3 A Basis for Murder Read online

  I was grateful that Brandon insisted I eat dinner. "Come on, you need to eat up. I made dinner and I'm ravenous. I was waiting for you to come so I could eat with you. You can unpack later."

  I thanked him. "Now where can I put Diva's litter tray? I can't let her out of the house, or she might run away - if that's okay." I was quite anxious having Diva in a strange house.

  "Sure. There's a little laundry room at the back of the house. It doesn't look like it's been used since the house was renovated. You can put her things in there."

  I carried Diva's cat carrier into the room, along with the big bag which contained her litter box and litter. It was an expensive, hooded litter box with a swinging door and a charcoal filter which, so the label said, ensured that no cat odors escaped into the house. I filled the litter tray and then let Diva loose. She ran into the litter and then stuck her head out the swinging door, glaring at me. I set down a bowl of water and a bowl of her favorite Furball Formula dry food next to it.

  I emerged from the room and found the dining room. The house was large, a veritable labyrinth of rooms. The huge, oak table caught my eye, and I was admiring it when Brandon came in from the kitchen burdened by two steaming plates. My stomach growled loudly in response. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until then.

  "The place came furnished," Brandon said, nodding to the table. "You're a vegetarian, they told me? I've made some vegetarian lasagna. It's my grandmother's recipe."

  The lasagna was delicious, but I'd only eaten half when Brandon launched into what I soon realized was his favorite topic. "I'm in love, and I don't think he has a girlfriend, but sadly, I'm sure he's not gay."

  "Oh," I said between mouthfuls.

  "Yes," he continued. "He's the most gorgeous, stunning creature I've ever seen. So clever too. He's tall, and has lovely muscles. He's always very nice to me."

  I swallowed another mouthful. "That's good." I wondered why Brandon was telling me, a complete stranger, all about his love life. I could only assume it was because he could only speak to someone else within the agency. I knew how hard that was, having had to keep stuff from my best friend, Melissa. I made an effort. "What's his name?"

  Brandon looked perplexed. "He works with us, so I shouldn't say. Let's call him Fred."

  I laughed. "Fred it is. I'm surprised you don't have a boyfriend, Brandon."

  "So am I," Brandon said with deep feeling. "I've always been unlucky in love. It's good that work keeps me so busy. Speaking of which, if you need help with anything, let me know. I have some spare time at the moment."

  "Thanks, I might take you up on that." Bill and Ben had told me that I could tell my housemate the general details of my assignment, but not to discuss anything specific that I found about the evil entity with him. They had also said that Brandon would be told that I was there to find out whether there was anything behind the massacres and mining accidents, nothing specific.

  With this in mind, I gobbled another mouthful of lasagna, and then asked, "Do you know anything about bunyips, yowies, or goonges?"

  Brandon poured us both another glass of champagne, and then sat down. "Hmm, all from Aboriginal legend. Everyone knows about yowies, the Australian version of the yeti. Everyone's heard of bunyips, too. My grandfather used to scare me with stories of them, said that if anyone heard the bunyip's wail, they'd die. The mean old man used to tell me that at night, right before bedtime, and I was only about six years old. I never heard stories of what one looked like, though, only heard that they lived near rivers. What on earth are goonges?"

  I was getting a little lightheaded due to drinking a whole glass of champagne before eating. "Goonges are spirits. I don't know much about them, only that they seem to live in one area. People need to be invited into certain areas by the goonges, and if they don't get permission, bad things will happen to them if they stay in that area."

  "Dessert?"

  I was taken aback at Brandon's segue; had he heard anything I'd said? "Yes, please."

  Brandon left the room followed by an uncharacteristically admiring Diva, and returned soon after with two heaped dishes of rocky road ice cream with liberal lashings of caramel sauce on top. "Back to goonges," he managed to mutter with his mouth full. "Do you think the spirits have anything to do with the massacres?"

  I shrugged. "I doubt it; I doubt goonges are homicidal maniacs. Anyway, I've googled a bit, and I can't find anything on the massacres at all. When I was at university here, it was common knowledge, but nothing seems to have been recorded, which is weird."

  "Is there anyone you could ask? Local indigenous Elders?"

  I yawned and stretched. "I wish! No, I asked an Elder, and she didn't know; she was one of the Stolen Generation so doesn't know much about her culture. She referred me to someone else but he didn't know either."

  "What's Stolen Generation mean?"

  I looked at Brandon. "Oh sorry, I thought you were an Aussie."

  Brandon shook his head. "I was born here, but left when I was about eleven. I went back to England with my mother when my parents divorced. That's why I don't have a British accent. Anyway, what is it?"

  I love nothing better than to recite facts. "The term Stolen Generation refers to the official policy of kidnapping indigenous Australian children from their parents by the Australian government between 1909 and the 1969, although it happened prior to and after those dates. Many of the victims were put into institutions, while some boys were sent to be farm laborers and some girls to be domestic servants. No official apology was forthcoming from the Australian Government until as late as 2008. Didn't you hear about it?"

  Brandon shook his head and started clearing the table. He appeared to have lost interest again. I got up to help him. As we stacked the dishwasher, he launched into another story about Fred. "I'm sure he's my soul mate. I've never felt like this about anyone else, never. He's all I can think about." He stopped talking and peered into my face. "Do you mind me talking about him?"

  I didn't know what to say, so said a half-hearted, "No."

  Brandon's face lit up. "Great!" He took me by the elbow and led me to the sofa. "It's so good having someone to talk to."

  I smiled weakly, and laid my head against the back of the sofa. I was having trouble staying awake. As I drifted off to sleep, Brandon was saying, "And then he said to me... and then I said to him..." for the umpteenth time.

  I awoke in the middle of the night on the sofa. Brandon had thrown a blanket on me, and Diva was asleep on my feet. I struggled to my bedroom, and went back to sleep with some difficulty.

  I was woken by Diva running up and down the bed, her usual behavior when I'd slept in. I staggered out the back and topped up her bowl of dry food with a little more. For some reason, she always expects to get fed even when she still has food in her bowl.

  My first morning duty taken care of, now it was time for coffee. I stumbled out to check out the coffee situation. Sitting on the bench top was quite a fancy, stainless steel, espresso machine. I didn't have a hope of figuring out how to work it, especially pre-coffee - they should make caffeine patches for this type of situation - so I staggered in a caffeine-deprived state to my bedroom. From the top of my luggage I took out the Nespresso machine and a box of capsules, and made my way back to the kitchen.

  Two Fortissio Lungos later, and I was ready to face the world. I tipped the rest of my suitcase out all over my bed, grabbed some clothes, and then headed for the shower, tripping over Diva on my way.

  When I returned to my bedroom, Diva was spread out all over my clothes. They were now covered with cream hair. For a medium-haired cat, she sure can shed fur everywhere. I set up my laptop on the desk by the window, and managed to retrieve a notepad and pen from under an uncooperative Diva.

  I made another coffee - I always have two to get me going, and then a third to enjoy - returned to my desk, and typed in the wireless key that Brandon had given me to connect to the net.

  Then I drew a sudden mental blank. Where to start? I g
oogled Hillgrove massacres again - nothing. As I'd heard that the massacres consisted of the murdering of Aboriginal people by whites throwing them over the cliffs in the early 1900s, I googled "Aboriginal massacres." That led me to ten journal articles all of which stated that many massacres of Aboriginal people were covered up and not recorded. Even the Wiki entry entitled, List of massacres of Indigenous Australians, opened with the statement, "Massacres on Australia's frontier were often not recorded and generally tended to fall under a veil of secrecy due to fear of possible legal consequences, especially following the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838." Well, that explained it.

  Then I thought of Professor Bill Dolan, who was right here at the University of New England in Armidale. He had helped me only recently. The only problem with him was that he liked to spell out people's names to his thoroughly bored listeners.

  I called the switch board and was put through to his room. He picked up immediately.

  "Hi Professor Dolan, this is Misty Sales, that's s, a, l, e, s, not s, a, i, l, s." I suppressed a wicked giggle only with some difficulty. "We met recently when I asked you about voodoo spirits." I must say I took somewhat malicious delight in getting my own back.

  Unfortunately, Professor Dolan, as delighted as he was to hear from me, protested that he had no knowledge of Hillgrove and merely referred me to the local council.

  I called the local council and was put through to the Aboriginal Liaison Officer. I left a message there, as well as a message on his cell phone. I then called the council back and was transferred to the office of one of the city's historians. He too was out, so I left a message there. I then emailed an academic who had written widely on massacres and asked if he knew anything at all. I made a note to call the historian I'd met at Bakers Creek.

  By then it was late morning, and I was starving. I would have to drive down at some point through the day and stock up on food for my stay. I felt quite stiff after a day's traveling, so decided to walk to the center of town and buy lunch at a café. It wasn't far to walk, and I thought I'd enjoy it. As it turned out, I couldn't have been more wrong.

  * * *

  Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -

  For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.

  He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:

  For when they reach the scene of crime – Macavity's not there!

  (T. S. Eliot, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats)

  Chapter Eleven.

  I walked downtown and then through the mall. Cafés were everywhere. I had a vague feeling that I was being followed but shook it off. I finally settled on a café just up the street from the mall on the basis of a sign boasting that the café roasted its own coffee, and sat in a secluded corner. This was a good place to make notes; there was no view of the street from back here so I wouldn't be distracted.

  I sat there for about three minutes or so, before I realized that I needed to order from the counter; there was no table service. I ordered scrambled eggs with fetta and chives, served with a hash brown. I couldn't decide which coffee to have, but finally settled on my usual caramel soy latte.

  Just as I sat back down in the comfortable black seat, I had an incoming call on my iPhone. It was the Armidale city historian.

  "That's the first I've ever heard of massacres at Hillgrove or Bakers Creek," he said after I explained the information I was seeking. "It's an urban myth," he continued. "Anywhere you have cliffs, people think indigenous Australians were thrown off them. Bald Rock, Buff Rock, and Boggabri are just three of the contenders. Now there are several people over the years who fell off the cliffs, or even jumped off, but as for massacres, no, that's just an urban myth."

  I sighed deeply. "What about mining accidents? I haven't been able to find much on the net about those either."

  "Oh yes, there were lots of those. The old newspapers were full of them. People back then didn't wear safety equipment, and their mining practices were pretty ordinary."

  I sighed again, thanked him for all his help, and hung up. I opened my laptop and googled mining accidents at Hillgrove. Again it came up blank - or to be precise, produced very little. I found a web entry by a man trying to find information on an ancestor who died in the early 1900s in the Hillgrove mine, and he found that several other miners had died on the same day but he'd been unable to track down any information on a mining disaster.

  As I was in a nice secluded part of the café, I decided to call the Aboriginal Liaison Officer again. This time I was in luck; he picked up immediately. He too had not heard of any massacres, but said he wouldn't be at all surprised if it had happened. He did say however that he wasn't aware of any oral history which would support the fact. I jotted down the five referrals that he gave me, and said goodbye.

  That was quite a help, but I was not getting any further in my research. Bill and Ben had told me that there were massacres, but no one, not even the locals, had heard any such thing. But why would Bill and Ben - or the organization they worked for - invent such a story? It made no sense.

  A shadow loomed over me, and I, expecting my food, looked up while automatically saying, "Thank you."

  "Thanks for what?" It was Douglas.

  I jumped in fright. "What are you doing here?"

  Douglas sat down opposite me. "Couldn't you at least pretend you're pleased to see me?"

  I scowled at him. "You didn't answer my question."

  "Straight to the point, Misty, gee. I'm your only contact at The Orpheans, so I'd think you should actually be pleased to see me."

  He had a point, but before I could think it through, my meal arrived, along with my coffee. I was surprised when food was also placed in front of Douglas.

  "What's that?"

  "It's called food, Misty." His tone was sarcastic. "Beef and roast vegetables. This here is called a potato." He stabbed a potato with a fork and held it up for my inspection.

  "Very funny, Douglas. I was here for ages before my order came. Why did yours arrive so soon?"

  "Just lucky, I guess."

  I scowled at him. It seemed fairly obvious that Douglas had been here for ages. Had he been listening to my phone conversations? I couldn't see the counter where orders were taken from where I was sitting; I couldn't see much at all. How close had he been the whole time? But for that matter, surely I hadn't said anything important - surely it didn't matter if he'd overheard. I searched my memory banks.

  Douglas was still looking at me and hadn't yet touched his food. "Why are you so angry anyway? Is it because I'm telling you about The Orpheans and Jamie hasn't?"

  "Why would Jamie tell me about The Orpheans?" I snapped, and then regretted my tone. I added, more evenly, "Jamie doesn't know anything about them."

  Douglas slowly cut up some roast vegetables and then just as slowly popped some in his mouth. After a bout of leisurely chewing, he put down his knife and fork and said, "You really don't know, do you?"

  "Know what?"

  Douglas held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Jamie knows all about The Orpheans of course. SI7 and The Orpheans have worked closely for, well, decades if not longer."

  "SI7?" My stomach was churning; it was obvious to me that I was on the verge of receiving upsetting news.

  Douglas made no attempt to hide his surprise. "You're kidding me? You don't know? Jamie didn't tell you?"

  I shook my head, and made a show of sipping coffee.

  Douglas continued, "SI7 is a covert British government department for investigating the paranormal and the occult. Have you heard of MI7?"

  I shook my head and said, "I don't much about anything, it seems." Douglas tried to pat my hand but I pulled it away and cut up the hash brown.

  "I suppose the simplest way to put it is that MI7 is like MI6, but investigates the paranormal and occult. Of course, the government denies that MI7 does this at all, and says that it was simply set up around a hundred years ago to deal with censorship and propaganda. The go
vernment has put out a great deal of misinformation about it to cover their tracks. The organization Jamie works for, SI7, is similar to MI7."

  I overwhelmed and upset by his disclosure, and it didn't help that I was so tired. Why hadn't Jamie told me this? He had always kept the name of his organization from me. It wasn't even set out on any of the forms I'd had to sign. Why was it that Douglas was the one to tell me this, while Jamie had avoided it? My stomach clenched, and the smell of the food was suddenly making me nauseous.

  It took me a moment or so to realize that Douglas was still talking. "And so you need to go out to Bakers Creek Falls," he concluded.

  I didn't like to admit that I hadn't heard a single word he'd said, so asked, "Say that again please, but in more detail."

  Douglas finished the last of his meal before answering. "There isn't much more detail I can give you; it's quite straightforward. The Orpheans want you to go back out to Bakers Creek Falls where you found the body. I'm here to give you your assignment."

  "But..." I caught myself just in time. I had nearly said, I already have an assignment. "Douglas, did you have anything to do with that murder?"

  Douglas looked affronted. He clutched at his chest. His expression was one of complete innocence. "Of course not! How could you say such a thing?"

  I shrugged, and motioned for him to continue.

  Douglas cast a quick look around the café before speaking. "Your assignment is to find out if there's a spirit that's behind that murder, as well as the previous murders, you know, the massacres and all. Then you are to find out the name of that spirit and report the name to me."

  Now that was suspicious. "Lucky I'm already in town researching Hillgrove's ghosts for my magazine," I said dryly, carefully studying Douglas's face for any reaction.

  There was none. He sat there as cool as a cucumber. All he said was, "Yes, that's good."