the long strand of opera-length pearls that had been his gift to her last Christmas.
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ he said dourly, momentarily regretting their pillow talk, although he knew she would take everything to the grave. ‘It is to be expected. Genetics will out.’ He was glad to be retiring at the end of the year. ‘Clear my appointments in the morning will you, until eleven. I think I’m going to need some time.’
‘And her chances?’ Rhonda asked.
‘She will lose.’ Frank looked once again at the magnificent oil as Rhonda discreetly left the room. In a yellowing folio within the safe hidden behind the painting lay Luke Gordon’s hastily written letter from 1909. One needed to have the eyesight of a ten-year-old to read most of the scribble, however Frank’s own grandfather had managed to decipher most of the missive and it didn’t make for pleasant reading. Frank poured himself a whisky from the decanter in his cabinet and took a restorative sip. He would be the last Michaels to work here at what was once his family’s business. His son, a sixth-generation Michaels, was a surgeon and his daughters had married and were living abroad.
Still, one only had their reputation in life and although his family was to soon cease association with the firm, damage was still possible to his family’s name and the company. The safe needed to be cleared out.
Removing the picture, Frank sat it carefully on the floor. The work was redolent of the mythology of the Australian way of life, an artistic style that surfaced in Australia in the late 1880s leading up to Federation in 1901. The painting spoke of a life bound to the pioneer, pastoralist and explorer, all of which were displayed almost heroically on canvas. Frank turned the dial four times until a click sounded.
The safe door popped open. Reaching inside he removed the Gordon family Bible. Inside the tooled leather cover was Luke’s letter. It was an incredible slice of history. An account of how business was done by driven, determined men at the turn of the century. In a leather folio beneath the Bible were the directives given by his grandfather on behalf of the Gordons. It amounted to being an accessory to … He wasn’t even going to think the word; besides, every man eventually got his dues.
Taking another sip of whisky, Frank placed the Bible on his desk and, removing a single document for safekeeping, tipped the remaining ones into his wastepaper bin and lit the pile. ‘Must be my convict blood,’ he muttered grimly. He was sorry for Sarah, he guessed she had a right to know the truth, and he would tell her one day, however there were enough details burning in his wastepaper bin to fill a newspaper for a year and those media types loved a story with blood. What did they say? If it bleeds, it leads. Frank sipped at his whisky as the pile burnt out. That was it. There was no other evidence. Only what he knew and one day he too would be ash.
Claire sipped at tea diluted with a little sweetened condensed milk. Although only late afternoon, she’d already consumed two discreet glasses of French brandy and managed a plate of boiled eggs. The effect was one of immediate stupefaction, which, considering the morning’s events, was a pleasant result. Her brain remained muddled from overtiredness and her limbs sagged with exhaustion, but she would survive. Scrunching an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers, she sent a wish of love to the slip of life so recently departed.
Claire leant her head on the arm of the couch and stared numbly at the piano and her portrait above. There were decisions that needed to be made; clothes to pack, a booking on the Cobb & Co coach and bloodied clothes to burn. Instead her mind reflected on the still clearing at the bend in the creek. Amid the drift of shadows and sunlight, a row of stone slabs marked the sleeping places of Rose’s children and her own. You will have to walk away from that place, she admonished, no good can come of remembrance. A dull ache eased its way back into her heart.
When Mrs Stackland announced Wetherly, Claire was dozing. She rose unsteadily from the couch, brushing at the creases in her brown skirt, dismissing her light-headedness and assuring the housekeeper of her wellbeing. Claire wished to see Wetherly. With all that had recently transpired, she desperately required a distraction and