Picnic At Hanging Rock (Vintage Lindsay)

16

Constable Bumpher was inured to varying degrees of shock and surprise. Nevertheless the letter marked CONFIDENTIAL that had just been handed to him at his desk had left him, to use his own words, ‘with a nasty taste in the mouth’.

Appleyard College,

Tuesday, March 24th.

Dear Monsieur Bumpher,

Forgive me if I address you incorrectly, as I have never before written to a gentleman of the Australian Police. I find much difficulty, in English, to explain just why I write to you at this moment – nearly midnight – except that I am a woman. A man would perhaps have waited for more definite proof. However, I feel that I must act, from my heart, without delay, and you may think, without sufficient reason.

Last Sunday morning (March 22nd) when I returned to the College from Mass, about midday, Madame Appleyard informed me that Sara Waybourne, a girl of age about thirteen years and our youngest pupil here, had been taken away by her guardian shortly after most of the household had left for church. I was very surprised, as Monsieur Cosgrove (the child’s guardian) has excellent manners and had given Madame no warning. He has never to my knowledge acted in this impolite way before. As I write this I know you will see little reason for my uneasiness. The truth is Monsieur, that I fear this unhappy child has mysteriously disappeared. I have asked a few questions – very discreet – of the only two persons at home during the time of Monsieur Cosgrove’s visit, besides Madame herself – both women honest and good. Neither of these women, Minnie the femme de chambre and the cook, saw Monsieur Cosgrove arrive at the house, nor did they see him leave, with or without the child Sara. I understand, however, that there may be an explanation for this. Other reasons for my fears seem to be much more important, and much more difficult to make clear to you in English. It is late, and the house is in darkness. This morning I have passed an hour in the bedroom usually occupied by Sara, and in the beginning, by Miranda. Here I observed very carefully while helping a servant to tidy the room, certain things which I shall explain to you later. I have neither the Time, nor the good English without my dictionary, to write down here the shocking thoughts which have gradually come to me, with a clearness quite horrible, after leaving that empty room this morning. As I shall be leaving the College on the day after tomorrow (Thursday) and will be married on Easter Monday in Bendigo I enclose my new name and address if you should wish to write to me on this matter. Meanwhile M. Bumpher I am gravely troubled and shall be most grateful if you can visit the College as soon as possible and make some enquiries. You will not of course disclose to Madame or any other person that I have written this letter. You will I hope receive it on Thursday morning. Unfortunately I have no way to post it earlier as Madame herself sees everything that is put into the mail bag and so I must wait to give this to someone whom I can trust to post. I am exhausted, and shall try to sleep a little before dawn. I can do nothing more without your help. Forgive me for troubling you.

Goodnight Monsieur . . . Dianne de Poitiers.

Minnie the femme de chambre tells me today that Madame A. had insisted on opening the front door herself, on Sunday morning. Because of my terrible suspicions I find this disturbing.

D. de P.

Bumpher had formed an excellent opinion of the French governess ever since the day when they had driven to the Picnic Grounds with Edith Horton Not the type of young woman to lose her head without any reason. He read the letter again with growing uneasiness. The Bumphers’ neat weatherboard villa was close to the Police Station in a neighbouring back street, and here he presently surprised his wife by appearing on the verandah with a request for a cup of morning tea. ‘Right here in the kitchen – I happened to be passing our gate with a few minutes to spare.’ While the kettle was boiling he asked casually, ‘You off to one of your bun fights this afternoon?’ Mrs Bumpher sniffed. ‘Since when have I been out to tea? If you’d like to know, I’m going to clean right through the house for Easter.’

‘I was only asking,’ said her husband mildly. ‘Because last time you went to a social you brought home those cream puffs I like – from the Vicarage – and a lot of gossip.’

‘You know very well I’m not one for gossip. What is it you want to find out?’

He grinned. ‘Shrewd little woman, aren’t you? I’ve been wondering if you ever heard any of your lady friends mention Mrs Appleyard at the College?’ In Bumpher’s experience it was amazing how an ordinary housewife seemed to know by instinct things that might take a policeman weeks to find out. ‘Let me see. Well, I have heard it said the old girl’s a bit of a Tartar when she flies into one of her rages.’

‘Flies into rages, does she?’

‘I’m only telling you what I hear. Smooth as silk to me, if I happen to run into her in the village.’

‘You know anyone who’s actually seen her in a rage?’

Drink up your tea while I think . . . you know the Comptons down at the cottage with the quince trees where the College gets their jams? Anyway, the wife told me she was terrified of making a mistake in the account because once when her hubby was away she had to take it over by hand and it was a pound out and Mrs Appleyard sent for her and gave her hell. Mrs Compton thought the old girl was going to have a stroke.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Only that a girl by the name of Alice who works at the College told that woman in the fruit shop that she drinks a bit. This Alice hadn’t ever seen her tiddly or anything but you know how people talk in this town! Especially since the College Mystery.’

‘Don’t I just!’ Over a second cup of tea he tried to extract a few crumbs of information about the French governess by announcing she was to be married next week. ‘Go on! I’m not much of a one for the Frogs, as you know (remember that fellow who played the flute?), but I must say I thought this one was a real pretty girl the only time I was close enough to see her face.’

‘Where was that?’

‘At the Bank. This Mademoiselle was cashing a cheque and Ted – that’s the teller with the ginger hair – gave her too much change. She’d gone half way down the street before she noticed it and brought it back. I remember because Ted remarked to me at the time: “My word Mrs Bumpher, there’s honesty for you! I would’ve had to pay back that money out of my own pocket.”’

‘Well, thanks for the tea – I’ll be off now,’ said Bumpher, pushing back his chair. ‘Expect me when you see me this evening. I may be very late home.’ There was a lovely piece of rump steak for tea but Mrs Bumpher had been married for fifteen years and knew better than to ask why.

The promise of fine weather for Easter continued all through Thursday. By twelve o’clock it was almost hot, and Bumpher taking notes in the stuffy privacy of his office took off his jacket. Mr Whitehead too had taken off his coat to fork over the dahlias. As soon as he had finished his early dinner the gardener went into the tool shed and dragged out the hose, already rolled up for the coming winter, with the intention of watering the hydrangeas before the bed got too dry. Tom asked if he could lend a hand, otherwise he was going to take Minnie for a stroll down the road. The gardener said no, he had the place in pretty good shape to leave for a day tomorrow, but would Tom give the hydrangeas a bit of a sprinkle if the sun came out again strong, like today, on Good Friday? Tom promised, and taking Minnie by the arm was mercifully spared from participation in subsequent happenings during the next few hours.

The hydrangea bed, eight feet wide and running along the back of the house for most of its length, was the apple of Mr Whitehead’s eye. This summer some of the flower heads were at least six feet above the ground. He had just fixed his hose on to the nearest garden tap when he noticed an offensive smell which seemed to be coming from the direction of the hydrangeas. Before turning on the tap he thought he had better investigate or Cook would be kicking up a shine with a stink so close to the kitchen door. He had been too busy with the autumn pruning the last few days to stop as he often did to admire the close growing hydrangea bushes, their dark glossy leaves crowned with clusters of deep blue flowers. Now to his annoyance he saw that one of the tallest and most handsome plants, in the back row, a few feet out from the wall directly below the tower, had been badly crushed and broken, the beautiful blue heads limp on their stalks. Possums! The darned things were always gallivanting about on the leads. Tom had even found a possum nest in the tower last year. Tom would have gone crashing into the bushes there and then in his heavy boots in search of a dead possum. The gardener, however, removed his waistcoat, took a pair of secateurs from his trouser pocket in order to make a clean snip at the broken flower stalks, and began crawling carefully between the bushes on his hands and knees so as not to disturb the young growth at the base of the roots. He was within a few feet of the damaged bush when he saw something white beside it on the ground. Something that had once been a girl in a nightdress, soaked with dried blood. One leg was bent under the tangled body, the other wedged in the lower fork of the hydrangea. The feet were bare. The head was crushed beyond recognition, even if he could have forced himself to look at it more closely. Even so he knew that it was Sara Waybourne. No other girl at the College was so small, with such thin arms and legs.

He managed to crawl out on to the path that ran beside the bed and was violently sick. The body from here was entirely hidden by the dense screen of foliage. He and Tom and the maids must have passed it dozens of times during the last few days. He went into the wash-house and splashed his hands and face. There was a bottle of whisky in his room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and poured himself a small drink to settle his wildly leaping stomach and went straight round the house to the side door and across the hall to Mrs Appleyard’s study.

Extract from a Statement by Edward Whitehead, gardener at Appleyard College, as given to Constable Bumpher on the morning of Good Friday, April the twenty-seventh.

All this was a terrible shock to me and a terrible thing to have to tell Madam after what she’d had to go through lately. I think she must have been walking up and down the room when I knocked. Anyway she didn’t answer so I went in. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw me. She was looking something awful – even for her. I mean to say, we all said in the kitchen she had been looking ill. She didn’t ask me to sit down but my legs were shaking that badly I could hardly stand up and I took a chair. I can’t remember exactly what I said about finding the body. At first she just stood there staring as if she hadn’t heard a word I’d been saying. Then she told me to say it all again, very slowly, which I did. When I’d finished she asked, ‘Who was it?’ I said, ‘Sara Waybourne.’ She asked if I was quite sure the girl was dead? I said, ‘Yes, quite sure.’ I didn’t tell her why. She let out a sort of smothered scream, more like a wild animal than a human being. I won’t forget the sound of that scream if I live to be a hundred.^*

She got out a bottle and poured out a stiff brandy for herself and one for me which I refused. I asked if I would fetch the cook who was the only other person in the house at the time. She said, ‘No, you fool. Can you drive a horse?’ I told her I wasn’t much of a hand at it but I could put the pony in the trap. She said, ‘Then you can take me into the police station. For God’s sake hurry and if you see anyone don’t open your mouth.’ About ten minutes later she was out in the drive waiting for the trap at the front door. She was wearing a long navy blue coat and a brown hat with a feather sticking up that I’ve seen her wearing when she goes to Melbourne. She was carrying a black leather handbag and black gloves because I wondered why a person would think of gloves at such a time. We drove to Woodend as fast as the pony would go and neither of us said a word the whole way. When we were within a hundred yards of the Police Station, opposite Hussey’s Livery Stables, she told me to pull up. She got out and went ever to the seat where Hussey’s passengers wait for the cabs. I thought she was going to fall over. I asked if she wanted me to go with her to the Station or wait outside. She said she would sit there for a few minutes and then go to the Station alone. She said there would be plenty of questions for me to answer later and I was to drive straight home. I didn’t like leaving her there in the street looking so ill and all. However, she seemed to know exactly what she wanted, like she always does, and I thought it best to obey orders. Especially as I was feeling terribly sick in the stomach after what I had seen that afternoon. Before I left her Mrs Appleyard said she would get a cab back to the College from Hussey’s after she had seen the police. She was still sitting on the seat straight as a poker when I turned the pony round to go home. And that was the last time I saw her.

Signed . . . Edward Whitehead,

Woodend, Friday, March 27th, 1900.

Statement by Ben Hussey of Hussey’s Livery Stables as given to Constable Bumpher on the same date as above.

We were very busy on the Thursday before Good Friday because of the Easter holidays. I was sitting in my office at the Stables checking on the orders for cabs when Mrs Appleyard came in and said she wanted one straight away. I had hardly set eyes on her since the day of the picnic to Hanging Rock and was shocked at the change in her appearance. I asked how far she wanted to go – she said she thought about ten miles; she had just had bad news from friends out on the Hanging Rock Road, she would know the house when she saw it. As all my drivers were out on jobs meeting trains and so on I told her I’d take her myself if she didn’t mind waiting while I harnessed up a pretty lively mare I’ve just broken in, and won’t let anyone handle but me. I could see Mrs Appleyard was very upset, especially for somebody like her who don’t show her feelings. I asked her if she’d like to sit down and have a cup of tea at my place while she was waiting but she came and stood beside me all the time I was putting the mare in the buggy and we got away at ten minutes to three. I know the time as I had to write it down for my drivers on the office pad. After we had gone a couple of miles in silence I remarked it was a nice sunny day. She said she hadn’t noticed. Nothing else was said until we came to the bend in the road where you can first see the Hanging Rock coming up out of the trees in the distance. I pointed it out to her and said something about the Rock having made a lot of trouble for a lot of people since the day of the Picnic. She leaned right across me and shook her fist at it and I hope I never have to see an expression like that on another face. It gave me quite a turn and I wasn’t sorry when we came in sight of a small farm with a gate on to the road but no track and she told me to stop. I said are you quite sure this is the place? ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘this is it and you don’t need to wait. My friends will bring me back later.’ There was a tumbledown sort of a cottage across the paddocks and a man and a woman holding a baby were standing outside. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘the mare’s not used to standing yet and if you’re sure you can manage I’ll be off and I hope things won’t be as bad as you think.’ We got off to a flying start and I didn’t look back.

Signed . . . Ben Hussey,

Livery Stables, Woodend, March 27th, 1900.

The shepherd and his wife who later testified in Court that they had seen a woman in a long coat getting out of a one-horse buggy at their gate, stood watching her walking off along the road in the direction of the Picnic Grounds. Very few strangers passed that way on foot. The woman appeared to be walking fast and was soon out of sight.

Although she had seen the Hanging Rock for the first time this afternoon, when Ben Hussey had pointed it out from the buggy, Mrs Appleyard was only too familiar with its general aspect and the various key points of the Picnic Grounds, as depicted in the plans, drawings and photographs in the Melbourne press. Here, after a more or less level stretch on the seemingly endless road, was the sagging wooden gate through which Ben Hussey had driven his five-horse drag. There was the creek, holding the last of the afternoon light in its placid pools. To the left, a little way ahead, the much photographed spot where the picnic party from Lake View had camped beside their wagonette. To the right, the vertical walls of the Rock were already in deep shade, the undergrowth at the base exuding the dank forest breath of decay. Her gloved hands fumbled with the catch of the gate. Arthur used to say: ‘My dear, you have an excellent head but you are no good with your hands.’ She left the gate open and started to walk along the track towards the creek.

And now, at last, after a lifetime of linoleum and asphalt and Axminster carpets, the heavy flat-footed woman trod the springing earth. Born fifty-seven years ago in a suburban wilderness of smoke-grimed bricks, she knew no more of Nature than a scarecrow rigid on a broomstick above a field of waving corn. She who had lived so close to the little forest on the Bendigo Road had never felt the short wiry grass underfoot. Never walked between the straight shaggy stems of the stringy-bark trees. Never paused to savour the jubilant gusts of Spring that carried the scent of wattle and eucalypt right into the front hall of the College. Nor sniffed with foreboding the blast of the North wind, laden in summer with the fine ash of mountain fires. When the ground started to rise towards the Rock, she knew that she must turn to the right into the waist-high bracken and begin to climb. The ground was rough under the large soft feet in kid button-up boots. She sat down for a few minutes on a fallen log and took off her gloves. She could feel the perspiration trickling down her neck under the stiff lace at her throat. Now she was on her feet again looking up at the sky faintly streaked with pink behind a row of jagged peaks. For the first time it dawned on her what it meant to climb the Rock on a hot afternoon, as the lost girls had climbed it, long, long ago, in full-skirted summer frocks and thin shoes. Stumbling and sweating upwards through the bracken and dogwood, she thought of them now, without compassion. Dead. Both dead. And now Sara lying under the tower. When presently the monolith came into view she recognized it at once from the photographs. With her heart pounding under the heavy coat it was as much as she could do to clamber towards it over the last few yards of stones that slid from under her feet with every step. To the right a narrow ledge overhung a precipice at which she dared not look. To the left, on higher ground, a pile of stones . . . on one of them a large black spider, spreadeagled, asleep in the sun. She had always been afraid of spiders, looked round for something with which to strike it down and saw Sara Waybourne, in a nightdress, with one eye fixed and staring from a mask of rotting flesh.

An eagle hovering high above the golden peaks heard her scream as she ran towards the precipice and jumped. The spider scuttled to safety as the clumsy body went bouncing and rolling from rock to rock towards the valley below. Until at last the head in the brown hat was impaled upon a jutting crag.

^* Author’s Note: Edward Whitehead actually lived to the age of ninety-five years.