Later, Nora was to wonder whether she’d really seen the flicker of doubt in her sister-in-law’s eyes as she said goodbye that morning, but before she could even think to respond, to say that she, too, was delighted to be spending time with her family at Halcyon, Isabel had rallied the children and, with Matilda and Evie carrying a picnic basket each and John the baby’s crib, they all waved farewell to Nora and left the garden, the sun beating down on them, so hot and blazing, heading in the direction of the water hole and the big willow tree.
What did they do when they reached the picnic site? Was there an argument as to where, precisely, they should put the tartan picnic blanket? Unlike Isabel, whose English skin remained as pale as paper, the Turner children were as brown as the quandong berries thatgrew on the bushes along the creek. Did they choose, just to rile their mother, to set themselves up in the sun? Hot from the walk, did John opt to swim before he ate? Did Matilda’s queasiness recede? One can only speculate.
What is known is that the thermoses were empty, the sandwiches were gone, and all that remained of the cake was crumbs. Their shoes were off. They had been swimming. The baby’s crib had been suspended from a large, strong branch of the willow. Reports from those first on the scene indicate that although lunch had been eaten, the provision boxes had not yet been packed away. There was no sign of illness or disruption. There had been no struggle. To all appearances, it seemed that at some point, whether because a great weariness had overcome them, or a feeling of dizziness, or perhaps just a strange unsettlement, they had lain down together, using rolled-up towels as pillows, and retreated into a sleep from which they would not wake.
Birds flew overhead. Lizards warmed themselves on the hot rocks nearby. Snakes moved in the long, dry grass of the paddock beyond. All around, the noises of Australian summer intensified to form a deeply soporific afternoon soundtrack of crickets purring, leaves whispering, birds chittering in the tops of giant gums. The birds knew, even if most human beings were yet to notice, that there had been a change in the atmosphere around Tambilla that afternoon. Clouds were gathering in the distance, the wind had shifted, a storm was coming.
Not far from the picnic blanket, a colony of ants continued to build their mound: diligent, resourceful, ever busy. They would realize, at some point, that a great boon of crumbs awaited them nearby, and set out to retrieve them. They were at once a vital part, and yet separate from, the human story unfolding on the blanket beside them, their quest for survival no more or less important in nature’s eyes than that of any other creature on that blistering afternoon.
As the sun continued its crossing of the cerulean sky, and the shade thrown by the willow tree shifted across the field, down in the township of Tambilla the two local ministers, one Lutheran and the other Anglican, retired to the vestries of their respective churches on diagonal sides of the town’s main intersection to finalize their Christmas Eve sermons.
Not too far away, Betty Diamond was busy in the kitchen of her tearoom, swatting flies away with one hand while working her knife deftly with the other: margarine and then curried egg, along a production line of bread, followed by a leaf of iceberg lettuce to each, a second slice of bread, andvoilà—a tray of sandwiches wrapped in checked seersucker and ready for the reception at St. George’s that evening. The kitchen always got warm in the afternoons, its only window being on the western wall, but today it was unusually muggy. Betty wasn’t sure if it was simply because she’d been working fast, or whether the storm her customers had been speculating about all day was actually going to hit.
Across the street, Meg Summers closed the grocery shop with the satisfaction of a ledger book filled with orders met and deliveries made. The sponge cake for Percy’s birthday was finally cool, and she finished it carefully with a layer of fresh whipped cream and some of Maud McKendry’s homegrown strawberries. They were Percy’s favorite, and a sunnier-than-average spring had made them extra sweet this year.
Up at the old mill, the Misses Edwards were still fast asleep in their twin beds, being of the age and inclination to pass the hottest part of the day slumbering. When they woke and drew back the lace curtains, they would see that their lawn was as neat as could be, the edges trimmed just the way their father—a man of exacting standards—had always demanded.
Henrik Drumming, who had left his wife in the dayroom, where he’d found her, had driven back up Greenhill Road and stopped out the front of the Tambilla Hotel. He wasn’t one of the regulars, buthe’d felt like company without conversation, so he sat at the bar and ordered a club soda. It was always hard to return to an empty house on the days he’d been to see Eliza. (He was still sitting there, nursing his soda, forty-five minutes later, when a siren flared up over at the police station on West Road, and half an hour after that when the young schoolteacher, Boris Braun, came rushing into the bar to announce that a search party was being put together, shouting something about a baby and some dogs.)
At four o’clock, though, as Henrik cradled his first drink and reflected on his wife and the life they’d once dreamed about and how lonely he’d been without her, down the road Maud McKendry, whose garden was now in full beating sunshine, gathered the last flowers for the church service and arranged them into bunches for the pew ends. Four houses away, young Kitty Landry had already tried on three different dresses before settling on one she considered “fancy” enough to wear to sing in the church choir that night. As Percy Summers guided his faithful mare Blaze through the gap in the fence at the edge of the Turner property, intending to make a brief stop for the animal to swim, Kitty climbed onto a kitchen chair so she could see most of herself in her mother’s duchesse mirror, and was practicing the new hymn with a hairbrush for a microphone, swaying like Peggy Lee, who she’d seen singing “Fever” on the new television set at her aunty’s house in Sydney when they were visiting for Easter.
Up at the Turner house, its iron roof ticking in the heat, Nora Turner-Bridges wondered when she could expect her family to return. Nora wasn’t yet worried, but she was lonely. She had looked forward to having the house to herself; she’d been exhausted by the time they left. But she had failed to sleep. There’d been an ungodly squawking outside her bedroom window, and when she pulled back the curtains, she’d been met with the glassy eye of a colossal black cockatoo in the uppermost branches of the walnut tree. She hadn’tliked the way it stared and had redrawn the curtains, allowing the room to darken; her efforts, though, had been in vain.
The warmth of the day was pooling now in the dim corners. The thick stone walls that had held it at bay had reached their limits, but to open the windows would be folly. Nora decided she would fix herself a cool drink and lie down again, just for a few minutes. No doubt that would do the trick—it was Murphy’s Law, wasn’t it? As soon as she made herself comfortable and started to drift off, she’d hear them coming up the driveway, chatting and laughing, bubbling over with stories of the day’s adventure.
***
Part V
17
Sydney
December 12, 2018
Jess woke at four on Wednesday morning, thinking about Nora and summer and the scene by the creek. Of big stone houses and paddocks of pale grass and gum trees with tall silver trunks. She was also thinking about poison. The coroner had ruled the tragedy a murder-suicide, but, as with the infamous Somerton Man case in 1948, he’d been unable to determine the type of poison used. It seemed to Jess that there’d been several contenders: the mushroom (for presumably that’s what it was?) that Evie sourced for Matilda; the rat poison John and Matthew discovered in the pantry (all of that “sugar” Isabel stirred into the iced tea?); the tranquilizers Henrik Drumming had given Isabel to help her sleep.
Jess didn’t know a lot about poisons, but supposed there must be many in nature for which diagnostics hadn’t existed in 1959. She could also think of a number of possibilities as to how Isabel might have known about them: her father had been a naturalist and she’d spent much of her childhood cataloguing plants; Miller had included a quote from a former headteacher to the effect that Isabel had excelled at science; and then there was her war work. The conversation with the nondescript woman at the London party around the time of the occupation of France suggested that Isabel had been engaged with the Resistance. Maybe she’d learned about lethal poisons there—how they worked and the best way to administer them without leaving a trace.
Jess googled the University of Sydney, found a professor in the School of Public Health who looked to have suitable research specialties, and then drafted an email explaining that she was a journalistworking on a report for which she needed to know what types of poison might have been used lethally but without detection in 1959. Knowing how the murder had been committed wouldn’t tell her anything about Nora’s recent state of mind, but Jess was curious, and that was a huge improvement on the worry and discombobulation she’d been grappling with lately. Chasing down a lead made her feel more like herself.
It was still pitch-black outside the window, but occasional early birds were making themselves known, and the air had acquired the light thrum of promise that precedes the dawn. Jess was about to close her email and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea when a new message dropped into her inbox. She didn’t recognize the sender’s name, Nancy Davis, but the subject, “Your Request,” piqued her interest.
Dear Ms. Turner-Bridges,
Ben Schultz forwarded your request on to me. Daniel Miller was my uncle, and I am the executor of his estate. I would be more than happy to help with your inquiries. Please feel free to reach out to me via this email address, or, if you’d like to have a chat, send me a message on the cell phone number below to arrange.
Kind regards,
Nancy
There was a footer beneath the sign-off, with the business name Davis Genealogy Research and Consulting LLC, followed by Nancy’s cell phone number and email and an address in Vermont. Jess checked the world clock on her phone and, seeing that it was still only midafternoon in the eastern United States, typed the number into her text message app.
Hi Nancy,she wrote.Thank you for getting in touch! It would be great to have a chat about your uncle. Please let me know a time that suits. Jess Turner-Bridges
She read over the message and then, after removing her surname (too formal) and the exclamation point (too frivolous), pressed send and felt the fond, familiar stomach turn of anticipation.
Her phone pinged almost immediately.
