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‘Beautifully made,’ he said. ‘Look at these joints. Wait, there’s some metal here.’
‘How do you mean?’ I came up beside him as he started wrestling with the window sill. I could see then what he meant – the sill was rotting through, and between the decayed splinters a dull black metal surface was visible. Suddenly Lee lifted the sill straight off. It was clearly made to come away, for underneath was a geometrically neat cavity, not much bigger than a shoe box. And fitting neatly into it was a grey metal cashbox, about shoebox size.
‘Wow!’ I was astonished and excited. ‘Unreal! It’s probably full of gold.’
Lee, eyes staring, lifted it out.
‘It’s pretty light,’ he said. ‘Too light for gold.’
The box was showing the early signs of rust, with some red lines starting to creep along it, but it was in good condition. It was unlocked, and opened easily. Craning over Lee’s arm, I saw nothing but papers and photographs. It was disappointing, although as I realised later gold wasn’t much use to us, living our guerilla life up in the mountains. Lee lifted out the papers and the photos. Underneath them was a small blue case, like a wallet, but made of stiffer material and fastened with a small gold clasp. He opened that, carefully. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper and resting on white linen cloth, was a brightly coloured short wide ribbon, attached to a heavy bronze medal.
‘Fantastic,’ I breathed. ‘He was a war hero.’
Lee took it out. On the front was a relief of a king – I’m not sure which one – and the words ‘He who would valiant be’. Lee turned it over. On the back was engraved: ‘Bertram Christie, for gallantry, Battle of Marana’, and a date which was too blurred to read. The ribbon was coloured red, yellow and blue. We handled it, felt it, wondered over it, then wrapped it back up carefully and replaced it in its box before turning our attention to the papers.
There were a few of these: a notebook, a letter or two, some newspaper clippings and a couple of official looking documents. There were three photographs: one of a stern looking young couple on their wedding day, one of the woman alone, standing in front of a bare wooden house, and one of the woman with a toddler. The woman was young, but looked sad; she had long dark hair and a slim smooth face. She might have been Spanish. I looked at the photos intently.
‘These must be the ones he murdered,’ I whispered.
‘Fu
I looked at the face of the man in the wedding photo. He looked young, younger than the woman maybe. He gazed steadily at the camera, clear strong eyes and a firm clean-shaven chin. I could see nothing of the murderer in his face and nothing of the victim in his wife’s or child’s.
Lee started opening the documents. The first seemed to be a newspaper account of a sermon. I only read the first paragraph. The sermon was based on a verse from the Bible, ‘A fool’s mouth is his ruin, and his lips are a snare to himself’. It looked long and boring, so I didn’t read any more. The other newspaper clipping was a short article that was headlined ‘Victims of Mt Tumbler Tragedy Laid to Rest’. It read:
A small group of mourners were in attendance at the Mt Tumbler Church of England on Monday last, where Revd Horace Green conducted a service for Burial of the Dead. Laid to rest were Imogen Mary Christie, of Mt Tumbler, and her infant child Alfred Bertram Christie, aged three.
The Christie family were not well known, being newly arrived, living a goodly distance from town, and being apparently of reclusive disposition, but the tragedy has aroused considerable sentiment in the district, which was touched on most feelingly by Revd Green in his address, which had for its text ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower’.
The deceased were then interred in the Mt Tumbler cemetery.
A public meeting will be held in the Mt Tumbler School of Arts on Monday next, under the chairmanship of Mr Donald McDonald, JP, to canvass again the possibility of obtaining the services of a medical practitioner for the Mt Tumbler district. The Christie tragedy has led to fresh agitation for the provision of medical services for the area.
An inquest into the deaths of Mrs Christie and her child will take place at the next visit of the magistrate to the district, on April 15. In the meantime Constable Whykes has cautioned against idle tongues making loose speculation upon the facts of the case; a sentiment most earnestly shared by this correspondent.
That was all. I read it over Lee’s shoulder. ‘It seems to raise more questions than it answers,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t mention the husband at all,’ Lee said.
The next item was a stiff formal card of cream paper, though yellowed now. It seemed to be the citation to accompany the medal. In ornate flowing writing it described the actions of Private Bertram Christie in ru
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Lee said.
‘Sounds like you and Robyn,’ I said. ‘I reckon she should get a medal.’
There were a few odds and ends then: birth certificates for all three Christies, the marriage certificate of Bertram and Imogen, a postcard addressed to Bertram from his wife, and saying merely ‘We will be on the 4.15 train. Mother sends her kind regards. Your devoted wife, Imogen.’ There were some bank documents and a notebook containing lots of accounts and figures. I pointed to one item that said, ‘To a double bed, £4/10/6’.
‘How much is that?’ Lee asked.
‘About eight dollars I think. Don’t you double the number of pounds? I don’t know what you do with the shillings and pence.’
Then we came to the last of the formal documents, a long sheet of paper with a red seal on top. It was typed and signed at the bottom with a black flourish of ink. We settled down to read it, and found in the dry language of the coroner the story of the man who had killed his wife and child:
Be it known by all persons having business with His Majesty’s Courts that I, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, being duly appointed Magistrate and Coroner in the District of Mt Tumbler, make the following findings and recommendations with respect to the deaths of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, aged twenty-four, married woman of this parish, and ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, aged three, infant of this parish, both residing at Block 16A on the Aberfoyle track, forty-four miles to the southwest of Pink Mountain:
1.That both deceased met their deaths on or about December 24 last, at the hands of BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, as a result of bullet wounds to the head.
2.That both deceased lived with BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, farmer, in the relationships respectively of wife and son to the said BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, in a wooden cottage at the above address, this being a particularly remote part of the Mt Tumbler district.
3.That there is no evidence of marital disharmony between BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE and IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, and that on the contrary BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE was a loving husband and father, IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE a dutiful and even-tempered wife, and the child ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE a sweet child of good disposition, and that is the testimony of WILSON HUBERT GEORGE, farmer, and neighbour to the deceased, and MURIEL EDNA MAYBERRY, married woman and neighbour to the deceased.
4.That the nearest medical practitioner or nursing sister to the Christies was at Dunstan Lake, being a day and a half’s ride away, and further.