Doctor Judd’s liniment may have smelled like nothing on earth, but it worked wonders. In the morning my sprained shoulder felt as good as new and I no longer needed the sling.
I was tucking in to eggs and bacon when Mr Mallard appeared at the breakfast table late, yawning and bleary-eyed.
“Is there any coffee?” he asked, reaching towards the pot.
Just then, Hannah entered the room with the mail on a silver tray. Mr Mallard pounced.
“The ransom letter will be here, I know it will,” he said, snatching the tray from her. He dumped the letters onto the table, sat down and began shuffling though them, slitting each envelope open with his butterknife and scanning the contents. I wondered if he had the right to do that. But who else did? Harold? Papa? He was Helen’s brother, after all.
“This is from Mr Petrov’s wine merchant … Here’s one from the hospital committee … And this is for me. It’s from my tailor; I had my bills redirected.” He crumpled it and threw it into the fire, where it flamed up briefly and collapsed into a pile of ash. “Nothing,” he said.
“There’s another delivery this afternoon,” I said.
“Yes, yes, that’s true.” He sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Harold appeared in the doorway. He’d breakfasted early so as to help George get Beauty harnessed to the phaeton. “Ready when you are,” he said.
“Where are you going?” asked Mr Mallard.
If I’d told him it was the cemetery, he would have choked on his coffee, so I said vaguely, “Oh, out for a drive.”
“A drive? At a time like this?” He curled his lip in disgust and muttered, just loud enough for me to hear it, “Unfeeling girl …”
I could have defended myself, I suppose. But did I really care what Mr Mallard thought?
The Castlemaine cemetery was actually in Campbell’s Creek, a village a couple of miles out of the town. It was a sleepy little place in the morning sunshine. We passed several churches and hotels, a large school and a hall, and then turned off the main road and crossed over a bridge. There, set between two hills, was the graveyard.
My eyes travelled up the valley. The headstones went on and on.
“During the gold rush there were thousands of miners right here,” said Harold. “They were Chinese, Danish, German, Irish, English …”
I couldn’t pay attention. Drucilla. Helen. I could see their faces, but they were wavering and faint, like reflections in water. Memories, not visions. A vision isn’t just itchy fingers and a picture in my mind – it’s real. I can feel it in my whole body. I jumped down from the phaeton and walked through the gates. I looked down at my hands. I concentrated. Drucilla, where are you? My only answer was the sighing of a breeze through dry leaves.
Harold caught up with me and offered his arm. I nodded, grateful for his presence.
A gravelled path wound among well-tended shrubs and trees. Here and there were a few impressive monuments with marble urns, columns, statues and fancy carving, but most of the stones were simple and plain. There were even some anonymous hummocks in the grass.
“Oh,” I exclaimed. Without warning, a prickling sensation, like heat rash, passed down my arms and into my fingers. I let go of Harold’s arm. “Somewhere close …”
I ran along the narrow alley between graves. White marble, granite, tawny sandstone … no, no, no …
“Harold – here!”
It was a simple rectangle, grey and smooth, as in my vision. After more than twenty years, the deeply incised lettering was as crisp as the day it had been carved.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF EVERARD BONE
12th July 1859
And his wife Louisa, and their three children, all babies; one month, one year, three years. They had all died within two weeks of each other. I read the dates and the religious verse at the end. I put out my hand to stroke the surface.
It was cool and smooth against my fingertips.
I was jolted back into my vision.
There was something carved on it but I couldn’t read it.
But now I could. It wasn’t the sad history of the Bone family. My eyes were drawn to one word at the base of the gravestone: REDPATH. I crouched down and touched it.
“What is it, Verity?”
I jerked my hand back as if I’d been stung. “I don’t know. But look – ‘Redpath’. It’s here and here …” There were other grey stones, plain but beautifully crafted, nearby. Now that I knew what I was looking for, they were everywhere, each with that signature REDPATH carved at the base.
“It must be the name of the stonemason who made them,” said Harold. “We can ask Hannah. She’s lived here since the gold rush days. If anyone knows, she will.”
The tingling and itching died away and I stood up, brushing the dust off my skirt. “I wish … oh, how I wish that my gift worked differently. If only it could show me a trail of signs and clues, then I could go to work like a …”
“A bloodhound?”
I almost laughed. “Instead, it’s more like a code. If only I could find the key! I know the answers will come, but when?”
Neither of us said so, but I know we both thought it. What if we were too late?