3 A Basis for Murder (7 page)

At this point, I headed off to look on the shelves. I found a single "History" shelf after a large and well packed section of "Romance." The "History" books were all general, but I looked at them one by one as Granny was on a roll telling the man her life history, as well as all Melissa's personal business. I was about to walk out of the store and wait outside, when I saw a dusty volume for a high price. It was a 2004 paperback edition of
The Faerie-Faith in Celtic Countries,
written in 1911 by W.Y. Evans-Wentz, an anthropologist and Celtic mythologist and folklorist. One section jumped out at me. I did have his book online, but hadn't come across this section before.

A Druid Enchantment.-After this strange psychical narrative, there followed the most weird legend I have heard in Celtic lands about Druids and magic. One afternoon Patrick Waters pointed out to me the field, near the sea-coast opposite Innishmurray, in which the ancient standing stone containing the 'enchantment' used to stand; and, at another time, he said that a bronze wand covered with curious marks (or else interlaced designs) was found not far from the ruined stone tomb and a tunnel leading into a Neolithic tomb on the farm of Patrick Bruan, about two miles southward. This last statement, like the story itself, I have been unable to verify in any way.

'In times before Christ there were Druids here who enchanted one another with Druid rods made of brass, and metamorphosed one another into stone and lumps of oak. The question is, Where are the spirits of these Druids now? Their spirits are wafted through the air, and the man or beast they meet is smitten, while their own bodies are still under enchantment. I had such a Druid enchantment in my hand; it wasn't stone, nor marble, nor flint, and had human shape. It was found in the center of a big rock on Innis-na-Gore; and round this rock light used to appear at night. The man who owned the stone decided to blast it up, and he found at its center the enchantment--just like a man, with head and legs and arms. 1 Father Healy took the enchantment away, when he was here on a visit, and said that it was a Druid enchanted, and that to get out of the rock was one part of the releasement, and that there would be a second and complete releasement of the Druid.'

I stood, rooted to the spot in shock. My Aunt, the former Keeper, had left to me in her will a silver chain, and hanging off the chain were keys and a citrine seal. At least, I had thought they were all keys when I had first taken delivery of the time, but I had long since realized that one of the "keys" was in fact a small, bronze rod covered with interlaced designs.

Douglas had told me that
The Orpheans
were an ancient Druid society. I knew that I had only been able to see ghosts since my Aunt had died, but then the thought struck me: what if I had only been able to see ghosts since I had taken to wearing the chain? Since I’d returned from England, I had never taken the chain off, so I was always wearing the rod.

What if the rod was, in fact, an ancient Druid enchantment that enabled me to see ghosts?

"You are getting very sleepy" is not a command when said to a cat; it is an eternal truth.

(Ari Rapkin)

Chapter Ten
.

I had paid for new tires with my greatly reduced paycheck from the magazine, and my car had survived the drive to Armidale. The blinkers had stopped working, but I'd been lucky that no police had been behind me when I was turning. My cat Diva was along for the ride, and she didn't like the long drive at all.

She yowled so much that I had to let her out of her carrier crate, and then she sat on the seat next to me with a mean look on her face for the rest of the drive.

I hoped that this Brandon was a nice guy. I was a bit nervous about living in the same house as strangers, even if it wasn't for too long. It was just on dark when I pulled up outside a blue brick home quite close to the center of town, near the old convent. I somehow managed to drag my luggage and Diva's luggage (cat food, water bowl, food bowl, litter tray, litter) plus Diva, now back in her cat carrier, out of the car and then dragged it all up the seven or so steps to the front of the house. I rang the doorbell, once, then twice. Lights were on, so surely this Brandon guy was at home.

It was with some relief that I presently heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a man, slightly shorter than I am, with bulging biceps and broad shoulders. I immediately knew I'd like this man, if for no other reason than that he was holding two champagne glasses, and he offered one to me.

Brandon proved to be as camp as a row of tents. I think he'd already had more than one glass of bubbly too, as he seemed a bit, well, happy, overly so. He even made soothing noises when he greeted Diva, and she purred in response, so unlike her. He showed me to my room which overlooked the street. It was nice enough, but I suspected it might be a little dark in daylight. The desk was just under the window, so at least I'd have a view when I was at my laptop. The front yard had lovely old trees. I could sense the spirit of an old lady, but she seemed welcoming and was for now at least keeping to the background.

I was grateful that Brandon insisted I eat dinner. "Come on, you need to eat up. I made dinner and I'm ravenous. I was waiting for you to come so I could eat with you. You can unpack later."

I thanked him. "Now where can I put Diva's litter tray? I can't let her out of the house, or she might run away - if that's okay." I was quite anxious having Diva in a strange house.

"Sure. There's a little laundry room at the back of the house. It doesn't look like it's been used since the house was renovated. You can put her things in there."

I carried Diva's cat carrier into the room, along with the big bag which contained her litter box and litter. It was an expensive, hooded litter box with a swinging door and a charcoal filter which, so the label said, ensured that no cat odors escaped into the house. I filled the litter tray and then let Diva loose. She ran into the litter and then stuck her head out the swinging door, glaring at me. I set down a bowl of water and a bowl of her favorite Furball Formula dry food next to it.

I emerged from the room and found the dining room. The house was large, a veritable labyrinth of rooms. The huge, oak table caught my eye, and I was admiring it when Brandon came in from the kitchen burdened by two steaming plates. My stomach growled loudly in response. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until then.

"The place came furnished," Brandon said, nodding to the table. "You're a vegetarian, they told me? I've made some vegetarian lasagna. It's my grandmother's recipe."

The lasagna was delicious, but I'd only eaten half when Brandon launched into what I soon realized was his favorite topic. "I'm in love, and I don't think he has a girlfriend, but sadly, I'm sure he's not gay."

"Oh," I said between mouthfuls.

"Yes," he continued. "He's the most gorgeous, stunning creature I've ever seen. So clever too. He's tall, and has lovely muscles. He's always very nice to me."

I swallowed another mouthful. "That's good." I wondered why Brandon was telling me, a complete stranger, all about his love life. I could only assume it was because he could only speak to someone else within the agency. I knew how hard that was, having had to keep stuff from my best friend, Melissa. I made an effort. "What's his name?"

Brandon looked perplexed. "He works with us, so I shouldn't say. Let's call him Fred."

I laughed. "Fred it is. I'm surprised you don't have a boyfriend, Brandon."

"So am I," Brandon said with deep feeling. "I've always been unlucky in love. It's good that work keeps me so busy. Speaking of which, if you need help with anything, let me know. I have some spare time at the moment."

"Thanks, I might take you up on that." Bill and Ben had told me that I could tell my housemate the general details of my assignment, but not to discuss anything specific that I found about the evil entity with him. They had also said that Brandon would be told that I was there to find out whether there was anything behind the massacres and mining accidents, nothing specific.

With this in mind, I gobbled another mouthful of lasagna, and then asked, "Do you know anything about bunyips, yowies, or
goonges
?"

Brandon poured us both another glass of champagne, and then sat down. "Hmm, all from Aboriginal legend. Everyone knows about yowies, the Australian version of the yeti. Everyone's heard of bunyips, too. My grandfather used to scare me with stories of them, said that if anyone heard the bunyip's wail, they'd die. The mean old man used to tell me that at night, right before bedtime, and I was only about six years old. I never heard stories of what one looked like, though, only heard that they lived near rivers. What on earth are
goonges
?"

I was getting a little lightheaded due to drinking a whole glass of champagne before eating. "
Goonges
are spirits. I don't know much about them, only that they seem to live in one area. People need to be invited into certain areas by the
goonges
, and if they don't get permission, bad things will happen to them if they stay in that area."

"Dessert?"

I was taken aback at Brandon's segue; had he heard anything I'd said? "Yes, please."

Brandon left the room followed by an uncharacteristically admiring Diva, and returned soon after with two heaped dishes of rocky road ice cream with liberal lashings of caramel sauce on top. "Back to
goonges
," he managed to mutter with his mouth full. "Do you think the spirits have anything to do with the massacres?"

I shrugged. "I doubt it; I doubt
goonges
are homicidal maniacs. Anyway, I've googled a bit, and I can't find anything on the massacres at all. When I was at university here, it was common knowledge, but nothing seems to have been recorded, which is weird."

"Is there anyone you could ask? Local indigenous Elders?"

I yawned and stretched. "I wish! No, I asked an Elder, and she didn't know; she was one of the Stolen Generation so doesn't know much about her culture. She referred me to someone else but he didn't know either."

"What's
Stolen Generation
mean?"

I looked at Brandon. "Oh sorry, I thought you were an Aussie."

Brandon shook his head. "I was born here, but left when I was about eleven. I went back to England with my mother when my parents divorced. That's why I don't have a British accent. Anyway, what is it?"

I love nothing better than to recite facts. "The term
Stolen Generation
refers to the official policy of kidnapping indigenous Australian children from their parents by the Australian government between 1909 and the 1969, although it happened prior to and after those dates. Many of the victims were put into institutions, while some boys were sent to be farm laborers and some girls to be domestic servants. No official apology was forthcoming from the Australian Government until as late as 2008. Didn't you hear about it?"

Brandon shook his head and started clearing the table. He appeared to have lost interest again. I got up to help him. As we stacked the dishwasher, he launched into another story about Fred. "I'm sure he's my soul mate. I've never felt like this about anyone else, never. He's all I can think about." He stopped talking and peered into my face. "Do you mind me talking about him?"

I didn't know what to say, so said a half-hearted, "No."

Brandon's face lit up. "Great!" He took me by the elbow and led me to the sofa. "It's so good having someone to talk to."

I smiled weakly, and laid my head against the back of the sofa. I was having trouble staying awake. As I drifted off to sleep, Brandon was saying, "And then he said to me... and then I said to him..." for the umpteenth time.

I awoke in the middle of the night on the sofa. Brandon had thrown a blanket on me, and Diva was asleep on my feet. I struggled to my bedroom, and went back to sleep with some difficulty.

I was woken by Diva running up and down the bed, her usual behavior when I'd slept in. I staggered out the back and topped up her bowl of dry food with a little more. For some reason, she always expects to get fed even when she still has food in her bowl.

My first morning duty taken care of, now it was time for coffee. I stumbled out to check out the coffee situation. Sitting on the bench top was quite a fancy, stainless steel, espresso machine. I didn't have a hope of figuring out how to work it, especially pre-coffee - they should make caffeine patches for this type of situation - so I staggered in a caffeine-deprived state to my bedroom. From the top of my luggage I took out the Nespresso machine and a box of capsules, and made my way back to the kitchen.

Two Fortissio Lungos later, and I was ready to face the world. I tipped the rest of my suitcase out all over my bed, grabbed some clothes, and then headed for the shower, tripping over Diva on my way.

When I returned to my bedroom, Diva was spread out all over my clothes. They were now covered with cream hair. For a medium-haired cat, she sure can shed fur everywhere. I set up my laptop on the desk by the window, and managed to retrieve a notepad and pen from under an uncooperative Diva.

I made another coffee - I always have two to get me going, and then a third to enjoy - returned to my desk, and typed in the wireless key that Brandon had given me to connect to the net.

Then I drew a sudden mental blank. Where to start? I googled
Hillgrove massacres
again - nothing. As I'd heard that the massacres consisted of the murdering of Aboriginal people by whites throwing them over the cliffs in the early 1900s, I googled "Aboriginal massacres." That led me to ten journal articles all of which stated that many massacres of Aboriginal people were covered up and not recorded. Even the Wiki entry entitled,
List of massacres of Indigenous Australians
, opened with the statement, "Massacres on Australia's frontier were often not recorded and generally tended to fall under a veil of secrecy due to fear of possible legal consequences, especially following the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838." Well, that explained it.

Then I thought of Professor Bill Dolan, who was right here at the University of New England in Armidale. He had helped me only recently. The only problem with him was that he liked to spell out people's names to his thoroughly bored listeners.

I called the switch board and was put through to his room. He picked up immediately.

"Hi Professor Dolan, this is Misty Sales, that's s, a, l, e, s, not s, a, i, l, s." I suppressed a wicked giggle only with some difficulty. "We met recently when I asked you about voodoo spirits." I must say I took somewhat malicious delight in getting my own back.

Unfortunately, Professor Dolan, as delighted as he was to hear from me, protested that he had no knowledge of Hillgrove and merely referred me to the local council.

I called the local council and was put through to the Aboriginal Liaison Officer. I left a message there, as well as a message on his cell phone. I then called the council back and was transferred to the office of one of the city's historians. He too was out, so I left a message there. I then emailed an academic who had written widely on massacres and asked if he knew anything at all. I made a note to call the historian I'd met at Bakers Creek.

By then it was late morning, and I was starving. I would have to drive down at some point through the day and stock up on food for my stay. I felt quite stiff after a day's traveling, so decided to walk to the center of town and buy lunch at a café. It wasn't far to walk, and I thought I'd enjoy it. As it turned out, I couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime – Macavity's not there!
(T. S. Eliot, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats)

Chapter Eleven
.

I walked downtown and then through the mall. Cafés were everywhere. I had a vague feeling that I was being followed but shook it off. I finally settled on a café just up the street from the mall on the basis of a sign boasting that the café roasted its own coffee, and sat in a secluded corner. This was a good place to make notes; there was no view of the street from back here so I wouldn't be distracted.