Thornwood House (13 page)

Corey was studying my face. There was no judgement in her eyes, no pity, not even a glimmer of fake sympathy. Just curiosity.

‘Is Aunt Morag still alive?’

‘She died when I was sixteen.’

‘That’s a shame. She sounds like someone I’d have enjoyed meeting.’

Corey stood close, but I didn’t find her proximity alarming. I liked looking at her – I liked the way her face was open and easy to read. I wondered what particular feature gave this impression – the friendly tea-coloured freckles across the bridge of her nose, the inquisitive brown eyes, the exotic broad cheekbones, or the wide mouth that always seemed on the brink of a smile.

‘Did you call Hobe?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Actually, I thought I might pay him a visit. Introduce myself, maybe ask him about the history of Thornwood. Do you think he’d mind?’

‘No, he’d be tickled. Besides, you’re neighbours. Hobe’s place is only five minutes up the road from Thornwood. It’s a little timber bungalow on the hill – you can’t miss it. The place is a bit rustic, but Hobe’ll insist on inviting you in for a cuppa. He loves a chat, especially with someone new.’

I frowned. ‘I think I know the place. I stopped there to ask directions the day I came to look at Thornwood. The man I spoke to had one lens of his glasses taped over.’

‘That’s Hobe, poor old codger.’

‘What happened to his eye?’

‘No idea.’

‘Hmmm . . . I must confess, after what you told me last week, I’m curious to know more about Tony’s grandfather – ’

Corey lifted a brow. ‘No nightmares, I hope?’

I felt the blood climb to my face, remembering Aylish’s letter and the restless night it had inspired. ‘Nothing like that,’ I assured her. ‘But to be honest, Samuel intrigues me.’

We regarded each other solemnly. I sensed we were riding the same thought-wave, our minds racing along parallel streams toward a common conclusion.

Corey spoke first. ‘You want to know if he was guilty.’

I nodded.

‘I’d better warn you, then. Hobe thinks he was.’

‘Did he know Samuel?’

‘Yeah, and he hated him with a passion. I’d be fascinated to hear what he says about him – you will report back to me, won’t you?’

‘With pleasure.’

We chatted amiably for a while longer, then Corey had to go.

‘A joy flight,’ she explained. ‘A man and his elderly father, they won the church raffle, God love ’em. What about you, Audrey, when are you coming up with me again?’

‘A week or so. Cossart’s loved the last lot of photos, so I expect I’ll become one of your regulars.’

‘I’d like that.’

The warmth of her smile inspired me, and I had to ask.

‘Why don’t you and Jade come over to Thornwood one afternoon? We could have a barbie – the girls can lose themselves in the garden, and I’ll show you around the place. There’s a great view from the back verandah.’

‘I remember that view,’ Corey said, her eyes sparkling. ‘It’s a wonderful idea. What about on the weekend?’

‘Perfect. Saturday afternoon, say four?’

‘Great, see you then!’

She gave my arm a squeeze, and loped away. I waited until her red-gold hair had bobbed around the corner and out of sight. Then I hurried back to the Celica, itching to find out what Hobe Miller knew about Samuel.

The Miller residence was exactly as I remembered – a dilapidated bungalow perched on the hillside above Briarfield Road. In the tranquil morning sun, the house seemed less shabby, more cosily inviting. The ironbark forest surrounding the dwelling was no longer a shadowland of unseen threat; the sea of shimmering grey-green leaves looked almost friendly.

As the Celica jounced up the gravel drive I saw there was a third car parked outside the house. Beside the old ute and the
immaculate Valiant, sat a sleek black Toyota truck. I pulled in beside the Toyota, cut the engine and climbed out. The stillness was absolute, interrupted only by the crunch of my sandals on gravel, the cawing of native ravens and the ever-present cicada song. As I approached the house, I became aware of another sound: the melodic gurgle of running water.

Looking across the yard, I saw a water tank. It was half-hidden behind a screen of grevilleas and flowering bottlebrush which cast it into deep shade.

Standing beside the tank was a man.

He was bare-chested, leaning over the tap, using a tin cup to douse his torso with water from a bucket. He slid a bar of soap up his arms and across his chest, lathering his skin with pink foam. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties; dark-haired, nicely muscled. He wore only jeans: ragged at the cuffs, torn at the knees, low-slung beneath a tanned stomach.

I twigged why the soap foam was pink; his chest and forearms were smeared with what appeared to be blood. Was he hurt, I wondered. Was that why he hadn’t seen me? Was he so absorbed in what he was doing that he hadn’t heard the arrival of my car, or the crunch of my sandals on the gravel? Or was he ignoring me?

I stood motionless. The vague ache in my chest told me I was holding my breath, so I didn’t know what made him finally look up. Perhaps it was the soft crack of pebbles underfoot as I shifted my weight, or the quiet tick of the Celica’s cooling motor. Perhaps he decided that I’d waited long enough.

Shadows swarmed over him, but there was enough dappled sunlight to see the intense dark eyes, the wide unsmiling mouth.

‘Hi,’ I said. When he didn’t reply, I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘I’m looking for Hobe Miller, is he about?’

Grabbing a brown T-shirt from the foot of the water tank, the man began to mop himself dry as he walked toward me.
He took his time, which gave me a moment to sum him up. The ragged jeans, the dusty work boots – he was country boy all over. Yet the dark mop of unruly curls and intense emerald eyes gave him an unfair advantage over the average farmer. He might have been beautiful had it not been for the scowl he was wearing.

He slid a small notepad and pencil from his jeans pocket. After scribbling in the notebook, he tore off the leaf and handed it to me.

I took the note, mystified . . . until I read what he’d written.

I’m deaf. Can you sign?

I felt my eyes go wide. My gaze flew back to his face. He was watching me, his brows drawn, his eyes fixed on mine.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘I can’t sign.’

He scribbled on another leaf and tore it off.

Good thing I lip read. Speak slower.

In the harsh sunlight I saw the grey rim around his pupils, the faint pattern of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was unshaven, and his hair stuck up in sweaty clumps. Shading his eyes with one hand, he regarded me with unabashed curiosity.

‘I’m looking for Hobe Miller,’ I told him, now horribly self-conscious as I tried to enunciate clearly. ‘I’ve been trying to contact him about doing some maintenance and repairs on my property.’

The man blinked at me, then dashed off another note.

No need to shout. Hobe’s inside.

Before I’d finished reading the note he’d stalked off, heading toward the bungalow. While he walked, he pocketed the notebook and finished drying off with his sodden T-shirt. By the time I caught up with him he was hammering on the screen door, making a racket that seemed to echo right across the hillside and bounce back from the valley.

A shabby figure appeared in the doorway.

I recognised him at once. Hobe Miller’s bony face was framed by white hair, and as he frowned through the screen door, the single lens of his duct-taped glasses flared in the light.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, glaring at me with evident suspicion.

Before I could speak, the deaf man’s fingers came to life as he signed.

Hobe watched intently, then nodded. Swinging open the screen door, he stepped out onto the verandah. For several tense seconds his blue gaze probed my face as though confused by something he saw there.

‘You need repairs?’ he asked gruffly. ‘At Thornwood?’

‘Yes, I – ’

‘You knew Tony Jarman?’

I nodded, puzzled by his abrupt manner. He was nothing like Corey’s description – rather than being pleased by my appearance on his doorstep, he seemed threatened. He was scowling at me as though a cup of tea and a friendly chat couldn’t be further from his mind. According to Corey, Hobe had hated Tony’s grandfather. Had he hated Tony too? And would that hatred now transfer to me?

‘I’m sorry if I’ve called at a bad time,’ I told him, glancing at the deaf man. ‘Why don’t I come back later . . . that is, if you’re not too busy?’

Hobe slumped, shrinking into the shell of his frayed shirt. I noticed stains on the worn fabric; they looked wet, as though he’d recently clutched something bloody to his chest. As I pondered this, a noise erupted from inside the house – it sounded like someone whimpering in pain.

Hobe’s head jerked around. He shot a worried look at the deaf man. The man sprang to the door and vanished inside without so much as a farewell glance at me.

Hobe resumed watching me with narrowed eyes.

‘There’s no hurry,’ I said, inching nearer the verandah steps, ‘it’s just a cracked window and an old tree limb that’s
hanging too close to the roof, probably not even worth worrying about . . .’

Hobe peered into the darkness that lay on the other side of the screen door. ‘What day suits you?’

‘Tomorrow?’

He pruned his lips to ponder this. ‘Eight o’clock too early?’

‘That’d be great.’ I muttered goodbye and beat a hasty retreat. My legs wobbled as I bounded down the stairs and tried not to run to the Celica. As I climbed in I couldn’t resist looking back at the house. Hobe had watched my escape and now stood at the verandah rail peering down at me.

I gave an erratic little wave, jammed my foot on the accelerator, and sped off down the track in a miasma of dust.

Stripping out of my sweaty clothes, I tossed them in the laundry basket then climbed into the clawfoot tub. The old shower-rose was a relic of the past, big as a dinner plate and perforated with pea-sized holes; the resulting torrent was brisk and deliciously cool.

I hung my head and let the gushing water pound my shoulders, feeling better as the dust and heat and stickiness were washed away. When my fingers and toes wrinkled, I climbed out and scrubbed dry, then got into soft old pyjama shorts and singlet.

In the kitchen I brewed a pot of coffee and stood at the window, picking at my pecan pie while I stared out at the garden. Heat-haze shimmered the trees, and the sky was pure cloudless blue; the only motion was a solitary lorikeet sweeping back and forth, back and forth, as though unable to find a perch.

I knew exactly how it felt.

My thoughts flitted restlessly, trying to make sense of my disastrous visit to the Miller property – but no matter which way I looked, the whole episode remained a mystery. The man
at the water tank, his chest a lather of pink foam – blood, I felt certain. But whose blood, Hobe’s? Did that explain the red stain on Hobe’s tattered flannel shirt; had they been in a fight? And what about the whimpering I’d heard while standing on the verandah, surely the sound of someone in terrible pain?

And Hobe . . . he’d been nothing like Corey’s description. No neighbourly chats for him; his reception had been downright unfriendly. I recalled our first meeting and how he’d seemed troubled when I asked directions to Thornwood. Again I wondered if his dislike of Samuel Riordan had somehow transferred to me, simply because I was now living in Samuel’s house.

So much for my plan to pick his brains. After his performance today, I guessed he wouldn’t be thrilled about having me quiz him for information about Samuel. Which meant I’d have to do some digging of my own.

But where to start?

I’d already searched the house soon after moving in. Samuel had been a hoarder, his lovely old cabinets and sideboards well stocked with flotsam from the past. Shoeboxes full of prehistoric dockets, void bank bonds, receipts for maintenance work around the house, typed letters from various medical boards; tins of tarnished coins and belt buckles, wood boxes crammed with yellowing shirt collars, shoelaces, cotton reels, oddment buttons. A comprehensive collection of relics, but nothing that yielded any clues as to what might have driven him to murder.