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The Dunbar Case(52)





‘How did you hear about it, Henry?’ Kristie asked.



Henry now, I thought.



‘Diligent research,’ he said.



By whom? I wondered.



Wakefield explained that there had been occasional mentions of the Twizell papers in Hunter Valley newspapers in the late nineteenth century and again later when there was a family dispute over land.



‘Just a hint,’ he said. ‘Just a clue, but with a lot of hard work and a little luck nuggets can be found. By the way, thank you, Cliff. You’ve done superbly well.’



I doubt Jack Twizell would agree, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. All jobs have rough edges.



It was 1pm when we got back to Marisha’s place and we had a party. Marisha was happy with her morning’s work and she cheerfully went domestic, laying out biscuits, pate and cheese as we cracked Wakefield’s expensive champagne.



‘No flutes?’ he asked Marisha as she got out glasses.



‘Don’t believe in them. Too small.’



He laughed. ‘You’ve got a point.’ He poured the glasses full, spilling some. He put his arm around Kristie’s broad shoulders. ‘Kristie—to you!’



‘Are you sure the journal’s genuine?’ I asked.



‘I’ll have to have it thoroughly authenticated, of course, but I’m pretty confident.’



‘What about the letters and other stuff?’



‘Playing devil’s advocate, Cliff?’



‘Someone has to.’



‘You’re right.’ Pulling on another set of gloves, Wakefield took the papers from the trunk, handling them very carefully. He unfolded one and swore when flakes of it fell away. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. As I say, I’m confident there’s a remarkable story to be told.’



He smiled at Kristie as he replaced the papers, putting the yellowed flakes inside on the gloves and restoring everything to the trunk. Then he picked up his glass and took a swig.



Wakefield relaxed his academic manner after a few drinks and told some good stories about his students and colleagues. He took off his tie and seemed to get younger with the wine and with basking in Kristie’s admiration. She drank her share and was the most at ease I’d seen her. When Marisha slyly took advantage of this and slipped in a few questions, Kristie responded with some information about the Tanner enterprise that opened Marisha’s eyes. Tipping me the wink, she slipped away to make some notes.



We had Van Morrison on the stereo and Wakefield surprised us all by singing pretty good harmony with him— not easy to do.



Marisha came back and we partied on. After a while, with a considerable buzz on, Marisha and I went for a walk on the beach. We took off our shoes, rolled up our pants and splashed along in the cold shallows.



‘Things seem to be working out pretty well, Cliff,’ Marisha said.



I grabbed her and kissed her. ‘I’d say so. Are we past our little ... emotional difficulty?’



‘Yeah, let’s hope we have some more.’



‘Bound to.’



We walked in companionable silence until the wind got colder and we agreed it was time for coffee. When we got back to the flat we found that Wakefield, Kristie and her belongings, and the Twizell papers and the trunk had gone.



~ * ~



Marisha and I tidied the fiat, stacked the dishwasher and went to bed. We surfaced in the early evening and turned on the television news. After the usual political lies and gossip there was a report of a car crash on the highway south of Newcastle. A Mercedes sedan carrying a man and a woman had collided with a petrol tanker. The tanker driver was unhurt, but the car and its occupants were incinerated. The car was identified as having belonged to Professor Henry Wakefield of the Independent University.





~ * ~





part three



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23





The university turned on an elaborate funeral service for Wakefield. I didn’t go. Our relationship had improved over the time I’d known him but that was as far as my feelings for him went. His death brought home to me again the fragility of life. You take your pills, do your exercises, watch what you eat and drink, and a faulty tyre or a patch of oil on a road can make it all meaningless.



I stayed in Newcastle for Kristie’s funeral and to comfort Marisha, who took the death hard. She’d lost a valuable informant, but also someone she’d come to like and admire in the short time they’d had together.



‘She’d been through a lot,’ Marisha said as we stood in the rain at the cemetery, ‘and she was still in there pitching.’ I agreed.