Polly raised her brows at Jess, who nodded avidly, and then she opened it, sliding a folded sheet of paper from inside.
“Well?” Jess said, unable to keep her curiosity in check any longer.
Polly held it on an angle so that they could both read it at once. The message had been written in an irregular script with a black ink pen and read:
Dear Mrs. Turner,
I know what you have been doing with another womans husband. I saw you. He is a father and has responsabilities to his family, just like you have to your own children. It is not deecent or right to behave as you have done. If you do not stop, I will have no choise but to tell your husband what you have been up to.
The letter was unsigned.
Despite the formal tone, there were a number of spelling errors that made Jess think it had been sent by someone who lacked education, or else someone young.
“It’s been a long time since I read the book,” said Polly, frowning lightly. “But I don’t remember Henrik Drumming having children? Just his wife in the hospital.”
“Poor Eliza, yes, down at Parkside,” said Jess. “But I don’t understand. It must be a mistake. It had to have been him.”
Polly didn’t answer. An absent look had come across her face as if she were watching something play out inside her mind.
“What is it?” Jess asked.
No answer.
“Mum?”
Polly looked up. Perhaps the word was as strange for her to hear as it was for Jess to speak. “I just...” She frowned at the tabletop and then glanced back at Jess. “It’s just that... I think I might know who he was.”
37
Adelaide Hills
December 15, 1989
The man with the ride-on mower was driving it in careful lines, this way and that. Polly watched him for a while from her spot in the shade, and perhaps he sensed her presence, because he came to a stop, lifting a hand in acknowledgment when he saw her. He shut off the ignition and wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers as he approached.
“Hi there,” he said.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I was taking a walk. I got lost.”
“Easy enough to do.”
He was a decade or two older than she was.
“Is this your property?”
He laughed. “I’m the groundsman—in an unofficial sense, anyway. This land is part of a larger estate. Big house up there on the hill. The owner’s overseas. He doesn’t always know when it needs attention, and I don’t live far. It’s no effort for me to mow it when the grass gets too long.”
Polly wondered about this. Her new neighbor in Brisbane, Angie, was nice enough, but it seemed improbable that she’d make her way across the fence to maintain the backyard while Polly was away.
Perhaps he, too, felt that the disclosure needed further explanation, because he added: “It’s a fire risk when the grass is let go.”
Polly could glimpse the peak of Halcyon’s roof line through the trees, and its pull was strong. “The house is for sale,” she said, and then, because she was conscious of sounding strange, “I saw a sign on the fence by the road.”
“You interested in buying it?”
She smiled.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he said. “A bit neglected now, but still impressive.”
