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CHAPTER TWELVE
A cool breeze drifted across the veranda bringing with it the smell of jasmine from the water tanks stand and a hint of animal. Most likely sheep, for they were in the middle of a few thousand acres of sheep country. Merrel wrapped her shawl closer and stared at the crimson and grey sunset. She marvelled at the beauty despite the fact she had seen thousands like it. It was like her own private art collection. A place to retreat to for a few minutes each day, away from the business of running a property and supporting a wealthy pastoralist. They both had head starts. Both were born into good families, given the right chances and whilst she had secret dreams of being the world's leading ballet star as a young girl, knew her place had been already been set aside. She would marry into a suitable and well to do family, and bear children to continue the cycle. He mother said three, but a fourth came along, all in the mould of their parents.
She couldn't complain really. Francis was a good man. Only of late he had worried her. Visits by businessmen she did not know and his interest in opals more than perhaps a pastoralist would need to. He called it diversification to cover the bad times of drought and falling wool prices. She called it boredom.
Then there was Adrian. He flirted with her, and many more that night, at the annual Ag Society's Dinner Dance. She ignored him.
After all there were stories and he did have his wife with him. Why he was there apart from the obvious was a slight mystery. Still anyone could buy tickets. Francis seemed oblivious to it all.
She thought about that night often. And another night. Adrian came to visit Francis, but he was away somewhere. He brought flowers and she gave him a peck on the cheek as a thankyou and drew back as she felt embarrassed yet something else. Like wine going to her head all of a sudden. He smiled and said nothing. In the lounge they chatted over coffee and that same smile. He admired her opal pendant but she knew he was admiring her. When she came back from the kitchen with more cake, he was standing up. He took the plate off her and placed it down on the centre table. She stood there. Then he held her. His lips were soft. She offered no resistance. It became as passionate as she had long forgotten from her youth. She took his hand and led him to the sewing room. The patterns and wools were swept aside from the settee as were the clothes they were wearing. It had been a long time for her. Adrian was over anxious for when she reached up to him, It was over before it started. She remembered him saying 'sorry' then kissing like she never knew.
It never went much further. She heard the dog barking and the sound of a motor. She pushed him away, the puzzled look on his face quickly giving way to alarm when he realised why. He grabbed his clothes and ran to the window, then returned and with an arm around her back, a kiss she had never forgotten. Then out on to the veranda, as the car door slammed shut, around the other side of the house.
When Francis came inside and threw his felt hat onto the sofa, she was in the kitchen making distinct noises with cups. He never mentioned Adrian's car, but a minute or so later, there was a knock on the door, and there he was, all dressed. Some story about he had just arrived and saw Frank's car coming through the gate as he was getting something from the boot. A bit thin, thought Merrel, but her head was in no mood for rational thought.
He and Francis had a drink and discussed things out the back, and that was that.
Perhaps not quite. She often wondered what it would have been like if Francis had not come home so early. A cool wisp of a breeze made her pull the old brown cardigan closer around the small shoulders, and she sighed when the insect screened door squeaked slightly as it was pulled opened. Perhaps background music to a dream. Like looking through a window.
The noises of the night were interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Merrel picked it up. It was Fran Phillips from down the way. The conversation was the usual for Fran, but like Latin grammar, the real reason would come at the end. It did. Had she heard about Adrian? Merrel went cold. Her thoughts confused, she sat down. Then she realised Fran was still speaking. "No, I hadn't heard. Where?. This is terrible. Can I call you back?
Good. Bye.”
She reflected on the last couple of minutes. No one could suspect anything happened. It was a one off. Francis might have guessed, but it was unlikely. She let it drop. Would face each step as it happened.
Not only Merrel, but others had an interest in the local radio news. Francis for one. Life on the land was unpredictable, but there was always a methodical course of action for each event. In this case there was none, and he was confused. He drove back to his new windmill, recently installed to replace an old one which had ceased to pump, and stood leaning on the bonnet of the car.
He needed to know what happened to Bedford. If he was murdered, why? And could there be a connection to himself. 'Damn the opals' he thought, 'why did I ever get involved?' Like the proverbial triangle, there was still Maurie Hopkins. He was a property man in the north west, buying and selling and generally making deals.
How did it start? A flock of galahs were drinking from the troughs but he was in no mood to observe nature.
Probably back at that F&G meeting a year back, when property owners were faced with increased ratings by the Rural Protection Board and market constrictions. The president said they had to diversify but absorb the costs in their current workings. Otherwise the big city companies would swallow them up. The Mullents had been on the land for generations. Even the opal find of 1903 that eventually put the Ridge on the world map, didn't sway them. Sheep could be seen. Black opal was like the fabled El Dorado, perhaps nothing for years. Or ever.
Like a few at that meeting, Frank asked questions. Listened. Took in ideas. Adrian Bedford was listening, and he also was diversifying, but not from wool. He arranged for someone to broach the subject with Mullent, for Frank's background would not have initiated such a thing. It was risky but in the end, what wasn't in business.
Frank needed to put up some capital. Maurie Hopkins was in on it and Adrian would supply quality stones to an unknown buying syndicate in far away Brisbane, for offshore distribution. No one asked where they came from but it was understood this deal was tainted and the opal obviously lifted. Frank casually asked around and found Adrian managed two mines for a Sydney company. One was worked with known locals. The other, Dig 44, had suddenly seen the local labour let go and then new unknown workers employed.
Frank was a silent partner, like Hopkins. Once every three months, Bedford would come around to the house and leave a package, which Frank took a couple of hundred kilometres away to the larger towns of Coonamble or Dubbo and passed over to Maurie Hopkins. From there it continued it's journey to the other side of the world. Likewise cash would be left with him at the same time. No doubt a hefty discount would have been pocketed beforehand.
But Adrian Bedford had crossed the boundary somewhere. Would he be next? He drove home and found Merrel sitting on the front veranda. She seemed on edge. When she did not rise, he joined her.
"Merrel. We need to talk about Adrian Bedford.”
Merrel stiffened. It was going to be hard to hold back her tears.
It was obvious he had known that night. "It's not what you think Francis." The words came out slowly.
"It is what I think," he cut in. "He's dead, and I'm involved, somehow. I should have told you before, but....I just didn't.”
She turned sharply and looked at him, not saying a word. Too shocked to say anything. Not so much because Adrian was dead, but realising this was not about her, but about Francis. The cautious relief that showed in her face was not obvious to him."About you? What do you mean dear?" The thought of Adrian and Francis having some sort of affair came and just as quickly left.
He told her. It was also a telling that was so different about him. For the first time in years, he talked to her as his equal, the only focus for his thought and words was her. She started to cry. Didn't really know if it was for joy or relief or sadness.
She saw the look of alarm in his face, and fearing he might take this as a sign of rejection, took his hand and squeezed it.
They didn't speak for several minutes, just looking out over the scant grass and scrub beyond, then at each other.
"Who do you think did it?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Probably whoever he dealt with. Must have short changed someone. What a mess.”
Just then an eagle came into view, soaring low across the east paddock. It turned and with a quick flap, was rising and lost behind a stand of butterbox trees.
"If the police come," said Francis, "we don't know anything.”
Merrell thought a second. "People know he came out here a bit.”
"True. Friend. He liked art, and we listened to his stories of the mining business. Even bought the odd stone. End of story.”
He then stood up and offered his hand to her. She took it and felt the strength, as she gained her feet. The uncertainty of a few minutes ago was now being replaced. "A brandy seems in order," he said as he stepped across the veranda and into the dark hallway.
Meanwhile in another part of the country, a nervous Maurie Hopkins was trying to quickly finish a sale of a small property and had he been himself, probably would have squeezed another $10,000 or so out of the buyers. This time he had other concerns on his mind, and whilst the new owners went away smiling, he locked the door of the office, and headed to his car. Not that he was an expert, but nothing or no one seemed out of the ordinary, as he drove out of the main street and down to the bridge where the river lay far below in sluggish pools. He had seen it reach the decking once, but today his mind was elsewhere. He pulled over under a peppercorn tree, turned the car so he could see the road both ways, and took stock.