The walk back into town is hot, and Annabel shares a drink from the water bottle in her backpack. We walk along the beach, through town and into the museum on top of Flagstaff Hill. Annabel nods to the girl selling tickets. “Hi, Penny. Busy day?”
“Wish it was,” Penny answers. “Busy makes the time go faster.” Annabel chuckles, and we pass through a door marked Staff Only.
We’re in a short corridor with two doors on either side. A plate on the first door on the right announces Rose MacAuley, Director of Artifact and Building Preservation and Park Maintenance.
“Rose is a wonder,” Annabel says. “She does everything—makes sure the old buildings in the heritage park out back don’t fall down, keeps the museum exhibits clean and prepares new finds for display.”
The second door has a plate saying William Sturridge, Director of Research. Annabel knocks on that door, but there’s no reply. “Bill must be at lunch,” she says, looking at her watch. “Probably with Rose.”
We continue down the corridor into an open room with views over the ocean. There’s a simple kitchen setup, a couch and an assortment of chairs arranged around an oval table. The young man sitting at one end of the table looks up from his tablet as we enter.
“G’day, Anna. I was just checking out a new zombie game. You want to have a look? You can make their heads explode.”
I feel Annabel tense beside me, and I take an instant dislike to the man. He’s skinny and twitchy. He taps his foot as his eyes flit back and forth between Annabel and me. It makes me restless just looking at him.
“Well done, Pete,” Annabel says coldly. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more disgusting, you outdo yourself.”
Pete flashes a smile that’s closer to a sneer. “Where you been this morning?”
“As if it’s any of your business, it’s my day off,” Annabel replies as we sit down as far from Pete as possible. “And I’ve told you before, just because you shorten your name doesn’t mean that everyone does. My name’s Annabel.”
“Sure, sure,” Pete says with a dismissive wave. “And who’s your new friend?”
“That also is none of your business, but his name’s Sam.”
Pete smirks. “Short for Samuel, I suppose. Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
“Hi,” I say, feeling intensely uncomfortable.
We all sit in silence for a few minutes. Then Pete speaks, “Say, Anna— Annabel, sorry. Have you had a chance to ask Bill about putting me on night shift?”
“Not yet,” Annabel says. “Why are you so keen to go on night shift?”
“It’d be cool. No one to hassle me or tell me what to do. Maybe you’d like to join me one night.”
“In your dreams. Has anyone ever told you what a creep you are?”
“Many people,” Pete says with his sneering smile, “but I’m only kidding. Seriously, will you have a word with Bill?”
“Yeah, okay. At least it would get you off the same shifts as me.”
“Thanks, babe.”
I can see Annabel gritting her teeth, but she says, “Have Bill and Rose gone for lunch?”
“Should be back soon. You can ask him about my night shift when he gets back. You want to see this?” Pete waves his tablet in my direction.
Before I can think of an answer, Annabel stands up. “Come on,” she says. “I want to show you something while we’re waiting.”
“Can I see it too?” Pete asks, in a tone that suggests he’s not talking about a museum artifact.
Annabel ignores him, and we head back down the corridor and through the gift shop. “He’s such a slime bag,” she says as soon as we’re out of hearing range. “He sends shivers down my spine every time I talk to him. I don’t know why Bill hired him.”
“Maybe he’ll be put on the night shift,” I suggest. “Then he’ll be out of your way.”
“I should be so lucky. We had a security guy on night shift, an old Vietnam veteran, but he got sick and had to quit. Bill’s hired a security firm now.”
“Why does Pete ask you to talk to Bill? Why doesn’t he approach him himself?”
“Bill’s my uncle,” Annabel explains. “Pete reckons I have influence with him. I’ve been stalling because I don’t want to do Pete any favors, but it would be good to get rid of him.”
We’re in the museum now, surrounded by glass cases full of cracked plates, barnacle-encrusted jars and photographs of old sailing ships. I have to admit that some of it looks interesting, but Annabel doesn’t give me a chance to linger. She leads me to the museum’s back door and out onto a balcony overlooking a clutter of buildings that covers a hill sloping down to the sea.
“This is our heritage village,” she says proudly.
“Is this the original Warrnambool?”
“No. The buildings are all original, but not from one place. The museum has collected them from all over. They rescued them from developers in some cases and brought them here to recreate what an ideal town might have looked like a hundred and fifty years ago. There are houses, a church, a school, a blacksmith shop, a store…”
“And ships,” I say, looking down at a pond in which a sailing ship and an oldfashioned ferry are floating. There’s also a dock with a red rowboat tied at the end.
“It’s an old lagoon that used to be attached to the sea. The two-masted ketch is the Reginald M—Reggie for short. He was built in 1922 and worked as a freighter all along this coast. The steamship is Rowitta. She was built in 1909 and was used for tourist excursions on the Tamar River in Tasmania. I’ll show you around later, but right now I want you to see the star of the show.”
I follow Annabel back into the museum and through to an open circular area. The usual cases are around the walls, but there’s a tall, circular glass case in the middle that makes me gasp in surprise. I glance at Annabel, who’s smiling at my shock. “Impressive, eh?” she says.
I’m looking at a peacock. On its pedestal, it is taller than I am. I walk around it. It’s perfect—the feathers on the tail are painted in incredible detail, the eyes real enough to be looking at me, the talons curled to grip the rock on which it stands, the blues, greens and browns so bright, they almost hurt my eyes. It looks about to spread its magnificent tail and strut majestically out the door. “It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Hard to believe it’s made out of porcelain,” Annabel says. “Only nine of these were ever made,” she goes on, sounding like a tour guide. “It’s 144 centimeters high and weighs 45.36 kilos, and it’s insured for four million dollars.”
“Wait a minute. If this thing is porcelain, how did it survive a shipwreck that killed almost everyone on board?”
“It was so special that it wasn’t put in the hold. It was packed very carefully in a crate and stored in the captain’s cabin. When the Loch Ard went down, the captain did as well, but the crate with the peacock inside floated onto the beach.”
“It’s a miracle it survived.”
“Indeed it is.” I turn to see a tall bearded man striding toward us. “Hi, Annabel,” he says. “Pete told me you were here.”
“This is Sam,” Annabel says, and Bill and I shake hands. “I was just showing him the Loch Ard peacock.”
“Our pride and joy,” Bill says. “This brings the tourists in, but a lot of the less dramatic stuff is more important for the archaeologist. An old shoe or a dinner service can tell us more about people’s lives a hundred years ago than something like this.”
“Something like this, maybe?” Annabel asks as she pulls the piece of black wood from her backpack. Bill examines it with interest, moving over to the glass door to get better light. “Where did you find this?”
“Down on the beach, a couple of kilometers west of town.”
“Is it mahogany?” I blurt out. I’m surprised how much I want this old bit of wood to be important. If it is, it’ll be an excuse to hang out with Annabel.
Bill laughs. “You think this is part of the Mahogany Ship?”
“Maybe,” I say, feeling sheepish at his laugh.
“It’s oak,” Bill says. Then, seeing disappointment cross my face, he adds, “It’s unlikely that the Mahogany Ship was actually made of mahogany. Someone called it that because the wood was black, but a lot of wood turns black if it’s buried.
“It’s obviously from a wreck,” Bill goes on, turning his attention back to the wood. “Possibly a piece of a rudder post, but there’s not enough to tell for sure.”
“So it could be from the Mahogany Ship?” I ask excitedly.
Bill laughs again. “I see it hasn’t taken you long to get involved in our local legends. Yes, it could be from the Mahogany Ship—if it exists— but it’s more likely that it’s from one of the other wrecks along the coast. There were dozens over the years, from large ships like the Loch Ard to small fishing boats. Of course, there’s no way to tell for sure, which is why the mystery of the Mahogany Ship has lasted so long.”
“That’s kind of what I thought,” Annabel says, “but, hey, you never know, right?”
“You never know,” Bill repeats with a smile. “Let me hang on to this, and I’ll let you know if I have any other thoughts. Are you going back to look for more pieces?”
I look at Annabel. “Of course,” she says, “but not today—it’ll be too hot this afternoon.”
“They say a big storm is coming through tonight,” Bill adds. “Unusual for this time of year, but we’ve had a lot of unusual weather lately.”
“If it clears up tomorrow, we’ll go and poke around,” Annabel says. “If you want to?” she asks me.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the day on the beach with Annabel.
“Great,” Bill says. “Bring me back some Spanish gold or pirate treasure for the museum. Why don’t you take Sam down and show him our village?”
“I will, but I thought we might grab a Coke in the cafeteria first.”
“Good idea. Nice meeting you, Sam.” Bill shakes my hand.
“And you,” I reply.
Bill turns away, but Annabel stops him. “I almost forgot. Pete asked me to ask you to put him on the night shift.”
“To get him away from you?” Bill asks. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“Honestly? I can’t stand him,” Annabel says. “He’s crude and rude.”
“He is a bit full of himself,” Bill agrees, “but he does his work. I’ll think about the night-shift idea. The security firm we have now is good, but they’re expensive, and we can’t afford to keep paying them forever. Pete might work over the summer until we can hire someone better.”
Bill heads to his office, and, with a last glance at the Loch Ard peacock, Annabel and I head for the cafeteria.