Under the unshaded light of the porch the heavy folded cheeks were the colour of tallow. ‘Tom,’ said Mrs Appleyard, looking him full in the face as if to screw an answer out of him with her gimlet eyes, ‘do you realize that Mr Hussey is shockingly late?’
‘Is that a fact, Ma’am?’
‘He promised me faithfully this morning to have them back here by eight o’clock. It is now half past ten. How long would you say it takes to drive from the Hanging Rock?’
‘Well, it’s a fair step from here . . .’
‘Think carefully, please. You are familiar with the roads.’
‘Say three to three and a half hours and you wouldn’t be far out.’
‘Exactly. Hussey intended to leave the Picnic Grounds soon after four o’clock. Directly after tea.’ The carefully modulated College voice became suddenly raucous. ‘Don’t stand there gaping at me like an idiot! What do you think has happened?’
In the lilting Irish singsong that fluttered many a female heart beside his Minnie’s, Tom was soothing at her side. If the distraught face had been reasonably kissable, he might even have dared a conciliatory peck on the flaccid cheek, unpleasantly close to his well scrubbed nose. ‘Now don’t you be distressing yourself, Ma’am. It’s five grand horses he’s driving and him the best coachman this side of Bendigo.’
‘Do you think I don’t know all that? The point is – have they had an accident?’
‘An accident, Ma’am? Well, now, I never so much as gave it a thought, such a fine night and all . . .’
‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought! I know nothing of horses but they can bolt. Do you hear me, Tom? Horses can bolt. For God’s sake, say something!’ It was one thing for Tom to stall and cajole in the kitchen. Quite another here in the front porch with the Headmistress standing over him twice as large as life with her tall black shadow behind her on the wall . . . ‘Ready to eat me she looked,’ he told Minnie afterwards, ‘and the devil of it was I knew in my bones the poor creature was right.’ Greatly daring he put a hand on one grey silk wrist encircled by a heavy bracelet from which hung a blood red heart. ‘If you’d come inside and sit down for a wee while, Minnie can bring you a cup of tea . . .’
‘Listen! What’s that? God be praised, I can hear them now!’
It was the truth, at last: hooves on the highroad, two advancing lights, the blessed scrape of wheels as the drag came slowly to a halt at the College gates. ‘Woa there Sailor . . . Duchess get over . . .’ Mr Hussey talking to his horses in a voice almost unrecognizably hoarse. From the dark mouth of the drag the passengers came straggling out one by one into the light of the carriage lamps fanning out on to the gravel drive. Some crying, some sodden with sleep, all hatless, dishevelled, incoherent. Tom had gone bounding off down the drive at the first hint of the drag’s approach, leaving the Headmistress to dragoon her trembling limbs into a commanding stance on the porch. First to come stumbling towards her up the shallow steps was the Frenchwoman, ashen under the light.
‘Mademoiselle! What is the meaning of all this?’
‘Mrs Appleyard – something terrible has happened.’
‘An accident? Speak up! I want the truth.’
‘It’s all so dreadful . . . I don’t know how to begin.’
‘Compose yourself. A fit of hysterics will get us nowhere. . . . And where in Heaven’s name is Miss McCraw?’
‘We left her behind . . . at the Rock.’
‘Left her behind? Has Miss McCraw taken leave of her senses?’
Mr Hussey was pushing through the sobbing wild-eyed girls. ‘Mrs Appleyard. may I speak to you alone? . . . I think the French lady is going to faint.’ He was right. Mademoiselle, exhausted with the strains and stresses of the day, had passed out on the hall carpet. From the servants’ quarters Minnie and Cook, who had long since removed caps and aprons for a fitful sleep, had come running through the baize door under the staircase, which Miss Lumley in a purple dressing gown and curl papers was descending with a lighted candle. Smelling salts were produced for Mademoiselle, and brandy, and with Tom’s help the governess was carried off to her room. ‘Oh, the poor things,’ said Cook, ‘they look worn out – whatever can have happened at the picnic? Quick, Minnie, don’t bother asking the Madam, we’ll give them some of my hot soup.’
‘Miss Lumley . . . get these girls to bed immediately. Minnie will help you. . . . Now, Mr Hussey.’ The door of Mrs Appleyard’s sitting-room closed behind the broad still magnificently upright weary back. ‘If I might have a drop of spirits, Ma’am, before I begin.’
‘You may – I see you are exhausted . . . Now then, tell me as briefly and plainly as you can, exactly what has happened.’
‘My God, Ma’am, if only I could tell you . . . you see, that’s the worst of it. . . . Nobody knows what’s happened. Three of your young ladies and Miss McCraw are missing at the Rock.’
Extract from Ben Hussey’s story as given to Constable Bumpher of Woodend, on the morning of Sunday, February the fifteenth, at the Police Station.
After the two teachers and myself realized that nobody in our party had the correct time, both my own watch and Miss McCraw’s having stopped during the drive out, it was agreed that we should leave the Picnic Grounds as soon as convenient after lunch, as Mrs Appleyard was expecting us back at the College no later than eight o’clock. The French lady arranged we should have some tea and cake after I had harnessed up my horses as we had a fairly long drive ahead of us. I should say it was then about half past three, judging by the way the shadows were moving on the Rock.
As soon as my billies were boiling I went over to tell the two ladies in charge that tea was ready. The elderly teacher who had been sitting reading under a tree when I had last seen her, was not there. In fact, I never saw her again. The French lady seemed very upset and asked me if I had noticed Miss McCraw walking away from the camp, which I had not. She told me: ‘None of the girls saw which way she went. I can’t understand her not being back here on time – Miss McCraw is such a punctual lady.’ I asked if all the rest of my passengers were present and ready to leave. She told me: ‘All but four. With my permission they went for a short walk along the creek so as to get a closer view of the Hanging Rock. All except Edith Horton are senior girls and very reliable.’ The three missing girls had travelled with me to the Picnic Grounds on the box seat. I knew them quite well. They were Miss Miranda (I never heard her surname), Miss Irma Leopold and Miss Marion Quade.
I wasn’t particularly worried so far, only a bit put out by the delay in getting away. I know that part of the country pretty well and I soon had the girls organized to look for them, in pairs, round about the creek on the flat, cooeeing and calling out as they went. About an hour must have gone by when the girl Edith Horton came running out of the scrub near the South Western base of the Rock, crying and laughing and with her dress torn to ribbons. I thought she was going to have a fit of hysterics. She said she had left the other three girls ‘somewhere up there’, pointing to the Rock, but seemed to have no idea in which direction. We asked her over and over again to try and remember which way they had gone, but all we could get out of her was that she had got frightened and had run back downhill all the way. Luckily, I always carry some emergency brandy in my flask. We gave her some and wrapped her up in my driving coat and Miss Rosamund (one of the senior girls) took her off to lie down in the drag while we went on with the search. I called all the girls back and counted them and this time we went further afield – right up to the base of the Rock on the southern elevation, trying to find Edith Horton’s tracks but they had petered out almost at once on stony ground. Without a magnifying glass it was impossible to see anything in the way of a footprint. None of the scrub seemed to be disturbed except for a few yards where she had come out on to the open ground and started to run back towards our camp at the creek. For further reference, we marked the opening between these trees with some sticks. Meanwhile two of the senior girls had gone off along the creek intending to make some enquiries from another picnic party who were there when we arrived, before lunch, but they had put out their fire and left – probably while I was attending to my horses. Four people and a wagonette. I think it was Colonel Fitzhubert’s but did not actually see any of them to speak to. Several of the girls said they had seen this wagonette driving away earlier in the afternoon with the young fellow on the white Arab pony riding behind. We must have gone on calling and searching for several hours. I couldn’t believe my senses that three or four sensible people could disappear so quickly in such a comparatively small area without some kind of tracks. I am still just as mystified as I was yesterday afternoon.