2 A Reason for Murder (6 page)

I laughed and shook my head. As soon as I did, a rotten, musty sensation filled the atmosphere. I turned around, only to see my suspect from Gavin's ghost tours, the man I suspected of masquerading as a ghostly figure. To say he was glaring at me would be an understatement. I was taken aback at the level of malevolence.

I hurried out of there and headed straight for the River Royal Hotel. It was just a bit further up on Swan Street. Inquiries revealed that Scotty often called in at night, so I decided to spend the afternoon researching.

I stepped out onto Swan Street then remembered I'd left my sunglasses inside. It was the spinning around action that saved me, for at that precise moment, a car sped past so close to me that my folder was knocked out of my hand. Had I proceeded out the door with my sunglasses, I would've been hit. I was badly shaken but unharmed, although my shoulder felt wrenched. Talk about a close call. I was too distressed to notice the car in any detail, but thought it was deep blue.

I retrieved my Ray-Bans and bought a cheap bottle of Moscato, then drove back to the motel. After half a glass of Moscato my nerves settled somewhat. I hit the net again and tried to find everything I could on Baxter Morgan. The connection at the motel was horribly slow. Frustrated, I refreshed the page every few minutes.

Finally, I found something useful. Baxter Morgan had bought an allotment of land from Edward Close in 1834 for one hundred pounds. Next, I scrolled through the online archives of the newspaper with the lengthy name,
The Maitland Mercury
and
Hunter River General Advertiser
. My efforts were fairly half-hearted as it was founded in 1843, two years after Baxter Morgan was said to be executed, so I didn't expect to find anything.

I had fallen asleep at the laptop when my iPhone's
sms
tone woke me. One word, "
Govi
." What on earth did that mean? The screen read, "Blocked Sender." I didn't think Blocked Senders could send texts, only make calls. I'd have to ask someone. Any child should know; they're always up with the latest technology. It was probably a wrong number. The only Blocked Sender calls I get are from the bank when I'm two days late paying the mortgage.

Back to the passage on the first page.

Lost, in the district of Morpeth, about three weeks since, one bay mare, about fifteen hands high, black points, branded BM on the near shoulder.

Any person giving information where the same may be found, to Mr. Joe Crawley, "Morgan Estate," shall be rewarded for their trouble.

Maitland, January 5, 1843
.

Morgan Estate, and the brand, "BM" surely stood for Baxter Morgan. Two years after Baxter's execution, a Mr. Joe Crawley was in residence at the Morgan home. I hoped it wasn't an alcohol-fueled stretch on my part to make the connection that Mr. Crawley may have been the one who had falsely accused Baxter Morgan and taken over his property. At last I felt I was getting close to solving Baxter Morgan's murder.

A quick google of
Morgan Estate
took me at once to a listing on a local realtor's website. I couldn't believe my luck. The place was for sale, at a tidy one point four million bucks.

I was yearning for a long, hot bath, but the cheap motel only had a shower and at that, one more befitting a prison. I had bought some Wood Smoke and Jasmine Shower Gel that morning - no idea why, but the bottle was pretty - so slathered it all over me, and let the hot water run for some time on my sore shoulder.

I hopped out, dried myself with the small, scratchy, thin, motel-issue towel, and then poured on a bit too much Wood Smoke and Jasmine Body Lotion. I stood side on to look in the mirror and sucked in my stomach.

As I lay in bed between the bleach-scented sheets, I formulated a plan. Tomorrow I would be a hard core journalist. No more Ms. Nice Guy.

I had just drifted off to sleep when my iPhone rang.

"Misty, how far are you from the Newcastle airport?"

"Huh? Is that you, Melissa?" I mumbled.

"Of course. Did I wake you?"

"No, no." I tried to put on my most realistic awake voice. "What did you say?"

"How far are you from the Newcastle airport? You're still in Morpeth, right?"

"Um, Maitland, actually. Um, dunno, about half an hour or so, I suppose. Why?"

"Skinny is sending me to Melbourne the day after tomorrow to interview someone from the Princess Theater about their famous ghost. I've just checked and the return flights from Newcastle are really cheap, fifty bucks." Melissa sounded excited.

"You're kidding."

"Will you come?" Melissa's tone was pleading. "I can book you on the first flight in the morning and you can fly back that night. I'm only staying for the day. Skinny will never know."

"I don't know, Melissa. I do have a lot to do."

"Misty, you owe me." Melissa's voice was stern. "I went on those horrible ghost tours with you and got frozen. Plus I'm babysitting your cat and she insisted on sleeping on my legs all last night. I have ghastly scratches all over my legs 'cause she attacked me when I rolled over."

She had me there.

"The cat, which is a solitary beast, is single minded and goes its way alone, but the dog, like his master, is confused in his mind."

(H.G. Wells)

Chapter Nine
.

The realtor was doing his best to qualify me as a buyer, and I was doing my best to be obscure.

"Are you ready to buy now? You don't need to sell your own property?"

I thought before speaking. "I won't be rushing into anything; I just want to see what's available."

The realtor did not look happy. I suppose I didn't look like a typical millionaire. I attempted to look posh.

"Thank you so much for letting me view at such short notice." I drew out my vowels and looked down my nose at him. It seemed to work.

"No problem at all. No one's in residence. It's a deceased estate. Quite sad really. It's been in the family for decades, but now old Mr. Crawley has died and his sons are just not interested in keeping the place."

My ears had pricked up at the name
Crawley
. "What a shame. The sons don't live here then?"

"One lives in Newcastle but the other lives in Sydney."

"How long has the property been in the one family?" I was onto something, so upped my efforts. "It's just that my father is very interested in social history. I have horses and this place looks ideal from what I've seen so far, but Daddy is the one with the money. He isn't into horses, just all the racehorses he has with Gai - Gai Waterhouse that is."

My name dropping of one of Australia's most famous racehorse trainers did the trick. The realtor looked impressed. I felt a bit guilty for telling such outrageous lies, but that soon passed. I was a journalist after all.

"It's been in the family for well over a hundred years. Surely you've heard of the Crawley family? They have the Midas touch; everything they touch turns to gold. They're a very wealthy family; they have property all over the place. This house however has been the private residence of David Crawley. It was built in 1836 by a Baxter Morgan who was a friend of Edward Close." He pointed to the number 1836 embedded over the front door. "Have you ever heard of the Jewboy Gang?"

Yes of course I had, but I thought it better not to let on. "No, who were they?"

"Bushrangers. Baxter Morgan was one of them and was executed."

"I thought all bushrangers were escaped convicts?"

"Pretty much, but the whole matter's quite a puzzle. Anyway, Baxter Morgan was a close friend of Joe Crawley and left him the property in his will. Your father would be interested in the story. Someone falsely testified against Baxter Morgan and named him as one of the Jewboy Gang."

I was astonished but hoped my surprise wasn't showing on my face. "My father loves that sort of thing. Are you sure this is all true and not just village gossip?"

The realtor shook his head and then laughed. "I can't be sure, but I grew up in Morpeth and this is the story that's always been around." He must have been reassured that I was a genuine buyer, as he progressed to the hard sell. "You would've noticed that the drive into the house is lined by old English oak trees, and the driveway down to the barn, which would covert nicely to stables for you, is lined with pepper trees. The homestead is solid sandstone. The cast iron lace work on the balcony was originally imported from England, but it's been restored and repainted in the last decade."

I practically drooled. The house was gorgeous. The entry foyer was impressive by itself, but the formal living room onto which it opened was like something out of an English film.

A huge marble fireplace was set against a backdrop of Australian Colonial cedar features, cedar ceilings, mellow Huon pine floorboards, original cedar windows and cedar doors. French doors opened onto a garden of lavenders and old English roses and their heavy scent filled the air.

As we walked around the house, the realtor pointed out the marble fireplace in the master bedroom, the walk in robe, and the luxurious en-suite bathroom with a stunning roll top bath. The place could have been straight out of an issue of
Vogue Living
. The realtor led me through textbook late Georgian, Australian country house architecture. The rooms were filled with expensive art, but very little in the way of antiques. The last room the realtor showed me was the study.

"All the house is original with the exception of the study, but period features have been replicated to make it in keeping with the rest of the house." He opened the door to let me go in. I almost couldn't. The atmosphere of the room left me for a moment frozen to the spot.

The realtor walked past me and continued his sales pitch. "Of course, you have to look past the seller's personal touches and imagine the room with your own personal taste. David Crawley travels extensively and has a collection of religious curios, mostly from Africa."

I recognized some of the curios from articles I had researched and written for the magazine, in particular the art of the Yoruba region of south-western Nigeria and neighboring Benin and Togo: the conical bead crown and beaded slippers, and the beaded fly whisk, all showing the interlace and the zigzag patterns. There were three frontal faces with marks under the eyes. One had the representation of two snakes eating each other, signifying the cycle of life.

I walked over to the bead crown hanging just next to the door and peered at a tiny white bird a tiny with a long tail. Perhaps the room wasn't warded after all; all the spiritual curios would give off some sort of power.

I was so engrossed that I didn't see the man enter. The realtor's jaw hardened. "Mr. Crawley, I have not finished the viewing, as you can see."

I spun around and automatically shook the outstretched hand.

"Hello, allow me to continue the inspection. I'm the owner, David Crawley. I'll call you later, Tom. Please show yourself out."

Tom, the realtor, stormed out, looking none too pleased at being so rudely dismissed. Perhaps he thought David Crowley would sell the place to me direct and not pay him his commission.

"You like African art?"

"Yes I do; I was just admiring your collection."

He followed my gaze. "That bird is
okin
, the king of birds. Birds are very important in Yoruba art. That there is the Orere Staff, and as you can it has two birds on the top of it. You often find just one bird on top of Orere Staffs. They're associated with divination. Are you interested in buying the house?"

I hesitated, a bit thrown by the sudden change in topic. What to say? I decided to abandon the deception.

"No, I'm terribly sorry. I'm a journalist for a paranormal magazine. I'm in Morpeth for the week working on a story about the Morpeth ghosts."

Crawley's energy shifted, and then he was again masked. I was relieved to see that he wasn't angry. In fact, he laughed. "Then you would be most interested in my collection. But tell me, why my house?"

Shadows from the garden played across the wall in shifting patterns as I again decided what to say. Put on the spot, I again went for the truth. "My editor wants me to research the treasure."

"Treasure, what treasure?" David Crawley raised one eyebrow over a deep blue eye. He was a little too old for my liking, but he was nevertheless quite attractive.

"The treasure that Scotty, the tour guide, speaks about." His energy definitely shifted then. I noted it and continued. "My editor thinks that our readers would be interested in the treasure."

"What is the connection?"

"With your house?"

"Yes."

"Scotty says that Baxter Morgan was executed as one of the Jewboy Gang back in the 1840s, and I found out that this property used to belong to Baxter Morgan, so I came to have a look. The realtor told me that Baxter Morgan left your ancestor, Joe Crawley, the property in the will. Scotty says the ghost of Baxter Morgan will tell people where the treasure is once he finds out who the accuser was."

David laughed. "Clearly your magazine isn't interested in facts."

How did he know? After a moment, I came to my senses and realized that he was expecting me to disagree. I tried to muster disagreement, but failed. "What do you mean?" was all I could manage.

"Village gossip, pure and simple. I'm sure it'll make a good story, but there is no treasure. If you look into the records, you won't find any evidence that anyone falsely accused Baxter Morgan."

That was true enough. My research had turned up nothing so far.

"Have you heard of Ogun?"

David's rapid subject changes were throwing me off-guard. I nodded.

David looked surprised. "So you're familiar with African spirits?"

I shook my head. "Not overly. I interviewed a lady from the USA about New Orleans Hoodoo Voodoo for an article only recently, and she lists the orisha and the lwa in her newest book, only I've already forgotten the difference between the orisha and the lwa."

"You're not a practitioner?"

"Of Voodoo?"

David nodded.

"No." I laughed. "I don't know anything much about it, although I'd like to learn more. I do know that it's nothing like what Hollywood portrays, all that black magick nonsense."

David nodded again. "In the Yoruba tradition, Ogun is the god of iron."

As David drifted off into propounding the minute details of Yoruba art, I wondered if he was into Voodoo or even Wicca or anything at all, but he only had art and books in the study. There was not an altar in sight, not even a candle.

I furtively looked around at the book titles. If only I had worn my glasses. The books were all a blur. I could however make out all five volumes of Harry Middleton Hyatt's
Hoodoo, Conjuration, Witchcraft, Rootwork
books as I'd seen the books before and recognized the plain gray covers. I didn't have a hope of reading any other book titles at this distance.

I picked up the book opened on the table in front of me.
Africans in Colonial Louisiana: The Development of Afro-Creole Culture in the Eighteenth Century
; Author: G.M. Hall; Date: 1991, Publisher: Louisiana State University Press.

Innocent enough.

David finally drew breath after a lengthy and detailed lecture on Gabon vipers. I was beginning to have an inkling of the effect my speeches must have on people.

My iPhone vibrated. I had switched off the sound for the viewing. The Blocked Sender again, with the one word, "
Govi
." I wished I could text them back to tell them they had the wrong number and to stop bothering me, but of course that was impossible with a Blocked Sender. I held up the screen to David, who mercifully had stopped talking for the moment. "Do you know if Blocked Senders can send texts? I thought they could only make calls."

David peered at the screen, perplexed. "That is strange." His voice was cold. He looked thoughtful, then added, "Dinner?"

Again, I had no idea how to respond, and not just because of the subject change. If I pretended I had a boyfriend, he could say, "What? I'm not interested in you in that way!" and if I said, "In what capacity?" that too would be rude, not to mention embarrassing. I did want to ask him more questions, but was wary in case he wanted to make a move on me.

Fortunately he added, "I haven't lived here since my brother insisted on putting the place on the market, but I'm staying here for a few days to do a bit of work. There's no food in the house, so you could interview me over dinner - if you would like an interview, that is."

I sighed with relief before I could stop myself. "Yes, thank you; that sounds good. I'm flying to Melbourne early tomorrow morning and I'll be back late. What about the day after tomorrow?"