Five Parts Dead (16 page)

Another man, small, chinless and chubby, paces the room holding a book in front of him, a Bible. He drones in a voice like bagpipes. A ruddy-faced woman sways from side to side, wailing, ‘Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war…'

In the centre of the room, beside the girl, a thin, grim woman stands, her dark hair piled into a bun, her head angled like a crow's. Despite the chilled air, her forehead shines with sweat and her pale cheeks are blotched scarlet. Beneath her calico apron and black gown, her chest heaves, as if she has just run a marathon.

The girl groans, tries to lift her head.

Immediately the lean woman slaps her. Lifting her dress and petticoat enough to kneel, she begins pressing both hands into the girl's swollen belly. She prods, pounds and massages at the abdomen, as if trying to push it upwards, into the girl's chest. As she works, she hisses and cajoles, ‘Satan, be gone! Be gone!'

The girl whimpers. Her head rocks from side to side. She mutters, ‘No. No. Father. No.'

Crow-woman pummels the girl's ribcage five, six, seven times. She moves up to the girl's throat, white-knuckled hands encircling the neck. ‘Satan, be gone. Be gone!' She reaches for the girl's jaw, wrenching it down, thrusting a fist into the mouth and grasping for the tongue. The girl bucks and the bald man loses his hold on her.

The chair topples sideways. The girl's head crashes onto the floorboards. Her body convulses, jerking the chair until it collides with a table leg.

Her attacker surveys the other adults, confident of her power in the room. Unsmiling, she unties the blood-flecked apron and smooths her dress. ‘The demon has left her. Let us pray.'

The girl lies still, one eye purpled, pink drool spilling from her lips.

O: MAN OVERBOARD

The dream shatters. I groan, then hear Pip tiptoe across and slip under the sheet. She hugs my back. I reach for her arm and pull it tight around me.

‘Hey. How come you're up?' I mumble.

‘Because you woke me, thrashing about and grinding your teeth. I was worried you were having a fit.'

‘Sorry. Bad dream.'

I'm surprised by my acceptance of what I saw. I'm not scared or confused by the dreams any more. I'm just furious. And determined to find answers before we leave the island. I don't know why Lily chose me… but I reckon she won't let go until I know what happened to her.

My jaw is tender, like I've been kicked in the head. I search for words to describe the crowded kitchen and the violence that took place inside it. I roll to face Pip. She gasps as I tell her what I saw.

‘I reckon that bitch Mrs Bellows waited until Captain Llewellyn was away so she could attack Lily. She made up some crap about Lily being possessed…said they needed to have an exorcism. Somehow she scared them all into taking part.'

Pip is taut with anger. ‘That's so brutal.' She pauses. ‘But it fits with the logbook, the bruising Captain Llewellyn mentioned—maybe even why Lily was sleeping in the stable. She couldn't go back to the other cottage. It's no wonder she took her own life…She must have been terrified of what they'd do to her next.'

I don't believe that. ‘No. She wouldn't. There's got to be another explanation.'

Pip whips up more of her muesli before we hurry to the lighthouse. As we walk by the second cottage, the one where the Bellowses lived, I'm tempted to smash the windows. I hesitate, glaring at the limestone walls. Pip steps behind me and, placing both hands at my back, shunts me along the path.

There's an eerie calm in the lighthouse as we reread the log. Lily isn't mentioned after August 20.

‘How could they be so cruel?' Pip says. ‘Why did four adults gang up on her like that? Did she do something to them? Were they scared of her?

‘I mean, maybe Lily was a bit odd,' she continues. ‘God knows she had reason to be after all that had happened. Maybe she talked to herself or something. Maybe that was enough for them to accuse her of being possessed?'

‘Pip, any demons in that room weren't inside Lily,' I interrupt.

‘Okay,' she says. ‘So maybe they were jealous, threatened by her…because she was young, pretty and single. So they did that…exorcism thing to break her spirit. But they broke her instead.'

I rewind through the things I've seen or felt since we've been at the Cape. The way the girl stood in my room, clutching her belly. Mrs Bellows' assault on her womb. I feel my pulse surge. ‘If Mrs Bellows was jealous…it was because Lily was…pregnant.

‘I…I'm sure. That's why there's no way she would suicide. She wouldn't kill the baby, the only family she had.' I stare at Pip. ‘But what did they do to her?'

The wind moans down the tower.

Pip shoves the heavy log off our knees. It lands with a thud that echoes back up to the lantern room. When she speaks, there's steel in her voice. ‘So, where do we look next?'

Mum and Dad are heading to a remote lagoon for some platypus surveillance—their last expedition before we leave the island. I don't think I can leave the Cape, not before I know what happened here. I ask Mum where else we could find records on the lighthouse keepers.

She suggests the council offices, the library and maybe even the National Archives back in Adelaide.

Mel's debating what to wear when it strikes me where Pip and I need to go next. The newspaper on the floor of the courthouse was a local paper, the
Island Observer
. We should check out their files.

Mum and Dad are loading video gear into the Cruiser when I lurch over. Dad winks at me. ‘Dan, I knew it. You've changed your mind and really want to come with us.'

‘Nah. Thanks though. Just wanted to check you had soft-soled shoes on and remember to tiptoe. Those shy little platypuses will panic if you charge in there with hiking boots.' They smile, so I bumble on.

‘Look, I, umm, just wanted to say sorry. About the accident and stuff. I know Mel told you I didn't want to be there, that they made me go, but…maybe I could have tried harder…to get out of the car or something. Maybe I could have got Aaron to stop. I dunno. I'm just sorry you guys had to go through it all…I just wish…I'm really sorry, okay?'

The pair of them swoop and squeeze the air out of my lungs. Mum has a tear in her eye and Dad clears his throat. When he finds his voice it's husky and low. ‘We love you, Dan. We all do. Thank God you're still with us…' That's about the longest speech Dad's made that doesn't involve wildlife. I'm not sure how to respond but Mum doesn't give me a chance.

‘We've been so worried about you, Daniel. Not just your foot but…the things you've been keeping inside. You know you can always talk to us, right?' I nod. ‘What you've seen and been through…it's going to take time, okay? That goes for all of us. God knows I still hear the phone ringing in the night and wake up thinking it's just happened…It was a parent's worst nightmare. But you're here and…we're here for you. We love you so much and we'll get you whatever help you need…anything at all.'

Seconds tick by as I grapple for the right response. ‘Umm, thanks,' I mumble. ‘Thanks for giving me…space to figure out where I'm at. I really am sorry for giving you so much grief.'

Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Just out of curiosity, Dan…when exactly did you become a platypus expert?'

Mum and Dad take us into town. Hiroshi will bring us back. As Pip and I approach the newspaper office, a ginger-haired photographer, laden with camera gear, lumbers towards us. ‘Sorry, late for a job, office is shut,' she pants, rushing to her car.

‘Okay…let's do the library then,' says Pip, businesslike.

The library has several files on the lighthouse and I start to sift through them.

Pip asks an ancient, bearded librarian if there have been any famous murders on the island. With a bemused look, he rifles through a cabinet and passes her a thin folder of yellowed clippings.

I'm nodding off over records of oil deliveries and shipping movements when Pip whispers loudly across the desk, ‘You were right. Look at this!' She pushes the folder over to me.

In the murder file is a profile of Sam Stevenson, some newspaper clippings—and a copy of an unsent letter to his mother. In the letter, Sam states that he hopes to obtain work as an underkeeper at the Cape Nicolas light station. He has met a young woman he wishes to marry and they are soon to become parents.

‘See, Lily had a baby on the way, a boyfriend, a chance to stay at the Cape. Things were starting to turn for her.'

It's a good start but it's not enough to prove the coroner wrong. Pip gathers the files up and returns them to the librarian, thanking him for his help.

‘Come on, let's try the newspaper again.'

The same flustered photographer is perched in front of a computer, a coffee in one hand, when we re-enter the
Observer
office.

‘Hi,' I say. ‘We were wondering if we could speak to the editor.'

She flashes us a smile. ‘That would be me, believe it or not. Sally Cooper. Sorry about before. It can get a bit hectic running a one-journo paper. Absolutely no rest for the wicked.' She's typing one-handed as she talks, cursing as coffee slops into her lap.

‘This morning's job was a group of students from Chicago coming to visit their sister school on the island. The local kids had made kites to fly from the cliff top to welcome the ferry in. Sounds like a great photo, right? Kites, kids, ferry in the background. All good except the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. To get the ferry, kids and kites in one shot I'd have to have been on a boat, somewhere out in the Backstairs Passage…and I hate sailing. Anyway, how can I help you guys?'

We brief Sally on what we're looking for. ‘Go nuts, guys. See what you can find. Just let me in on the action if there's a decent story. The
Observer
could use a real scoop! Even if it is a hundred and fifty years old.'

Sally clears space for us on a table at the back of the office, sweeping newspapers, junk mail and camera gear into a pile to ‘pick up later'. Filing cabinets line an entire wall and spill into the passageway.

I extract the file on the Wiltons.

Pip pulls out the file on lighthouses and inspects a scrapbook of cheese-coloured clippings. ‘Listen to this', she says. ‘It's about the wreck of the
Loch Awe
…'

A thrilling and heartrending story of shipwreck, accompanied by fearful loss of life, reached Donington in instalments from Cape Nicolas this week. The lighthouse keepers located a sailor on rocks at the Cape—the cord of life barely intact. The exhausted seaman's tale was that the barque
Loch Awe
, bound from Glasgow to Adelaide, with passengers and a general cargo of merchandise, had been wrecked and that 33 souls had perished…

‘The sailor must be Sam—this report must have been before Ewing and Pierson turned up.' Pip is almost breathless with excitement.

I nod at her and keep reading the clippings file on Lily Wilton and her father. There's a short article on the inquest into Lily's death that reports only the coroner's ruling I saw at the courthouse. Lily was barely a blip on the radar of island life. Another article refers to her father's tragic death and the loss of her mother and twin sister years earlier but offers little about Lily herself.

I'd forgotten Lily was a twin. I don't know whether that explains our connection
—
why she chose me. I do know it makes me even more determined to find out what happened to her.

As I go to close the file a loose scrap of paper falls from the back of the folder. There are seven words scrawled on it:

Cause of death—query? See Llewellyn file.

A query over the cause of death? Someone else who didn't believe it was suicide? Biting my bottom lip, I thumb through the dog-eared folders and extract the Captain Llewellyn file.

‘Pip, look at this.' She stands and looks over my shoulder.

First up, there's a page taken from a church newsletter—a profile of the captain and his role as head keeper at Cape Nicolas. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Next comes a clipping stuck to a page from a scrapbook, telling of the captain's award for bravery in helping rescue victims of a shipwreck. Then an article announcing his transfer back to the mainland to a senior post at the Marine Board.

On the back of this page is a note penned in the same smudged handwriting I saw in the Wilton file:

Capt Llewellyn suspected foul play in the death of Miss Wilton. He furnished the following details, which were eventually delivered via the
Selby
. Unable to verify. Coroner accepted witness accounts (Bellows)—EC.

My hands are shaking. Beneath the note are three pages, fastened with a rusty pin. I recognise Captain Llewellyn's distinctive penmanship, the dates, even the faint salty smell. The missing pages from the log. Pip nestles against me as we read them.