The Road Home by Margaret Way (9)

Chapter Eight

They didn’t have to go in search of Mrs. Saunders. She found them. They were in the Turkish Room, systematically searching through the piles and piles of books.

“Who knows if we won’t find a revealing letter inside?” Isabelle said hopefully. “It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. I leave lots of stuff inside books. I once put a couple of hundred dollars inside a textbook for safety’s sake. It took months before I remembered which one.” She turned her head. “Hello, who’s that?”

“I shudder to think.” When Bruno opened the door in response to the firm knock, he found the housekeeper—or the soon-to-be ex-housekeeper—standing outside.

She didn’t beat about the bush. “You’ll be wanting my DNA.” She wore a bitter smile on her striking face. Today, she had thrown open her wardrobe. She wasn’t wearing her house uniform. She was dressed in riding clothes that showed off her trim figure. Her raven, silver-winged hair was drawn back into a heavy knot. She wore makeup, lightly but perfectly applied. The real woman, not the shadow, would turn heads.

“Come in, Mrs. Saunders,” Bruno invited smoothly. “I’m going to be straight with you,” he said, as he closed the door. “We have serious doubts you’re related by blood to the family.”

“What would you know?” She shrugged, as though his opinion was of little value.

“It’s not what I know; it’s more intuition. You claim Konrad Hartmann was your father. He and your mother had a sexual relationship?”

“Ah, come off it!” She laughed crudely. “Is that so unusual?”

“Perhaps not. But my father was a good judge of character. He thought Konrad a fine man, a gentleman. He didn’t see him as a man who would seduce a young girl in his employ. A part-aboriginal girl, which would have made her so much more vulnerable.”

The woman’s brilliant dark eyes flashed. “Ah, spare me the fine-gentleman stuff. I know what my ma told me.”

“But you don’t actually know. You never saw anything with your own eyes; otherwise, I’m sure you would have told us all. Mr. Hartmann never acknowledged you. Never let down his guard for one moment, or tried to make things up to you in some way. Have you sent away to be educated.”

She froze. “He wanted me around. Just like he wanted my ma around.” It was clear Orani and not her alter ego, Mrs. Saunders, didn’t want to deal with those questions.

“The other members of the family had no sense of kinship,” Bruno continued.

“They hated me.”

“Mightn’t it have been the other way around?” Isabelle gave the woman a long, searching look.

“Mrs. Abigail used to ask me questions about all the terrible things that happened.”

“What terrible things?” Bruno asked briskly.

The woman drew in a sharp breath, held it, then released it on a sigh. “Never you mind. Mrs. Abigail believed me.”

“You sound incredibly proud of that fact,” Bruno commented.

“Mrs. Abigail Hartmann told you she believed you?” Isabelle asked, feeling a sense of pity.

“She acted kindly to me. Not like that bitch, the Missus. The two ladies did not compare. As for that Helena, my God, was she a wimp! All she could do was play the bloody piano. I ask you!”

“So you selected her as the one you would punish?” Isabelle said bleakly. “How cruel was that?”

Mrs. Saunders responded with a harsh laugh. “Cruel? Oh, that’s good! No one cared about me. I wasn’t as beautiful as them.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs. Saunders, though you’ve done your best to hide it,” Bruno said. “Your aboriginal blood has made you even more striking, though you could equally as well be Greek. Your features are finely cut.”

“Why wouldn’t they be? I have Hartmann blood.”

“There’s no genetic resemblance. You don’t look remotely like Erik Hartmann, for instance. Or Stefan Hartmann. Kurt obviously resembles his mother’s side of the family.”

“Look, are you ready for me or not?” the woman flared, a feverish look in her eyes. “This family owes me. Once we know I share their blood, they’ll pay.”

“Okay,” Bruno said, as though giving in. “This whole business can be easily resolved. If you want us to help you, you might tell us who helped Helena get away. If you don’t actually know, an educated guess will do.”

The woman gave Bruno an amused look. “Some man. Some man who worked here. Some man who visited. Even the piano teacher. He was a handsome young guy. He was kind to her. She could have contacted him. Who knows? The thing is, I don’t know who it was. I would have shaken their hand if I did. It could even have been Mrs. Abigail. Those sharp eyes of hers missed nothing. She was the only one who didn’t fall under that Myra’s spell. Her and me.”

Isabelle broke in. “I thought the two women were close friends? They went riding together.”

Mrs. Saunders appeared genuinely shocked. “How d’you become close friends with a woman who stole your husband? Go on, tell me that!” Her tone was so strong, so challenging, it rang round the room.

“All this is hearsay, Mrs. Saunders,” Bruno said. “Lots of suspicions, lots of conjecture, but no actual proof.”

She shrugged her straight shoulders. Her cream shirt, Isabelle had noticed, was silk, not everyday denim or cotton. What else did she have hidden away in her wardrobe? “Believe what you will,” the ex-housekeeper said in disgust. “Now, are you going to take this sample?” She reached in her riding pants’ pocket. “I cut a lock of my hair as well. I already know the answer. It’s you two who have to make sure.”

“Laboratory testing will do that, Mrs. Saunders,” Bruno said. He picked up a clean cotton tip. “If you wouldn’t mind opening your mouth. This will only take a moment.”

The woman complied without a word. Clearly, she thought she would soon be in a position to give the family hell.

“Either way, you intend leaving the station?” Bruno asked, sealing off a plastic bag similar to the one that contained the lock of hair. The woman’s position had become untenable. She would have to go. But where? When all was said and done, Eaglehawk Station and the Hartmann family had been her life.

“Of course,” Mrs. Saunders confirmed. “I’ve contacted Mrs. Abigail. She’s coming for me this very afternoon. She’s the best of them all. She’s promised me she will help me find a position in the city. Hers is a respected family. Establishment. She has influence.”

“That’s very kind of her, I must say,” Bruno commented. “We would be very pleased to meet her, however briefly.”

“I can’t promise you anything,” the woman said.

“I understand.” Bruno spoke gently. “It’s a very emotional time for you.”

Mrs. Saunders jerked up her raven head to look at him, searching his eyes. “It is,” she said, as though reading compassion there. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Abigail,” she offered. “If the occasion presents itself, she will. She’s a very kind woman.”

“And she will be wanting to speak to her son and grandson,” Isabelle added.

For the first time, Mrs. Saunders looked unsure of herself. “I’ll leave it all up to Mrs. Hartmann. She will decide.” She turned to go. “You will continue taking your meals in the breakfast room. Nele will look after you. I’ve trained her well.”

* * *

They had the Turkish Room to themselves once more. “Abigail Hartmann is coming to whisk Mrs. Saunders away. How about that?” Isabelle exclaimed in a tone of wonder.

“Dad spoke to Abigail.” There was a vertical frown between Bruno’s black brows. He was starting to think he didn’t believe in anything anymore.

“Spoke to, yes,” Isabelle said, noting his unsettled, upset expression. “She really needed to have been interrogated.”

“Police do that, Bella. Not private investigators. They can only ask questions. Elicit comments. Dig deeper.”

“We have to speak to her,” Isabelle said.

“I don’t think she’s going to fall into that trap. What’s the betting?”

“No bets. Maybe her curiosity will be aroused? Maybe she’ll want to see me? It would be good to get her reaction. What I don’t understand is why, if she’s such a lovely woman, a woman of honour, she’s not closer to her son and her grandson. If she’s coming, surely she will want to see them? No nice grannie would simply fly in and fly out. Or maybe she’s having someone drive her overland?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Bruno said. “They all use helicopters for mustering these days. She’ll come by chopper.”

“We ought to speak to Kurt,” Isabelle said.

“If he’s around. He seemed very anxious to support his father all of a sudden.”

“Especially when his father can, if he so chooses, use the whip hand,” Isabelle said, picking up another leather-bound book.

“Surely Abigail would get through a message? She is very much family.”

“So why is she giving them such a wide berth?” Isabelle put the book down to ask.

“We don’t know that exactly. Both Stefan and Kurt may well intend to come back to the house to greet her. If that’s the case, we have to make sure we join them.”

“I can’t wait.” Isabelle picked up the book again. “Sir Walter Scott,” she identified the author.

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . . when first we practise to deceive,’” Bruno came up with the familiar quote.

“Wasn’t he right about that!” Isabelle met his darker-than-dark eyes. Always the little butterflies in the stomach. The feeling of instability she desperately wanted made stable. “Sir Walter was enormously popular,” she said. “The first blockbuster author. A close friend of Byron, who admired his work. Christian must have loved his books too. There are a lot of them here. This is Ivanhoe, the knight returning from the Crusades only to find he’s been disinherited and thwarted in his love affair with the Lady Rowena.”

“Classic ingredients for a romantic tale.” Bruno gave one of his elegant shrugs.

“I ought to read it.” Isabelle opened up the dusty book, giving a start as something fell out. “What’s that?” she cried.

Bruno made a grab for it before it landed on the Kurdish rug.

“Pray it’s a love letter.” She was trying to stay calm.

Bruno scanned the single yellowing page. “Here’s the tricky part. It’s in German.”

“Give it here,” she said quickly, holding out her hand. “I may be able to read some of it.” Suddenly, her heart was pounding.

“It could be anything, Bella,” he said, warning her against false hopes. “No envelope. Something Christian jotted down. It’s a man’s writing. Pen and ink.”

“It’s a poem,” she said.

“Can you read it?”

“Not only read it, I know it. It’s one of Rainer Maria Rilke’s short poems.”

Bruno grimaced. “I give up. Who might Rainer Maria Rilke be? I never found him in my law books.”

“Arguably one of Germany’s greatest poets,” Isabelle replied, nibbling her lip. “Have a look to see whether there’s a book of his poems shoved in with the rest.”

“I will when you tell me what the poem says.”

Isabelle lifted her eyes from the sheet of paper. “It seems to me this is lightly perfumed. What do you think? Men are supposed to have the better sense of smell.” She waved the page under his nose.

“It is,” he confirmed. “Musky but discernible.”

“Myra’s perfume? Abigail’s?”

“It was a long time ago, Bella,” he said.

“We’re never free of the past,” she countered. “It’s only one verse. I studied this poem among others at college in London. It was in connection with the life of a brilliant Australian violinist, Alma Moodie, born in Brisbane. She was regarded as one of the finest female violinists of her time. She made Germany her home, obviously to further her career. She died in Frankfurt where she was a teacher at the Conservatorium in 1943 during a bombing raid. Her friends thought she committed suicide. It’s on record Rilke had greatly admired her playing.”

“Is it going to help us?” Bruno asked. He wasn’t feeling a lot of hope. A scrap of unsigned paper? A love poem? Not original. A famous German poet.

“That’s deep,” Bruno said, feeling the weight of emotion that was inside him. Bella’s speaking voice had a quality that pierced his heart. It excited and consoled him at one and the same time.

“It’s called ‘The Wait,’” she said, meeting his eyes.

He drew a breath. “I get that. Their love affair—if we’re right about that—never did move forward.”

“Both of them were killed.”

“Or got themselves killed. Crime and punishment.” Bruno rose slowly to his full height, beginning once more to riffle through the crowded, dusty bookcases.

It was Isabelle who located the volumes of German poetry. “Goethe, Schiller, Heine,” she said, pulling out the volumes and placing them precariously on top of a high stack. “Schiller wrote the ‘Ode to Joy’; Beethoven set to music in his Ninth. Goethe you must have heard of. I won the Goethe Prize for German my last year at school. Heine wrote the lyrics for a lot of German lieder. Schubert, Schumann songs.”

“The stuff you know!”

“Lots of it. I’m a great reader. And there you are, only making a fortune!”

“Well, at least that’s something positive.”

“The family brought their German heritage with them, just as the British and the great influx from Europe in the twentieth century brought theirs,” Isabelle remarked, a student of history. “They came from everywhere all over the British Isles and Europe to live in peace.”

“No wonder. They must have had a brutally cruel time in Europe from the Great War right through World War II and long after that. My Italian grandparents and my mother were assisted migrants.”

Isabelle looked up. “You’ve never spoken of your grandparents.”

“Much like you. I didn’t know them.”

“Don’t you want to find them? They could still be alive.”

“I suggested it once to my mother. That caused major trauma. Apparently, one of the reasons she married my father was to get away from her strict parents. Or so she said. Could even have been true. My mother didn’t have a lot of heart.”

“You do,” Isabelle pronounced with considerable approval, peering closely at something she had just found. “Read this.” A shiver passed through her as she passed Bruno a slim volume.

“No one wrote that to someone they didn’t love,” he said.

“Christian?” she asked the question.

Another rap came on the door, so heavy Isabelle jumped. “Who is it this time? I wonder.”

“If that door weren’t solid mahogany, they’d have put a fist through it,” Bruno said. He opened the door to find Kurt waiting outside. “Hi, Kurt! Can I help you?”

“My grandmother is here,” Kurt announced, as if on an important mission. “She’d like to meet you.”

“We’d be delighted to meet her,” Bruno responded, his natural charm to the fore.

“She’s having coffee with my father and me,” Kurt continued in the same ambassadorial tone of voice. “If you’d like to join us in, say, a half hour?”

“It will be our pleasure,” Bruno returned suavely.

“Gut.” Kurt turned away.

“Why the hell does he pronounce good as gut?” Bruno asked, irritated by the younger man’s manner.

“I don’t think it’s an affectation. I expect Kurt speaks German. One doesn’t like to lose a language.”

“No, of course not.” He had to agree. “I didn’t lose my Italian. I never anticipated the grand invitation, did you?”

“That Abigail might ask to meet us?” Isabelle asked.

“Most likely to take a good look at you.”

“I expect so. But we don’t need her to prove if I have Hartmann blood. DNA will do that for us.”

“Certainly, but the woman has all the information my father needed and didn’t get. It’s pretty clear now Myra and Christian were lovers.”

“In which case, we can assume Abigail would have been the first to know.”

Bruno sat poised on the edge of the massive desk. “If my dad knew what Abigail kept hidden, he might have been able to solve the mystery of Helena’s disappearance. Only much of the truth was kept from him for a very good reason.”

“Too much to cover up. Myra could have ridden right into a trap, you know. Christian as the man who betrayed her obviously had to go.”

“Abigail won’t want to talk about it,” Bruno said. “Hence, we’ll never know.”

“I’m not so sure,” Isabelle said. “The truth has already started to emerge. On the afternoon Myra met her fate, Abigail was confined to bed with a bad migraine.”

“With Mrs. Saunders in and out of the room, checking on her.”

Isabelle picked up. “Mrs. Saunders who looked at Abigail as a friend and supporter. Terrible to contemplate a family member could commit murder.”

“We’ve all been shocked at how the most unexpected people do that. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. How did Helena manage to become invisible? There has to be a record of her baby’s birth somewhere.”

“That’s if she had a baby,” Isabelle said. “Our resemblance could be nothing more than freakish.”

“At least we’ll have an answer to that. We can’t explain Dr. Hilary Martin’s reaction though, can we? If your history is straightforward and she is your birth mother, why did she react as she did? Why did Norville react as he did? The two of them, at least, left a trail. Both young doctors at the time. Their background has to be looked into. The hospital records at the time have to be double-checked. My dad had no idea whatsoever about you, let alone the Martins. He was investigating the case of a young woman who simply vanished. It wasn’t thought all that baffling. It was known she was deeply unhappy at home. Young people do go missing. They move away. They change their names. They live a new life.”

“It’s a puzzlement and it’s giving me a headache,” Isabelle said.

“That’s the dust. The place needs a good cleaning out.” Bruno hesitated for a moment. “I do think there was a reason for Dad’s accident. Maybe years later, he came across some lead? Some lead that had been concealed. Why did so many of his papers disappear; files in his office? There was no break-in. The police checked on that. Many of them knew him, attended his funeral. He’d been one of them. He was well liked and respected. I know a lot of questions were asked on and off the record. The missing brief case, for a start.”

“I’ve come to think of all this—your father’s valiant efforts—as Finding Helena,” Isabelle said. “I feel her loss strongly. She could have been my mother.” Of a sudden, her voice broke.

What affected her affected him. Bruno reached for her. Pulled her in tight, his chin resting on the top of her red-gold head. He felt her whole body relax against him. His strong arms held her up. “We’ll find her, Bella,” he said.

* * *

They had reached the landing before Bruno said quietly, “I’ll go in first. You follow after a minute.”

“You want to get the best view of the reaction?”

“Indeed I do. Who knows, she might find it an occult experience. I’m most interested in meeting Abigail.”

“I’ve got my hand up as well. We’re hoping to nail her?”

“On something,” Bruno said. “She knows more about the disappearance of Helena than she has ever said.”

“That’s why you told me to leave my hair out?” She already knew the answer.

“Of course, Bella. I want to leave her gasping. Why would she have worked at a friendship with Orani? She was family. Her loyalty was to family.”

“Not if her husband was having an affair with another family member. There’s little doubt she used Mrs. Saunders. I think Orani suits her best.”

“It’s her name. I’m going in,” said Bruno, looking the picture of energy and purpose.

“Go right ahead.” Isabelle waved him off. She remained on the landing, feeling the oddest mixture of excitement and fear.

She heard uplifted voices. Stefan’s query as to where she was. Bruno’s ready answer. “She’ll be here in a moment, sir.”

That was her cue. She wanted to take the stairs at a nervous rush; instead, she walked down slowly, controlling herself as if this weren’t a momentous meeting. If it turned out Myra was her grandmother, wouldn’t Abigail automatically hate a young woman made in Myra’s image?

“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” she said, looking smilingly from one to the other as though this was another everyday friendly introduction.

“Not at all!” Stefan Hartmann answered immediately. “Mother, this is the young lady I’ve told you about.”

“Ah, yes, Isabelle.” Abigail Hartmann, to their surprise, was a little woman, but of apparent robust constitution. She was no more than five two or three, but with considerable presence. She was smartly dressed in a two-piece outfit, upmarket denim jacket and skirt with a white silk blouse beneath. Ankle boots on her narrow feet. She had beautifully cut and styled white hair and far-seeing hazel eyes. She returned Isabelle’s smile with a gracious one of her own, even if a strange spasm momentarily distorted her expression. “You believe you are a relation, my dear?” she asked in a most kindly way. “Do please sit down,” she invited. “Beside me.” She indicated a chair.

Isabelle obeyed. Something told her that in the days before DNA testing, there was no way Mrs. Abigail Hartmann would have owned her, for all the graciousness she was displaying. The facial spasm was tiny, but it had an effect. Abigail Hartmann could well create the illusion of any emotion she so chose.

Abigail glanced over at her son. “Why don’t you leave Isabelle and me to have a nice chat, Stefan dear?”

“Whatever you say, Mother.” Stefan held out a shepherding arm to his son, whose expression said plainly he didn’t want to go.

“I’d like it if I may stay, Mrs. Hartmann.” Bruno looked directly at the very-much-in-command-of-herself lady. “I promise I’ll keep quiet.” Quick to assure her, he had no definite intention of doing so. He too had noted the facial twitch. Whatever emotion she had felt the moment Abigail laid eyes on Isabelle, it was very real.

Now she smiled at him benignly. “Isabelle might find it difficult to speak to me with a third-party present,” she suggested. “Just the two of us will bring more ease.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Hartmann,” Isabelle spoke up. She had the strong feeling Mrs. Hartmann was her enemy when she really didn’t know anything much about the woman. All she had to go on was intuition. “Bruno and I are here together. He knows my story. Not the full story of course, which we intend to find out, but the very possible Hartmann connection.”

“Easily provable of course.” A strained patience crept into the confident voice. “I’ve heard about the DNA samples, but I simply can’t take it in, my dear. You must forgive me. You could well bring to light things none of us as a family want to know.”

Was that revulsion in her heart? Bruno thought. He kept out of it, allowing Isabelle to take the lead.

“But you do see the strong resemblance?” Isabelle inquired quietly.

“I see red hair and green eyes.” Abigail’s reply was calm. “A not unusual combination.”

“I think it’s more than that, Mrs. Hartmann. For a fleeting moment when you first saw me, you were deeply disturbed.”

A tight smile touched Abigail’s mouth. “You know that, do you?”

“It was an involuntary twitch.”

“You certainly read a lot into that. The fact is, you’re making no sense, my dear. I had been warned. I was fully expecting a young woman who looked uncannily like Helena.” Abigail directed a cool, sharp-as-a-knife glance at Bruno, seated apart. “You’re McKendrick’s son?”

“I am.”

“You don’t look the least like him.”

“I take after my mother’s side of the family,” Bruno said.

“Ah yes!” Abigail spoke as though she was well aware of the McKendricks’ entire history. “I believe he was killed in a tragic hit and run?” she said in a sympathetic tone. “It must have been a bitter blow when the police could find nothing.”

“It was. My father did mention in his files that you were very pleasant and helpful when he was making his enquiries here on the station.”

“A nice man. A gentleman. I told him what I could, which wasn’t a great deal. Helena was a very secretive girl. She was always like that, from childhood. Some girls are.”

Bruno thought swiftly. “When did you hear of my father’s death?” he asked.

Abigail answered automatically, as he hoped she would. “From Erik, of course. How would I have known otherwise?”

“From Mr. Erik Hartmann?” Bruno repeated with an enquiring inflexion.

“I did say that, Mr. McKendrick.” She gave him a buttoned-up frown.

“I have to say, I find that odd. Mr. Hartmann was quite shocked when I told him only a day ago.”

Abigail’s response was patient this time around, even wearily so. “I can’t think for the life of me why. Poor Erik hasn’t been himself for years now. Myra, then my husband and another great blow with his daughter running off.”

“What kind of a young woman was Helena?” Isabelle asked. Apart from being secretive, she thought.

“She was beautiful certainly and talented. At one time, we had high hopes for her,” she said unsmilingly.

“This was when?”

“When would you imagine?” Abigail countered, sounding displeased for all her poise. “Before her mother was killed. Afterwards, well. She seemed to shrink inside. It was clear to all of us she wasn’t going to make a woman of substance.”

“Weren’t you judging her a little harshly?” Isabelle asked. “She was scarcely out of her teens.”

“We know for a fact Mrs. Saunders, the woman you had taken under your wing, was tormenting Helena using the didgeridoo to make moaning sounds during the night,” Bruno said, his tone openly accusatory. “Mrs. Saunders has admitted it. She seemed quite proud of it. I’m sure your son has told you she claims to have Hartmann blood.”

Abigail gave an unladylike snort full of subterranean anger. “What I judge most likely is that her insane mother filled her head with foolish tales.”

“Yet you encouraged her to believe those foolish tales?” Isabelle charged.

“I did nothing of the kind. I would remind you, my dear, you’re a guest in this house. Mrs. Saunders never heard any such nonsense from me. It was a fantasy she and her truly unstable mother wanted to believe.”

“She has given us a DNA sample,” Bruno said.

Anger must have flooded Abigail’s being because her small face flushed. Her voice, however, gave no sign of it. “She’ll be devastated I know, when the results come back in the negative. Poor Orani is Tom Saunders’s daughter. You only had to see them standing side by side. As for her claiming she’s Konrad’s daughter, the idea is preposterous. Konrad Hartmann and a servant? You can put that idea out of your heads at once. You might as well say I had an affair with one of the stockmen. Konrad had two wives. He did not have a mistress.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t make this perfectly plain to Mrs. Saunders. You would have saved her a lot of grief,” Bruno said.

“Please don’t blame me,” Abigail said with a fussy little shake of her body. “No one was going to convince Orani her mother hadn’t fallen pregnant to Konrad. Total make-believe. Psychotic, I suppose you could call it.”

“Can you tell us anything more about Myra Hartmann’s fatal accident?” Isabelle swiftly changed the subject.

“My dear, the police as well as Mr. McKendrick’s father investigated that. It was thought something spooked Myra’s horse, causing it to rear and throw her. She was a splendid horsewoman. There could have been no other explanation.”

“You didn’t join her that day?”

Abigail flashed him a sad smile. “Alas, a bad migraine. I lose the sight in my right eye for an hour or two. No pain, but very limited sight. It’s a great source of grief to me that I wasn’t with her on that fatal day. I might have been able to prevent whatever happened. We shall never know.”

“Of course you and Myra Hartmann were very close. I imagine you would have been,” Bruno said in a deep, soothing tone.

“We were the greatest of friends.” Abigail examined her rather chunky hands folded in her lap.

“Forgive me, but there was a suggestion—” Bruno began, allowing a hesitation to gain her reaction.

He did that. “What are you talking about?” Mollified by his previous sympathetic tone, she rounded on him swiftly, imperiously.

“Well, we know Mrs. Saunders—Orani—played nasty games with Helena. Wasn’t it possible Orani could have had something to do with Mrs. Hartmann’s accident? She told us she hated her.”

“As well she might!” For once, Abigail couldn’t control an abrupt outcry.

“You’re saying Myra Hartmann was as cruel to Orani as you are kind?”

“Myra was my dear friend.” Incredibly, Abigail’s sharp hazel eyes misted. “We were sisters-in-law after all. But I can’t deny she had a malicious side. I never saw it, but others did. I saw Myra as she was with me. As for what Orani was doing that day . . .” She winced.

“Wasn’t she supposed to be looking in on you?” Isabelle asked.

“She was, but how could I say for sure? The room had been darkened. I fell asleep. All I know is that she was in a terrible state when Myra was brought in. We all went to pieces, I’m afraid. Myra was so vivid, so vital, it didn’t seem possible she was dead. I wish you hadn’t brought all this up. It’s very upsetting. This young woman might well have Hartmann blood. We’ll soon find out. The connection could only be Helena who abandoned her loving, generous family and ran away.”

“My father knew nothing of the existence of a Piers Osbourne, the piano tutor.” Bruno changed tack.

Abigail gave another derisive snort. “Why would he? Piers was long out of the picture. He had returned home.”

“Surely Helena would have kept up the connection? Possibly a strong friendship. They weren’t that far apart in years,” Isabelle said.

“Piers fell head over heels in love with Myra,” Abigail said, condemnation all over her. “He was a very susceptible young man, and let’s face it, Myra enjoyed having men fall in love with her. She was a great beauty, you know.”

“We intend to find Piers Osbourne,” Bruno said, meeting Abigail Hartmann’s eyes.

“Any special reason for needing to do that?” Abigail challenged, looking even more condemnatory.

“Helena had to look to someone. She needed to get away. She had her reasons; we don’t yet know what they were. She could well have asked Piers Osbourne’s support. We know she did get away to England. Obviously under a false name. It wouldn’t be the first time a flight passenger gave a false name.”

“Well, I wish you every success,” Abigail barked, clearly wiping her hands of the whole business. “All I know is Helena betrayed her family. She put a curse on us. It has never gone away. After Myra was killed, I was especially kind to her. I helped her with her studies, but I’m afraid she didn’t look on me as her friend. Helena wasn’t easy to deal with. She spread a lot of trouble.”

“How?” Isabelle was quick to ask.

A flush of anger spread over Abigail’s good skin. “Helena was a liar and a troublemaker. There, I’ve said it. She couldn’t be allowed to continue. It was like having a serpent in the house.”

Bruno’s raven head jerked up. “That’s very extreme, isn’t it?” he asked, taken aback by the image of the serpent and the vehemence with which the remark had been delivered.

“You did ask,” Abigail said sardonically, a flicker in her eyes. “I loathe being put in this position, young man. So far as I’m concerned, Helena no longer exists.”

“But I do,” Isabelle said quietly.

Abigail gave an odd laugh. Obviously, she found Isabelle’s statement very funny. “Are you hoping for some kind of payout, my dear?”

There was an edge to Bruno’s voice. “We’re sorry you think that, Mrs. Hartmann. If there’s any possibility Helena is Isabelle’s mother, that’s all we want to know. That and what happened to my father and a good many of his files on the Hartmann family.”

“Then I wish you every success.” Abigail spread her strong, chunky hands. “Could you please find my son? I’ve done my duty. I’ve met you. I’ve sighted you, young lady. The resemblance is more to Myra than Helena on a number of counts. I grant you, it’s uncanny, but I can’t possibly help you.”

“I think you have a few dark secrets, Mrs. Hartmann,” Bruno said quietly.

Abigail’s expression was set and closed. “Do you know anyone who doesn’t?”

“You’re taking Orani with you. Finding her a job?” Isabelle asked.

“Orani trusts me.”

God knows why, Bruno thought. Orani by this time was so sure she was a Hartmann, the truth that she was not could send her over the edge.

“Yet you’ve used her,” Isabelle said. “She thinks of you as a friend. As a supporter of her story.”

Another derisive snort. “More fool she.”

“And when she finds out?”

“Finds out what?”

“That you’ve been allowing her to believe a lie? That she is not the late Konrad Hartmann’s daughter?”

Abigail spread her hands. “What else could I do? Get her locked up for life? Her mother should have been. I’m doing my bit for the family, my dear. I’m taking Orani Saunders off poor, gutless Erik’s hands. Orani got her claws into him long ago. All part of her plan. He’s been screwing her for years, if I might use that crude term. I’m letting him off the hook. I’m taking Orani away. I’ll give her enough money to keep her going until she finds a job. I’ll even provide her with a reference. At least she’s a competent housekeeper, if mentally unstable.”

“Is that your way of easing your conscience a little?” Isabelle asked. “I have to say, despite all she’s done, she did get a lot of malicious encouragement from you. I feel pity for the woman. Her mother wasn’t the only one playing with her mind, and from such an early age.”

“It isn’t easy counteracting fantasies placed in a young mind. No doubt I should have tried, but in my case, it was protecting my own interests and the interests of my family. They will back whatever I have to say if I ask them. Now, I must go. Young man”—she turned to Bruno—“you can come with me. We have to round up Stefan and Mrs. Saunders. Maybe she’s having a last little chat with Erik. Who knows? I have always placed the blame where it belongs.”

“Which is where?” Isabelle asked.

“I will not answer that question,” Abigail said. “Come along, young man. I haven’t got the entire day to waste. I want to get on home.”

“You were piloted here in your station helicopter?” Bruno asked, fully expecting for that to be the case.

“Good God, why would I need a pilot?” Abigail simply asked. “I’m a woman of the Outback, Mr. McKendrick. If I have a need to do something, then I learn. I’ve had a licence for many years. Plenty of experience. I love flying. It’s a way of life out here.” She turned back to Isabelle. “I suppose Helena just could be your mother, my dear. I think you’ll find she’s dead. Traitors usually come to a sticky end.”

“So do people who have committed crimes in the past,” said Isabelle.

* * *

After Abigail and Bruno had gone off in search of Stefan, who would most probably be driving his mother to the airstrip, Isabelle stood still in the middle of the huge empty room. She was full of banked-up emotions. Abigail Hartmann was a complex character whose conscience appeared to fall into a moral grey zone. She hoped she would never see her again.

She was about to put two chairs back in order when a light flashed at the corner of her eye. She spun around in time to see Orani move from behind a chinoiserie leather screen at the far end of the room. The flash was sunlight on her crystal earrings. Tears were streaming down her face.

“She betrayed me,” Orani cried, locking eyes with Isabelle.

“How long have you been there?” Isabelle gasped, her brain working overtime.

“From when Mr. Stefan left. I came in through the French doors. None of you noticed, so I slipped behind the screen. I wanted to hear what Mrs. Abigail would say.”

“I’m so sorry,” Isabelle said. She was. She was human. She recognised how this woman would feel.

“She lied to me,” Orani continued, her devastation plain to see. “All these years and she deliberately let me believe Mr. Konrad was my father.”

“In all likelihood, fantasy. Something your mother dreamed up and fed you from childhood. Believe me, I know what that’s like. The two people who reared me lied to me all my life. They aren’t my biological parents. A new reality is very hard to come to terms with. For your peace of mind, your DNA will be tested. You can contact Bruno through his wealth management group, Fortuna, in Sydney.”

“She lied to me,” Orani repeated, barely acknowledging what Isabelle was saying. “She got me to lie for her. I did it willingly. She knew what was happening between those two.”

“Myra and Christian?”

“Who else?”

“Can you be sure now Mrs. Abigail didn’t want them dead?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Orani said, “but she weren’t in the house that afternoon. She weren’t in her bed. There was no migraine. I didn’t look in on her.” She spoke with great bitterness. “I don’t know where she was. Maybe she went out thinking to speak to Mrs. Myra. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe they had a furious argument. Who knows? Mrs. Abigail was badly wounded, badly wronged. I was questioned. I said what I was supposed to say.”

“Which was that Abigail had been laid up with a bad migraine?”

Orani shrugged. “Everyone knew she got them from time to time, but she was as strong as an ox. Still is. Don’t let the littleness fool you. She was one of the shooting party the day Mr. Christian was killed. Could have been her that put the bullet through his back. Nobody said anything about the fact she is a crack shot.”

Isabelle’s heart skipped a beat. “You have suspicions about that day as well?”

“Not then. But now!” Orani spoke with so much venom, Isabelle felt pinpricks on her skin. “There was enough evidence—just barely, mind you—to indicate an accident. No one would ever think to point a finger at Mrs. Abigail. She was recognised by everyone as a member of the landed gentry. Why would she want to kill her husband? She adored him. She did too until she found out about them.”

Isabelle felt vaguely nauseous. “How? Surely they would have been very discreet?”

“We’re all too close,” said Orani, “if you know what I mean.”

Isabelle was amazed she did. By comparison, she had lived a very quiet, even monastic life. “So you spied on them for her?” She kept her voice nonjudgemental.

“I did from time to time,” Orani admitted. “Mainly she did the job herself. They couldn’t have known what was going on in her mind. She half-scared me. All those smiles and acting like she cared, and behind it maybe murderous thoughts.”

“‘One can smile and smile and still be a villain,’” Isabelle said, making use of the quote from Hamlet.

“Kept them guessin’ anyway. If she did confront Mrs. Myra that last day, she wouldn’t have been prepared for it. That was the problem for us all. We didn’t know the real woman. She was kept hidden. She was so nice to everyone. So nice to me. Always doing me little favours. Keeping me on her side.”

“You should have spoken out, Orani,” Isabelle risked saying. “If Abigail wasn’t in the house the day Myra had her fatal accident, she didn’t have an alibi.”

Orani looked away, perhaps guiltily. “Not as though I cared about Mrs. Myra. I could live with her being dead. But I wasn’t going to make Mrs. Abigail look bad. She was kind to me. She told me my day would come.”

“Like Anne Boleyn.”

“Don’t know the name.” Orani dashed the last tears from her eyes. “Never really knew Mrs. Abigail, did I?”

“No,” said Isabelle. “You weren’t the only one.”

“Did you hear the way she spoke about my mother?” Orani cried, splaying her long fingers across her tear-stained face. “Insane, isn’t that what she said? And I’m mentally unstable. She’s had those thoughts for a long time.” Her expression conveyed a painful surfeit of memories. “She turned me against Helena. She hated her almost as much as she hated Mrs. Myra. She was fragile, that girl, not physically but emotionally. She was living the life I was convinced should have been mine.”

“You believed what you were told as a child,” Isabelle said. It was her own experience after all.

“And that woman backed it.” Orani stared at Isabelle, as though studying her from a new angle. “You’re a good person,” she said.

“I try to be.” Isabelle felt irreparably tangled in Hartmann affairs.

“He did come back after all, you know.”

“Who?” Isabelle drew in a sharp breath.

Orani’s huge black eyes filled with tears again. She turned away abruptly, her expression sombre in the extreme. “No one. A ghost. I must go. What Mrs. Abigail said was bad for her. Bad for us both. I intend to hold her to account.”

Not only the words but the way she said them filled Isabelle with dread. “Mightn’t it be best for you to simply forgive, forget and move on? Take nothing from her. Make no attempt to bribe her. It could be a huge mistake. You could possibly be risking your life.”

“It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” Orani said, such an agonized smile on her face. “In my heart, I believe Helena could still be alive. If she is, I hope you find her.”

“I have every hope we will,” Isabelle declared. “You had a relationship with Erik Hartmann, didn’t you? Have you said your good-byes to him?”

Orani shook her head violently. “I could never satisfy him,” she said. “Not ever. Not once. I even tried a few love potions. Didn’t work. There was only one love in his life and that was his beautiful, adulteress wife. Can’t blame her in a way. Christian was the better man. Most likely the better lover. She got her hooks into him. I swear, Erik knew Helena wasn’t his daughter. But Erik wouldn’t kill anyone. He doesn’t have the guts.”

“I can’t think guts is the right word,” Isabelle said in horror. “More like a level of brutality and a lack of godliness to be able to take another human being’s life. Murder gets people locked up forever.”

Orani smiled grimly. “Then Mrs. Abigail has been on death row for a long time.”

“There’s a good chance she didn’t do anything.” Isabelle dragged in a breath. “We don’t know. You didn’t help. You could have talked, Orani. You didn’t. You chose to keep quiet. Helena suffered the loss of her mother. Probably, as she grew older, doubts sprang into her mind. She was fearful of someone. Not you and your cruel little games. Someone else. Now it’s too late for retribution.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t,” Orani said. She closed her eyes as though inviting some plan of action to come to her.

“Well, good-bye, Orani,” Isabelle managed with quiet compassion. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say or do.

“Be a better person than the others,” Orani responded, surprising Isabelle by taking her hand. “Don’t stop here. Go away. Your Bruno will take you. He can help you sort out your life.”

It was a stunning shock to Isabelle, this turn of events; still, she found herself saying, “Go with God, Orani.”

The woman’s face, a mask of suffering, suddenly softened. “What did I say? You’re a good person. But I go with my gods, not yours.”

With that, she walked off, back straight, head up, like a proud, strong woman bound for the gallows.

* * *

Bruno returned minutes later, on his own, which was a great relief.

“What is it?” he asked urgently. Isabelle looked as distressed as he had ever seen her.

“I have a bad feeling about all this, Bruno.”

“Understandable.” He went to her, turned her towards an armchair. “This is one weird family, damn near Gothic. We’ll go home tomorrow, okay?”

“Did you pass Orani?” she asked.

“I did. She was weeping, believe it or not.”

“She heard everything Abigail had to say,” Isabelle told him.

“Oh God!” Bruno dropped into the armchair opposite. “Where was she?”

“Behind the screen, down there at the end of the room.” Isabelle gestured. “She came in through the French doors, probably looking for Abigail. None of us noticed her, so she decided to hide behind the screen and listen to what we had to say.”

“So she got an earful!” Bruno said grimly.

“She feels bitterly betrayed. Full of anger and hate.”

“Well she’s no angel, is she? She even tried to frighten you with her stupid pranks.”

“She’s been brainwashed from childhood, Bruno. She lived her life in a closed environment. Her mother must have been a woman with her head full of dreams.”

“Very likely she would have been diagnosed with some kind of emotional illness,” he said. “Orani too. It’s a genetic condition, isn’t it?”

“Most disorders are. She more or less thought her friendship with Abigail was sacred. Then she heard Abigail speaking of her mother and her with open contempt. That would have been an immense shock. An immense loss of faith. You saw her tears. Orani wouldn’t be a woman given to tears.”

“Fool that I am, I interpreted her tears as some kind of sadness. I mean, this has been her life. Now she’s more or less been kicked out. She went with Mrs. Hartmann. You know what they say, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m pretty sure Abigail meant it when she said she would give Orani a good reference and enough money to get her settled. It would be in her own best interests to do so.”

“I’m very concerned,” Isabelle said. “Orani believes in love potions and spells. They could even work, for all I know. What I do know for sure is that Abigail is in Orani’s sights.”

“Let’s hope she wasn’t packing a pistol,” Bruno only half-joked. “She’s not perfectly sane, that’s the problem. Abigail brought it all on herself. Let her sort it out.”

Isabelle lifted her eyes to meet Bruno’s. “Abigail wasn’t in the house the afternoon Myra was killed.”

He nodded sharply. “Orani told you of course.”

“She said what that great lady told her to say. Abigail didn’t have a migraine. She was somewhere on the property. She might have intended to have it out with Myra.”

“Easy for things to get out of hand.” Bruno made the mental leap. “Abigail mad with jealousy. Myra perhaps mocking her?”

“Abigail was one of the shooting party the day her husband was accidentally shot,” Isabelle added.

Bruno answered with a great sigh. “God, I’m speechless.”

“Orani said she’s a crack shot.”

“Now that I do believe. She can even fly a helicopter. She should be taking off by now.”

“You don’t have a million dollars, do you?” Isabelle asked in a grave voice.

“What’s the bet?”

They looked into each other’s eyes. “No bets. Something very serious and bad is going to happen,” Isabelle found herself predicting. “Orani will put out a hand for far more than a huge cheque. She’ll very likely—” She broke off, suddenly jumping out of her chair. “Bruno, I’m afraid.”

He too was on his feet. The French doors of the façade were lit up by a red glow. Even from inside the house they heard the explosion, followed by screams and great wailing yells.

“Dear God, it’s the chopper. It’s down.” Bruno felt like his heart was losing vital beats. He held out his hand to Isabelle, taking it in his own.

“I don’t want to see this,” Isabelle said, her whole body trembling.

“For one solitary moment,” Bruno said. “You were one of the last people to talk to Orani. There will be an investigation.”

“Does history never stop repeating itself?”

“I’m afraid not.”

* * *

From the attic windows, they could see the site of destruction. The Moorooka Station helicopter had slammed into the escarpment, bursting into flames. No one could have survived such a horrendous crash.

Isabelle held a hand to her throat. It was aching painfully with suppressed tears. “It was no accident,” she said. “None of them were.”

Bruno looked down at her. “You’re alive. You’re safe,” he said. It didn’t seem odd to him now that his father had been cut down. His father had gone too far with his investigation and paid the price.

* * *

It was a truly horrible day played out in brilliant sunshine. Eaglehawk Station wasn’t that remote that emergency services didn’t quickly swing into action. Pilot and passenger had been killed on impact, as everyone had feared and expected. An emergency services helicopter had taken the bodies away. It was considered on the face of it a great tragedy. Mrs. Abigail Hartmann was a very experienced pilot, fixed wing and helicopter. She had been flying for years. She was in her late sixties. It was possible she could have suffered a stroke or a heart attack. The two women on board were known to be on excellent terms, despite the difference in their station. An autopsy would be held. Four police officers flew in, no doubt thinking the Hartmann family was cursed. It sometimes happened that way. Look at the Kennedys! Each member of the family was interviewed. After that came Bruno and Isabelle’s turn.

So far as Isabelle was concerned, it was all too late for words. She gave an edited version of her last conversation with Mrs. Saunders. Orani. The surviving members of the family had suffered enough. There was no need for the general public to know of the sexual relationship between the housekeeper and Erik Hartmann. No need for them to know Abigail could well have brought about the deaths of her husband and her sister-in-law, his mistress. Bruno too kept silent, even about his suspicions regarding the death of his father. It was thought by both of them that the perpetrator of these crimes had been brought to justice.

“Sadness, such sadness!” Erik Hartmann said that evening when they all came together in the drawing room.

Isabelle could think of nothing to add.

It was Bruno who was thinking of the results of the DNA tests and what they would reveal. He started to speak, but Erik cut him off. “Yes, yes, McKendrick,” he said. “If you’re very kindly trying to warn me Helena wasn’t my daughter, I have to tell you I already know,” he cried, looking utterly grey and shattered.

“God Almighty!” Stefan sat, stunned. “So who then was her father?” he asked after a full minute.

“Wake up, Dad!” Kurt suddenly shouted, nearly out of his mind with shock. “My grandfather, Christian. Who else?”

“Stop!” his father roared. “Stop it this minute. Is this true, Erik?” he asked his uncle scarcely less quietly.

Erik didn’t look up. He sat hunched.

“It’s true, sir,” Bruno answered for the broken man, Erik. “The DNA will confirm it.”

“So Helena is my half sister?” Stefan shook his head, not in frantic denial but acceptance.

“And my auntie,” Kurt cried, furious at constantly being treated like a child.

“What did you tell the police?” Stefan asked, ignoring the boy.

“Neither of us spoke about private family matters,” Bruno said. “They aren’t relevant to today’s fatal crash. Isabelle had a final conversation with Mrs. Saunders. Mrs. Saunders confirmed she knew Helena was Christian Hartmann’s daughter.”

Stefan pondered all this. “She could only have got it from my mother,” he said, ageing in front of their eyes.

“Don’t go there, Dad,” Kurt pleaded, jumping up from his chair and going to stand behind his father. He placed his hands on Stefan’s broad shoulders.

“What kind of a man would betray his wife?” Stefan asked, patting his son’s hand with one of his own.

“Perhaps Abigail couldn’t give him what he wanted,” said Erik. “She wasn’t much of a mother to you, though we all pretended we thought her perfect.” Erik looked across at Bruno with saddened dark eyes. “Your father thought Abigail knew a lot more than she was willing to confide. He had the idea she would have many hidden wounds. They kept in touch,” he confided. “She told me that once. I was amazed. Abigail, God rest her soul, was a woman of many secrets. Secrets we hope she took to her end.”

“Is Mrs. Saunders involved in this?” Kurt asked, making his fears clear.

Bruno shook his head. “We will never know.” So his father had been in touch with Abigail Hartmann? How close to his premature death?

“We will just take this as it comes,” Stefan said heavily.

“That will be the way of it, sir,” Bruno said respectfully. It was painfully obvious the three Hartmann men were absolutely shattered.

“It means a great deal to us that neither of you told the police of family matters they didn’t need to know,” Stefan said, taking over from his uncle as head of the family. “Not now, at any rate.”

“We still have to find Helena,” Isabelle said. “That’s my quest.”

“And ours,” Stefan said. “None of us had the slightest suspicions about my . . . mother,” he hesitated painfully. “Helena had to be frightened of someone. She had to have found out something.”

“We have a new lead,” said Bruno. “Piers Osbourne.”

“Heavens no!” Erik jumped on that suggestion promptly. “He went back to England.”

“As far as you know,” Isabelle said. “Orani said something to me. She said, ‘He came back, you know.’”

“Who did?” Kurt asked blankly.

“She said, ‘no one, a ghost,’ when I questioned her. I believe now she could have been talking about Piers Osbourne.”

“Didn’t the young fool fancy himself in love with Myra?” Stefan asked. “As I recall, he was a very uppity young man. Acted quite superior. Myra often remarked on it.”

“We don’t believe he was in love with Myra,” Bruno said. “We believe he would have grown fond of Helena and she of him. We could suppose both knew of the relationship between Myra and Christian.” He didn’t mention the loving inscription they had found in the book of German poetry.

“And you think Helena wrote to Osbourne, asking for his help?” Stefan asked.

“He could have been in the country, for all we know.”

“Then we find him.” It was Kurt, surprisingly, who spoke up.

“We intend to,” Bruno said. “I have a good friend, a top journalist, who claims with some truth she can find anyone. As soon as we get back to Sydney, I’ll enlist her aid. She’s very discreet. Better still, her newspaper has far-reaching resources.”

* * *

The family retired early, greatly shocked. The search team would be back early the next morning. The police would have more questions. The news of the fatal crash had already gone out via bush airways. The Stirling family had been contacted. They had pronounced themselves devastated when they had spoken to Abigail about giving up flying at her age. Stefan had contacted his wife in Adelaide. Stunned by the news, she told him she would be flying in as soon as she could get a private flight organised. Life moved on, no matter what.

“I don’t want to sleep in the Chinese Room,” Isabelle said, feeling as if all her mental and physical strength had drained away and she was running on empty.

“I don’t expect you to,” Bruno replied. “Will we both be finding some love letters, do you suppose?” In truth, his interest in them had vanished. It had been a terrible day and it had taken its toll on everyone. The family. Him. But all his concerns were focused on Isabelle. She was twenty-two years old. A baby in terms of a full life. Moreover, she had led a sheltered life. She was handling herself extremely well, but no sooner had they learnt one terrible thing than another had popped up.

He had no difficulty with the scenario of Orani accusing Abigail of treachery from the very moment they were airborne. Abigail being Abigail would have revealed her true nature, telling Orani in no uncertain terms to shut her mouth. There would be nothing left to hold Orani back. She had wanted vengeance, just as Abigail had cried out for vengeance against her husband and sister-in-law. His own father had to be quietened. What had he found out? Whatever it was, Abigail had come to know of it. Maybe his father’s “accident” had been meant as a warning only? Maybe it was meant to silence him forever. Bruno would never know. It hurt him unbearably. He had so loved and admired his father.

Isabelle was opening the door of the Turkish Room. “We’ll give it an hour,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I don’t want to go to bed. I’m bound to have nightmares after all this.”

“Bound to have a few myself,” Bruno admitted.

“The whole place wants clearing out,” Isabelle said.

“Too much history. Too many bad memories. I’m sure a museum would take a lot of this stuff. Or it could be put up for auction. The rugs alone are superb.” She stumbled a little dazedly over the mounds of cushions that lay everywhere. Probably once had provided a love nest?

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bruno asked, steadying her on her feet. He thought she had lost much-needed weight. Of light, willowy build, she was looking a bit on the fragile side. Courageous as she had shown herself to be, she couldn’t continue to sustain these shocks. He felt guilty now that he had brought her to Eaglehawk. The ghosts of the family members who had died violently were here. Now there was another one.

“What did we get ourselves into, Bruno?” Bella was asking, turning to meet his eyes. No accusation there. A near-despairing question.

“Your family,” he said wryly. “You can thank your lucky stars you weren’t brought up with them.”

“What lucky stars?” She sighed. “Not a whole lot of joy with Hilary and Norville. We have to speak to Hilary again.”

“Would it be all that impossible to switch babies?” Bruno pondered.

A shudder passed through Isabelle. “I wouldn’t put anything past Hilary. Norville wanted a child. Not her. But she agreed to have one and get it over with. There was never going to be a second. Hilary needed a well-respected husband to add weight to her own position. One who would allow her to lead her double life. For over twenty years she dominated Norville’s life. Talk about a monster!”

“So Hilary’s baby dies not long after birth and she talks Helena into handing over her baby?” Bruno asked.

“Worse.” Isabelle came up with her scenario, seeing they were without a single vital clue. “How’s this? Hilary being a doctor realizes something is wrong with her newborn baby. She thinks long and hard, then decides her course. She switches her baby for Helena’s. Wrist tags, toe tags, identification, whatever is necessary. Helena’s sickly little baby dies. Hilary goes home with me.”

“But that’s criminal!” Bruno burst out, shocked. “One would have to be a monster to do that.”

“Monsters look like everyone else, Bruno. You know that. How many killers out there go unrecognised, unpunished? We see photos. Nothing about the faces suggest what crimes they’re capable of. You’re going to speak to Cassie when we get back?”

“If she’s not on the information highway already,” Bruno said. “Cassie will do anything to help you.”

“How lovely! It means a lot to me I was able to help Josh and find the right teacher for him. Music unlocks many doors. You saw with your own eyes an autistic child behaving normally when listening to me, then when playing those black and white notes for himself. It’s extraordinary really! More should be done. Music has a very powerful effect on us all, even pop music, which isn’t my scene. Jazz I do like.”

“Thank God for that!” Bruno gave a theatrical sigh. “I have a jazz collection to die for.”

“The great Daniel Barenboim, concert pianist and conductor, husband of the late, great Jaqueline du Pré, is said to be a marvellous jazz pianist,” Isabelle told him.

“So jazz is real music,” Bruno said.

“Absolutely.”

* * *

They were just about ready to give up when Bruno picked up an old Bible he had previously put aside. Both he and Isabelle had been searching out German poems of all kinds. The Bible was in English. This time he opened it up fully. “Hello, just look at this.” He turned his head to her. “A nifty little hidey-hole.”

Isabelle moved quickly to join him. “A hollowed-out book!” she exclaimed. “They were all the go at one time. You wanted to hide a key, a piece of jewellery, a gold watch, anything fairly small and of value, a hollowed-out book would do. Pretty hard for a burglar to search a library to uncover something the owner wanted kept secret.”

“Like a bunch of letters,” Bruno said, taking out the letters tied with a narrow red ribbon.

“Another minute and I’m going to start singing ‘Amazing Grace,’” Isabelle said. “Please?” She put out her hand to take the little pile of old letters Bruno was holding.

“They’re probably from your granddad,” Bruno said, passing them over. “To the love of his life, Myra.”

Isabelle sank down on an ottoman covered in a striking Turkish fabric. Radiant head down, she read through one page, then the next. The letter was of a very intimate and erotic expression of love and longing. She passed the pages to Bruno, making no attempt to read further.

“I don’t think we’re meant to see these, Bella,” Bruno said after he had read what he considered enough.

“No, we’re not.” Tears filled Isabelle’s eyes. “They really did love each other, didn’t they?”

Bruno gave a soft groan. “It was a love that came at a heavy price. Please don’t cry, Bella.”

“Let me cry,” she almost wailed. “It’s my turn to cry.”

“For the love of God, Bella,” he protested. “I can’t sit and watch.” Dark clouds were moving across his handsome face.

“Okay, I’ll stop.” Isabelle threw up her arms in defeat. “Seeing you’re so desperate to get out of here.”

Bruno put out an arm to haul her to her feet. “Let’s check on the other bedrooms,” he said briskly. “I don’t want to sleep here anymore than you want to sleep in the Chinese Room.”

“I’m not surprised. We’re all alone with the ghosts.”

“It’s not the ghosts I’m worried about,” said Bruno.

* * *

One of the bedrooms near the bathroom housed good-sized twin beds with blue quilted-satin coverlets. A small inlaid mahogany desk separated them with a Tiffany style—it could well have been Tiffany, Isabelle thought—table lamp with an alabaster nude, slender arms upraised, standing beneath it.

The matching chair stood against the wall beneath a gilded mirror. Four large botanical prints hung behind the beds. Two on each side. The walls were painted the same duck-egg blue as the beds’ coverlets.

“What do you think?” Bruno asked, his voice decidedly on the tense side.

“This should do.” Isabelle nodded, sitting on one of the beds and bouncing up and down. “Tell me you won’t let me sleep here alone, Bruno? We have the desk between us for propriety. I can think of you as my big brother.”

“As if that is ever going to happen,” he returned, supersharp.

Isabelle’s green eyes filled with tears again. “Don’t jump down my throat. I’m feeling a bit emotional, okay? I need a little time to deal with it. I just don’t want to be on my own. I’m not afraid exactly. It’s just that my mind and body aren’t at peace. Once I would have thought it a bit of fun sleeping in a house that was supposed to be haunted. This one actually is.”

He gave a short laugh. “Let’s see if they’re made up.” He pulled the quilted satin coverlet from the other bed.

“There must be a linen closet somewhere,” Isabelle said.

“Probably downstairs. I’ll go.” Bruno half-turned away.

“I’m coming with you.”

She looked so young, a vulnerable softness in her expression, a slight quiver to her lovely mouth, that Bruno held out his hand. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said, deliberately injecting humour.

To his relief, Bella laughed.

* * *

An hour later, showered, they were ready for bed.

“I take it I’m nearest the door,” Bruno said, wondering how the hell he was going to get through the night. There was Bella, so beautiful, so desirable in the other bed, and he couldn’t touch her. If there was a humorous side to the situation, he couldn’t see it.

“Of course you are, Bruno, my knight in shining armour.” She plumped up a pillow.

The lovely, fresh aroma of the native boronias filled the room. Isabelle had elected not to wear her usual nightclothes. She had pulled a cotton kaftan over her head instead. Bruno had decided on a T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Neither had wanted to draw attention to the fact they were sharing a bedroom, however platonically.

Appearing in total control, inside Bruno’s whole system was racing. He thought he needed a drink, so he had tossed off a shot of brandy when they were downstairs. “I’ll have what you’re having,” Bella had said.

“You wouldn’t be used to brandy,” he said repressively.

“It will help me sleep.”

“Ah, I suppose.” Though he muttered against it, he gave her less than a shot.

“That tasted awful,” she complained, putting down her squat crystal glass.

“I never said it would taste good.”

They were safely tucked up in their respective beds with the light from the hallway sconces filtering through the half-closed door. A half hour passed. Bruno, thoroughly awake, thought Bella had fallen asleep until he heard what sounded like the faintest sob.

“You’re awake, Bella?” He lifted himself on one elbow, compelled to whisper.

“Of course I’m awake,” Isabelle replied crossly. “You’re doing a bit of tossing and turning yourself.”

“Hard to relax.” Having her a few feet away from him was driving him mad.

“Reach out your hand,” she said, suddenly sitting up in her bed.

“You want to shake it?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

“Do it. I want to feel your hand just for a moment,” she said softly.

“Ah, Bella,” he groaned, extending a long arm across the divide.

She clutched at his warm fingers. “Would you kiss me good night?”

His heart rocked, even as he felt a great surge of excitement. “If I do it once, I mightn’t stop.” His tone was far from warm. It was harsh.

“You will,” she said, full of trust. “Just for once, Bruno, reach out.”

“Bella, I don’t dare. Don’t you know you’re in protective custody?”

“It’s not an invitation into my bed,” she said. “All I’m asking for is a good-night kiss. Is that so hard?”

“You really expect an answer to that?” He could see her small face in the dim amber light, her luminous skin, her delicate, delicious mouth, the masses and masses of soft, curling hair.

“All I’m hoping for is a good-night kiss. I’m not proposing anything else. I deserve it. I’ve been having an awful time. I want to forget for one blessed moment. I want release. We know each other well enough by now for a good-night kiss.”

His dad had said that.

The bottled-up forces inside him exploded. Bruno threw off the coverlet so wildly it fell to the floor. He stood up, a tall, powerful male figure, and then came around to the far side of her bed. “There’s only so much I can take, Bella,” he said sternly, without allowing himself to look down at her.

“You’re more than happy to kiss everyone else,” she was quick to remind him.

“You might be sorry you said that.” He reached for her, pulled her willowy body right up into his arms, enfolding her. She didn’t resist. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He could feel her heart beating, the catch in her breathing. The protectiveness he had always felt for her was turning into a driving passion. The drive to take her. She opened her mouth to him and he fell into kissing her, breaking up the unbearable tension. He would have done nothing against her will, but she wanted this as much as he did. He didn’t kiss her once. He kissed her over and over until soft cries came from her.

All at once he couldn’t endure the impossibility of the situation. This was neither the time nor the place to take off the single garment Bella wore, lay her back on the bed and make love to her. Their time would come. He no longer had a single doubt. But not now. For all he knew, he could make her pregnant.

“You were mad to ask me.” He lifted her like a child, putting her back on the coverlet.

She gave a palpitating laugh. One that held thrills in it. “That was as close to heaven as I’ve come,” she exclaimed. “I think you love me a little, Bruno McKendrick.”

“You can tell, can you?” He all but threw himself down on his bed, not even bothering with the quilt.

“Truly, I think I do.”

“Well, you are a beautiful creature,” he said. “You got what you wanted; now go to sleep.”

“Oh, I will!” She drew a deep, appreciative breath, as though what she had prayed for had been granted.