Thursday was unseasonably warm and Mr Whitehead, who was taking Good Friday off, decided to do as much as he could in the garden today. No more rain yet by the looks of it although the top of the Mount was shrouded as usual in fluffy white mists. He thought the hydrangea bed at the back of the house could do with a watering. The place without the young ladies was strangely quiet but for the peaceful clucking of fowls and distant grunting of pigs, and now and then the rumble of wheels going past on the highroad. Tom had gone into Woodend in the buggy for the mail. Cook, with only a handful of adults to cater for instead of the usual complement of hungry schoolgirls, was having a grand clean up in the vast flagged kitchen. Alice was scrubbing the back stairs, she hoped for the last time. Miss Buck had gone off in a cab for an early train. Minnie was snatching ten minutes in her bedroom, greedily devouring a bunch of ripe bananas for which she had developed a passion during the last month, and joyfully letting out the waistband of her print frock, already too tight for comfort.
Dianne de Poitiers in a flurry of tissue paper was packing her small but elegant wardrobe. The very sight of the simple white satin wedding gown made her heart turn over. In a few hours’ time Louis would be escorting her to the modest Bendigo lodging house where he had engaged a room for his fiancée until Easter Monday. She felt like a bird about to be set free after years of captivity in the cheerless room where she had so often cried herself to sleep, and began, very softly, to sing ‘Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot’. From the open window the bittersweet little tune floated out over the lawn where Mrs Appleyard was discussing with Mr Whitehead the planting of a new border for the drive. ‘Have to be getting on to it after Easter, Ma’am, if you want a nice show for the Spring.’ Salvias? They were a useful sort of flower, Madam suggested. The gardener half-heartedly agreed. ‘A lot of young ladies have their favourites. Funny thing I can never see a Christmas lily without thinking of Miss Miranda. “Mr Whitehead,” she used to say, “lilies always make me think of angels.” Well, she’s probably one herself now, poor young creature.’ He sighed. ‘How about pansies?’ The Headmistress forced her thoughts to pansies and observed that they made a good show from the front gate. ‘Now little Miss Sara – she’s the one for pansies. Often begs a few off me for her room. You feeling cold, Ma’am? Could I fetch you a shawl?’
‘One expects to feel chilly in March, Whitehead. Is there anything else you want to discuss before I go indoors?’
‘Only about the flag, Ma’am.’
‘Good gracious, what flag? Is it important?’ Her foot tapped impatiently on the gravel. ‘I have a good deal to attend to today.’
‘Well,’ said the gardener, an avid reader of the local papers, ‘it’s like this. The Macedon Standard is asking anyone in the district who has a flag to fly it on Easter Monday. It seems the Lord Mayor is coming from Melbourne for lunch at the Shire Hall.’
A double brandy after breakfast had made her head as clear as a bell. In a flash she saw the Union Jack floating out from the tower, a signal to the prying gossiping world that all at Appleyard College was well. She said graciously: ‘By all means run up the flag. You will find it under the stairs – you remember we put it there after the Queen’s birthday last year.’
‘That’s right. I folded it up and put it away myself.’ Tom was beside them with the mail bag. ‘Only one letter for you, Ma’am. Will you take it here or shall I bring it inside?’ ‘Give it to me.’ She turned and left their, without another word. ‘She’s a funny one, that,’ the gardener said. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting she don’t know a pansy from a chrysanthemum unless I tell her which is which.’ And he made up his mind to put in begonias all down the drive.
The letter was addressed to Mrs Appleyard in a distinguished hand, precise and unfamiliar. Dated two days ago from an expensive Melbourne hotel, it read:
Dear Mrs Appleyard,
I regret that as I have been looking into my mining interests in North Western Australia, with no possible means of communication, I have been unable to forward the enclosed quarterly cheque for Sara Waybourne’s fees until today. The purpose of this letter is to let you know that I intend calling at the College for Sara on the morning of Easter Saturday (28th). I trust this arrangement will be convenient to you as I am occupied all day on Good Friday and don’t care for her to be here alone at the hotel, excellent though it is. If Sara is in need of any new clothes, books, drawing materials, etc., could you kindly have a list made out so that we can do some shopping together in Sydney where I shall be taking my ward for a few days holiday. As Sara must now be nearly fourteen, which I find hard to realize, I imagine something more sophisticated in the way of a party dress would be appreciated? Anyway, you can give me your views when we meet.
With kindest regards and hoping once again that you will not be inconvenienced by looking after Sara (of course, at my expense) until Saturday.
I remain,
Yours sincerely,
Jasper B. Cosgrove.
16
Constable Bumpher was inured to varying degrees of shock and surprise. Nevertheless the letter marked CONFIDENTIAL that had just been handed to him at his desk had left him, to use his own words, ‘with a nasty taste in the mouth’.
Appleyard College,
Tuesday, March 24th.
Dear Monsieur Bumpher,
Forgive me if I address you incorrectly, as I have never before written to a gentleman of the Australian Police. I find much difficulty, in English, to explain just why I write to you at this moment – nearly midnight – except that I am a woman. A man would perhaps have waited for more definite proof. However, I feel that I must act, from my heart, without delay, and you may think, without sufficient reason.
Last Sunday morning (March 22nd) when I returned to the College from Mass, about midday, Madame Appleyard informed me that Sara Waybourne, a girl of age about thirteen years and our youngest pupil here, had been taken away by her guardian shortly after most of the household had left for church. I was very surprised, as Monsieur Cosgrove (the child’s guardian) has excellent manners and had given Madame no warning. He has never to my knowledge acted in this impolite way before. As I write this I know you will see little reason for my uneasiness. The truth is Monsieur, that I fear this unhappy child has mysteriously disappeared. I have asked a few questions – very discreet – of the only two persons at home during the time of Monsieur Cosgrove’s visit, besides Madame herself – both women honest and good. Neither of these women, Minnie the femme de chambre and the cook, saw Monsieur Cosgrove arrive at the house, nor did they see him leave, with or without the child Sara. I understand, however, that there may be an explanation for this. Other reasons for my fears seem to be much more important, and much more difficult to make clear to you in English. It is late, and the house is in darkness. This morning I have passed an hour in the bedroom usually occupied by Sara, and in the beginning, by Miranda. Here I observed very carefully while helping a servant to tidy the room, certain things which I shall explain to you later. I have neither the Time, nor the good English without my dictionary, to write down here the shocking thoughts which have gradually come to me, with a clearness quite horrible, after leaving that empty room this morning. As I shall be leaving the College on the day after tomorrow (Thursday) and will be married on Easter Monday in Bendigo I enclose my new name and address if you should wish to write to me on this matter. Meanwhile M. Bumpher I am gravely troubled and shall be most grateful if you can visit the College as soon as possible and make some enquiries. You will not of course disclose to Madame or any other person that I have written this letter. You will I hope receive it on Thursday morning. Unfortunately I have no way to post it earlier as Madame herself sees everything that is put into the mail bag and so I must wait to give this to someone whom I can trust to post. I am exhausted, and shall try to sleep a little before dawn. I can do nothing more without your help. Forgive me for troubling you.