By Richard Shears
Wealthy, attractive and good knowledgeable, Margaret Clement used to be the belle of Melbourne society. With a legacy from her filthy rich father, she and her sisters arrange a mansion referred to as Tullaree within the pastures close to the Tarwin River. With employees to run the valuables, they inspired the cream of Edwardian society with jap displays, tapestries and furnishings from their journeys out of the country. Hit tough by way of the good melancholy and global warfare I, their funds declined and the ditches that saved the Tarwin River again collapsed via overlook. the luxurious paddocks sank less than an enormous swamp because the aged belles clung to their cherished Tullaree. because the swamp rose, so too did the presence of opportunists, scammers, legal professionals - and a killer.
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Example text
Tullaree had been falling into ruin for decades. In a room to the side of the hall an iron bed remained neatly made up: Margaret’s old bedroom, which she had abandoned long ago. When Jeanie had first become ill, Margaret had made her bed on a couch in her sister’s room, remaining there until she died and then moving to another couch in a front room. A single dining chair occupied a corner of the old lady’s former bedroom and from it stretched spiders’ webs, speckled with flies and small white moths, the tiny insects, trapped for years, turning to dust.
A day’s journey for the best of us. The question I had asked the family earlier—and the answer—is still in my mind as I stare out across the pastures. ’ ‘Happy? Oh no,’ the wife had said. ‘Not happy at all. What is the word I want…? Spooky. That’s what I’d say about it. ’ She had her reasons. Deeply private family reasons, which she shared. But said again, with justification, that Tullaree was spooky and no more so than when you are alone in there and the winter winds are howling. She had no notion of what I had been told earlier that day: the account of two schoolboys—now men - who had once seen the tiny, bent figure of Margaret Clement on this same road on which I now stood.
In many towns there was not an able-bodied man to be found as with picks, shovels and swags on their backs they had headed out of town on foot or horse and cart following a golden dream. Peter so accustomed to the cold of wintry Scotland, grinned into the wind that made others shiver as he walked down the gangplank with his fellow passengers, the word gold on every lip. He was not a tall man, but he was muscle-bound, a physique developed from carting casks of spirits around his father’s storeroom and he was ready to apply that strength to hours of solid digging in the region where others were striking it rich.