I open the desk drawer and pull out the silver locket. It’s an unremarkable piece—I doubt it’s worth very much—and I’d almost forgotten I’d put it there. I need to tie up loose ends, so I’ve got my work cut out for me today. I’ve made a list of people for me to visit, to which I add the town’s jeweller.
But first I want to have a chinwag about Maurie Pilcher with Dora Green from the pub and two Diggers from his unit who are about to depart for the front again. I’ve got to get their statements before I take matters any further.
I catch up with the Diggers first thing at the Jezzine Barracks in Townsville. I’m getting a picture of Pilcher from them and, I have to say, it isn’t very nice. He wasn’t much favoured by his colleagues. He was a vicious, lazy soldier, according to them. They tell me that he had no qualms about killing the enemy; in fact, he got a kick out of it. They reckon he’d have probably turned his rifle against any one of them, if it had suited him. They didn’t know he was married: he wasn’t much of a talker. They’d got the impression that he’d run away from something back home—a stint in gaol, most likely. They didn’t see him again after he’d departed Townsville, and weren’t especially surprised he was murdered.
I’m back in Wangamba by lunchtime, and the pub’s jumping. Dora Green’s built up quite a sweat pulling pints. The crowd’s four deep around her, all pressing against the grimy counter. I take a moment to order a meal and a beer, and find a quiet spot. I’m happy enough to chow down, and wait until things die down a bit.
Once the rush ends, Dora’s finally free to talk to me.
She confirms what the stationmaster has already told me: Maurie Pilcher caught the train in, arriving late in the afternoon. She knows because he walked in with a couple of Diggers who happened to mention it to her. He didn’t sit with them: he didn’t want company. He drank alone in the public bar until they closed up that evening at eight. She remembers because the more he drank, the nastier he became—swearing and whatnot—until she had to get a couple of the boys onto him.
I calculate that, by the time he’d hitched a ride home from the pub and walked the rest of the way, he must have arrived home pretty much around the time he was killed. That means there was no chance he was in bed asleep with his missus, when she claims they were woken up by the intruder.
Next I take the locket up to The Golden Casket on Jennings Street, hoping that Paul Miller, the jeweller, can tell me a bit more about it. He’s there tinkering alone in his workshop when I walk in, and the shop’s sour with the smell of solder and hot metal.
His eyes light up the moment I hand it over.
‘Do you recognise this necklace?’ I ask.
He takes out a loupe and studies it. ‘Yes, I do. It’s one of mine,’ he says.
‘You certain?’
‘I’m certain. I always put my initials on every piece I make.’ He shows me the bail and points to a mark with the tip of his tweezers. ‘See? Right here.’
I can’t see a thing, but I believe him. ‘You wouldn’t happen to remember who bought it, would you?’
He thinks for a while. ‘No, I don’t. It might have been my assistant, Faye, who sold it.’
‘Could I ask her?’
He shakes his head. ‘She’s left.’
‘Well, can you tell me when she’ll be back? I could come back in another day.’
‘No, no,’ he explains, ‘she’s left my employ. Gone south. I don’t know where.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t hide my disappointment. Another investigation going nowhere. ‘Well, thanks anyway for your cooperation.’
He places the locket and chain in a box for me, and hands it back. I turn on my heel. I’m just about through the door when he calls out to me.
‘Hang on a moment; I’ve just had a thought.’
I return to the counter.
‘Just wait here.’
He goes into his workshop and riffles through a box of cards. Eventually he finds what he’s looking for. He returns to me, holding a card and looking pretty pleased with himself.
‘It was a special piece: the purchaser asked me to personalise it. Here’s the card for the locket; the chain is just our usual stock. The locket was done for a Private Pemberton, US Army.’ He puts out his hand. ‘May I see it again?’
I return the locket to him, and he prises it open. ‘There’s some hair in it,’ he says, ‘and—right here—I engraved some initials inside it.’
I ask him to place the hair in an envelope for me, and I take a look at the engraving. Even with my worsening vision I can see clearly some initials he’s inscribed inside a heart: KP L KP.