Lane's End Page 7

  ‘I think you must. After all, Dad is still a suspect in this man’s murder. You might be able to find out why he asked after you.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘It’ll have to wait, Jo. I’ve got to find Emma first.’

  CHAPTER 9

  With his dark wavy hair falling over his forehead, his skin browned by the Middle Eastern sun, Ben Carmichael cut a striking figure as he walked into Fabrique en France later that morning. He found Theodora humming to herself while rearranging a table full of bric-a-brac, lost in her own world. A friendly woman in a light kind of way, Ben had always seen her as possessing an innocent gaiety. She had never professed to have been close to his mother, but he was comforted in the knowledge that she was, nevertheless, a link.

  Theodora looked around when the bell on the door rang, her face full of concern. ‘Ben, I’m so glad you’ve come by. I did plan to call you today. I heard about Emma on the news. I’m so sorry, darling. Is there any word?’

  ‘No, Theo. Nothing yet. I’m just trying to retrace Emma’s steps before she disappeared. One of her friends said she came to see you recently.’ Ben sat down on a stool next to the table of bric-a-brac.

  ‘That’s right, she did. It was last Monday morning around ten o’clock. We’d never met before. She’s a lovely girl, Ben. I liked her immediately. Very straight forward and to the point. A good attribute to have when you’re a freelance journalist, I imagine.’

  ‘What did you want to see you about, Theo?’

  ‘She wanted to ask me about your mother because she said she plans to include her in a book she’s working on about Australian artists. She said she hoped I could provide her with some background information on her early work. I was able to help her with background, of course, but as far as her work was concerned, I failed miserably. I can’t say I’ve ever been interested in any form of art so I took little interest in your mother’s talent. All I could tell Emma was that your mother spent a lot of time at Lane’s End and that she used the cottage for her studio. And that she adored the place, of course. Anyway, that wasn’t quite what Emma had in mind, so I suggested she speak to your Uncle Sebastian. After all, he’d known your mum the longest.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ replied Ben, with growing interest. ‘But then I know very little about my mother. Other than Laura giving Joanna and me the barest of facts, no one’s ever spoken of her.’

  ‘So I understand. It’s almost as though your Dad wanted to erase all memory of her, so painful was her death to him. I must say, it did become clear, early on, to Emerson and me that there wasn’t to be any discussion about her and the way in which she died. Ever. So, of course, we honoured your father’s wishes.’

  ‘What do you know about her death, Theo?’

  ‘The little I do know, Amanda Marsh told me. She was your mother’s housekeeper at the time. But you know that. She said she and your mother had taken you and Joanna to Lane’s End for the long weekend. It was a Friday morning so your Dad was to follow later in the day after he’d finished work in the city. I don’t know all the details, only that your mother was found to be missing that afternoon by Sebastian. At the time, the police suspected foul play because your parents’ gardener went missing after the alarm was raised.’

  ‘Gardener? I don’t remember any gardener.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. You couldn’t have been much more than six years old at the time.’

  ‘What happened when the police found him?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Well, that’s just it. They didn’t.’ Theodora looked back down at the table she was rearranging.

  ‘So, what happened with the police investigation?’

  ‘As far as I know, the case was never solved.’

  ‘Meaning no real closure for my father.’

  ‘No,’ replied Theodora, thoughtfully. ‘I think that was one of the most difficult things for him. Not knowing what really happened to your mother. Whether she fell or...’

  Ben sensed Theodora’s discomfort. ‘You mean it was never made clear how she died?’

  Theodora looked awkwardly at Ben. ‘I’m really not the one you should talk to about this. Really, I’m not. Whatever I know, or think I know, I’ve heard from others.

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  Theodora sighed. ‘All I know is that the Coroner couldn’t decide whether your mother had accidentally fallen from the cliff, was pushed or...’

  ‘Or what?’ Ben glared at Theodora. ‘You mean it was thought she might have committed suicide? God! No wonder Dad never got over it. He’d have wondered whether he’d done something to cause her death.’

  ‘I believe he did,’ replied Theodora. ‘A terrible thought for him to live with.’

  Ben got to his feet. ‘Thanks for telling me, Theo. It helps make some sense of a lot of the past.’

  ‘It hasn’t helped as far as Emma is concerned though, has it? Perhaps if you have a word with Sebastian. I’m sure Emma planned to speak to him after she left here because as I said, he’d known your mother the longest. Ever since art school when they were quite young. And of course, that’s how your parents eventually met. Through Sebastian.’

  Ben left Theodora to rearrange her tables, what she had told him about his mother and the circumstances of her death, rushing through his head. In a way, it helped to explain his father’s resolve never to speak of that time, but it did not explain the animosity that had existed between them. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the past after all. He also pondered Sebastian’s part in all this. By all accounts, not only his father’s half-brother but his mother’s friend since they were young, and the person who found her missing the day she died. It surprised him, therefore, that Sebastian had never played a part in his and Joanna’s life, remaining all but a stranger. Nevertheless, he hoped that if Emma had spoken to Sebastian, it might bring to light a clue as to her whereabouts.

  The morning sun filtered through the windows of the Ultra Design showroom giving a little warmth to the otherwise austere modernistic surroundings. Ben could only remember being in the showroom once before, as a teenager when he had accompanied his father. It was perhaps one of the few times he had come into contact with Sebastian.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Ben looked past the displays of interior furnishings to the far end of the room to see a slim young woman with shoulder length auburn hair, sitting at a desk. ‘I’m here to see Mr Newberry.’

  ‘Is he expecting you, Mr...?’

  ‘Carmichael. Ben Carmichael, and no, he isn’t.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll have a word with Mr Newberry. If you’d care to take a seat, I won’t be long.’ She gave a quick smile and gestured to the chair in front of her desk.

  A few minutes later Sebastian emerged from an inner office. Dressed in a light grey suite and blue and white striped tie, Ben realised he would not have recognised him if they had passed on the street. There was also a sense of grimness about him. Obviously, his father’s death had affected Sebastian greatly.

  ‘Ben,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s been a long time. Come through to my office. We can talk there.’

  Sebastian’s office lay at the back of the building where the warmth of the morning sun could not reach. It remained, therefore, subject to the stark minimalist style that he obviously preferred. He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk before he sat down himself. ‘I take it you’re here about your father’s funeral arrangements. Of course I will help in any way I can.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ replied Ben, settling himself into a chair. ‘But it’s not that I’m here about. You probably haven’t heard that my fiancée, Emma Phillips, has gone missing.’

  Sebastian’s face darkened. ‘What! But it’s only a few days ago that she was here.’

  ‘So she did come to see you. Theodora said she might have.’

  ‘Yes. It was last Monday. She said she’s working on a book about artists and wanted to include your mother. I told her I thought it a marvellous idea. Your mothe
r was so talented. Her work shouldn’t be forgotten.’

  Ben sensed an enthusiasm in Sebastian’s demeanour as he spoke about his mother. ‘I wish I could remember her. You obviously knew her well.’

  ‘I did, and that’s why I encouraged Emma. She mentioned that she wanted to go to Lane’s End to see Ivy Cottage.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that my father would have agreed to that, do you?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Not really. No. But I didn’t say that to Emma. She seemed so keen. I hoped she might be able to persuade him.’

  ‘Did she happen to mention what her other plans were? If she did, it might give me some clue as to what’s happened to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben. She only spoke of her wish to go to Lane’s End. She seemed bent on the idea.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Ben, his face displaying his growing anguish, sat at a coffee shop’s outside table in Crows Nest and mulled over his conversation with Sebastian. With no new lead to follow, he felt powerless to help Emma when she might need him the most. He looked up when the waiter approached to take his order and saw Joanna and Laura walking along the sidewalk towards him.

  ‘Just coffee, please,’ he told the waiter before getting to his feet.

  ‘Ben. We’ve just been around to your house to see you,’ said Joanna as they all sat down. ‘Is there any news about Emma?’

  ‘Not from the police, but I did manage to catch up with my neighbour, Ron Evans. He said he saw Emma leave the house in her car early on Saturday morning. It seems he might be the last person to have seen her.’ Ben drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘The rest of the morning I’ve spent speaking to Theodora and Sebastian.’

  Ben recounted his meetings.

  ‘So Emma spoke to Theodora and Sebastian too about going to Lane’s End,’ said Laura, an edge to her voice. ‘She came to see me as well.’ Laura sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ben, I should have told you about it, but with all that’s happened, I didn’t think. My mind’s been in such a state of confusion lately. Emma came to see me because she wanted permission to go and look at Ivy Cottage. I never found the right moment to broach the subject with your father although I doubt he would have agreed. I don’t even think he’d have wanted Emma to include your mother in the book. Her memory was so painful for him.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ replied Ben. ‘Did she say anything else that might give me a clue as to what could have happened to her?’

  ‘No. I can’t think of anything. She just asked me about visiting the cottage and I said I’d get back to her. That’s all.’

  ‘I wonder if she got sick of waiting and went there anyway? She’s never been blessed with a great deal of patience when she really wants something,’ said Ben.

  ‘She wouldn’t do that,’ said Joanna. ‘Would she?’

  ‘No. She wouldn’t have gone without permission. She knew how your Dad felt about the place.’ Laura patted Ben’s hand.

  ‘Mmm. You’re probably right, but... I think I’ll take a drive out there anyway. Just to settle my mind.’

  Ben turned off the main road onto a narrow lane, and with dust billowing up behind his car, he continued on at a slow pace looking for the entrance to Lane’s End. He caught sight of its tall, rusted, wrought iron gates, sagging on their remaining hinges, partially hidden amongst overgrown bushes. He brought the car to a standstill and peered beyond the stone wall bordering the property to a weed-ridden driveway that curved before it disappeared through a row of tall cedars. Gingerly, he drove in, the car tyres crunching on the last remaining pieces of gravel. When the majestic edifice of the house his parents had once called their “home by the sea”, came into view, his heart quickened. Built in an era of grand design, it dominated the landscape. The river stone walls once a feature of beauty, were now hidden behind ivy, the tentacles finding their way into every crevice and intertwining with the last remnants of a mandevilla vine that clung to life across the wide verandah.

  Transfixed by memories of childish laughter and long hot summer days, he climbed out of the car, his gaze taking in the vast grounds and what, as a small boy, had seemed a limitless paradise of adventure. These reflections left him, however, when he made his way onto the verandah to peer in through one of the bay windows. There, frozen in time, he could see the living room as it had been thirty years earlier, a reminder of life once lived inside its walls. Pulling back, and with a certain amount of inquisitiveness, he grappled with the screen door and levered it open, dust flying in his face as he did so. Fumbling with the bunch of keys that Laura had given to him earlier in the day, he tried several before the front door, now warped and grey beneath peeling paint, swung open. Hesitantly he stepped into the hot dry atmosphere and made his way along the hallway, each floorboard squeaking under his tread. It was then that a sense of apprehension, mixed with panic, took hold. A chill went through his body, despite the heat, while visions of the past danced before him.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ he heard himself shout.

  Struggling back outside, he slammed the door behind him. On the verandah and with his heart pounding, he stood for a few minutes until his panic dissipated. Taking a deep breath, he descended the steps, and with childhood recollections to guide him, made his way along the side of the house on a path that he sensed would lead deeper into Lane’s End, and eventually to Ivy Cottage.

  Gingerly he picked his way through the overgrown weeds and bushes until, at the rear of the house, a small stone building on the edge of the tree-line came into view. Ben started to recall the landscape and with it, long forgotten memories filtered through his mind.

  ‘The gardener’s cottage. I remember him now,’ he muttered. Ben stood staring at the small building as if waiting to learn more. Presently, he walked on into the trees along what had once been a well-worn path. Beads of sweat sprung from his brow in the hot humid atmosphere, the crunch of dead leaves the only sound as he trod until... ‘That’s it.’ Ben quickened his step and emerged out of the trees onto a clearing that sloped gently down to the edge of a cliff and the vast blue waters of the Pacific Ocean beyond. Shading his eyes from the sun, he scoured the tree line that bordered the clearing and tried to think in which direction Ivy Cottage lay. As he did so, he heard the tinkling of a bell. Strangely, it awoke something deep inside. He followed the sound, stumbling over the terrain as he went, until the peak of a roof came into view as if hovering above the trees. He hastened his step and pushed his way forward into the undergrowth until he found himself at the eroded edge of the cliff. High above, seagulls soared and in the face of a cool nor-easterly wind, he looked down to where the sheer wall of the cliff, wet with salt spray, gleamed in the afternoon sun above rocks in the churning sea. The image of his mother’s body splayed on the rocks flashed in front of him and he lurched back from the edge. Shaking, he turned to see the small clapboard structure that had once been her studio. With so many years of neglect, the cottage now lay hidden in the dense vegetation, virtually invisible to the naked eye. Above the doorway, its name, “Ivy Cottage”, hung precariously from one remaining nail. Beside it, a rusty metal mobile full of tiny bells, tinkled with the wind. The door of the cottage stood ajar. Surprised, he opened the door further and hesitantly peered inside. As he did so, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a sense of foreboding gripped him. Pushing the feeling away, he crossed the threshold.

  Untouched since the day Rachael Carmichael plunged to her death, the room remained as she had left it as if waiting for her return. Her easel stood in the centre of the room in the light of the front window, an unfinished painting perched there in anticipation of her next brush stroke. Beneath the easel, a photograph lay in the midst of shards of glass and a mangled silver frame. Ben knelt down, wiped away the glass and tentatively picked the photograph up. Faded with time the long forgotten image of his mother looked out at him. Beside her, in an awkward stance, stood a small boy, squinting in the sunlight. In her arms a baby. ‘Joanna,’ he said quietly to himself.
Ben studied his mother’s smiling face and a lump formed in his throat. The striking resemblance of the small boy to the woman in the photograph was not lost on him.

  Clutching the photograph and despite his sense of disquiet when he first entered the cottage, he continued on, each room producing a hint of déjà vu. Ultimately, with his curiosity satisfied, he retraced his steps and headed for the front door. As he did so, however, he heard a sound and looked back. The cottage resumed its silence. It was then his gaze fell upon a large tapestry hung against the far wall. Puzzled by its presence, he tried to picture the room as he remembered it. There was no tapestry, he thought to himself. He walked over and reached out to touch it. All at once, Ben ripped the tapestry aside to see a door, slightly ajar. It creaked as he opened it further. With its window covered in ivy the room lay in darkness. Hesitantly, he stepped inside and as he did, he fell forward. ‘What the hell!’ he barked. When he fumbled for his torch, its light revealed a body.

  CHAPTER 11

  Fitzjohn rose at first light, donned a pair of old beige shorts, a faded green shirt, and made his way downstairs. As he did so, a snore came from the guest bedroom, indicating that his sister, Meg, still slept. With relief, he smiled to himself and descended the stairs happy in the knowledge that he could follow his usual morning routine unhindered. In the kitchen, he grabbed the container of bird seed, slipped his feet into his gardening shoes, and opened the back door. Outside, he breathed in the fresh morning air and sighed, surveying the flower beds, their blooms a mass of colour. At the birdfeeder hung in the jacaranda tree, rainbow lorikeets squawked and fluttered in an effort to wrangle their positions in the line-up. Fitzjohn watched the foray with amusement. ‘Even you lot have a pecking order,’ he muttered to himself, pouring seed into the dish. The parrots dived for it and Fitzjohn continued on to the greenhouse, the orchids inside hidden behind the misted windows. Opening the door, he turned on the CD player, and the soft sound of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major filled the air. Time slipped by unnoticed whilst he made his way along the rows of plants, tending to each one in turn.