***
“Dora’s probably relieved in truth. She wouldn’t want another woman in the house,” Mrs. Macdonald said to Emma later, when she related their interview with Madame Fournier. “She likes to be in charge.”
Emma admitted she had noticed that. “She did seem genuinely upset at the idea of Madame leading Mr. Appleton on because Claude wanted to visit, though.”
“Well, I’m sure she must have some decent feelings, deep down. I don’t imagine her life has been easy, even before Allan died. They were very alike those two brothers. Did what they wanted. Vernon the worse because of his bitterness, but neither were very amiable men. George takes after his own father I suppose, thankfully.”
Mrs. Macdonald coughed and Emma helped her to a mouthful of tonic.
“Did you know them well?” she asked.
“I knew the whole family when George and I were courting,” Mrs. Macdonald said, leaning back gratefully against her pillows. “We lived in Melbourne. My family had a small general store on the corner of the street where the Appletons lived, so I knew them from when I was about twelve-year-old. Mrs. Appleton, Finona Macdonald she was, was a widow and George was four years old when she married old Mr. Appleton.
“It was a surprise to everyone in the street, apparently. They all thought he was a confirmed bachelor but she was very pretty and, of course, she had no money, so she took him. She gave him three children though, Vernon, Allan and Elizabeth. Elizabeth was sent to England to an aunt when Finona died and she never returned. The boys all went on the land. Old Mr. Appleton helped finance them all, including George.”
She closed her eyes and took in several short, shallow breaths. It was a long speech for her.
“Who will inherit Hillcrest?”
“Anthony. Some thought he would inherit his father’s share when Allan died, but it went to Vernon. Dora was upset about that.”
“Well, the inheritance seems simple enough now. But I don’t seem any further forward with discovering what happened to Mr. Appleton,” Emma said. “That note of Madame Fournier’s is pretty damning but there’s nothing to show she wrote it last night, and she maintains she didn’t. I can’t imagine her stabbing him. Someone else must have been involved and the only person that could be is her brother.”
“And George hasn’t talked to the men, you say?” Mrs. Macdonald asked.
“Apart from telling them what happened, and having some of them patrol the homestead, no, he is going to leave it to the police.”
“That won’t go down well. It would be as if we don’t trust them. Ask Matty to talk to them first thing in the morning. I’ll speak to George about it tonight. It needs to be handled carefully, Emma. You will tell him that, won’t you?”
Emma said she would. But would Matty tell her if he discovered something that pointed to his father? One thing she was relieved about; Mrs. Macdonald hadn’t once mentioned her suspicions about her husband’s involvement. Her mind seemed to have turned to other possibilities.
There was nothing more she could do until the men came in from work. She went to the kitchen and was relieved to find that Madame Fournier and Sachi were out somewhere and Dora had gone to her room to rest. She could pretend life was normal for a little while. At least until Tillie started on about the murder.
“I shan’t sleep a wink tonight. We could all be murdered in our beds,” she wailed.
“Don’t sniffle over the custard,” Emma told her sharply, startling Bea.
“Dad’s put armed men all around the place, Tillie. We’re perfectly safe,” Bea soothed, giving Emma a concerned look.
“I’ll come work for you, Miss, if Tillie doesn’t stay,” Janey said, glancing slyly at Emma.
“You’ll get yourself into trouble, if you’re not careful,” Emma told her.
Janey clicked her tongue. Any warning about involvement with Abe was going to be ignored. The situation was putting them all on edge.
Bea kept everyone busy in the kitchen, deciding to keep the rest of the mutton stew for lunch next day. Dinner that evening consisted of cottage pie with fresh greens, followed by apple crumble and Tillie’s custard.
Outside there was a lamp alight at every corner of the homestead, dispelling the shadows, beyond which Emma imagined the patrolling men. She wasn’t sure if hiding in the darkness was the better option to being surrounded with light, like a target. When they gathered in the drawing room she told Matty of his mother’s request that he speak to the men.
“What am I supposed to ask them?” he wanted to know.
“Ask them if they saw anyone around late last night, perhaps where they wouldn’t normally be. If anything seemed odd, I guess. It’s most important you don’t make it sound as if you suspect anyone. You’re asking for their help.”
“I suppose I could go and talk to them before they head out for work,” Matty said, looking a little dubious.
“They won’t speak up in front of everyone, accusing like, though, will they?” Jim said. “You’d have to talk to them on their own, have a chat.”
“Crikey, when did you turn into a policeman?” Matty asked his brother.
“You should read the serials in the newspaper,” Jim told him. “It’s the way the police interrogate. They separate the witnesses to see if their stories match up.”
Matty shook his head in amazement. He wasn’t one for reading.
“He’s right, though,” Emma said. “People feel freer to speak if others aren’t listening. But it would take too much time to talk to them all separately, and you could miss the one person who knows something. Perhaps you should ask them to come and talk to you if they have something to say.”
“I suppose so, but I’d have thought it better left to the police.”
Emma sighed quietly. Just like his father.
8
A Revelation
Matty’s report, given to Emma next morning as she was clearing the dining room after breakfast, added no new information. Several of the men had seen Mr. Mac wandering about, smoking, but the men’s quarters did not have a view of the homestead, as the farm buildings, including the stable, interposed, and they hadn’t seen anyone else about. On the matter of one of their own acting oddly, the response was “You mean, apart from the Professor?”
If anyone remembered the Professor’s proper name it was probably only Mr. Macdonald, when he wrote out his cheque. The elderly man had a penchant for quoting Shakespeare or the romantic poets to anyone who would listen, and for throwing Latin phrases into the conversation. He was a general hand about the place, having tramped up the river with his swag, stopped for some tucker and an odd job, and stayed. It was rumoured he had made a fortune on the goldfields and gambled it away, but no one really knew. When questioned by Matty he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary that night, either, and gave a lucid account of his own actions.
“What about Abe and Janey?” Emma asked. “They were out for several hours after dinner. I should have spoken to them before.”
“Abe already told us he and Janey were sitting in the smithy most of the time. It was when he was walking Janey back to the homestead that he heard the noise in the stable.”
Emma hoped sitting was all they had been doing. The smithy would be a cozy place for an assignation. At least he had some manners, walking the girl back to her room. Matty’s questioning hadn’t ruled out someone among the station hands being the murderer. Emma finished helping in the kitchen and went to the yard to catch Anthony.
She found him leaning, solitary, on the rail. In the yard, the Macdonald boys had been joined by their father and Claude Devereaux, with five horses being put through their paces, cantering and turning and stopping on command. Mr. Devereaux cut a fine, upright figure, clearly at home on a horse. Anthony, engrossed in what he was watching, didn’t notice her approach.
“Hello,” Emma said. He started and then gathered himself together.
“Miss Haythorne.”
“How are they getting on with th
e training?”
“Very well, I guess. Uncle George seems to know what he’s about. I wouldn’t have the patience for this type of thing.”
They watched the activities in the yard for a minute or two.
“I’m sorry about the loss of your uncle,” Emma said finally, turning to him. “Not a pleasant end to your holiday, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you. No, it isn’t.”
“Do you know anything about what happened that night?”
“Me?” He sounded surprised, and a little taken aback. “Why would I know anything?”
“You might have seen someone outside that night, wandering about, near the stables perhaps. I’m asking everyone.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Um, it was after ten. We were playing dominoes, Alex and I. But we’d been out riding all day. We were tired.”
“I remember. Did you enjoy the day?”
“Yes, it was great. I really enjoyed it. The country up here is different to down south. Much drier and the bush is stunted and scrubby.”
“It is. I sometimes wonder how anything can survive in the mallee, but it seems to. Do you get a lot of riding at home?”
“I do, but I just ride around and visit people. An overseer does all the real work at home because Uncle doesn’t ride, but Mother says that’s what gentlemen do. They give the orders and others do the work.” He frowned. “It isn’t like that here, is it?”
“No. I imagine Mr. Macdonald would find life very boring if he did it that way. Are there other gentlemen farmers in your neighborhood?”
“Most of them. The ones worth knowing anyway, Mother says.”
Of course, she would. “I see. And are you going to be a gentleman farmer yourself? I hear that Hillcrest will be yours now.”
“I don’t know that I want Hillcrest,” Anthony said, anxiously. “Is that dreadful of me, Miss Haythorne?”
“Of course not. There’s something else you would rather be doing?”
“I think I’d like to travel and see places. I enjoyed England, and London was exciting, so much going on. And then there are my cousins in England and their friends. I would like to see more of them. I think,” he confided, “that I’m like my Dad. He preferred new things, new ideas, new places. He was away from home a lot, especially when I was younger. When I got older we would spend hours together inventing mad things, making improvements to farm equipment. I think he should have been an engineer—or a blacksmith. He invested in other people’s enterprises, too, in a small way. He helped out a neighbour who was developing a new plough, and he helped Uncle George build his stable, did you know?”
“I had heard something about that. Did the new plough work out?”
Anthony laughed and had to admit it had never gone into production. He had a nice laugh, unaffected despite his Mother’s influence.
“Uncle Vernon was rather scathing about it at the time, but Dad just shrugged and said the next idea might be a winner. He said it was more exciting than watching the weather and hoping for a good pasture. He didn’t care much for sheep, either. I miss him.”
“You sound like my brother, Joe. He doesn’t want to farm either. At least, not yet.” Of course, the matter of inheriting Wirramilla wouldn’t have been a concern for Joe if their older brother, Michael, had lived. “But you’ll be able to do what you want, now, won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, suddenly morose. “My mother always talks to me about Hillcrest and how wonderful it is, and about our place in the world. Mother would never let me sell the place. There will be Appletons at Hillcrest for generations, she says. That’s what Uncle Vernon wanted too.”
“It obviously isn’t your vision, though,” Emma said, sorry for the young man who seemed trapped in someone else’s dream. “I’m sure your mother would understand if you had other plans, for a few years at least. You could put the property in the hands of an agent. There are any number of properties worked in that way.” Few of them were managed as well as an interested owner would do it, but there would still be income for him to pursue his own dreams. Farms in the south-west of Victoria did well with their higher rainfall and cooler conditions. “We only have one life to live,” she added lightly. “I wouldn’t want to get to the end of it with nothing but regrets for things not done. And men have far more choice in that than we women do.”
“I suppose that is true enough. You’ve given me something to think about, anyway.”
He might have killed his uncle in order to inherit Hillcrest, but it would have made more sense if his mother had been the victim. On her way back to the homestead, she encountered Mrs. Appleton in the garden.
“Have you seen Anthony?” she asked Emma. “I really must speak to him. The poor boy. He is heartbroken at losing his Uncle.”
Emma hadn’t thought he was, but then she knew Dora was prone to exaggerate. She thought the woman looked a little drawn. Did she suspect her son of having killed Vernon in order to inherit Hillcrest? Had what Anthony just told her been a smokescreen to hide his true feelings about the property? Emma no longer knew if she could trust her instincts about people. Anthony could be like his mother and make up stories to suit his purpose.
“He’s at the training yard,” she said, and Dora continued in that direction.
When Emma took Mrs. Macdonald her lunch tray, she told her of her conversation with Anthony. Mrs. Macdonald agreed that he had to make his own decisions.
“He’ll stand up to Dora one day, if he’s anything like his father and his uncle,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about him. Have you spoken to the Frenchman yet?”
“No. I hope to see him after lunch.”
“I won’t hold you up, then. Ask Bea if she would come in.”
Emma caught Claude Devereaux as the men were heading back out to the training yard.
“May I have a word, please?” she asked him, directing him into the drawing room.
She knew they would be alone there. Madame Fournier and Sachi were in the kitchen and Mrs. Appleton was in her room. She hadn’t come to lunch and had seemed withdrawn, as if what had occurred had finally hit her.
“This is about what happened to Mr. Appleton?” Mr. Devereaux asked, when they were seated. He seemed more serious than she had seen him previously. They probably all were. “My sister has told me, in great detail,” he added with an ironic tilt of his lips, “about the note you found.”
“I’m sorry to have upset her, if I did,” Emma said, “but the matter had to be gone into.”
Did he have no shame in encouraging her to flirt just so he could view some horses? And she still in mourning? Not that it had seemed to hinder Madame in any way. Perhaps the mourning was of long standing. She had no idea on that point.
“And you have been given the job of going into it, as you say?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. Ah, there it was. The disapproval, that this wasn’t something a young woman should be involving herself with.
“Well, we could have left it to the police, of course, but Mrs. Macdonald wanted it settled before they arrived, if that was possible.” She wasn’t about to mention Mrs. Macdonald’s fear that her husband was the killer.
He crossed his legs and leaned back in his armchair.
“And now you want to know what I was doing that night” he said, a slightly amused expression on his face now.
Emma nodded. “Where were you, when Mr. Appleton was in the stable?”
“Asleep, pure and simple, Miss Haythorne. It had been a long day and I did not wake once my head hit the pillow.”
“You saw no one around before you went to bed? Heard nothing?”
“I saw Mr. Appleton heading in the direction of the stable before I went to bed.”
“And what time was that?”
“Oh, about half past ten or a little after, I should imagine.”
Whether that was the first time he went to the stable, or when he returned after being confronte
d by Mr. Macdonald, she had no idea.
“And he was alone?” she asked.
“He was.”
“Did you see Mr. Macdonald? He was seen outside by some people, smoking a cigarette.”
“No, I did not.”
They gazed at one another in silence. He appeared to be patiently waiting for her next question, but offering nothing.
“What do you think happened, Mr. Devereaux?” she asked finally.
His hands went out in a typical Gallic gesture. “Someone knocked him down and ran him through as he lay there. Not a particularly gentleman-like thing to do, but I understand those are the facts.”
“Ran him through? That is the sort of remark I imagine you would make if he had been in a sword fight.”
“But it was sword, was it not?”
Emma stared at him. “Where would anyone get a sword? Do you have a sword in your luggage?”
“I do not.” He was looking as puzzled as she felt. “Mr. Appleton brought the weapon with him. He had his cane, his sword-stick.”
“His what?”
“His sword-stick. The cane he used, it was a sword-stick. Some men carry them if they are in a rough neighbourhood. They are popular in London, I believe. That is where Mr. Appleton acquired his, so he said.”
Emma’s head was spinning.
“Are you saying his cane had a sword in it?”
“Yes, that is what I am saying. That is what a sword-stick is.”
“I have never seen one. How does that work?”
“There is a button a little way below the knob. You press and release the sword, draw it out. The cane is like the scabbard. This was not known?”
“No. No, it was not,” Emma said faintly.
At least not by her. Had some people been holding out on her? Who else knew Vernon Appleton’s cane was a sword-stick? If Claude Devereaux, then possibly all the visitors. Did Mr. Macdonald know? Even if she asked him he could just deny it. Vernon Appleton had taken the weapon to the stable with him. That made it a crime of opportunity, because whoever he encountered in the stable can’t have had a weapon of their own. They used what they found there.
None of the station hands would have known about the sword-stick. Some other stranger finding him there wouldn’t have either. Unless of course, Vernon drew the sword to defend himself and was overpowered, his weapon used against himself. Given his disability, one would imagine that would not have been too difficult to achieve.
It didn’t help. Everyone was still under suspicion, including all the Macdonald men. Because she suddenly realised she couldn’t eliminate Matty, Jim or Alex, either. How much had Allan Appleton invested in George Macdonald’s stable? Was it enough to kill for? Had Anthony Appleton done it to inherit Hillcrest to pay for the life he wanted to lead? Anyone could be lying to her and Mr. Macdonald could still be playing a nice bluff. He could be laughing up his sleeve, watching her stumble around.
“Are you unwell, Miss Haythorne?” Mr. Devereaux asked, leaning toward her, concern etched on his handsome features.
Emma rallied with an effort.
“It could be anyone, couldn’t it? Knowing what the weapon was leaves it even more open, it would seem.”
“Do you think so?”
“Don’t you? Almost anyone could have knocked him down and used his sword-stick against him. Imagine,” she said, her mind flying, “you are hitting him with the knob of the cane and in the process the button is depressed and the sword flies out. We know the cane itself was not sufficient to have killed him. It had not sufficient weight.”
“But why kill him at all? That is the question, surely?”
“I could posit a motive for almost everyone on the station but there is no proof for any of it.”
“I can tell you only one thing: that it was not done by a gentleman. It was as I said, an underhand act.”
But who at Nettifield could claim to be a gentleman in the sense of the word Claude Devereaux implied? Honourable men. Honourable men did not murder. They might kill in a fight, in self defense, in protecting something or someone, but they did not murder. If she thought about if carefully she should be able to decide who could or could not have done it. Couldn’t she?
“Have you spoken to anyone else about the sword-stick?” she asked.
“No. No one said anything in my hearing about the weapon not being known, and I have not spoken of it to anyone but you. I was expecting to speak to the police, whatever Gabriela said about leaving. A Devereaux does not run from trouble, Miss Haythorne.”
Which was an odd thing to say considering Madame Fournier was a Devereaux too. Perhaps he didn’t include women in that sentiment.
Emma got to her feet and Claude Devereaux stood as well.
“Thank you,” Emma said. “I appreciate your speaking with me. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“My pleasure. I wish you luck in unmasking the culprit.” There was no mockery in his voice.
9
A Sharp-Edged Confrontation
Emma wondered what the effect would be if she announced to the kitchen at large that Mr. Appleton had been killed with his own sword-stick, but when she entered the room there was no-one there. Probably just as well, or she may have been tempted. She didn’t know where Janey and Tillie had skived off to, but Bea was likely with her mother. Talking to her and Mrs. Mac seemed a good idea right now. She went back into the homestead and along the hallway and encountered Bea leaving her mother’s room.
“She’s asleep,” Bea told her. She told Emma she had let the girls go watch the horse training for a while, when Emma asked where they were. Emma forbore to say anything about giving servants too much latitude. Janey was probably flirting with Anthony Appleton by now. Back in the kitchen, she told Bea what she had learned from Claude Devereaux.
“A sword-stick,” Bea echoed. “That’s positively medieval. Poor Uncle.”
“Yes. A gun would have been a more sensible weapon for him to carry. He wasn’t sure enough of foot for a sword fight. But then, he may never have expected to use it. It may just have been a conceit.”
“Have you spoken to everyone? Do you have any idea who did this?”
“Yes, and no.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“I have some idea of who didn’t do it, but I have no evidence for who did.”
“Do you think the police will be able to sort it out?”
Emma shook her head. “I’ve no idea. They may be able to frighten some information out of someone, but I doubt it. I think it’s up to us.
“Up to you, you mean.”
“Well, you could help. You could listen to me go over everyone’s motives and movements and give me your ideas.”
“All right.” The cuckoo clock on the chimney breast whirred and announced two o’clock. “Oh, look at that time. We need to get some baking done. I’ll go fetch those girls or we’ll not have anything for the men for afternoon tea. We can discuss this later, can’t we?”
Emma said of course, they could. Bea threw her shawl around her shoulders and hurried out. Emma began to assemble the baking requirements, putting out two large mixing bowls, a jug of milk, the set of scales, baking powder, bowl of eggs. She was about to measure out some flour from the tub for the scone mix when Mrs. Appleton came into the kitchen, closing the door that Bea had left partly open. The woman was white and shaking. Emma started to move around the table to her, thinking she was ill.
“What have you been saying to my Anthony?” Mrs. Appleton cried out, her voice hoarse with anger and distress. “What ideas have you been putting into his head?”
Emma stopped. “None that I know of, Mrs. Appleton,” she said keeping her voice calm. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
She may as well have saved breath.
“You told him he could put in a manager. A manager. He wants to travel. He doesn’t care for sheep, he says. My son is supposed to run Hillcrest. I’m to be the lady of the
house again. Do you realise what that man did when Allan died?”
As she spoke, Emma moved slowly back around the table, putting it directly between them. Dora Appleton’s demeanour was unsettling.
“He sacked the housekeeper and said I could do the job now, earn my keep. Housekeeper. For the past four years. I was the lady of the house when Allan was alive.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “And it was for nothing anyway. That French minx, leading him on. He wanted to marry her. But I dealt with it, and it would have been all right. It still would have been all right because Anthony got Hillcrest.”
She dealt with it? It didn’t take a genius to work out what she meant. She’d killed Vernon Appleton to prevent his marrying Madame Fournier.
“You used that note of Madame’s to lure Mr. Appleton outside, didn’t you,” Emma said. Play for time. Bea and the girls would be back in a few minutes.
“She dropped it on the ship. I’ve no idea who it was meant for. She could have been carrying on with half a dozen men for all I knew. He thought he had a chance with her. I saw him go back into the stable after George routed him. But he laughed at me. Laughed when I said Hillcrest should belong to Anthony. He said Anthony would have a share of it with his own children. Well, there won’t be any children now will there?”
“Did you let the horses out?”
“Of course, I did. It would’ve looked like an accident if you hadn’t stuck your nose in.” She was agitated, walking back and forth in front of the table.
“But you stabbed him. You couldn’t pass that off as an accident.”
“George would have been blamed, then. Everyone knew they hated one another. But I handled it. And then you put ideas into Anthony’s head. He wants to put me in a nice little house in Melbourne. Hillcrest is supposed to be ours,” she screeched.
She lunged around the table toward Emma, a sword, previously hidden among the folds of her skirt, appearing in her hand. A thin sword with a battered silver knob. Emma skittered the other way, Dora following, still screeching. Emma stepped backward toward the door but the woman was too fast, running at her, sword held out in front. Emma dashed back around the table again, barely dodging the weapon.
“What story are you going to give if you kill me?” Emma gasped.
“Oh, that’s simple enough. You threatened me with this sword, but I took it off you and you were stabbed. I will claim self defence. It was you who killed Vernon, I will tell them.”
She was completely mad.
“What possible motive could I have. I didn’t even know the man.”
“You propositioned him and he rejected you. You were desperate for a husband, someone with property. He threatened to embarrass you to your friends.”
No one would believe it, of course, but it would hardly matter if she was dead. Dora came at her again around the table and she skipped back, grabbing a fire iron as she passed the fireplace. How effective it would be against a sword she didn’t want to consider, but it was all she had. Dora continued to press and they circled the table again. She was closer now. Bea, where on earth are you?
As Emma came around past the fireplace again, keeping her eyes on Dora, she caught her heel in the bottom of her skirt and almost fell. Dora bounded forward with a cry of triumph, sword thrusting forward. Emma desperately parried with the fire iron as she grabbed at the table with her other hand to steady herself.
Her fingers touched the bowl of eggs. She reached in and grabbed one, hurling it at Dora’s face. It wasn’t the best shot, using her left hand, but she could hardly miss at that distance. It hit Dora on the forehead. Glutinous egg white and runny yolk dripped down her face and over her eyes. As Dora clawed it away, Emma threw several eggs on the floor at her assailant’s feet.
She stepped back, encouraging Dora to come at her again. As she did so, she stepped on the broken eggs. Her feet slipped from beneath her. She fell, with a scream of rage, landing flat on her back. Emma leapt forward, lifted Dora’s legs and pushed them up, keeping the woman’s body pressed to the floor and giving her no purchase to get up.
But Dora still held the sword and she lashed out wildly, screaming in frustration, slicing at Emma’s skirt and inflicting a cut on her leg. Emma brought the fire iron down on Dora’s arm, bringing a screech of pain from the woman. She hit her again, this time on the wrist. The sword dropped to the floor from numbed fingers and she flicked it away under the table with the fire iron.
Emma dropped to her knees, still clasping Dora’s legs in what was anything but a dignified position. She was kneeling in broken egg, and there was egg on her clothes and hands from Dora’s shoes. She was shaking now. She could feel blood from the cut running down her leg but she couldn’t look at it.
Dora continued to struggle feebly, but the fight had been knocked out of her and she lay sobbing, flat on her back, legs in the air. Emma almost cried with relief when she heard the kitchen door open. The sound was followed by Tillie’s scream.