Stolen (2 page)

“Lots of stuff washed up on the beach in the days after the sinking. One thing was a huge porcelain bird specially made in England for the Melbourne exhibition to be held in 1880. That's the
Loch Ard
peacock, and it's in the museum on Flagstaff Hill. They say it's worth millions of dollars.”

“I'd like to see that,” I say, impressed by the dollar figure.

“There's another fascinating story much closer to here—” Annabel begins, but she stops as the black piece of driftwood that I had been kicking along the beach bounces past us. It comes to rest a few feet away, and Annabel freezes, staring at it. Then she bends down to pick it up, but a large black dog shoots past, grabs the wood and bounds away.

“Hey! Wait!” Annabel shouts and takes off after the dog.

Annabel is tearing around after the dog, who thinks this is a wonderful game, when the dog's owner shows up. “Sorry,” he says in an American accent. He's a plump, middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and city shoes that look completely out of place on the beach. He peers at me through thick, round glasses. “The wood slipped out of my hand when I threw it for Percy. There's not a lot of driftwood on this beach, so it's quite a treat for him.”

Annabel can cover a lot of ground fast on her long legs, but Percy beats her in the turn every time. As Annabel begins to slow, Percy runs rings round her. “This seems like quite a treat for Percy too,” I say.

“Yes,” the man agrees, “although I'm not so sure it is for your friend. Are you here on holiday?”

“Just for a few days, yes,” I reply. “You're American?”

“Not hard to spot,” the man acknowledges with a smile. “From Kansas originally, like Dorothy in
The Wizard of
Oz
, but I travel a lot. But with that accent, you're not from hereabouts either.”

“I'm Canadian,” I explain. “My dad just moved to Adelaide.”

Eventually, Annabel stops running and bends over, her hands on her knees. After a final couple of circuits around the gasping girl, Percy loses interest. He drops the wood and trots back to his master. Annabel comes back to life, grabs the driftwood and examines it closely.

I scratch Percy behind the ear as he snuffles up to me to say hello. “Sorry again,” the man says. “Nice meeting you. Come on, Percy. Time to go home.”

As they wander off down the beach, I wonder why they're heading away from town, but Annabel and her old piece of wood distract me. I trot over to see what's so interesting.

“That looked like fun,” I say. Annabel ignores me. “What's so fascinating about an old bit of wood?”

“Sam,” Annabel says, staring at the dunes behind us. “How much driftwood do you see on this beach?”

I glance up and down. “None,” I say.

“Exactly. So where did this piece come from?”

I shrug.

Annabel looks at me and holds out the wood. It's not much bigger than my clenched fist and slightly longer than it is wide. The ends are jagged, but one side is straight, like it was made by a tool. “It's man-made and it's black,” she says.

I'm tempted to point out that I've worked that out already, but instead I say, “What does that mean? It could have come from anywhere. You said this was the shipwreck coast.”

“That's true, but there's the story I was going to tell you before Percy interrupted us. There is supposed to be a lost ship buried in the dunes somewhere around here. It was first seen in the early 1800s, and on and off for about 80 years after that. No one's seen it since 1880, and there are all sorts of theories about what it was. A lot of people think it might prove that someone from Europe or Asia came to Australia before Willem Janszoon landed here in 1606.”

“Janszoon?”

“He was a Dutch explorer. Most people think he was the first European to visit Australia, although he didn't know that's where he was.”

“So why should Percy's bit of wood be from that wreck and not another one?”

“The one thing that everyone who saw the wreck agrees on is that the ship was constructed out of black wood,” Annabel explains. “That's unusual. People call it the Mahogany Ship.”

“So we've found an ancient, mysterious wreck,” I say, my interest piqued now.

“Not necessarily. Even if this is from the Mahogany Ship, it doesn't tell us where the wreck is. It could be buried under meters of sand. But what we
can
do”—Annabel smiles and stuffs the wood into her backpack—“is take this up to the museum and see if anyone there can tell us anything about it. You up for it?”

“Sure,” I say as we head off down the beach. Suddenly, Warrnambool isn't as boring as I thought.

Chapter Three

The walk back into town is hot, and Annabel shares a drink from the water bottle in her backpack. We walk along the beach, through town and into the museum on top of Flagstaff Hill. Annabel nods to the girl selling tickets. “Hi, Penny. Busy day?”

“Wish it was,” Penny answers. “Busy makes the time go faster.” Annabel chuckles, and we pass through a door marked
Staff Only
.

We're in a short corridor with two doors on either side. A plate on the first door on the right announces
Rose MacAuley,
Director of Artifact and Building
Preservation and Park Maintenance
.

“Rose is a wonder,” Annabel says. “She does everything—makes sure the old buildings in the heritage park out back don't fall down, keeps the museum exhibits clean and prepares new finds for display.”

The second door has a plate saying
William Sturridge, Director of Research
. Annabel knocks on that door, but there's no reply. “Bill must be at lunch,” she says, looking at her watch. “Probably with Rose.”

We continue down the corridor into an open room with views over the ocean. There's a simple kitchen setup, a couch and an assortment of chairs arranged around an oval table. The young man sitting at one end of the table looks up from his tablet as we enter.

“G'day, Anna. I was just checking out a new zombie game. You want to have a look? You can make their heads explode.”

I feel Annabel tense beside me, and I take an instant dislike to the man. He's skinny and twitchy. He taps his foot as his eyes flit back and forth between Annabel and me. It makes me restless just looking at him.

“Well done, Pete,” Annabel says coldly. “Just when I thought you couldn't get any more disgusting, you outdo yourself.”

Pete flashes a smile that's closer to a sneer. “Where you been this morning?”

“As if it's any of your business, it's my day off,” Annabel replies as we sit down as far from Pete as possible. “And I've told you before, just because you shorten your name doesn't mean that everyone does. My name's Annabel.”

“Sure, sure,” Pete says with a dismissive wave. “And who's your new friend?”

“That also is none of your business, but his name's Sam.”

Pete smirks. “Short for Samuel, I suppose. Pleased to meet you, Sam.”

“Hi,” I say, feeling intensely uncomfortable.

We all sit in silence for a few minutes. Then Pete speaks, “Say, Anna— Annabel, sorry. Have you had a chance to ask Bill about putting me on night shift?”

“Not yet,” Annabel says. “Why are you so keen to go on night shift?”

“It'd be cool. No one to hassle me or tell me what to do. Maybe you'd like to join me one night.”

“In your dreams. Has anyone ever told you what a creep you are?”

“Many people,” Pete says with his sneering smile, “but I'm only kidding. Seriously, will you have a word with Bill?”

“Yeah, okay. At least it would get you off the same shifts as me.”

“Thanks, babe.”

I can see Annabel gritting her teeth, but she says, “Have Bill and Rose gone for lunch?”

“Should be back soon. You can ask him about my night shift when he gets back. You want to see this?” Pete waves his tablet in my direction.

Before I can think of an answer, Annabel stands up. “Come on,” she says. “I want to show you something while we're waiting.”

“Can I see it too?” Pete asks, in a tone that suggests he's not talking about a museum artifact.

Annabel ignores him, and we head back down the corridor and through the gift shop. “He's such a slime bag,” she says as soon as we're out of hearing range. “He sends shivers down my spine every time I talk to him. I don't know why Bill hired him.”

“Maybe he'll be put on the night shift,” I suggest. “Then he'll be out of your way.”

“I should be so lucky. We had a security guy on night shift, an old Vietnam veteran, but he got sick and had to quit. Bill's hired a security firm now.”

“Why does Pete ask you to talk to Bill? Why doesn't he approach him himself?”

“Bill's my uncle,” Annabel explains. “Pete reckons I have influence with him. I've been stalling because I don't want to do Pete any favors, but it
would
be good to get rid of him.”

We're in the museum now, surrounded by glass cases full of cracked plates, barnacle-encrusted jars and photographs of old sailing ships. I have to admit that some of it looks interesting, but Annabel doesn't give me a chance to linger. She leads me to the museum's back door and out onto a balcony overlooking a clutter of buildings that covers a hill sloping down to the sea.

“This is our heritage village,” she says proudly.

“Is this the original Warrnambool?”

“No. The buildings are all original, but not from one place. The museum has collected them from all over. They rescued them from developers in some cases and brought them here to recreate what an ideal town might have looked like a hundred and fifty years ago. There are houses, a church, a school, a blacksmith shop, a store…”

“And ships,” I say, looking down at a pond in which a sailing ship and an oldfashioned ferry are floating. There's also a dock with a red rowboat tied at the end.

“It's an old lagoon that used to be attached to the sea. The two-masted ketch is the
Reginald M
—
Reggie
for short. He was built in 1922 and worked as a freighter all along this coast. The steamship is
Rowitta
. She was built in 1909 and was used for tourist excursions on the Tamar River in Tasmania. I'll show you around later, but right now I want you to see the star of the show.”

I follow Annabel back into the museum and through to an open circular area. The usual cases are around the walls, but there's a tall, circular glass case in the middle that makes me gasp in surprise. I glance at Annabel, who's smiling at my shock. “Impressive, eh?” she says.

I'm looking at a peacock. On its pedestal, it is taller than I am. I walk around it. It's perfect—the feathers on the tail are painted in incredible detail, the eyes real enough to be looking at me, the talons curled to grip the rock on which it stands, the blues, greens and browns so bright, they almost hurt my eyes. It looks about to spread its magnificent tail and strut majestically out the door. “It's beautiful,” I say.

“Hard to believe it's made out of porcelain,” Annabel says. “Only nine of these were ever made,” she goes on, sounding like a tour guide. “It's 144 centimeters high and weighs 45.36 kilos, and it's insured for four million dollars.”

“Wait a minute. If this thing is porcelain, how did it survive a shipwreck that killed almost everyone on board?”

“It was so special that it wasn't put in the hold. It was packed very carefully in a crate and stored in the captain's cabin. When the
Loch Ard
went down, the captain did as well, but the crate with the peacock inside floated onto the beach.”

“It's a miracle it survived.”

“Indeed it is.” I turn to see a tall bearded man striding toward us. “Hi, Annabel,” he says. “Pete told me you were here.”

“This is Sam,” Annabel says, and Bill and I shake hands. “I was just showing him the
Loch Ard
peacock.”

“Our pride and joy,” Bill says. “This brings the tourists in, but a lot of the less dramatic stuff is more important for the archaeologist. An old shoe or a dinner service can tell us more about people's lives a hundred years ago than something like this.”

“Something like this, maybe?” Annabel asks as she pulls the piece of black wood from her backpack. Bill examines it with interest, moving over to the glass door to get better light. “Where did you find this?”

“Down on the beach, a couple of kilometers west of town.”

“Is it mahogany?” I blurt out. I'm surprised how much I want this old bit of wood to be important. If it is, it'll be an excuse to hang out with Annabel.

Bill laughs. “You think this is part of the Mahogany Ship?”

“Maybe,” I say, feeling sheepish at his laugh.

“It's oak,” Bill says. Then, seeing disappointment cross my face, he adds, “It's unlikely that the Mahogany Ship was actually made of mahogany. Someone called it that because the wood was black, but a lot of wood turns black if it's buried.

“It's obviously from a wreck,” Bill goes on, turning his attention back to the wood. “Possibly a piece of a rudder post, but there's not enough to tell for sure.”

“So it could be from the Mahogany Ship?” I ask excitedly.

Bill laughs again. “I see it hasn't taken you long to get involved in our local legends. Yes, it could be from the Mahogany Ship—if it exists— but it's more likely that it's from one of the other wrecks along the coast. There were dozens over the years, from large ships like the
Loch Ard
to small fishing boats. Of course, there's no way to tell for sure, which is why the mystery of the Mahogany Ship has lasted so long.”

“That's kind of what I thought,” Annabel says, “but, hey, you never know, right?”

“You never know,” Bill repeats with a smile. “Let me hang on to this, and I'll let you know if I have any other thoughts. Are you going back to look for more pieces?”