Thornwood House (21 page)

‘Pizza
again
?’

‘I thought you loved pizza?’

‘I do, Mum. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining – just reading the signs.’

I settled myself on the couch, grabbed a plate and loaded up with ham and pineapple. ‘What signs?’

‘That time is of the essence. That one of us is too busy with other things to be bothered cooking. That there are secret activities going on. That one of us is hiding something. And it’s not me.’

I paused, a slice raised halfway to my lips. I lowered it back to the plate and looked at her. She was nibbling a corner of cheese and tomato, blinking innocently at the television. Pretending interest in David Attenborough’s segment on termites which she’d watched a million or more times already.

‘Hiding what?’

She shrugged, eyes on the TV. ‘You tell me.’

My stomach knotted as a vision bloomed in my mind: Bronwyn discovering the old revolver I’d locked into Samuel’s dresser drawer. Handling it, rummaging in the box of live rounds . . . I felt suddenly ill. Why hadn’t I disposed of it, surrendered it to the cops as I’d initially planned?

‘What did you find?’ I asked carefully.

Bronwyn took another dainty bite, chewed and swallowed. ‘Come on, Mum, own up. A secret pastime, perhaps? A private little project? Something you’re not quite ready to share?’

Not the gun, then. A parade of other guilty suspects shuffled past. The clean sheets I’d put on Samuel’s bed, the carefully hand-washed quilt and my own favourite pillowcases. My books piled on his bedside; the frame displaying Samuel’s photo de-tarnished and fitted with new glass; Aylish’s letter tucked into the top drawer . . .

I shrugged. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’

Bronwyn contemplated her crust the way a torturer might eye their next victim. I could almost hear her brain ticking over: Will I draw it out slow and painful, or act fast with the advantage of surprise?

‘Mum,’ she said reasonably, still considering her crust, ‘I think I’ll become a vegetarian like Jade. It’s more humane, plus it’s way less taxing on the planet. Can I?’

So, it was to be slow and painful. Shoving my plate onto the coffee table, I drew my legs up under me and wriggled around to face her.

‘What do you mean, a secret pastime?’

She smiled then, a luminous smile that lit up her face. ‘That sounds like the voice of a guilty conscience.’

‘Actually it’s the voice of an annoyed mother who’s too tired to play games.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Come on, Bron, what’ve you found?’

Setting down her plate with unnecessary slowness, she reached under the coffee table and drew out a small pile – several instruction books and a companion DVD.

My heart sank when I recognised the book covers, but at the same time I felt drunk with relief.

‘Oh. That.’

‘It seems I’m not the only one learning about signs,’ Bronwyn said triumphantly, tossing the DVD onto the lounge between us, holding up the manuals to read.

‘
A Time to Sign – The Easy Way to Learn Sign Language
 . . . and this one,
Something to Sign About – Eleven Fun Children’s Songs
 . . .’ She peered over at me, eyes agleam. ‘Really, Mum, children’s songs?’

‘I thought it best to start with something simple,’ I told her stiffly. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what the big deal is, it’s only – ’

Bronwyn twittered happily. ‘Oh Mum, you
do
like Jade’s dad, don’t you?’

I glared at the TV. ‘I’m only being polite because he’s deaf. Besides, he’s coming to the barbecue on Saturday and I’d hate him to feel left out just because he’s hard of hearing. Someone’s going to have to talk to him.’

‘Someone? You mean aside from me, Jade, and Aunty Corey?’

‘It’s just the polite thing to do, Bron. Besides, if the four of you get caught up in a sign language conversation, how am I supposed to join in unless I know it too?’

‘You’re telling me you
don’t
like him, then? That you’re going to all the trouble of learning sign language just so you won’t feel left out?’

I picked up my plate, bit the corner off a pizza wedge and feigned absorption in the program. David was leaning on a huge termite hill, instructing the camera to enter. Suddenly there were busy white bodies everywhere, gathering and swarming like . . . well, termites.

‘Mum? Stop ignoring me. It only makes you look more guilty.’

I sighed. ‘He’s nice, okay? Just not my type.’

‘Why not?’

‘He just seems . . . I don’t know, a little wild.’

Bronwyn snorted. ‘Mum, you’re hilarious, I can’t wait to tell – ’

‘Don’t you dare!’

She shook her head. ‘Let me guess, Dad was the only man for you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You know, Mum, one day I’m going to grow up and leave home, and you’ll be alone. You’ll get lonely. That is, unless you can forget Dad and move on.’

I looked at her, found myself trying to analyse her words, probing for a hint of pain or a shadow of unresolved anger. Trying to determine if her casual-sounding comment concealed a cry for help. Her face was calm, her eyes deep blue and still as lake water.

‘Move on, maybe,’ I told her. ‘But we don’t have to forget.’

‘I’m not saying
I’ll
forget him. Just that you should.’ Tossing the sign books aside, she reached for the remote. Inching up the volume, she settled herself comfortably and resumed the slow demolition of her pizza.

She was right. I
was
hiding something.

Only it wasn’t a romantic plot that hinged on learning sign language. The truth was, how could I think about any man when my head was so full of Samuel and Aylish?

After the dishes were done, I hurried out to my studio at the far wing of the house. The long narrow room had once been part of the verandah, which, with the addition of a timber wall and line of tall windows, had been converted into a sunroom. Soon after our arrival I’d spent several days scrubbing bird poo from the floorboards, polishing the windows, and freshening the walls with creamy white paint. The furnishings I’d kept simple: my print drawers, an aluminium tripod lamp, my cherished Eames chair and an antique desk. Under the windows at the opposite end of the room sat my huge drafting table – a pair of sturdy trestles topped by a recycled oak door. I’d even dragged out my old developing trays and enlarger. They were dinosaurs in a digital world, but I loved having them around – they reminded me of those giddy, intoxicating first days of my love affair with photography.

Sitting at my laptop, I plugged in the satellite USB and connected to the internet. Typing my request into the search engine, I waited while the State Library of Queensland website loaded. I used Bronwyn’s public library card to set up a user account, then followed a link to the Historic Australian Newspapers site. There was only a handful of Queensland newspapers – the earliest of which was the
Moreton Bay Courier
from 1846. I clicked on the more recent
Courier-Mail
, dating between 1933 and 1954. The site took forever to load. When the page appeared, I saw it was useless: either the newspapers after 1939 were non-existent – which was unlikely – or they hadn’t yet been digitised and uploaded to the site.

Retracing my steps to Historic Australian Newspapers, I typed in a series of connected keywords – ‘Queensland’, combined with ‘1946’, ‘Magpie Creek’, ‘murder trial’. My hopes began to flag as I trawled through nineteen pages of links to possible articles – Atrocities by Japanese, War Prisoners Starved and Beaten, Death of a Swagman – but failed to find anything even remotely related to what I wanted.

On the brink of giving up, I made a last-ditch attempt and typed in: ‘Aylish Lutz’. Within seconds I was staring at a patchwork of blurred newsprint. At the centre, flanked by articles and advertising sketches, was a single block of highlighted text. At first I was mystified – it wasn’t even from a Queensland paper. Then I enlarged the image and took a closer look.

The Argus
(Melbourne, Vic.: 1848–1954)

Monday, 18 March 1946, page 1

MAN ARRESTED FOR MURDER

BRISBANE, Mon. – After 30 hours’ investigation by police under direction of Sub-inspector B. McNally, a man was arrested on Friday night charged with the murder of Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, whose body was discovered early Thursday morning in a bush clearing fifteen miles west of Magpie Creek, Queensland.

The police discovered signs of a violent struggle, as well as several human teeth and patches of blood where the victim had tried to drag herself away from the scene. A post-mortem examination held on Friday showed that Miss Lutz died of injuries sustained when she was bashed across the head and body.

A further examination today confirmed that Miss Lutz had been battered by a wooden implement thought to be a wheel spoke or club.

I flew out of my chair and raced along the hall. Aylish’s letter was already scored into my memory, but I had to be sure. Bursting into the back bedroom, I retrieved the letter from the bedside and unfolded it in the light.

Aylish had written the letter on Wednesday, 13 March 1946, asking Samuel to meet her at their secret place. The following morning – Thursday – her body had been found in a bush clearing near the gully.

Back at the desk, my fingers sped across the keyboard. I jabbed the Enter key and waited, convinced there’d be nothing. First time lucky, second time empty-handed, wasn’t that how it worked?

Apparently not.

The Sydney Morning Herald
(NSW: 1842–1954)

Wednesday, 20 March 1946, page 3

WAR HERO ARREST

BRISBANE, Wed. – Returned war hero Dr Samuel Riordan appeared in Magpie Creek police court, Queensland, accused with having murdered Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, a coloured woman, daughter of Lutheran minister Rev. Jacob Lutz on Wednesday.

Miss Lutz was found with her head battered half a mile from the doctor’s homestead.

Several witnesses came forward and declared that Dr Riordan and Miss Lutz were seen arguing in the main street of Magpie Creek the morning of Wednesday last. Another witness affirmed that he and Dr Riordan had parted company late on Wednesday evening. Both men had been drinking. Dr Riordan pleaded not guilty in the preliminary hearing and will be remanded in custody to reappear at Brisbane Supreme Court in June.

I sat back, the jagged black and white words flashing in my mind. Arguing in the street. Drinking. This was damning behaviour, even without Aylish’s letter asking Samuel to meet her the night she died. My hope of finding concrete proof of Samuel’s innocence was fast shrivelling. In its place was a growing sense of dread.

Backtracking, I clicked on another link.

The Sydney Morning Herald
(NSW: 1842–1954)

Friday, 14 June 1946, page 4

JUDGE RULES LACK OF EVIDENCE IN MURDER CASE

BRISBANE, Fri. – Accused war hero Dr Samuel Riordan, 30, of Magpie Creek, Queensland, walked free from the Brisbane Supreme Court yesterday after the judge ruled there was not enough evidence against him.

Dr Riordan had been on trial, accused of murdering Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, also of Magpie Creek, in March last. Justice E. Redmond discharged the jury today after ruling that there was not enough evidence against Dr Riordan for the case to continue.

None of the articles mentioned a child, which made me wonder. Had Aylish suspected that her meeting with Samuel might end badly, and so changed her mind about taking her daughter to meet him? All I had to go on was her letter, but aside from Aylish regretting that they’d argued, there’d been no undertone of hesitation or worry.

I made another keyword search – ‘murder’ with ‘Magpie Creek’. The computer turned up fourteen pages of prospective links. I eliminated each of them, until only one remained. It was short, and there was an air of finality about it which told me that the case had been abandoned.

The Mercury
(Hobart, Tas.: 1860–1954)

Tuesday, 17 September 1946, page 13

MURDERER OF WOMAN NOT TRACED

BRISBANE, Mon. – No trace of the murderer of Miss Aylish Lutz, 22, who was battered and left for dead at Magpie Creek, Queensland, in March last, has been found by police up to tonight.

For a long while I stared at the screen, deflated.

I’d gone looking for proof of Samuel’s innocence, but instead found only more reason to doubt him.

Corey had said that Samuel’s case was discharged because his father was a friend of the judge. Power and influence were valuable commodities. It would only take a whisper for vital evidence to be overlooked. Worse, I knew that way back in 1946 there would have been those who considered the death of a young half-caste Aboriginal woman to be of no great import. A few strategically placed lies, a casual tip-off to the press . . . and the whole inconvenient affair would have neatly vanished off-radar.

I pored over my printouts, trying to read between the lines.

I hated the idea that Aylish had been murdered by someone she loved. Not because I necessarily wanted Samuel to be innocent, not even because I wanted their story to have a happy ending. But because dying at the hands of your beloved was wrong. Seeing in his face the intent to hurt you, to destroy you. Not just love lost; not simply indifference or hatred, but a look that says, You are mine, and I can do to you whatever I want . . . and since you mean so little to me, your pain will bring me great pleasure –