2 A Reason for Murder (4 page)

"Do you really think it's staged?"

"Definitely." I couldn't add that I was sure it was staged as I had felt no spiritual presence on the tour. I looked up from whispering and saw Gavin was close by and staring straight at me. Had he heard what I said?

Gavin directed the group to walk down the Avenue of Trees. His voice, as usual, was a monotone. "This is perhaps the most interesting house on the tour, but as it's now an Aged Care home, we can't get too close to it as we'll frighten the residents. Closebourne House was built by Lieutenant Close; it was his third house in fact. It was made by convicts from stone they quarried down by the river. In 1848 Lieutenant Close sold his house to the first Bishop of Newcastle. An interesting fact about the times is that there was a toll imposed on people who traveled in and out of Morpeth. The charge was one penny per person plus one half-penny per wheel. Oh wait, did anyone see that figure over there?"

I looked down the end of the street and saw a figure dressed in black dash between trees and then run out of sight.

The New Zealand tourist spoke up. "Yes, I saw that figure, very dimly. It looked like a man in a cloak."

Five of the other tour members had also seen the figure. I glanced at Gavin. Even by moonlight he was looking pretty smug. There was still no sign of my suspect.

Gavin's voice was quite self-satisfied. "Now we'll head back to town to experience the haunted room at the pub, but first, we'll go back to Swan Street to the Morpeth Courthouse which is haunted by the ghost of a doctor."

The mist was settling in and psychic impressions radiating from the direction of the Courthouse were now hitting me. They were fleeting and I couldn't get a handle on them.

Gavin droned on. "This street is now called Swan Street but used to be called Front Street. The Courthouse is just up there. One of the ghosts who haunts here is a Maitland doctor. His empty boat came ashore one night and a search was conducted for sixteen days until his body was found under a jetty. His body was taken to the courthouse for autopsy. His ghost has been sighted in the Courthouse on several occasions."

On the walk back I questioned Gavin. I did my utmost to keep every trace of sarcasm out of my voice. "Do you usually get this much spirit activity on the one tour?"

Gavin loomed over me. "Yes, frequently, sometimes even more. Are you still a skeptic?"

I bristled at being called a skeptic, but tried to keep my tone even. "Actually, I'm not a skeptic, but I'm a journalist and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?"

The air grew decidedly cold then, as did Gavin's voice. "What sort of journalist? From the
Newcastle Herald
?
Maitland Mercury
? Or one of the tabloids? Are you one of those horrid exposé journalists?"

"No actually, I write for a paranormal magazine and I'm here to do a story on Morpeth ghosts."

That did the trick. Gavin was suddenly helpful. "Wonderful! Did you know I'm about to sign a book contract? I'm happy to help. Would you like me to email you photos for the article? I have a very good photo of me standing right next to St. James Church with a big orb rising out of the cemetery. You have my card, don't you? Call me anytime; I'm only too happy to help."

Clearly. This was free advertising of the very best kind. I did my best to sound eager, but failed. "Melissa and I have to leave now but I'll call you for more information on the ghosts."

Gavin grasped my hand with both of his. "Yes, please do. May I have your card? What was your name again?"

I could almost see dollar signs flashing in his eyes.

"There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."
(Albert Schweitzer)

Chapter Six
.

The mist had fully descended by the time we reached the park in front of the bridge over the Hunter River. There were only two other people, a man and a woman, on the tour. In the dim light they appeared to be in their fifties and were either badly botoxed or were truly frozen stiff. We introduced ourselves and then stood silently waiting for Scotty, the tour guide.

At 11 p.m. he suddenly appeared as if on cue, holding a hurricane lamp and dressed in historical clothing. I figured it was historical clothing, but I knew nothing about such things. It certainly wasn't the latest trend, especially the paisley patterned necktie. Who wears a brown, knee-length coat and a high-necked shirt these days? I wondered if he'd grown the long, bushy beard just to add to the effect.

I had expected a "Welcome to the Ghost Tour" or some such words of exhortation, but Scotty simply grunted, "Follow me," in a heavy Scottish accent. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The guy completely gave me the creeps. Something wasn't quite right.

I tucked my flashlight under my arm, grasped my pen, and launched into questioning. "Scotty, how long have you lived in this area?"

"Long time." The words came out as little more than harsh grunts.

Unperturbed, I pressed on. "Are there many sightings of ghosts in Morpeth? Have you yourself seen any?"

Scotty stopped and turned to look at me. He held the hurricane lamp up to my face. I felt unnerved, so steely was his gaze. A chill overcame me; the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a premonition of danger, but it passed as quickly as it had come.

"Are you a detective?"

I was unsure as to whether or not he was being sarcastic, so shook my head and fell back into stride with Melissa.

After a few minutes we turned into Green Street and stopped again outside the settlers' cottage. Any fears that the dour Scotty would prove to be a boring tour guide were at once put to rest. "This was one of the first cottages in Morpeth. It was owned by Eliza Campbell. Her husband owned one of the pubs, and every night, Eliza was frightened for the safety of her children. She had seventeen children, but some died. The drunks used to gather outside the cottage at night. There was just that thin wall there between them and the pub." Scotty gestured in a sweeping motion to the left. "Eliza was happy all day, but once the sun went down, she was terrified all night waiting for her husband to come home."

"I didn't know he could speak more than three words at once," Melissa whispered in my ear.

I elbowed her. "
Shuuush
!" Again I questioned Scotty. "Was it Eliza's son, Stephen, who drowned in the well behind Campbell's Store?"

Scotty grunted. "Who told you that? Are you a lawyer?"

I still didn't know if he was being sarcastic. "No, but I was told that, and I'd like to know. Also, I was told that Eliza has been seen in this cottage window looking in the direction of the well for her son."

Scotty grunted again, more loudly this time. "Eliza does not look out this window. She's not here." He turned his back and walked back down the lane in the direction of the bridge. I was starting to worry about my mortgage again, when I heard Scotty mutter, "The spirits here are more recent."

We walked back to the river in silence. Scotty pointed down the river, but there was nothing to see in the dark. Again, I felt a presence of an unknown being, but then the impression went away. Still gesturing down the river, Scotty spoke. "That's where the ship
St. Michael
capsized in the river in December 1841. So they say; I wasn't around then."

The botoxed couple and Melissa laughed. A sudden sensation of unease passed through me.

Scotty continued. "
St. Michael
was a sea-going ship, and in the 1820s it traded between NSW and the Pacific Islands, but then some traders from Sydney converted it into a store ship and moored it here. It was the only store ship for years. Pretty soon after that, Edward Close built a stone warehouse down over there and a hotel up that road over there. The business in the area grew so fast that it was no longer needed. It was put up for sale in February 1841, the month before poor old Baxter Morgan was unjustly hanged."

"Baxter Morgan!" I exclaimed.

Scotty loomed over me and fixed me with his beady-eyed stare.

"Baxter Morgan?" I repeated. "Did you say 1841?"

Again Scotty peered into my face. "Why do you want to know, lassie?"

I thought the question odd; surely my question was reasonable. I was wondering how to answer when Scotty spoke again.

"Poor, old Baxter Morgan was unjustly accused of being one of the Jewboy Gang. He was hanged in March 1841. He was framed for the murder."

I didn't dare ask another question, but thankfully Mr. Botox did. "I've never heard of the Jewboy Gang. Who were they?"

"Scum of the earth!" Scotty spat his words vehemently. "Bushrangers. Seven of them. An escaped convict by the name of Davis got a gang together of other escaped convicts and a couple of fools. They had double barreled guns and pistols and good, fast horses. They were from Sydney but were pressed out to up north of here. They were thieves but careful never to kill any man, but one day one of them, Ruggy the Irishman, shot a man and killed him. A small party hunted them down, and took them alive. One of them escaped but was later found. It is said that twenty shots were fired but no one was killed. One of the civilians swore he saw two men escape, and named one of them as Baxter Morgan. Even though poor old Baxter Morgan was a gentleman and well respected, he was taken to Sydney and hanged with the Gang. His property was taken from him. I'll show you."

I was trying to take it all in. Baxter Morgan was hanged two centuries ago. That was not murder. At any rate, why would anyone be concerned about such an old event these days? Surely the Society didn’t want me to solve an over one hundred and fifty year old murder? It made no sense to me. I was still lost in thought while Scotty led us up Tank Street and into High Street. We turned a couple of times and it was too dark to see the street signs. "There," he exclaimed.

The house in front of us was small. I couldn't make out any details as it was dark. No lights were on inside the house, but given the hour, that was no surprise. I did see some children's toys in the front yard.

"The Widow Palmer. Her husband was a wealthy man but his luck went bad and he lost his government contract. Soon afterwards he died in an accident, so they say. He's not around here now. If the treasure had been found, this wouldn't happen to other people, living in poverty, dying before God took them." Scotty paused and looked at me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making notes."

"What for?"

"I'm a journalist and I'm doing a story on Morpeth ghosts. I won't mention the Widow Palmer of course, but I would like to write about Baxter Morgan. Would I mind if I phoned you early this week and asked you more questions?"

"No, you cannot, lassie. You can ask me now." Scotty clutched at my hand and dug his fingers into my wrist. "You need to solve the murder of Baxter Morgan."

I pulled my hand free and jumped away. "I thought he was hanged by the police, not murdered."

Scotty loomed over me. My statement appeared to have angered him. "Murder it was, lassie. Whoever falsely accused Baxter Morgan as good as murdered him. It was murder, for sure."

I nodded. "Yes," I said in a small voice.

Scotty rubbed his chin. "And, if you find out who murdered poor old Baxter Morgan, you will find the treasure."

I mulled that over, which was difficult as I was freezing. The mist was damp. It didn't make sense to me, but then again, if I'd been sitting in front of a fire with a glass of red in my hand, it might have made perfect sense. "How will that help find the treasure? Wouldn't the false accuser have spent it?"

Scotty laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. Tingling passed through me and at the same time I fancied I saw his eyes glow red, then caught myself for being so fanciful. "The treasure is still there. The ghost of poor old Baxter Morgan will find the treasure when his accuser is named."

Okay, that was weird. I knew I shouldn't ask. "And how do you know this? Do you talk to Baxter Morgan's ghost?"

Scotty's tone was serious. "Aye. I speak to him all the time."

Everyone just stood there, dumbstruck. Nothing stirred in the chill night.

"If animals could speak the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow, but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much."

(Mark Twain)

Chapter Seven
.

Who was Baxter Morgan and why was it necessary to solve a murder from well over one hundred and fifty years ago? I had no idea, so I gave up for the moment and sat in my office researching the Morpeth ghosts. I'd already handed in my story to Skinny Troll, but was now looking up some facts. After all, Skinny was not too interested in facts.

I'd been to the Rare Books and Special Collections Library in the Fisher Library at the University of Sydney and had come across
A Geographical Gazetteer of the Australian Colonies
dated to 1848 and written by a W. H. Wells. It said there were five pubs in Morpeth at the time whereas Gavin King had said there were eighteen.

Hardly earth shattering research, but I can't help myself. I just have to uncover all the facts. When I was at university, the professors even gave me a Footnoting Award as a joke. I can't even resist the urge to say that the gazette's full name is
A geographical dictionary, or, Gazetteer of the Australian colonies: their physical and political geography, together with a brief notice of all the capitals, principal towns, and villages, also of rivers, bays, gulfs, mountains, population, and general statistics
, or that the author's full name was catalogued as Wells, William Henry, 1817?-1860. At least I didn't mention the call number. Oh okay, here it is:
elkin 207
in the Special Collections Database. Research is my addiction, on an equal basis with coffee.

I had called Gavin and pointed this out, but he didn't seem to care. I had told him that Scotty's tour disagreed with his on many points, and he had said that Scotty was a silly old man with a good imagination.

I was glued to the computer when Skinny opened my office door hard and hit my chair. My office is a converted storeroom, and the door is directly behind my back. The storeroom hasn't exactly been converted; there is just a computer with desk and chair up one corner, and the rest is still a storeroom.

"Not too bad, Misty, apart from all your usual typos."

I was taken aback; this was high praise indeed.

"You do have too much filler, so you'll have to fix that." Skinny snorted rudely. "Our readers won't care that Henry Wells said there was a large government wharf, a customs house and officer, a coal mine, five inns, a soap and candle factory, a butter factory, a metal factory, five large stores, a flour mill and one hundred and seventeen buildings in 1848. Facts, Misty, you always have too many facts - too many facts and too many typos."

Skinny slapped the article down on top of a box of printing paper and scratched out a section with a red pen that she'd just taken off the shelf.

"However, this bit about the treasure is good," she continued. "Write two more paragraphs on the treasure, and then resubmit. Don't get Gavin King offside by saying his information could be wrong. His photos were excellent, especially the one of him with the big orb."

After Skinny left, I rewrote the two paragraphs rather quickly. I was a bit cross about the fact that the orb photo would appear with my article, but kept reminding myself that this was a paranormal magazine and not a research paper.

I was just reading the fascinating story of Mortimer William Lewis Junior, the architect of the Morpeth Courthouse, (it was so sad that his daughter and his mother-in-law died from scarlet fever two days apart in November 1854,) when Skinny again opened the door hard onto the back of my chair. "Misty, this will do. I've edited it of course to make it more suitable, to take it to the next level. The readers will be interested in the treasure. Head back to Morpeth for the week. I've booked your accommodation at a cheap motel in nearby Maitland. This is not a holiday. We're going to run your article, with my heavy editing of course, as a teaser, and then in an upcoming issue we'll do a feature on the Morpeth ghosts. Leave now and drive there. There's no time to buy new clothes."

I was confused. "Why would I want to buy new clothes?"

Skinny hesitated. "Oh, sorry, Misty. I haven't seen you in any new clothes lately and I thought as you'd put on weight, you couldn't fit into your old ones."

With that, Skinny closed the door to my storeroom. I pinched my love handles between my fingers, testing them for size. Everyone has those, right? I felt quite upset. I had not uncovered a shred of information about Baxter Morgan, much less his murder, and I was also worried about Diva. I'd have to find a cat babysitter at short notice.