Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 8 by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Cover by Lydia Penn

Bradley Noakes glanced approvingly round the small Italian restaurant where Jessica had booked a window table for lunch. He liked the red and white gingham curtains and matching table cloths, the light timber furniture and wall panelling. Jessica herself had also dressed carefully in a light beige business suit which blended in with the decor.

They smiled at each other across the table and made small talk until the meal was before them. Then the fencing began again.

Thrust from Jessica; “so did you manage to solve your little mystery, or are you still working on it?”

Parry from Bradley; “funny you should mention that. When I saw you last week, I was just following up another lead on that case.” He twirled a forkful of spaghetti in the air and added, “this sure tastes good! We don’t eat like this at home. You see my family owns a chain of butcher shops, and Mum is a very plain cook, so she just cooks whatever Dad brings home — chops, sausages, steak, more chops! You name it,”

Jessica laughed with him, but made a mental note; Bradley obviously enjoyed his food! The old adage, ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ certainly could be true for Bradley. She merely remarked, “glad you like it; it’s one of my favourites too.”

She paused, then thrust again; “what are you investigating, or is that confidential? Avril didn’t mention it after, so I presumed it was your little secret. But I must admit I’m curious.” She gave Bradley a dazzling smile.

He parried again; “no secret. It’s public knowledge actually, to do with the fire at the Cummings property a few years ago. My grandmother knew the family well, so inevitably I took an interest in them as I’d always heard so much about them, first the fire and then Harold’s remarriage.”

Jessica was an attentive listener, and now, feeling he was on safer ground, Bradley became more expansive. “I’ve been trying to find out something about Sarah before the fire,” he confided. “But there seems to be a dearth of information there.”

Jessica’s face lit up. “I may be able to help you. My older sister went to school with Sarah Cummings, although she wasn’t ‘Cummings’ then of course. I could probably find out a few facts about her for you if you like.” What luck, she thought as her mind raced ahead; forget Avril for the moment, it’s my chance to open up a deeper relationship with him.

She chose her words carefully. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, as Bradley laid down his fork on his now empty plate, and beamed at her. “Why don’t I arrange a little dinner party with my sister and brother-in-law. They live in Melbourne too — and then Coral can tell you what she remembers about Sarah Cummings. She may even have some photos from school days.”

No journalist could resist such an opportunity, as Jessica well knew. Congratulating himself that he was able to parry any questions about Avril. It was with a light heart and a bottle of wine, that Bradley arrived at Jessica’s unit on the appointed evening. He was a little disconcerted however when he noticed that the small round table in the dinette leading off the kitchen was laid only for two, not four as he had expected.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jessica, following his gaze. “Coral and John were unable to make it after all.” She omitted the fact that they’d never been invited, as she added brightly, “but I think I can get you some school photos of Sarah.” She led him into the lounge, where she plied him with a cold beer and pre-dinner nibbles.

Jessica used a subtley seductive approach! She was casually dressed in a pale lilac sweater, and light grey pants, a frilly blue apron around her waist, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, her make up minimal. The “homely” approach! She was a good cook and had made a special effort for Bradley, introducing him to the delights of French cuisine. He repeatedly expressed his enjoyment of her version of Cog all Vin. No fly ever felt more comfortable entering the spider’s web than did Bradley Noakes that evening!

After dinner, feeling very much at home, Bradley helped himself to another beer from Jessica’s well-stocked fridge before assisting her to make coffee. (“Be a dear, Brad, I’m not much good with these gadgets.”) They sipped their coffee sitting opposite each other in the small, but tastefully furnished lounge chatting on a variety of subjects. Finally, after a visit to the bathroom, and a tantalising glimpse of something pink and frilly, as he passed her half-open bedroom door, Bradley reluctantly got up to go. It was 11pm.

Jessica fare-welled him in a casual but friendly manner as he gave her a light kiss on the cheek. She assured him that she would give him a ring as soon as she had procured some photos of Sarah Cummings, and Bradley went happily on his way, little realising that while they had discussed such innocuous topics as travel and journalism, his subconscious mind had been absorbing the comforts of the cosy unit, the delicious smell of cooking and the faint aroma of Jessica’s perfume — just as she had intended.

As he returned to the home where he lived with his parents and two sisters, Bradley’s thoughts turned to Avril, twelve thousand miles away. Could she cook like that, what sort of a homemaker would she be? He put such disloyal thoughts from his mind. However, he began to realise how little they really knew each other. There had been that spark between them; the moment he first saw her, he knew she was the girl for him. But their brief time together had been against a background of restaurants, their conversations centred on the topic of the Cummings family and the fire.

Bradley was practical rather than romantic, and to him, the fact that he had fallen for Avril and she had responded to him, was enough. He had no idea of how to conduct a courtship from such a great distance. So in his next letter, having previously told her about the investigation he began to ask about her daily life, not mentioning his visit to the Inspector or his meeting with Jessica.

A few days later he had a phone call from Jessica, “Brad, I’ve now got some photos of Sarah Cummings, school group, that type of thing, and I thought you might be interested to see them.”

Bradley was interested, and he was happy also to accept the accompanying invitation to dinner at Jessica’s unit. Together they enjoyed another tasty meal, and afterwards, Jessica produced a magnifying glass and spread the photo out on the table. “I’m afraid they’re not very clear,” she admitted as they studied them together. Bradley’s mind was still intent on studying Sarah Cummings, and that evening he had to leave early as he had a 6am assignment the next day. He felt however that he owed her a dinner; she was warm, intelligent and good company, She had stopped her probing questions about Avril, and Bradley still regarded her in the same way he regarded other females that he dated from time to time. A week later he accepted another invitation to dinner at her unit. “Oh Brad, I’ve just found a super new Italian recipe, and I want to try it out. It’s not much fun just cooking it for myself. Would you come and give me your opinion.”

Before he fully realised what was happening, they were meeting on a more regular basis, movies, theatres, dinners, either in a restaurant or more frequently in Jessica’s unit. She was very attractive, and although he knew he was not in love with her, Bradley soon wanted something more. The warm atmosphere, the subtle aroma of Jessica’s perfume, her ‘casual’ touches, and her now more seductive mode of dress were as inviting as her cooking.

Jessica was fully aware of his aroused desire; she was ready that night when he could hide his feelings no longer and took her urgently in his arms. She responded warmly, and although nothing was said, both knew that a line had been crossed in their relationship that night.

But the next morning, Bradley was overcome with guilt and embarrassment — guilt at he thought that he had betrayed Avril, and embarrassment as he wondered what Jessica was thinking about his uncontrolled behaviour. He would have been very surprised to know that her only thought had been, ‘why had it taken him so long’!

Now was the time to stop the relationship, but Bradley didn’t know how — or if he really wanted to. He dithered all day, and finally in the late afternoon, remembering they had planned to go to a movie that evening, he rang Jessica at the travel agency. “Are you still expecting me tonight?” he asked a little hesitantly.

‘Of course, why not,” replied Jessica. “I’ll expect you at seven.” (The future looked very promising!)

Bradley rightly recognised this as an unspoken acceptance of their new relationship. His desire grew in intensity each time they met, and Jessica made herself indispensable to him. But Bradley Noakes was not a happy man. His biological urges were well satisfied, but thoughts of Avril left him in turmoil. His letters to her became shorter and more infrequent. What could he say? How could he continue to express his love for her while he was sharing the bed of another woman? Optimistically he tried to convince himself that somehow it would all work out, even though he had no idea how.

As for Jessica — she had wedding bells in mind. But she was careful, determined that when she walked down the aisle to become Mrs Bradley Noakes, it would not be a ‘shotgun wedding’. She presumed his relationship with Avril was over, but she was well aware of her vulnerability. He was not in love with her as she was with him, and she still had no claim on him. Any day he might meet another woman.

So — while outwardly the relationship appeared one of mutual satisfaction, inwardly and privately, each wondered about the future, and its uncertainty for both of them. Bradley was unable to break away from Jessica, and she seemed unable to bring the affair to the satisfactory conclusion she wanted.

Matters were unexpectedly brought to a climax by a letter from Avril.

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Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 7 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Cover by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 7 by Lydia Penn

 Ex-Detective Inspector Russell Digby was bored! He had now been retired for about a year and had found that retirement was not all he had been led to expect. His lumbago was hampering his activities in the garden, and arthritis in his right knee also plagued him; life was no longer the horticultural bliss he had anticipated

“This retirement business is not what it is made out to be,” he grumbled to his long-suffering wife as he sat morosely drinking tea at the breakfast table. “You have all the time in the world, but not the energy to do what you want with it, even if you have the money. I’m now just a ‘has-been’. Even when I wander down to the station, they all seem pleased to see me, but they’re too busy to stop and talk, and I’m just in the way.” He sighed deeply as he reached for another piece of toast. “What am I suppose to do for the next twenty or so years?” he demanded.

“I know, dear,” said Joan Digby sympathetically, even as she wondered what she was going to do with this disconsolate husband under her feet in the kitchen all day! “My father felt the same,” she said as she poured herself a second cup of tea. “He took up bowls. You might like that,” she suggested brightly.


 “Stuff and nonsense,” snorted her husband. “If I can’t work in the garden, how do you think I can play bowls? My outings now seem to be all doctor’s visits,” he went on. “A waste of time too, while they tell me to go on a diet, cut down on alcohol and give up smoking. What sort of life is that, if a man can’t do what he wants. Now when I was working, I never had time to see a doctor, and I was perfectly fit.”

Joan refrained from commenting — she had heard all this before, and she had been warned that after a busy fulfilling life, her husband would find it hard to adjust to a new, slower pace. She began to clear the table as he picked up the morning paper and lit a cigarette.

Two hours later he was wandering aimlessly around the garden when the phone rang, and Joan called him in.

The voice at the other end of the phone was unfamiliar, but Bradley Noakes quickly introduced himself as the journalist who was responsible for the article and photos about Harold Cummings’ engagement to Sandra Purcell, which had so interested the Inspector. Since talking to Mona Thompson. Bradley’s interest in the case had been rekindled, and he was now going ahead with bulldog tenacity to uncover more in what he thought had the makings of an intriguing story. He felt that the retired Inspector could be a source of small details about the night of the fire which might be revealing. After his brief explanation, Bradley was delighted to obtain an appointment with the Inspector for 11:00am the following day.

Two more parallel lines of investigation were about to converge!

Bradley would have been amazed could he have witnessed the Inspector’s reaction to his phone call. Forgetting his lumbago and arthritic knee, ex Detective Chief Inspector Russell Digby headed straight upstairs to the small bedroom he had converted into a study, and Joan could hear him opening and closing drawers and cupboards, as he muttered to himself. Presently he emerged with a pile of papers and files which he dumped on to the dining room table with a grunt of satisfaction. Russell Digby was now in his element!

“What’s happening?” asked Joan, who had just started to make some morning tea. It was obvious that her husband had at last found something to relieve his boredom.

Russell Digby sat down at the kitchen table and took the tea she offered him. As he added milk and sugar, he enlightened her. “That young man on the phone is coming over in the morning to discuss the Cummings fire investigation. It seems he has some new details of interest. Good thing I kept a lot of my personal notes on the case. Now I must refresh my memory before he comes.”

He gulped down his tea, grabbed a slice of cake and repaired to the dining room, where he proceeded to cover the table with files and documents. Joan was only too happy to accommodate his new interest, even though he worked late into the night and would barely stop for meals. “I might even write my memoirs,” he informed her over a hasty dinner. Joan merely smiled, and tactfully refrained from reminding him that this was something she had suggested many months ago, but he had flatly pooh-poohed the idea.

He was up early the next morning, freshly shaved and smartly dressed, all relevant documents placed in order on a small table in the sunroom which led off the kitchen, where he impatiently awaited Bradley’s arrival. “What is your special interest in this case,” was his expected first question. The two men had taken an instant liking to each other, and after initial greetings had sat down to enjoy the fresh homemade scones and tea which Joan provided.

“Well, sir, I guess it started with my grandmother, “ Bradley began, and as the Inspector raised a quizzical eyebrow, he went on to explain his grandmother’s assessment of the character of Harold Cummings, which had triggered his interest in the fire, and then the engagement of Harold Cummings to Sandra Purcell.

The Inspector listened carefully, made a few notes and then asked, “what else have you since found out, and what is the book you mentioned on the phone?”

Bradley explained his meeting with Avril and his activities since. He produced the book of poems, and the Inspector stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette and began to peruse it closely. He was back in his old familiar role and began to question Bradley more closely.

After they had shared and chuckled over, their respective visits to Martha Coutts at the modelling agency, and Bradley had demolished his second scone, the Inspector sat back, lit another cigarette and regarded him with a smile. Presently he spoke. “Cherchez la femme! I always knew there had to be an accomplice in that fire situation — most likely a woman. It all fitted together too neatly. But the problem has always been that every extensive investigation failed to turn up any connection between Harold Cummings and any other woman.”

“But ……,” began Bradley.

The Inspector held up his hand. “What you have told me is merely hearsay — what this girl Avril told you, that she had learnt from someone else. It would never stand up in a court of law —a clever barrister would tear the case to shreds in a moment.” He consulted his notes again, and Bradley waited impatiently for him to speak. “This is what we have.”  he stated after a while. “Two sets of facts. One, a fire with loss of life at the Cummings property — to Harold Cummings’ advantage, as all was heavily insured and he was deeply in debt. Harold Cummings himself had a cast-iron alibi by being in New Zealand at the time. And two, which you have now brought to light. A Sydney model, with a strong likeness to Sarah Cummings, boards a pre-booked flight to London two days later, stays there for two years, then returns, not to Sydney but to Melbourne. Less than a year later she marries Harold Cummings. Coincidence? I don’t think so!”

“And the book?” prompted Bradley.

“Aha. Well, that was a mistake, of course. For some reason, it was picked up, and then carelessly lost. But though it provides a connection, it is not proof of anything. To sum up; there is no doubt that a heinous crime, planned by Harold Cummings, was committed that night. The big question is by whom!”

Bradley stared at him. “You mean Skippy?”

“The woman you know as ‘Skippy’. Yes,” said the Inspector. “But who is she?”

“You can’t mean ….,” began Bradley; he stopped with mouth wide open in horror.

“Why not,” said the Inspector matter of factly. “That has been done before. There were two women in that house that night. One was burned beyond recognition; the other flew to London, where we do know Harold Cummings made frequent visits over the next two years.”

Bradley sat stunned. In all his years of journalism, such a case had never come into his orbit before.

“There’s another alternative,” added the Inspector as Bradley prepared to leave. “The plan has all the marks of Harold Cummings unscrupulous character, but even so, maybe it went horribly wrong. Maybe the wrong woman died that night.” He smiled at Bradley who now looked even more appalled. “All this is strictly off the record of course, but keep me posted, and we will meet again.”

Bradley departed with his mind in a whirl, while the Inspector went happily back to the task of sorting out material for his memoirs.

Mona Thompson would have been very surprised to learn of the reactions to her now forgotten conversations, from both Bradley Noakes and Sandra Cummings nee Purcell.

Having initially disregarded Mona’s account of Bradley’s visit as unimportant, after a couple of days Skippy began to replay it over and over in her mind until she had convinced herself that the ‘nice young journalist’ Mona had mentioned, was most likely a detective. What had Mona actually told him? She began to toy with the idea of visiting Mona to find out what had actually been said.

“You’d better not,” said Harold firmly, when she began to discuss the matter with him.” She’s served her purpose, now drop her. She’s a terrible gossip and has probably gone on to something else now. If you show up again, you’ll only make her curious. You’ve messed up enough all ready.” He turned back to watch his favourite evening TV programme.

Skippy was near to tears; it’s all right for him, she thought. He made sure that he had a safe alibi; he has no idea what I went through. I know I goofed up a bit on the ship, but that worked out all right. He doesn’t understand.

But Harold did understand, and as Skippy fumbled for her handkerchief, he pulled her to him. The plan should have been perfect; they had rehearsed it over and over; she knew exactly what she had to do. But Skippy was the one weak link. If she broke,  Harold understood only too well what the consequences could be. He switched off the TV and gave her his irresistible smile,  as he began to caress her. “It will be all right, honey.” he whispered. “We’ve got each other, and I need you.” That was true! They were now bound together by the shared deep dark secret of what really happened that night, as much as by the mutual passion that now engulfed them.

But the dreams were recurring, and with greater intensity — the flames were now reaching higher, grabbing her, so that she couldn’t get away. In the distance she could hear Harold calling, then she saw his face in the flames laughing at her. Skippy woke in a cold sweat, sat up in bed, screaming and shaking with fear.

As Harold took her in his arms, calming and reassuring her until she again fell asleep, he began to make plans; the time had come to move out of Melbourne, as he had known it would. Money was no problem. He smiled wryly in the darkness as he thought of the Swiss bank account, and the highly insured valuables removed from the property before the fire. Beneath that charming playboy exterior, Harold Cummings had a mind so brilliant, so devious, so cunning, so unscrupulous that even the experienced cynical Inspector Russell Digby would have had difficulty in comprehending.

Harold looked at his wife, now sleeping peacefully beside him. They had struck a deal at that first meeting in London after the fire, and she had been a willing accomplice as he had outlined his further plans. She thrived or challenge and deception as much as he did, and the future still looked good for them both. He turned over and quickly fell into a deep sleep!

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Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 6 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Cover by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 6 by Lydia Penn

The woman whom Justin and Ben had known as “Skippy” tossed restlessly in her sleep. The dreams were returning, the nightmares. She thought she could hear Harold calling in the distance, telling her what to do.


She woke suddenly and sat up in a panic — no, he was still there, snoring peacefully beside her. Dammit, she thought, the sleeping tablets aren’t working any more. She slid out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown, and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. It was only 2am, and she was wide awake. This is becoming a habit, she thought, as she carried the steaming tea into the lounge where she sat in the darkness staring absently at the lamp illuminating the street outside.

We must move, she thought desperately. Perhaps I’ll feel better if we get out of Melbourne. It’s all right for Harold; it doesn’t affect him, so he just laughs when I tell him my fears, and says I imagine things. Maybe I am, but I feel people are looking at me and wondering, but —.

Her musings were interrupted by a loud male voice calling, “where are you, honey. I want you.”

He always calls me ‘honey’, she thought with a wry smile, but there’s certainly nothing sweet about me! Her thoughts were bitter as, leaving her tea untouched, she made her way back to bed and Harold’s arms; She wanted him too!

“Hush, honey,” he said, “You’ve been having nightmares again. Don’t try to talk. We’re together,” and he began to caress her.

As usual, she responded ardently, in a manner that would have astonished Justin — certainly no ‘ice maiden’ here!

Soon they both fell into a deep sleep, and it was late when they were woken by the sun streaming through the curtains. Again at breakfast, Skippy brought up the subject of leaving Melbourne, but in the light of day, her fears seemed petty, and as usual, Harold merely laughed and returned to reading the newspaper. “You worry too much,” he told her with his engaging smile. “Why don’t you go shopping and buy yourself some new clothes. That always cheers you up, then we can go out to dinner tonight, and you can wear something new.”

Skippy decided to shop in the city where she felt a sense of security at being unknown in the crowd. But as she wandered through the department store, selecting a few garments to try on, she was hailed by a loud voice. “Why, Sandra, fancy seeing you here. How are you?”

She turned and found herself facing Mona Thompson, her neighbour during those early days in Melbourne before she had married Harold. This was the “ice maiden” that Justin would have recognised, as she turned to great Mona with a cool smile, betraying none of the inner turmoil that the unexpected encounter had raised.

“How strange that I should see you today, “went on Mona. “Why, it was only yesterday that a nice young man called at the house. Said he was a journalist and was writing an article on former models and their lives now. Asked me all sorts of questions about you.”

“Really,” said Skippy, panic beginning to rise again even as she maintained her cool, detached manner. “I don’t suppose you could tell him anything very interesting about me. These people are always on the lookout for sensation.”

In spite of her apparent calm, Mona sensed that Skippy was a little disturbed at what she had said, and decided not to tell her what she had actually told Bradley Noakes. So after a few more moments of chit chat they parted, and Skippy fled to the fitting room, where she sat down and tried to think what Mona might have said and if it would have mattered anyway. What did Mona know? So she made her purchases and returned home looking forward to the dinner out that Harold had promised.

However, had she known what actually did become apparent in the conversation between Mona Thompson and Bradley Noakes, she certainly would have been very disturbed indeed!

Six months had passed since Bradley and Avril had first met, and two months since she had returned to England. They had met only twice more before she left Australia, but Bradley had phoned her frequently. Back in England, she had written as she had promised, but although her letters were warm and friendly, they lacked any expression of her longing for him as he longed for her. She was still undecided.

A promotion was in the offing, and Bradley had been kept very busy. But, he now had a few days leave, so after spending a day relaxing and unwinding, he decided to continue his investigation into the life of Mrs Sandra Cummings, nee Purcell. Maybe if I unearth a few more facts to pass on to Avril, it will rekindle her interest to investigate with me, he thought illogically, as he drove to the address where he had learnt Sandra was living prior to her marriage to Harold Cummings.

Although most of the houses were small, the street was pleasantly tree-lined and exuded an air of comfortable affluence. Bradley wondered briefly, how Skippy had afforded to live there, although he had been unable to obtain any details of her financial situation. Hoping to find a neighbour who had lived there three years ago, he knocked at the door of the house to the left of the one where he knew Skippy had lived.

“Why certainly I knew her,” said Mona Thompson, when Bradley had explained his concocted story — an article he was writing about the lives of former models. “But I didn’t know her well,” she added, “and I certainly never knew she had been a model. But actually, I think I played cupid there, as she and Harold met in this house.”

“Really,” said Bradley, trying to conceal his rising excitement. “How did that happen?”

“Well……,” began Mona. She paused, and looked him over, and liked what she saw. “Look here,” she said, opening the door wider, “why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea while I tell you all about it.”

Bradley accepted with alacrity. He was used to such invitations, but this one promised to be extremely productive. He could hardly believe his luck, as he followed her into the small but cosy kitchen, and settled himself comfortably into a chair at the table, as she proceeded to fuss about making the tea.

He got out his notebook as Mona began to talk. She obviously loved gossip and was in her element. She was, he judged, in her late fifties with dyed blonde hair and beady brown eyes which looked myopically at him through thick gold-rimmed glasses. She eased her plump figure into the chair opposite him, as she placed two mugs of steaming tea on the table.

She gave him a friendly smile. “Sugar, young man? No, well you’re sensible,” she said, shovelling two full spoonfuls into her mug. “We knew Harold’s parents quite well,” she began. “We used to attend the races, you know, and Bruce, that’s my husband, got friendly with wth Harold Snr. But we never met his son or Sarah, Young Harold was never interested in the horses, only in spending his father’s money.” She shook her head reprovingly and sipped her tea.

“So tragic, his father’s death, so soon after the loss of his mother,” she continued. “We sent young Harold a condolence card. But we heard nothing from him until about three years ago, when he suddenly phoned and asked if he could come over. We were a bit surprised, but we asked him to dinner, and after that — it was after Sarah’s death too, of course — he used to come here regularly. Funny though, he never talked about himself, but he asked a lot of questions about the district. We wondered if he was planning to move here, but never did.”

“And,” prompted Bradley, absentmindedly helping himself to a shortbread biscuit from the plate in front of him. “When did Sandra come to live next door and meet Harold?”

“Oh, that was just a coincidence,” said Mona, “The house was to be leased for a year, as the family was going overseas. They were lucky. She told me that they got a tenant straight away, which was Sandra. She moved in two months after she took the lease. But we hardly saw her. She never went out during the day, but always at night. I thought she must be a waitress or have a job in a bar, something like that.”

“How did she meet Harold?” asked Bradley again, filling his notebook and trying to keep her on track.

“Well,” said Mona, “I was having this small dinner party, quite casual, you know, and I asked Harold. Then a day or two earlier, as I was unloading all the groceries from the car, Sandra came out and offered to help me. I told her I was having a dinner party, and she said something about it being nice to have so many friends, and she looked so forlorn that I just asked her to join us.”

“I see,” said Bradley thoughtfully. Actually, he saw a lot more than Mona realised! He asked a few more pertinent questions, but he sensed that she was becoming curious, so he thanked her profusely and left before she began to suspect the real reason for his call. He now had plenty of food for thought, but it was lunchtime, so he went in search or more solid food to fill his stomach.

He found the local shopping centre and located a small cafe on a corner which looked quite congenial. As he entered, he noticed a girl sitting at a window table, who looked vaguely familiar. She looked up as he approached and smiled. “Hello, Brad,” she greeted him.

Bradley stopped. He met many people in the course of his work and prided himself on his good memory for faces. He smiled back and held up his hand. “Don’t tell me,” he said as he studied her — long blonde hair and wide grey eyes. “I know,” he said after a moment. “Jessica, the wedding in Sydney. We sat at the same table. That’s where I met you before,”

That will do for starters, thought Jessica, as she indicated the vacant chair opposite her. “Please join me.” As Bradley sat down, she thought back to that evening, when he had attached himself to the group outside the marquee. She remembered how piqued she had been when he showed such obvious interest in Avril and had danced so closely with her all night. What was the situation now, she wondered. Was this her opportunity?

Bradley broke into her thoughts. He had been studying the menu, and he now looked up at her. “What are you doing here? I thought you lived in Sydney.”

“No, I live here,” she said, “and work as a travel consultant. I was born and brought up in Melbourne. But yes, I did live in Sydney for a while when Dad had a transfer there with the bank. My parents are still there.” She put down her empty coffee cup. “Do you live nearby?” she asked.

“No, I don’t know this area at all,” said Bradley, “I was just here doing a bit of investigation, — the nosy journalist!”

“Of course,” said Jessica and laughed.” I remember you and Avril were busy discussing a little investigation that evening too.”

The fencing had begun!

Bradley was adept at parrying questions which he didn’t want to answer, while Jessica, as a salesperson, knew how to thrust to get the information she needed. He wanted to conceal details of his relationship with Avril, the girl he intended to marry, while Jessica was equally determined to explore Avril’s relationship with Bradley — the man she intended to marry!

She chose her next words carefully. “I hear from Avril that they are well settled back in England. I know she was looking forward to going back. I don’t think she ever really settled in Australia.”

Bradley parried the unspoken question. “How did you come to know Avril?” But at that moment a waitress appeared to take their order, and he turned his attention back to the menu. “I’m starving,” he announced with a grin. “It seems ages since breakfast. Will you join me for lunch, Jessica?”

“Thanks, I’d love to,” she replied, concealing the fact that she had just finished a very belated breakfast. “Something light — just a salad perhaps.”

Bradley placed their orders, with a substantial meal for himself, then returned to his question.

“We met at Business College,” explained Jessica. “My family had just moved to Sydney, and hers had just arrived in Australia. So we kind of palled up — a new city for both of us.”

“Do you work near here?” asked Bradley.

“No, my office is in the city, but I was visiting a client in the area,” Jessica explained and began to discuss her work, preparatory to her next thrust. But glancing at her watch, she realised she needed to get back to the office. She thought quickly. “Look,” she said, “I have to get back to the office. But I’m sure we still have lots to talk about. If you have another spare day, why don’t we meet for lunch next week and chat some more? My shout.” She gave Bradley a dazzling smile.

“Why not,” said Bradley. So they arranged to meet for lunch the following week at a restaurant near the travel agency.

A chance encounter! But what was set in motion that day was to have far-reaching effects in many lives.

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Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 5 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Cover by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 5 by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 5 by Lydia Penn

Three people as yet unknown to each other.

Three parallel lines of investigation into the life of Harold Cummings

By definition, parallel lines do not meet.

Were two of these lines about to converge?

Bradley Noakes was forging ahead in his career, but his dedication and irregular hours left him with little time for an active social life. He knew several girls whom he could call on to partner him to functions in connection with his job, but he was not seriously involved with any of them. Work and pleasure seemed to overlap, and Bradley was a content, happy man. However, when he and two other friends received invitations to the wedding of another friend, who was marrying a Sydney girl, they all decided to fly to Sydney for a long weekend.

It was a pleasant evening in September 1962; the well decorated Pymble church was crowded and very warm so Bradley and his friends were glad to get out in the fresh air when the ceremony was over. The reception was held at the home of the bride’s uncle, where a large marquee had been erected in the grounds, and people were milling around, enjoying the balmy evening air before the chill of night set in. Bradley and his friends knew none of the other guests, but that didn’t stop Bradley from wandering around, chatting to complete strangers, as he often did in his job. One group, in particular, got his attention, and one particular girl in that group. He sauntered over to join them.

After a few opening remarks and pleasantries to the group in general, Bradley turned to the girl who had attracted him. “Can I get you a drink,” he offered.

“Thank you, but I already have one,” she replied, indicating the glass in her hand.

“I know,” said Bradley. “But that’s just my opening gambit.” They both laughed, and he held out his hand. “Bradley Noakes at your service.”

“Avril Clements,” she replied as they shook hands.

Two parallel lines of the investigation had just met!

Wearing a saxe blue outfit which matched her eyes, and with shoulder-length wavy chestnut hair, Avril Clements was a very attractive young lady. Bradley Noakes resolved to stay with her throughout the evening.

He had met the girl he intended to marry!

“Of course you’re English,” he said as they sauntered across the lawn together. “Did you emigrate?”

“Oh no,” said Avril. “Daddy has been out here on contract for his company, but we’re due to return home in a few months.”

“I can’t let you do that,” said Bradley quickly. “I’ve only just met you.”

“But you can’t stop me,” replied Avril spiritedly.

“Oh yes I can,” said Bradley, with equal fervour. “I’ll marry you”.

Avril looked taken aback. “As you said, we’ve only just met, and I don’t know you.”

“Well, we’ll start to rectify that right now,” said Bradley, taking her hand as they walked towards the marquee.

“Is this the Australian way?” asked Avril, now looking amused.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Bradley. “But it’s the Bradley Noakes way.”

Avril matched his light mood. “So this is always what you’re like?” she asked with a smile..

“You’ll get used to it,” said Bradley. “And by the time we’ve had six children, you won’t even notice it.”

Avril now looked appalled. “That’s going a bit far. Aren’t you rather taking things for granted?”

Bradley merely smiled and steered her into the marquee which was rapidly filling up. They found the table where his two friends were already seated, and Avril invited two of her friends to join them. Conversation flowed with the drinks.

“What do you do for a living?” Jessica, one of Avril’s friends, asked Bradley, noting his athletic build. “Are you in the sports world?”

“Nothing like that,” he answered. “I’m a journalist — one of those nosey people who ask awkward questions, and brings the news to your breakfast table.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call that nosey,” said Jessica quickly, not troubling to hide the fact that she found him attractive. “You can ask me anything you like.”

Bradley laughed and concentrated on his meal, but Avril had listened with interest. Later, when the speeches were over, and the conversation began again, she turned to Bradley, sitting beside her. “You were saying you’re a journalist. Do you by any chance know much about that tragic fire at the Cumming’s property about four years ago?”

She was surprised at his sharp reply. “Why do you ask? “he demanded, putting down his glass.

“I hope I haven’t said the wrong thing,” she answered, a little hesitantly. “I wouldn’t have known about it, but Daddy was in Melbourne on business at the time, and he told us about it.”

“But why are you so interested?” pursued Bradley. “It was, as you say, a few years ago, so what does it have to do with you now?”

“Well, it’s sort of complicated, but I’ll try to explain,” said Avril. “The subject came up at home because we had my cousin and his friend visiting us from England two years ago. My cousin’s friend, Justin, met this girl on the ship coming over. She was rather odd, and she left behind a book of Banjo Paterson poems, with Sarah Cummings name and phone number in it. Justin had only known her as ‘Skippy’, so he phoned that number to make arrangements to return it, and he was told that she was dead. That’s when Daddy remembered about the fire and told us. Then a year ago there was this article in the paper, with photos telling about this girl, Skippy’s engagement to Harold Cummings. And we noticed a likeness to Sarah. I was very intrigued, and I always wanted to learn more, as it all seemed a bit odd to me.”

Bradley had been listening intently. He sat quietly after she had stopped talking. Then he told her, “I was responsible for that article in the paper. But can you tell me more about this girl, Skippy, what did he say was odd about her?”

Avril was quiet after her long explanation, but just when Bradley thought there was nothing more she could tell him, she started to talk again and told him about the apparent fear of journalists, the drugging and the aunt who didn’t exist.

“Hm,” said Bradley, making notes in the little book he always carried with him. They were both silent again for a while, each mulling over what Avril had said. The other couples had now got up to dance. He put an arm around Avril and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Let’s dance,” he said. “I want an excuse to feel you in my arms.”

In her job as a doctor’s receptionist, Avril had met many men, and been propositioned by a few, but she had never met anyone quite like Bradley. He was very attractive, she admitted to herself — tall, broad-shouldered, with curly brown hair and twinkling brown eyes. She enjoyed the feeling of his closeness on the dance floor, and as his arms tightened around her, and his lips met hers while they continued to dance. Avril found herself strangely drawn to this man she hardly knew. Must be the champaign, she told herself. I knew I shouldn’t have had that last glass. Reluctantly she had to decline his invitation to lunch the next day before he returned to Melbourne.

“Jessica’s parents are hosting a luncheon for the bridal party and close friends, “she explained. “They are here tonight and will be driving us girls home, in case we’ve had too much to drink!”

Bradley Noakes now had a double incentive to return to Sydney as soon as he could. But it was another three weeks before he was able to get away, during which time he had phoned Avril frequently. He arrived in Sydney late one evening and stayed in the cramped flat of his journalist colleague. Like the Inspector before him, Bradley had no difficulty in locating the model agency where Sandra Purcell had been employed, and he easily obtained an appointment with Matha Coults, who had been vastly intrigued since the Inspector’s visit. All good publicity for the agency, she thought.

Bradley accepted the offered cup of weak and cheap instant coffee, which he drank stoically — all part of the job, he reminded himself. He knew he was attractive to women and was soon aware of the interest and meaningful look in Martha’s eyes as she talked — he had seen it many times in females of a certain age! But she was unable to give him any further information than she had given the Inspector. Bradley took copious notes and made his escape as soon as he realised she had no more to tell him, and headed, not to the pharmacy like the Inspector, but to a nearby coffee shop where he hoped to get a decent cup of coffee while he mulled over all his notes.

When he took her to dinner that evening, he and Avril discussed what he had learnt about Sandra Purcell, and she handed him the book of poems. “Justin left it behind, and you may as well have it, as it’s no use to us,” she said. Bradley studied it, while Avril perused the notes he had taken from his conversation at the agency. “I can just about read your writing,” she muttered, screwing up her eyes. Then her sudden exclamation made him lookup. “Wow,” she exclaimed excitedly.” Look at this, Brad. Her names — Sandra Kathleen Iris Purcell. Those initials — S.K.I.P. Do you see; that’s why she was called ‘Skippy’. No mystery there after all. She spoke the truth then.”

Bradley stared at the notes Avril had handed back to him. “You’re right,” he agreed. “There, I knew you’d make a good journalist’s wife with that quick mind.”

“It’s probably all the Agatha Christie books I read, “confessed Avril, feeling a little foolish as she spoke.

“Great stuff,” said Bradley. “My two sisters devour them too. See, you’ll fit well into our family.”

He had two more days in Sydney but was unable to gather much further information, apart from the fact that Sandra Purcell had been brought up in an orphanage and had no known living relatives. However, he felt the trip was well spent, as he devoted as much time as possible to courting Avril. If she had any doubts about his sincerity and had started to wonder if the visit had been more for business than to see here, such concerns were soon dispelled.

It was their last evening together, and Bradley took her hand across the table as they sat sipping their after-dinner coffee. “I know this has been a business trip,” he began, “but it was also an excuse to see you again. I meant what I said on the first night I met you, Avril. I’m very much in love with you, and I want to marry you. I believe you feel the same about me, but you just don’t know it!”

Avril blushed as he went on, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I’m just not sure,” she admitted, “and Australia is so far from home.”

“I’ll give you time,” said Bradley. “But promise me you’ll write when you return to England. And remember, I can’t wait forever. I’m eager to put that ring on your finger.”

Avril kissed him warmly as they separated, and with that encouragement, Bradley Noakes had to be content, as he returned to Melbourne to attempt further investigations into the life of Mrs Sandra Cummings, nee Purcell.

<< Read Chapter 4 Read Chapter 6 >>

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Deep Waters Chapter 8 | By Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Chapter 4 | by Lydia Penn

Deep Waters Cover by Lydia Penn

Bradley Noakes was young, but he was bright, hard-working and ambitious. He had been only a short time with the Melbourne newspaper when news broke of the tragic fire at Harold Cummings’ country property, but he had taken a special interest in the news coverage because his grandmother had been a close personal friend of Harold Cummings’ late parents. As a teenager, he had often heard her discussing the family.

She had always insisted that Harold Jnr was, “a bad lot – thoroughly spoilt.” And when Harold Snr had been killed in a car accident only a few months after his wife’s premature death from cancer, her suspicions had been strong and vocal! “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that no good son of his had something to do with it,” she stated vehemently over a cup of tea at her daughter’s house.

“Hush, Mother,” her daughter had admonished her. “Or you’ll be had up for slander. You know the police did a thorough investigation and said the brakes were faulty, and there was no evidence of tampering.”

“There you are; it just shows how cunning that young rascal is,” the old lady had insisted. “His father knew he was no good too, though he wouldn’t admit it. Otherwise, why did he set up a trust fund for that poor daughter of theirs with Cerebral Palsy? He knew when he went, the money would go too!”

Bradley Noakes was young, but he was bright, hard-working and ambitious. He had been only a short time with the Melbourne newspaper when news broke of the tragic fire at Harold Cummings’ country property, but he had taken a special interest in the news coverage because his grandmother had been a close personal friend of Harold Cummings’ late parents. As a teenager, he had often heard her discussing the family.

She had always insisted that Harold Jnr was, “a bad lot – thoroughly spoilt.” And when Harold Snr had been killed in a car accident only a few months after his wife’s premature death from cancer, her suspicions had been strong and vocal! “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that no good son of his had something to do with it,” she stated vehemently over a cup of tea at her daughter’s house.

“Hush, Mother,” her daughter had admonished her. “Or you’ll be had up for slander. You know the police did a thorough investigation and said the brakes were faulty, and there was no evidence of tampering.”

“There you are; it just shows how cunning that young rascal is,” the old lady had insisted. “His father knew he was no good too, though he wouldn’t admit it. Otherwise, why did he set up a trust fund for that poor daughter of theirs with Cerebral Palsy? He knew when he went, the money would go too!”

Old people surely got very suspicious, Bradley had thought at the time. But when the fire had occurred a few years later, he began to think; two tragedies, both of which were of great financial benefit to Harold Jnr, well known for his gambling, wild living and reckless spending!

Perhaps Grandma was right after all!

Bradley determined to maintain an interest in Harold Cummings. He and Sarah had been married about two years when the fire took place. Neither had any close relatives. Sarah’s parents, he knew, were both dead, and her only relative was an uncle who lived in New York. Harold’s handicapped sister lived permanently in a nursing home.

So it was Bradley Noakes who had written the article about the engagement of the widowed Harold Cummings to former Sydney model, Sandra Purcell, which had so interested the Inspector. But there was more to it than just the article. In his desire to increase reader interest in the story, Bradley had searched the archives and found a photograph of Sara Cummings, taken shortly before her tragic death. As he placed that photo side by side with the photo of the newly engaged couple, what he saw startled him.

He knew that people in a second marriage often chose a partner similar to the first, but the strong likeness between these two women, was, in his eyes, extremely remarkable. Who was Sandra Purcell? The article and accompanying photos went to press, where it was seen by Chief Detective Inspector Russell Digby. Bradley, like the Inspector after him, had reached for the phone and rang a journalist he knew slightly on the Sydney Morning Herald.

It was now almost a year since Justin and Ben had arrived in Sydney, and Justin had long ago returned to London to start his new job. Ben was also preparing to leave after travelling extensively throughout Australia and was now spending a few days with his relatives before he left. It was shortly before dinner one evening when Avril, who was curled up in a chair reading the newspaper, gave a loud exclamation.

“Harold Cummings!” she said excitedly. “Isn’t that the guy we were talking about, who lost his wife in the fire. Remember, Justin had her book. Well, now he’s getting married again. Isn’t that just too romantic? There’s a photo of her in the paper too, as well as one of his new fiancee. Do look, Been. I think they look so much alike too.”

Ben took the paper from her. “Why that’s Skippy,” he said in astonishment.

“Skippy? You mean the girl Justin met on the ship?” said Avril excitedly. “But they look so alike – which is Skippy?”

Ben was studying the paper closely. “The hair is different, of course. Sarah had a short bob, and their noses are different. But the likeness – yes it’s quite extraordinary.”

Avril sensed a mystery. This was better than Agatha Christie. “Where can we find out more about her?” she asked. “I mean, why did she not come back to Sydney? Why stay in Melbourne, and why did she drug Justin? And why did she have a book belonging to Sarah Cummings? Sandra Purcell — do you think she knew Harold Cumming before?”

Did she know Harold Cummings before? That was the question in Russell Digby’s mind as he read and reread the article and studied the photos closely under a magnifying glass.

Cherchez la femme!” Had he found her? Other current work claimed his immediate attention, but when he went home that evening, he put a proposition to his wife. “How would you like a few days in Sydney?” he asked her, as he sat drinking his evening beer. “I’m sure your sister could put us up, and the shopping is good there.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted, eyeing him suspiciously. “Both David Jones and Myers are the same everywhere, and you know it. What are you up to now?”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come clean. It’s that Cummings case and the fire about three years ago. Nothing I can do officially, but I’d like to check a few records, and make some enquiries.” And he filled her in on the case, as he often did. “Sooner or later these guys trip themselves up,” he concluded. “Though often it’s too late to make charges. But I’m mighty curious.”

He easily located the Modelling Agency where Sandra Purcell had been employed and obtained an interview with the manager, a tall thin woman with dyed blond hair and heavy makeup, who looked as if she had once been a model herself.

“Let me see,” she said peering at the records through large black framed tinted glasses. “Oh yes. Here we are. Sandra Kathleen Iris Purcell. She left about three years ago, but I remember her well. One of our best models, with a good future ahead. Very lively, and popular with the other girls and clients. Then suddenly disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” repeated the Inspector. “Was she abducted, was there foul play? What happened?”

“Oh nothing like that,” said Martha Coutts with a smile, obviously relishing her role as an informant. “She just didn’t turn up for work one day, She wasn’t answering her phone, and we began to be concerned, so we contacted the police, who went round to her Bondi flat, but found nothing suspicious. Her rent had been paid up, all her things were gone; it seemed like a normal departure. Then later we learnt she had taken a plane to London, which she’d booked a week previously. It was all very mysterious.”

“Mysterious indeed,” agreed the Inspector, shifting his bulk in the hard wooden chair, as he felt a twinge of lumbago. “Are you sure it was three years ago?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” said Martha Coutts brightly.” We had to cope with a very angry client where she was supposed to be that day. “It was definitely about this time of year, three years ago. I can even give you the date.”

As the Inspector got up to leave, she added,” oh, by the way, the police learnt from a neighbour that her flat had been broken into a short while before. But she never reported it, said nothing was missing. I see she’s now back in Australia and getting married. But I don’t think the photo in the paper is very much like her — still newspaper photos, you know…..” She flapped her arms significantly. The Inspector declined a cup of coffee, thanked her for her time, and went in search of a pharmacy to buy some pain killers. The lumbago was becoming very painful.

Further enquiries elicited the facts that Sandra Purcell had no known living relatives, had been brought up in an orphanage and had paid her own way through modelling school by working long hours at casual jobs. But he drew a blank at the Bondi flat, as he had expected — such tenancies change hands frequently, and three years was a fair while. But Russell Digby was well satisfied with what he had managed to find out. It had been a good few days; he thought — until he was faced with the bills his wife had incurred at Myers and David Jones!

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Deep Waters Chapter 3 | by Lydia Penn

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Deep Waters Chapter 3 by Lydia Penn

The excitement of arriving in a new country after over a month at sea kept Ben and Justin fully occupied for their first week in Sydney. They had been warmly welcomed by Ben’s relatives who lived on the North Shore and initiated into the Australian way of life. Ben’s uncle, who had been working for the Sydney branch of his company, was due to return to England in two years time, so the family had many questions about changes in the country while they had been away.

With so much to talk about, and so much to see, during that first week, it was not until the following Saturday, when they were picnicking in the Blue Mountains, that Justin suddenly remembered Skippy and her book. He was still angry, and embarrassed, to think he had been so fooled, that he didn’t relate the whole story, but simply asked his hosts if he could make a phone call with reference to a book he wanted to return.

The phone number was a Melbourne one, and the receiver was quickly picked up at the other end. “Yes,” barked a loud, Australian male voice.

Justin was a little taken aback. “Oh, eh, eh, could I speak to Miss Sarah Cummings, ” he said hesitantly.

“No Sarah Cummings here, ” said the voice, and down went the phone.

Justin was uncertain about what to do next. Maybe I got the number wrong, he thought and decided to try again after carefully checking in Skippy’s book.

“Yes,” the same voice barked again.

Justin tried another approach. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he began, “but I’m trying to locate Miss Sarah Cummings.”

The voice, obviously angry, waxed eloquent. “My wife’s dead. Now I don’t know how you got this number, or what your game is young man, but if you bother me any more I’ll have the police onto you.” Again the phone was slammed down.

Justin returned to the family in the living room, extremely perplexed. What now, he thought?

“Is everything all right, dear?” enquired Alice Clements, a cheerful Yorkshire woman in her early fifties, as she noticed his puzzled expression.

Justin hesitated, then decided to pour out the whole story. “It was supposed to be just a shipboard romance,” he ended. “Now it’s become a real mystery, and somehow I’ve got involved. “What do I do now?”

The family was fascinated, especially twenty-year-old Avril, who was an avid Agatha Christie reader. “Ooh, perhaps she’s a thief and stole the book, or maybe she’s wanted by the police. She might even be a murderer, ” she suggested brightly.

“For goodness sake, Avril,” said her father. ” Just stop letting your imagination run wild. There’s probably a very simple explanation of the whole thing. “

“Such as……?” said eighteen-year-old Tom. “What’s your theory, Dad?”

But Trevor Clements sat lost in thought, studying the book. It was not until the next evening as the family sat around the dinner table, enjoying the roast which Alice had cooked to perfection, that he raised the subject again. “Cummings, ” he said. “The name has been bugging me all day. I’ve been trying to think where I’ve heard it before. ‘Sarah Cummings. Melbourne.’ It must be the same person.” He turned to his wife. “Remember, dear, when I was in Melbourne two years ago on business. It was a big insurance investigation, and the company tried to prove fraud. But in the end, they had to pay up.”

He had everyone’s attention now, as he went on. “As far as I can remember, it was to do with this playboy Harold Cummings. His father was a well-known racehorse owner — even had a Melbourne Cup winner, I believe, and he was a wealthy man. He died in a car accident, and son Harold inherited the lot, but gambled it all away.”

“Go on, Dad, ” urged Avril, as her father paused to take a mouthful.

“Well it was only local news at that time, but it seems that playboy Harold got into serious financial difficulties. Then there was the fire at the country property. Everything was lost, and his wife, Sarah, was there at the time — burned beyond recognition.  But Sarah and house and contents were heavily insured, so naturally, arson was suspected. It was all too convenient, but they could prove nothing. Harold had a cast iron alibi. He was in New Zealand at the time.”

“Go on, Dad, what happened next?” asked Avril, as he paused again.

“I have no idea,” replied Trevor. “I only recall the case because it was a hot topic of conversation in the office while I was there. It was not great news in Sydney.”

The family ate in silence for a few moments. Then Avril spoke again. “Gee Justin, you certainly got yourself involved in something! Who was that girl anyway? Why you don’t even know her real name, and what was she doing with a dead woman’s book? How can we find out more?”

“I don’t suppose you can,” said her father. “It was a while ago, and I imagine the insurance company just had to pay up as they could find no sign of any accomplice or deliberate arson. They would have had a lot of cases since, and it just attracted attention locally as Harold Cummings was so well known.”

“I do remember one thing,” said Ben, as he passed his plate to Alice for a second helping of apple pie. “Didn’t you tell me, Justin, that she asked you if you were a journalist. Wasn’t it a rather odd question really?”

“Yes”, said Justin slowly. ” I remember now that she did. But I thought it was just her way of getting to know me, though I do remember that she seemed more relaxed when I told her that I wasn’t. But she was still cool and distant, a sort of ice-maiden! “

“There you are,” insisted Avril. “She must have had something to hide, and she was afraid you would find out.”

“In retrospect, all her behaviour was a bit weird, ” agreed Justin. “But I didn’t query it at the time.”

“Anyway its past history now, and we’ll probably never know the whole story,” Alice summoned up, as the conversation turned in other directions.

        *          * *          * * * *

Past history it may have become to the general public, but to Detective Chief Inspector Russell Digby, who had been in charge of the case, it was far from that. Nearing retirement age, he had hoped to go out in a blaze of glory, and although the case had been officially closed, he still gnawed at it like a terrier with a bone. He was not satisfied! In his many years of experience, coincidences just didn’t exist! And this one had been far too convenient. The guy had been in desperate financial straits. Could even have ended up in prison — and yet he had a strong alibi. Too strong! The thorough investigation had revealed no accomplice and no domestic strife which may have caused him to get rid of his wife. “Cherchez la femme” was always a possible factor in such cases. But again, no one had been able to find details of any extra marital liaison.

As he pottered about in his beloved garden in his off duty time, Detective Russell Digby still found himself chewing over the case. A grief stricken Harold Cummings had kept on his East Malvern town house, where he apparently lived very quietly on the income from money invested from the sale of the surviving race horses. He never returned to New Zealand, but it was noted that he made several trips to London over the next two years. Although he wondered about these trips, the Inspector, to his intense frustration, had never been able to discover what he did there. So Chief Detective Inspector Russell Digby went on enjoying his garden, pottering in his orchid house, and delighting his wife with all the home grown vegetables he produced; retirement was getting very close and it promised a tranquil, bucolic existence ahead.

Until ——

As he glanced through the local paper one sunny morning, less than a year after Skippy had disembarked in Melbourne, a short article on page two caught his attention, and changed him from a terrier toying with a bone, to a bloodhound hot on the trail! He rang the newspaper office.

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