Vanishing Falls Read online

  Dedication

  In memory of

  Ted and Margaret Embery & Donald and Diana Gee

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Praise

  Also by Poppy Gee

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Saturday, August 26, 2017

  Jack Lily

  Calendar House

  Late on a wet winter’s night, Jack Lily arrived home to find his front door wide open and the antique carpet drenched. The hall light and the living room lamps were on. The dog dozed by a generous fire. His wife’s shoes and evening purse lay neatly on the floor beside the couch. Draped over a chair was her sable coat. Her diamond necklace and earrings sat on the occasional table beside a half-drunk glass of champagne.

  Celia was not in their bedroom or in the bathroom. Their daughters were sleeping peacefully in their beds. As he searched, he thought of how angry his wife had been with him earlier in the evening, and he began looking in the lesser used of their fifty-two rooms in case she had hidden herself from him. It took some time. The Calendar House had four floors, one for each season, twelve hallways, and seven staircases. Parts of the house were locked off—the northern wing on the third floor, the attic. He unlocked these doors and, with increasing concern, called her name into the darkness. There was no answer.

  He hurried down the old servants’ narrow stairwell and strode into his study. In this long room he kept some of his most precious artifacts and paintings, and these were untouched. Six of the seven entrances on the ground floor were secure. Nothing suggested an intruder.

  Something in his chest tightened as he went out the front door and stood on the veranda. The wind made his eyes water. Lightning cracked above the poplar trees. A woman did not wander out into the heaviest rain Vanishing Falls had received that winter, for no reason. The only thing to do was to call the police.

  Two young constables arrived swiftly, traipsing mud across the parquetry. They noted that earlier in the evening Jack had argued with his wife. They searched the house and spoke to his daughters. They stopped short of declaring the Lilys’ grand old house, and their farm with all its outbuildings—apple sheds and hay barns, the stables and boathouse—and the pastures from the lake to the river a crime scene. They simply said they would return in the morning.

  Jack did not need the benefit of the twenty-five years he had spent practicing law to understand he was in trouble.

  Chapter 1

  A week earlier

  Saturday, August 19

  Joelle Smithton

  Vanishing Falls village

  Brian said to be careful walking into the village to buy his newspaper. Even though the rain coming down was less than yesterday he thought the pavement on the main street would be slippery. As usual, he was right. Several times Joelle’s gum boots slid on wet leaves or the moss growing around the cobblestones, and each time, in surprise, she cried out, “Flip.”

  In Vanishing Falls the winter rainy season lasted from May until the end of September. It rained every day in heavy downpours or fast sleet that came sideways and stung her cheeks or a slow drizzle or, her favorite kind, a soft billowing dampness that felt like she was walking through a cloud.

  Every kind of rain gave Brian a reason to think of a warning. Since she married him and moved to Vanishing Falls twelve years ago, there was no safety advice he had not given her. It had started the moment they saw the welcome sign, with the big picture of the waterfalls tumbling into a water hole. It was a tourist attraction because there was no river or creek taking the water away. Brian said the water drained through underground creeks that emerged in the wetland kilometers away. Lots of people swam in the water hole but that was dangerous because they never knew when they might get sucked into the underground creek. Even on a hot day, when the water was so inviting, like frothy cold lemonade, she had to remember that she could get stuck inside a dark river tunnel forever.

  It was hard to remember all the safety instructions. Never wander off the track in the rain forest behind their house. Don’t drive on Murdering Creek Road in a heavy downpour as it could flash flood. He never ran out of advice. He even warned her about obvious things like wearing a leather apron and steel-cap boots in the butchery, or not talking when she was using the mincing machine. Her best friend, Miss Gwen, said he only spoke out of love, so she couldn’t let it annoy her, but sometimes—like when he said the teapot was hot—she would roll her eyes and say, “Good advice, Brian.”

  It was Saturday and Vanishing’s main street was starting to get busy. Joelle called a happy greeting to every person she saw, even if she didn’t know them. She went past the Rosella Café, the bakery, and the hardware store. Alfred was taking a delivery outside his fruit shop and he gave her a cheery wave. She paused and carefully studied her watch. There was not time for a quick hello with Alfred.

  “I can’t stop,” she called out. “I’m in a rush. I’m working at the school fair later today!”

  Alfred smiled with his lovely straight teeth. She waved. He waved. She kept waving until he went inside. Farther down the street, Nev was standing on the steps of his news agency, waiting for her.

  He looked at his watch. “You’re a bit late today. I was getting worried.”

  She went up the news agency sandstone steps and squeezed past him. He closed the heavy door. It was nice and warm inside.

  “The cat ran off again,” she said, taking off her scarf. “But he came back.”

  “He always comes back.” He offered her some licorice. “That’s on the house. As long as you don’t tell Mr. Smithton. Don’t want him getting jealous that you’re in here talking to me.”

  “Come off it, Nev. You talk to all the ladies like that.”

  “Oh!” He put his hand on his heart and pretended his feelings were hurt. “I only have eyes for you, Joelle.”

  Nev was her second-best friend, after Miss Gwen. She joked back, “Tell me another one.”

  “Have you read the paper today?” Nev asked.

  She liked how he always assumed she read the paper. “Not yet.”

  “There’s a big story on the Apple Queen Tribute Evening.”

  In the paper was a black-and-white photo of Miss Gwen taken in the olden days when she was crowned Apple Queen. She wore a tiara and a long gown. The evening would commemorate the town’s history. Old-timers like Nev remembered when growing apples had made everyone in Vanishing Falls wealthy. Each October, at the start of spring, a festival was held, with float parades and a lovely dance, to celebrate the blossoming apple trees. For a reason no one understood, the government paid everyone to pull the trees out, and the town turned poor.

  “Will you be going on Saturday evening, my dear?”

  Joelle frowned. “That’s going to be a crowd. I don’t like crowds. It gets noisy and I can’t even think. It’s like everyone’s shouting inside
my head or something. Are you going, Nev?”

  “God, no. A man only goes to something like that if his wife makes him.”

  “You’re lucky, then.”

  “What?”

  “Lucky you don’t have a wife.”

  His jolly laugh made his jowls shake. “You’re a pearl.”

  “I’ve got to go. I’m working on the barbecue stall at the fair today.”

  “Good for you, my dear.”

  She told Nev how, when her daughter gave her the notice for the fair barbecue roster, she refused. The twins brought lots of letters home from school about how urgently volunteers were needed. Joelle read each one carefully before putting it in the paper box beside the fireplace. But it was too late—Emily had already written her name down. Emily had said, it is only for one hour, the other mums are nice, and it will be easy.

  “The trouble is that Emily is wrong. There are no other mums working with me on the barbecue stall. I wish there was. I wish I was volunteering with someone like Celia Lily—she’s so pretty and nice.”

  “So long as she’s nice on the inside, that’s what counts.”

  “She would be, Nev. But anyway, it’s not her, it’s just me and two of the dads. Jack and Cliff. I don’t really know them, Nev.”

  He stopped smiling. “Does Brian know who you’re volunteering with?”

  “Maybe.”

  He winced like his stomach hurt. “I’ll mention it to him. The pair of them are bad apples—rotten at the core.”

  “Huh?” She studied his face, trying to work out what he meant. “Are they apple farmers?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You can tell me. I’m not stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid,” Nev said vehemently. “Don’t ever say that.”

  “Why do you look angry?” she asked. “What’s wrong, Nev?”

  “Nothing. Just, look after yourself.”

  She showed him the recipe she had cut from a magazine for him, which was for a low-fat zucchini soup. “If you like the look of this soup, I can make it for you,” she promised.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’m not really into vegetarian food.”

  “You should be,” she told him, looking at his tummy.

  Breakfast was Nev’s favorite meal; he often ate it for lunch and dinner and Brian said that was why his tummy was as round as a full moon. Sometimes his sweater rode up and you saw his belly button. Nev told her that at night he sat beside his fire and his cat curled up on his stomach and slept. Joelle could imagine that. Cats liked to be warm and there would be a lot of warmth on that tummy. Joelle didn’t say any of these things aloud. Brian sometimes teased her, saying that there was no reason to say every single thing that popped into your head.

  Nev tugged his sweater down and agreed to try the soup, as long as she made it herself.

  “Who else will make it? Brian?” She laughed loudly. “That’s a good one, Nev!”

  She walked home with Brian’s newspaper tucked under her arm. Kookaburras sat on the wire fence, occasionally swooping down to pick a worm out of the wet field. She couldn’t help but think about what Nev had said about the two men she would be working with on the barbecue stall. It was not like Nev to say something mean. It worried her, but by the time she reached the stile to the forest shortcut, she had forgotten about it. There were two rabbits nibbling the green tufts growing around a fence post. She tried to creep up and pat them, but they scampered away before she could get close.

  * * *

  Cliff Gatenby

  Gatenby’s Poultry Farm

  Cliff watched the dawn creep up the valley. He had not been to bed and he was not tired. He tapped his fingers on the kitchen table as thick fog slid from the rain forest. A flock of green birds—broad-tailed rosellas—rose from the canopy. A thing like that could look heavenly or apocalyptic. He was not sure which it was.

  Seven of the twelve chimneys of the Lilys’ mansion began to appear through the shifting mist. Three of them sent smoke upward. With all that land, the Lilys did not have to worry about buying firewood. Cliff glanced at his potbellied stove. It had burned out in the night. It was bone cold but there was no point building the fire back up yet. He would let Kim do that once the boys were awake.

  The church steeple was the next part of the town to become visible. There was a truth in that, he supposed, for the Calendar House and the church were the only buildings in town used for the purposes they were originally intended. Grand buildings, both of them, built with free convict labor and inherited money. A calendar house was a showy thing, with the number of major features totaling either four for the seasons, seven for the days in the week, fifty-two for the weeks in the year, twelve for the months in the year. The ultimate vanity of the Lilys’ Calendar House, in Cliff’s opinion, were the 365 windows—especially considering the cost of glass when the house was built.

  Decent men did not covet another man’s good fortune. Cliff was a decent man. He worked twelve or more hours a day in the sheds to provide for his family. Newly hatched chicks were delivered four or five times a year, up to twenty thousand day-old chicks in each batch. It was hard, honest work.

  Lately he found himself thinking back to the school holidays when he worked for his Nan and Pop. They had a contract for Ingham’s to catch live chickens. They would drive in the pickup truck to farms across the state where chickens lived in massive sheds. There was a catching technique. You had to crouch down and keep your back straight. You would catch the bird by one leg and get four in each hand. The chickens were put in big cages and loaded onto a trailer and taken to Ingham’s to be processed. The birds shat, scratched, pecked, and pissed all over you and the smell lingered on your skin even after you had showered. It was a horrible job compared to what he did now. But when the day ended you were done and you didn’t have to keep thinking about it, jotting down ideas all night long for growing the business, worrying about how creditors were going to get paid.

  Someone moved through the house. A door closed. The toilet flushed.

  Cliff drank another glass of water. From the farmhouse window he looked to the west of the sheds where the fog was clearing over the pastures, revealing several gum trees and the few cows who kept the grass down. There was no time to waste. He needed to check the feeders and clean out the water lines in one of the sheds.

  He pulled on a woolen sweater and then his jacket. The jacket was one Celia had bought for Jack that was too small for him. It was not what Cliff would have chosen, but it was warm. He yelled, “I’m going to work.”

  No one answered. They all would have heard him though.

  He walked down the track between the silos, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head hunched against the freezing August morning.

  * * *

  Jack

  Calendar House

  Jack considered blindfolding Celia with one of her silk night slips that were drying on a rack in the kitchen, but the girls were eating breakfast at the table and he thought that doing so might stir their curiosity. Instead he placed his hands over his wife’s eyes. She laughed and leaned back against him as he guided her into his study. It was an elegant room with tall bookshelves and six of his favorite oil-on-canvas paintings displayed on the walls. On an easel was his latest acquisition. He had positioned it by the French doors so the morning light would cut through some of the dirt on its surface.

  He removed his hands and she gasped. The pleasure on her face warmed him. Celia appreciated art. It was a passion they shared.

  “It’s Vanishing Falls. I’ve never seen a landscape of the falls. How magnificent. Are you certain of the artist?” she said.

  “I’ll get it cleaned and appraised but I’m confident.”

  His collection was mostly composed of works by early Van Diemen’s Land artists depicting life in the colony. He owned sixty-two canvases, as well as a collection of antique furniture and ornaments, which made him one of the most important collectors in Tasmania’s art and antiqu
ities collegiate. His hunch was that this newest acquisition was not the work of an amateur, as the signature belied, but the early work of a colonial master.

  “You bought it from a deceased estate?” she said. “What did you pay?”

  “A pittance.”

  “You’ve done well.”

  The longer he stared at it the more he could appreciate what lay beneath the grime on the surface. Inky swirls captured the deep blue of the falls, and delicate strokes depicted Pallittorre people feasting beside the water hole. Women wore possum-fur capes, the children had pouch necklaces, and the warrior men were muscular beneath their ceremonial cuts. The beauty of the work was so intense that he barely noticed the dirt. He had gently wiped away the spiderwebs. He was reluctant to clean it properly in case he ruined the canvas.

  “Utterly magnificent,” she repeated, and kissed him on the mouth. “You’re going to be famous—an internationally recognized art collector.”

  He could barely breathe it was so exciting. He kissed her back and closed his eyes as her hands stroked his neck. He had never loved her more.

  * * *

  Occasionally, people asked Jack if he was ever inclined to sell Calendar House and his farm. He supposed they imagined that with all his wealth he could retire to a sunny seaside village.

  The answer was an irrefutable no. This land was his life, his heart.

  In 1828, not long after the Mersey River in northern Tasmania was mapped by the new administration, land grants were awarded to deserving men. Jack Lily’s great-great-great-grandfather, Scotsman Henry Lily, received two thousand acres of wide meadows and floodplains at the far end of the valley. He named the farm village Vanishing Falls after the spectacular waterfalls nearby, and he enlisted a team of convicts to build the grand Georgian Calendar House. He planted cherries, gooseberries, apples, plums, chestnuts, English grass, and six miles of hawthorn hedges around his paddocks. The alluvial soil and favorable easterly aspect, and its location near the new road linking the garrison towns between Launceston and the prosperous northwestern coastal farms, ensured his estate flourished. He increased his fortune burning lime from a nearby limestone karst to send to Launceston for building work.