last been a pharmacy. But those days were long gone. Even the pavement, once a wide expanse of macadam, was now in such disrepair that sections were erupting, with weeds springing forth like verdant lava. This smoothed out as the pavement approached the pub on the corner, one of the three in town, a two-storey red-brick and clotted-cream edifice with a canopied beer garden and an array of umbrella-shaded tables that were scattered all the way to the kerb.

On the other side of the little laneway there was some serious building taking place. Trucks and tradies’ utes were parked along the nature strip and a pair of portaloos squatted unattractively by the chain-link fence. The site was a long one with the main entry quite some distance away, off the highway, and it looked like it might develop into a motel, the type with a reception towards the front and a square central courtyard surrounded by rooms. It seemed that Sheridan Lane was going to enjoy the rear of all this, which would no doubt amount to a long, flat wall of tedious orange brick.