One Sunday by Joy Dettman Read Free Book Online Page A

lowered his voice. ‘Young Ruby Johnson. Her brother, Willie, brought her in not long after midnight.’
    â€˜No! She’s working in Melbourne, or so I heard two days ago.’
    â€˜She’s in my hospital dying, Tom – maybe already dead. We saved the infant.’ He yawned again, took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offered it. The two men lit up and Kurt, who had stepped back while they were speaking, picked up his bike.
    With plenty of light about now, Tom studied the blood on Kurt’s shirt. One and one had a bad habit of adding up to two, and that lad had the looks and the build that might turn a young married woman’s head, or her mother’s. He was around Tom’s height, not much more than a lad, but hard labour had built him a fine pair of shoulders. He’d always seemed a decent type, well mannered, hardworking. The first time Tom set eyes on him, around eight years ago, he’d been ploughing one of those front paddocks, three giant horses pulling the plough and that boy barely as tall as the horses’ hairy knees. Something about him reminded Tom of young Ronnie, even back then, something about the shape of that nose and the brow, the hair colour, the way his blond hair grew. He shrugged, shaking off the thought and dragging his mind back to the moment.
    â€˜Where’s your brother, Kurt?’
    Kurt nodded towards the house. ‘He was sleeping when I left.’
    â€˜He wasn’t with you when you found Rachael?’
    â€˜Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Mr Thompson. I said my brother was sleeping when I left the house this morning.’
    And very definitely said, too. Tom turned again to the Reichenberg property, allowing his eyes to follow the well-kept fences, and back across Kennedy’s Road to Jack Larkin’s bare acres.
    â€˜Her handbag,’ Kurt said, stepping nearer. The two men turned to him. ‘She had a handbag with her.’
    â€˜I didn’t sight any handbag,’ Tom said, glancing around, looking at Rob for confirmation. Rob shook his head and both men looked again at the girl, around her. ‘There’s no handbag here now. Are you sure you saw it?’
    â€˜When I lifted her, the bag’s strap was across her shoulder. It was beside her when I rode into town.’ He looked at his open palm, Rachael’s blood visible there. ‘I have to wash. I’ll come back, Mr Thompson.’
    Tom caught his wrist, turning the right hand, then taking the left, turning it palm up, palm down. ‘You’ve got a lot of her blood on you, lad.’
    â€˜I didn’t know she was bleeding. I was going to carry her to my mother. I didn’t know she was injured . . . until I felt the blood.’
    â€˜But you remember she was holding on to her handbag?’
    â€˜Its strap was over her shoulder. I felt it when I lifted her. I saw it, held it. It was beside her when I rode into town.’ He looked towards the forest, towards Mason and his herd. ‘Someone has taken it. It was here, Mr Thompson.’
    â€˜Righto. It was here and now it’s gone. You’d better be gone too, lad, or there’ll be no milk for anyone’s breakfast. Oh, and don’t go washing that shirt.’
    Kurt rode off, both men staring after him.
    â€˜You think he knows more than he’s saying, Tom?’
    Tom tilted his helmet, scratched at his head, shrugged. ‘I dunno, but I’d near stake my life on that lad being lily white.’
    â€˜Given the right circumstances, no man is lily white,’ Rob said, his world-weary eyes following the bike rider until he merged with the trees and buildings.
    Joseph Reichenberg had built that house, made every clay brick in it, hand-cut every shingle on the roof, carved the fancy woodwork on the gable and over the front windows. A tradesman of renown, Joseph Reichenberg, he’d set himself apart with that house. Molliston may have been more accepting of