The Lost Sapphire (3 page)

Marli took a photo of herself crashed back on the sofa, pulling a funny face, and sent it to her friends.

Nice pad. Having an AWESOME time in Melbourne all by myself. Miss you guys. xxx

She made herself some breakfast, cleaned up, had long phone conversations with Evie and Tess, then read her book. After a couple of hours, she put the book down and wandered restlessly from perfect room to perfect room.
I could watch a movie
, Marli thought, noting the neat row of DVDs stored in the cupboard under the television, but nothing took her fancy.

Marli went out onto the balcony and looked out at the view. In the distance to the west were the tall, silver skyscrapers of the city centre, glittering in the sun. To the east was the river, with parkland and walking paths wending along beside it. Cyclists raced past, overtaking mothers pushing prams and couples walking dogs.

I have to get out or I'll go mad with boredom
, thought Marli.
How on earth am I going to survive two months living down here?

She packed her backpack with a bottle of water, an apple, her book and phone, then grabbed the keys from the bench.

In a few minutes she had a helmet on and was off cycling, winding her way through the busy Richmond roads towards the river. Marli felt so much better when she was out doing something. It was peaceful riding the bike along the main trail through the picturesque parkland beside the river. Sunlight glimmered through the leaves, dappling the ground and glinting off the water. Marli crossed over a bridge and followed her nose through the quiet streets of Hawthorn.

It wasn't until she found herself cruising down Riversleigh Grove towards the wrought-iron gates that Marli realised where she was heading. She padlocked the bike to a telegraph pole, grabbed her backpack and set off to explore. The old house and its high-walled garden had captured her imagination. There must be some way of getting in.

Next door to the walls of the property on the southern side was a small block of Art Deco apartments with a low brick fence across the front. Looking down the driveway, she could see the stone wall of Riversleigh stretching towards the river. On the northern side was a large Federation house. An old man was pottering in the garden and waved to her as she hovered.

A trilling warble sounded. The cheerful fairy wren, with his iridescent blue bands, was back. He swooped down over Marli's head, then alighted on top of the wall. The bird danced along, cocking his head from side to side, observing Marli. He trilled again, then flew off into the garden beyond, as though enticing Marli to follow. This made her even more determined to find a way in.

On her second prowl, Marli peered into the garden of the block of flats. The fairy wren appeared again, skimming over her head, then alighted on a branch of a tree growing beside the wall. He watched Marli with his bright, beady eyes, then hopped from the branch onto the wall. He cocked his head to the side and flitted down into the garden.

The fairy wren had shown her a way in. Marli glanced around, hoping no-one was watching. Then she quickly shimmied up the tree and onto the top of the two-metre
high wall. She didn't hesitate, dropping over the other side, breaking her fall by bending her knees.

It was only once she was in the garden that she suddenly wondered if she'd be able to get out again. Marli gazed around. She hoped there weren't any snakes lurking nearby in the waist-high grass – luckily she was wearing jeans and sturdy boots. Marli set off, wading through the vegetation, feeling like an explorer in another world. The scent of sun-warmed stone, crushed grass and sweet blossom floated around her as she wandered.

On the southern side of the house was a massive, dark-green hedge that must once have been clipped but now grew rampant. The belvedere tower was on this side also, jutting above the dense foliage like a fairytale turret. Marli headed towards the front of the house, which faced east.

The going was easier once she reached the crumbling circular driveway. The marble fountain in the centre of the circle had a cracked rim and its three basins were filled with slimy green water. Dragonflies flitted above the basins, their wings a silvery blur. Marli felt nervous as she crept up the stone front steps, past the smashed urns on either side and onto the front verandah.

The windows were boarded up, as was the arched front door. Graffiti was scrawled across the peeling paintwork; ivy crept up the walls.

Marli continued around the house, past the protruding bay window with its three arches. A stone-flagged terrace, crazed and cracked, ran along the northern and western sides. The doors along the terraces were also boarded up. One of the hoardings was loose, so Marli prised it away,
revealing French doors. Sunlight flooded through the glass and Marli could see a dusty parquet floor and a vast room. She tried the handle but it was locked.

The phone in her backpack rang, making her jump. She quickly pulled it out and checked the screen. It was Mum, calling from England. Marli sighed.
Should I answer it?

‘Hi, Mum,' said Marli. ‘How was your flight?'

‘Long.' Mum's familiar voice sounded far away over the phone. ‘But I'm here now in Cambridge. I was worried because you didn't reply to my texts. Is everything all right?'

The sound of Mum's voice made Marli feel sad and homesick.

‘Sorry, Mum,' replied Marli, ‘there wasn't really anything to say. It's been pretty boring. I don't know anyone down here and Dad's at work all day. So what am I supposed to do?'

Marli felt a twinge of guilt because of course there had been things happening, but she wasn't going to tell her mum that.

‘Perhaps you should think about taking some photos?' Mum suggested. ‘You haven't taken any for a while, and it might be a good chance to practise. And you could post them online; I could see what you're doing.'

Marli huffed. ‘I might have had lots to photograph if I was in Cambridge with you, but there's not much worth photographing
here
.'

‘Well, I'm glad you're all right,' said Mum, trying to sound patient. ‘I'll call you again in a few days, but in the meantime could you please text me so I know everything is all right?'

‘Okay, Mum,' Marli groaned. ‘I promise.'

Marli felt uneasy because she was hardly ever in disagreement with her mother. For years it had been just the two of them, so they usually loved spending time together – watching movies, making dinner, walking and reading. She didn't like arguing with her mother, even if she'd gone off on an adventure without her.

Marli said goodbye and stashed the phone into her backpack. She looked down over the gardens towards the thick shrubbery that hid the river below. To the left was a sunken area that, despite decades of neglect, was filled with rambling roses in shades of pink, cream, white and yellow, filling the air with their rich scent. Marble benches, spotted with lichen, were set on each side of the square, facing the roses.

A path led right across the garden towards a tumble-down summerhouse on the right. Its roof was weighed down with wisteria vines that twisted and twined around the posts, their tendrils bursting through the wooden shingles. A pair of swallows had made a small mud nest under the eaves. They darted above the ground, chasing whirring insects.

A sudden hacking cough made Marli jump. She swung around, her heart thudding.

A thin, dark-haired boy about her own age was standing on the terrace, hands on hips, staring at her. Marli recognised him as the boy she'd seen walking past the house on Saturday. He still had the earphones hanging around his neck.

‘What are you doing?' he demanded, his face flushed. ‘You shouldn't be here. It's private property.'

Marli immediately felt guilty, but that quickly turned to anger. ‘What are
you
doing here?' she retorted. ‘You're the one trespassing.'

‘I'm not,' insisted the boy, his voice rising petulantly. ‘Leave, or I'll … I'll call the police.'

Marli mirrored the boy's stance: hands on hips, glowering. All the anger and frustration that she had been trying to keep bottled up over the last few days bubbled to the surface. This boy was being rude, and she wasn't going to let him bully her.

‘You do that,' she snapped. ‘I'm not leaving.'

The boy glared at her. Marli glared back. The silence stretched out. The boy was the first to break the impasse.

‘My grandfather keeps an eye on the place,' he explained grumpily. ‘Nonno hates it when people break in and graffiti the house and break windows. Someone tried to set fire to it a few years ago.'

‘This house belongs to my family,' Marli explained.

The boy shook his head. ‘No it doesn't – it's been owned by the government for years. It was a nursing home when I was younger, but no-one's used it for ages.'

Marli decided he was a most unpleasant boy. ‘It was only leased to the government,' she retorted. ‘But they've released it, and it belongs to my grandfather, Michael Peterson. So I have every right to be here.'

The boy looked discomfited. ‘Oh,' he said. ‘My name's Luca Costa, and I live in the flats next door.'

‘I'm Amalia Peterson, Marli for short. I usually live in Brisbane, but I'm down here for a few weeks.'

‘I saw you climb the tree in our front yard,' Luca explained. ‘So I followed you in.'

Marli had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I probably was trespassing in your garden, but I couldn't work out how else to get over the wall.'

‘My bedroom looks out over the garden here at the back,' Luca said. ‘I've never been in here before, and I've always wanted to know what it was like.' The boy coughed harshly, making him breathless.

‘Why would your grandfather keep an eye on the place? Is he some sort of caretaker?' Marli asked.

‘We live next door, but my great-grandfather used to work here many years ago.'

‘What a coincidence,' said Marli, feeling rather prickly about Luca's connection to the estate. ‘Did he work here when it was a hospital?'

Luca shook his head. ‘No, he was a gardener here when it was owned by the Hamilton family. You know, the old cursed family who lived here.'

Marli felt a shiver run up her spine. ‘Cursed?'

‘Yes, my grandfather's parents knew the family and said that some terrible things happened to them. My great-grandfather was sure that someone had cursed them with the
malocchio
– that's Italian for “evil eye”,' Luca explained.

Marli thought that, with its rose brambles, wild shrubbery and weeds, the garden looked like it could belong to a cursed castle.

‘Really?' she replied. ‘That sounds sinister. My grandfather said it was his mother, Violet Hamilton Peterson, who lived here – and it made her sad to come back.'

The two started walking down the steps and into the garden, back towards the tree where they had climbed in.

‘Ouch,' cried Marli, bashing her shin on something buried in the long grass. It was a fallen statue of Cupid, the god of love, his nose chipped, staring sightlessly up at the sky.

‘Give me a hand,' Luca suggested.

Together, the two wrestled the statue upright on its plinth, facing back towards the house. The effort made the boy cough into his hand.

‘That's better,' said Marli, rubbing Cupid's marble curls.

Her mind was bubbling with curiosity and unanswered questions. Was the family really cursed? What had happened to the Hamilton family to make them give up this beautiful house? Marli was determined to find some answers.

Riversleigh, 6 November 1922

Violet Hamilton woke at a slight sound and burrowed deeper under her coverlet.
It can't be time to wake up yet,
she thought.
Just a few more minutes.
Next, she heard the sound of the heavy curtains being pulled back. Early-morning light flooded the room. Violet sighed, rolled over and opened her eyes. A steaming cup of milky tea had been placed on the bedside table.

Violet sat up, leaned against the pillows, lifted the cup and took a long sip.

Silhouetted against the sunlight of the window was a young maid in a blue floral dress and starched apron, tying back the grey silk curtains. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, hidden under a frilled cap, her nose sprinkled with freckles.

‘Good morning, Sally,' said Violet, resting the pale aqua cup in its saucer. ‘Thanks for the tea.'

Sally bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mornin', miss. Would you like anythin'?' Sally was an Australian-born working-class girl, but her accent hinted at her parents' Irish heritage.

Violet took another sip, savouring the invigorating warmth of the tea. Through the window she could see the wide blue sky scudded with fluffy clouds and the vivid green sea of the treetops. It was a glorious morning, perfect for a swim. Could she manage it? Could she sneak away? Violet's eyes sparkled with mischief.

‘Do you think you could come back, please, Sally?' asked Violet. ‘In about fifteen minutes?'

The maid nodded. ‘Very good, Miss Violet.' Sally padded away, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet, and closed the door behind her.

Violet threw back the white coverlet on her wrought-iron bed and jumped up. If she was going for a swim, she would need to be quick to make it before her father came down to breakfast. Violet flung open the armoire door and searched through the drawers, tugging out the items she needed.

She tossed her nightgown on the rumpled bed and wriggled into a navy swimsuit dress, slipping a colourful silk kimono wrap over everything. She didn't bother with the canvas slippers or the matching cap, preferring to leave her hair hanging down her back in a long braid.

Violet took a towel from the hanging rail, pulled open the creaky, white-panelled door and peeked into the hallway. Her sister Imogen's door was firmly closed. She might not be up for hours if she'd been out the night before. At the front of the house, the doors to her father's room and dressing room were also tightly shut.

Perfect
, thought Violet.
No-one up yet
.

She escaped down the sweeping staircase to the entry hall. The house was eerily quiet. Beside the staircase, a narrow corridor led towards the servants' wing. It was hard to believe that behind the green baize door was a hive of activity where the cook, housemaids and footmen would be busying themselves with preparing breakfast, making tea and polishing silver.

To the left of the stairs was the rear of the house, with its darkened billiard room, sunny morning room and the vast ballroom that ran across much of the back, overlooking the river. Violet, however, went straight ahead down the short corridor that led out onto the northern stone terrace, down the steps and onto the croquet lawn.

The house was surrounded on three sides by formal lawns and flowerbeds. The southern side was the service quadrangle, hidden from view. The old stables and carriage house had recently been converted into a garage with the male servants' quarters above.

Violet was greeted on the lawn by her boisterous dog, a black-and-white Dalmatian called Romeo. The dog pranced on his paws then reared up on his hind legs, dancing backwards, his pink tongue lolling in welcome.

‘Hello, boy,' said Violet, scratching Romeo's head. ‘Want to come walkies?'

Romeo bounded around her in circles, licking her hand, ecstatic to be accompanying her on an early-morning adventure. Violet stopped to give him a good rub under his chin.

The two headed towards the river, down paved terraces with wide, shallow steps. Stone urns were bursting with white primula, blue hyacinths and sweetly scented freesias.

In the centre of the lawn was a sunken rose garden, filled with a profusion of blooms of ivory, cream, yellows and blushing pinks. Wider beds, perfectly weeded and mulched, were filled with flowers in every shade of blue, mauve and white – daphne, daisies, forget-me-nots, agapanthus, lupins, gardenias and hydrangeas. Violet stopped to breathe in the scent, enjoying the sunshine on her face and the feathery grass under her bare feet.

Two gardeners in flat caps, one balancing precariously on a ladder, clipped the tall camellia hedges. They tipped their caps as she walked past.

‘Good morning, Alf. Good morning, Joseph,' Violet called.

‘Morning, miss,' they replied in unison, in their thick accents.

Violet crunched down the gravel path flanked with box hedges, past the summerhouse. From here, the path zigzagged down the bank, hidden from above by dense shrubbery. A fairy wren darted above her head.

Once out of sight of the house, Violet began to run, hurtling downhill towards the boathouse, Romeo chasing her. The green-brown water of the Yarra rippled past, carrying swirling leaves and small twigs. The banks were lined with weeping willows, feathery ferns and tall gums.

She looked around to see if anyone was about, then dropped her wrap and towel on the timber decking. Violet's father, Albert Hamilton, didn't approve of his daughters swimming in the river, and she was definitely not supposed to venture down here on her own. The river looked tranquil from above, but its depths had many hidden dangers – tangled roots, submerged logs and jagged rocks.

She dived – a clean, shallow curve – into the deepest pool. The water was freezing, making her gasp. Romeo preferred to scrabble down the steep bank and launch himself into the water from the river's edge. He paddled next to her, head held high above the water.

Violet faced upriver and swam hard against the current, propelling herself with powerful strokes. At the northern bend she stopped and turned, treading water. From here she could see the house – her house. Riversleigh.

With its cream arches, shady loggias and graceful tower, it was perched high on the riverbank, surrounded by greenery. The morning sun bathed the house in a rosy golden glow. Overhead soared a deep-blue sky with pale wisps of cloud. The beauty made her catch her breath.

Riversleigh looked so solid, so safe. Like an Italianate castle, guarded by high walls and forest, it had sheltered her family for generations, a haven from the turmoil of the outside world. At least that's what she'd thought as a child.

Violet lay back, staring at the sky, letting the river carry her back downstream. Romeo's bark woke her from her reverie. She'd better hurry or she'd be late for breakfast, and late for school. That would definitely make her father cross.

She scrambled up the metal ladder and grabbed the towel to dry herself and squeeze the water out of her long hair, then twisted the towel up in a turban. Flinging her silk kimono around her shoulders, she hastened back up through the shrubbery.

Violet was cautious as she sped across the lawn with Romeo. Her father could be down from his bedroom
now, sitting in the morning room, or he could be upstairs watching from his bedroom window. But there was so sign of him as she crept back into the house, leaving Romeo outside to dry in the sun. Violet made it back to her bed-chamber without being detected. She pushed open her door and went in, leaning her back against the door in relief. Or was it disappointment?

She looked around. It was a pretty room – dove-grey walls, white woodwork, a French writing desk by the window and a rose-pink velvet armchair beside the fireplace. While Violet had been swimming, Sally had made the bed, tied back its filmy muslin curtains and tidied away the belongings Violet had strewn around.

Sally was laying out Violet's school uniform on the bed – silk underwear and dark stockings, white shirt, navy box-pleat tunic and tie, with black buckle shoes. Violet let out a little sigh. Sally looked up and bobbed her head.

‘Thanks, Sally,' said Violet. ‘I'm running terribly late, but it was worth it.' Violet stripped off her sodden wrap and costume, passing them to the maid.

‘Yes, miss,' replied Sally, handing her the fresh underwear and uniform, piece by piece. ‘Was the water cold?'

‘Freezing,' Violet said, ‘but refreshing.'

Sally helped Violet with the buttons and knotting the tie while they chatted. Violet sat down on the stool in front of the dressing table, regarding her reflection: pale skin, green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She glanced away. She thought her school uniform hung like a sack on her slight frame, and her long, wet hair made her look half-drowned. It was Imogen who was the renowned beauty of the family.

‘How's your family, Sally?' asked Violet. ‘You went home to Richmond yesterday?'

‘Mmm,' Sally agreed, her mouth full of bobby pins. She put the pins down on a crystal tray and unbraided Violet's hair. ‘Ma made lovely scones for us all, an' it was good to see the kiddies. Billy has grown so much in a month, an' Maisie is as cheeky as a barrel full of monkeys.'

Violet nodded, trying to imagine Sally's mother's house full of children. She thought it must be a rowdy, warm and loving place.

‘Did your mother like the basket of goodies from Mrs Darling?' asked Violet.

Sally nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes. The kiddies were so excited about the apple cake an' the meat pie. They scoffed the lot in no time at all.'

Violet could imagine the merry scene. She glanced wistfully at her image in the mirror. ‘One day I'd like to come and visit your ma, and all your brothers and sisters. It would be lovely to meet them.'

Sally looked a little embarrassed. ‘Oh no, miss. You wouldn't like to come to my place. It's not right for the likes of you. It's too noisy an' crowded.'

‘It sounds charming.'

‘Yes, miss.'

There was silence as Sally pulled long, sweeping strokes through Violet's wet hair with a silver-backed brush. When it was dry, Violet's hair was thick and curly, hanging to her waist. Her father used to say that both his girls were true Scottish lassies with their rich auburn tresses with hints of gold through it. Violet flicked a hank of hair behind her ear in irritation.

‘What else is news in the kitchen?' she asked, changing the subject. ‘Has Monsieur Dufour been throwing any pots this morning?'

Sally shook her head as she continued to work the brush through the knots. ‘Only a little one, an' it was empty.'

Violet laughed. The French chef was very temperamental and seemed to think that it was part of his job description to hurl pots and pans around the kitchen when his fellow workers annoyed him with their stupidity. When they were younger, Violet and Imogen had loved to venture into the kitchen to beg titbits from the kitchen maids, but when Monsieur Dufour had taken charge of the kitchen last year, he had swiftly declared that his domain was definitely out of bounds for the misses of the house.

‘The new chauffeur started today, miss,' said Sally after a moment's thought.

‘Oh, I'll miss Ellis,' Violet said. ‘And the horses.'

Mr Ellis had worked for the Hamilton family for decades, first as a carriage driver and then as chauffeur, though his first love had always been the horses. He had driven Violet to school each day and ferried Imogen around to her social engagements.

Violet smiled as she remembered the furious scolding Ellis had given her when she was twelve. One of the grooms had left the buggy, hitched to a pair of horses, tied up outside the carriage house. When she spied them, Violet had decided to take the buggy for a joy ride. She had urged the horses into a canter and had taken the corner too fast. The left-side horse shied and the buggy overturned, throwing Violet into the hydrangea bushes.

Ellis had come chasing after her, calmed the horses, then checked that she was not too badly hurt. Violet had been scratched and bruised, but that was nothing compared to the tongue lashing she received for endangering his precious horses. Ellis then told her that the consequences would be dire if she ever did anything so foolish again, but he never told her father about the accident, and that week he taught Violet how to drive the buggy properly. That was the beginning of a firm friendship between the two.

‘It broke Mr Ellis's heart when your father sold all the horses, an' he said it's better to go now while he can still find another place,' explained Sally. ‘He's gone to a big house in Toorak that still keep horses and carriages.'

‘Dad decided the horses weren't being used enough and he finds the motor car more convenient for longer trips,' said Violet. ‘But I loved riding Sultan and driving the buggy. It's not the same being driven everywhere.'

Violet suspected that the real reason her father had decided he no longer needed horses was so he could sell the paddock. The neighbouring houses were creeping closer every year as parts of the estate had been sold off.

‘The new chauffeur's a foreigner,' Sally continued, wrinkling her nose. ‘A Russian. Maybe he's one of those Bolshies.'

Violet smiled at the thought of her father having a comunist revolutionary driving his beloved automobile. That was totally incongruous.

‘I don't think Father would employ a Bolshevik,' said Violet. ‘The Bolshevik threat to the world order is one of his favourite topics at dinner parties.'

Sally nodded. ‘They say the Russians are starvin'. Those Bolshies are a murderous lot, killin' their emperor an' his poor family.'

Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, his wife Tsarina Alexandra and their five children had been executed in 1918 by Bolshevik soldiers during the Russian Civil War.

‘It was very sad,' Violet agreed, ‘but I don't think our chauffeur will be murderous.'

‘He's young an' charmin'. An' a bit of a looker, if you like foreign types.'