Through a Camel's Eye

  A SEA-CHANGE MYSTERY

  DOROTHY

  JOHNSTON

  ‘Full fathom five thy father lies:

  Of his bones are coral made:

  Those are pearls that were his eyes:

  Nothing of him that doth fade,

  But doth suffer a sea-change

  Into something rich and strange.

  Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

  Hark! Now I hear them - ding, dong, bell.’

  Ariel’s song from The Tempest

  by William Shakespeare

  First published by For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd 2016

  www.forpitysake.com.au

  10 8 6 4 2 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Dorothy Johnston 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission. For permission contact the publisher at info@forpitysake.com.au.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This edition © For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd

  Book design by The Scarlett Rugers Book Design Agency

  www.booksat.scarlettrugers.com

  Ms. Johnston’s portrait by Lindsay Kelley - www.lindsaykelleyphotography.com.au

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press - Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004

  Environmental Management Systems Printer.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Johnston, Dorothy, 1948- author.

  Through a camel’s eye / Dorothy Johnston.

  9780994448521 (paperback)

  9780994448538 (ebook)

  Johnston, Dorothy, 1948- Sea change mystery

  Police, Rural--Fiction

  Detective and mystery stories

  Queenscliff (Vic.)--Fiction.

  A823.3

  Also by Dorothy Johnston

  The Sandra Mahoney Quartet

  The Trojan Dog

  The White Tower

  Eden

  The Fourth Season

  Tunnel Vision

  Ruth

  Maralinga My Love

  One for the Master

  The House at Number 10

  Eight Pieces on Prostitution (short story collection)

  Praise for The Sandra Mahoney Quartet

  ‘Detective Sergeant Brook, making cheerful capital out of terminal illness to fast-track police department procedure, is one of the most unusual and attractive characters to hit the Australian crime scene in years.’ The Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘An artfully seductive crime story with a denouement which is chilling, fast and furious.’ The Age

  A class act.’ The Weekend Australian

  A realistic setting, a strong storyline, plausible and affecting characters and writing of sensitivity and strength.’ The Sunday Age

  Praise for Dorothy Johnston’s literary fiction

  ‘An awesome talent.’ The Australian

  ‘What I like most about One for the Master is its passion and its mystery.’ Australian Book Review

  ‘Johnston achieves the difficult double feat: she creates and maintains a convincing physical world, and yet transcends it through a lovely and original imagination.’ The Sydney Morning Herald

  About the Author

  Dorothy Johnston was born in Geelong, Victoria, and lived in Canberra for thirty years before returning to Victoria’s Bellarine Peninsula where Through A Camel’s Eye is set.

  She is the author of ten novels, including a quartet of mysteries set in Canberra. The first of these, The Trojan Dog, was joint winner ACT Book of the Year, and runner-up in the inaugural Davitt Award. The Age gave it their ‘Best of 2000’ in the crime section.

  Two of Johnston’s literary novels, One for the Master and Ruth, have been shortlisted for the Miles Franklin award.

  She has published many short stories in journals and anthologies, along with essays in Australia’s major newspapers and she reviews fiction for the Fairfax Press. For more information about the author, please visit her website: http://dorothyjohnston.com.au/

  For my mother, Ivy Johnston (1920-2014)

  With grateful thanks to those who have helped in the writing of this novel, my family and the team at For Pity Sake Publishing.

  While this novel is set in real places, all characters are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-FIVE

  Thirty-Six

  ONE

  In the pale green twilight, a woman was leading a young camel round a paddock. Camilla Renfrew stopped on the seaward side of the fence to watch. The woman was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, riding boots, and looked distinctly youthful too. Her short hair caught the light and glowed green-gold. She seemed intent on what she was doing and did not glance in Camilla’s direction.

  It was a trick of the twilight, Camilla thought, to make of fading a lasting brilliance, stretching the day out longer than it had any right to be. And this girl, with her long legs, striding with her long-legged beast, drawing him behind her on a rope - across a paddock in which new growth was just beginning to make its way through last year’s dead grass - this, too, was a trick of the light, to hold the scene taut in an attitude of praise.

  The animal’s gait was coltish and uneven, but every few steps he seemed to get the hang of being led, and found a proper rhythm. Camilla’s eyes became used to the mixture of brilliance and shadow. She bent forward, peering under the branches of the Moonah, which were grey and nobbled, dusty in their grooves.

  Some said the Moonah was threatened with extinction, but Camilla knew better. The small, tough, grey-green leaves, the stoop away from the prevailing south-westerlies, marked the plant as a survivor, able to outlast exotic creepers when the droughts came.

  The young camel pranced, pulling at the rope as though he wanted to run away, then submitting with good grace.

  Camilla recalled the way he ran to the fence when the trainer wasn’t there, the way he stopped suddenly, all four feet planted boom! She remembered the feel of his downy hump, and the way he looked at her with great, open curiosity, head high, dark brown eyes taking her in entirely. Even her son, these days, preferred not to meet her eyes.

  Camilla was interested in metamorphosis. Her secret hope was to catch a creature at the moment of becoming other, leaving his or her
old cast behind forever. On her more optimistic days she believed there must be such a moment, measurable in time, and believed that she might witness it. She wanted to be there when a moth emerged from its chrysalis, though understanding that the change had already taken place inside, protected from her prying eyes. She wished to record that moment of deep cell change from this to that, satisfy herself that she had indeed observed it. That the camel fascinated her was related to this more general interest - a study you could call it - though she hesitated to glorify her watching by that name. And spoke only to herself of this, or any other matter. It was almost a year now since Camilla Renfrew had lost the power of speech.

  She’d been watching the camel for some weeks when it came to that September twilight. Straddling the fence on the opposite side of the paddock, the one nearest the road, was a large brown saddle decorated with strips of red and orange leather. A golden fringe hung down along one side, rows of small hexagonal mirrors creating a border between it and the leather. They were decorations such as an Afghan woman might have added, sewing cross-legged on the ground, at a bazaar somewhere in the middle east, or on the outskirts of Alice Springs.

  The skittish creature, with his hump half grown, was clearly too young to take the saddle. Was it there for show? Camilla knew nothing about training camels. Such an eye-catching saddle it was, so elaborately wrought. The youngster stopped in his circuit of the fence and stood looking down his nose at her. It was such a long nose for a generally undeveloped creature, and his attitude of looking along it, then turning his head slowly to the side, unexpectedly decisive and mature.

  The trainer pulled on the rope impatiently, and scowled at Camilla. She called out suddenly - ‘Riza!’ - the name a kind of hiss.

  Camilla chanced a smile, which was not returned. She thought it best to move off, though in no way trespassing, the sandy path through the Moonah, on her side of the fence, being public land.

  It was then, as she began her climb through the sandhills, that Camilla remembered a woman coming towards her out of the fog. It had been a summer fog, unusual, and the woman’s face had shone, white and somehow enlarged. But before she could take more than two steps, the woman was gone.

  Then, the next day, or two days later - Camilla wasn’t sure - she’d been on the cliff path again when she’d heard a scream. One scream. Cut off abruptly.

  There’d been no one else on the path at the time. Camilla had walked to the lighthouse and back without seeing anyone. She’d wondered who she ought to tell now that she remembered. If she’d been able to speak, she would have gone to the police station. But the effort of explaining - how? - in writing? - was too much for her. The police would want to know why she’d waited so long. They would laugh at her, safe in the knowledge that their vocal cords were in perfect working order.

  On the other side of the dunes, not far from the paddock which was home to an exotic creature, a man was scavenging along the tide line. It was his habit to do this, and most days at low tide found him walking slowly, head down, along one part of the shoreline or another. From a distance, he could be seen as no more than a shadow, thin and stooped. He wore a long coat of some dark material, buttoned tight against the wind, though, by his gait and demeanour, when a person came close enough to observe them, it was apparent that he was no stranger to cold winds. He was an old man, bearded, his long grey hair tucked underneath a beanie. Once he’d made his living as a sailor. Now he concentrated on what each flood tide happened to deposit at his feet.

  Camilla Renfrew and Brian Laidlaw knew each other well by sight, yet not even in the days when Brian was an active seaman, and Camilla’s tongue worked as well as anybody’s, had they exchanged a word.

  TWO

  Anthea Merritt had been disappointed to be sent away from Melbourne, and in her first few weeks at Queenscliff police station had allowed this disappointment to show, getting off on the wrong foot with her boss. It wasn’t so much that she objected to stray dogs and complaints about speeding fines as the highlights of her week’s policing, with Friday night drunks thrown in - though she did object. It was a poor conclusion to two and a half years of training. Anthea knew she hadn’t graduated with as good marks as she’d hoped, and that this was largely her own fault, which brought her to the real reason for her discontent, and that was separation from her boyfriend.

  She couldn’t phone Graeme again, at least not for a few days. She’d read a piece in the paper reminding women that men knew how to use the phone. If a man didn’t return your messages or calls, it was because he didn’t want to. Some women unfortunately just didn’t get this, the writer of the piece had said. Anthea’s ears had grown hot as she read his words. She’d hated his tone of infinite superiority.

  Anthea was eating her morning tea in a park overlooking the bay, having told herself that she needed some fresh air. Her inability to appreciate the view only worsened her mood. She supposed that, in other circumstances, Chris Blackie might have become a kind of mentor. But if there were things that she could learn from him, he was keeping them well hidden. In a rut had been her instant summing up, and nothing had happened to make her change her mind.

  Anthea was afraid of arguing with Graeme, afraid of the shutting down of her mind and body that a confrontation would produce. She forced patience on herself, knowing that Graeme was the kind of man for whom the present moment, and the people who occupied it, took up all of his attention. She must wait until it occurred to him to miss her.

  There were women friends in Melbourne with whom she could have talked about this, found some comfort in airing her feelings. But increasingly these friends seemed far away, busy with their own lives. Negotiating traffic every day, getting from here to there, took up heaps of time; and there was always somewhere to go in the evenings. In Queenscliff, Anthea felt time as a physical burden, a weight that must be lifted, invisible, yet no less a force for that.

  Her first impression of the station had stayed with her. The well-tended beds of lavender lining the path that led to the front door, next to it the sign with the royal crown and ER in a curly script, looked as prissy and ridiculous as they had the day she’d arrived. Lavender grew along the fence as well, while roses formed the centre piece, in circular beds in the middle of a lawn. The fence was divided by a white-painted wooden gate, offering no security whatsoever. It was a plain brick veneer house, built in the early 1960s. For its present purpose, the basics would have done - Anthea was sure there must be other country stations like it - but instead the building had been turned into a confection. A Hansel and Gretel house. Anthea felt so bored she wished that she could find a witch.

  The first time she’d seen Chris Blackie bent over in the garden with his bum in the air, she’d had to turn away to hide her smile. Apparently the man thought it was normal to grunt and wave his gardening gloves in his junior constable’s direction, not bothering to look up as he outlined her tasks for the morning. This was his daily exercise, Anthea soon found out, and he got to work early in order to accomplish it. He didn’t run or swim, and played no team sport. She imagined his own garden, no leaf out of place.

  Constable Blackie was one of those sleek, smooth men who look young, apart from thinning hair, through their forties and even past that; men who, when they age, age suddenly, shrinking and shrivelling, a thousand fine lines appearing all at once, their skin drying and flaking as though at the switching off of an internal sprinkler system. Anthea had known men like this, and immediately picked Chris for one of them, recognising also that the process was still some years away for him. She had seldom met a man who paid less attention to himself as a man. Not that he was dirty or untidy. His uniform was always pressed, his shirts changed every day. His fine, dark brown hair was short and neat underneath his cap. But this was the work of others - dry cleaners, laundries, barbers. He put armour on each morning, with no more thought than he gave to brushing his teeth.

  This lack of definition in his masculinity, his maleness - when Anthea thought i
t over, she was unable to hit on the right word - made her conscious, along with her irritation that it should be so, of a vagueness, an amorphousness, in their dealings with each other. The image she came up with was walking on a waterbed, but this was inaccurate and irritated her as well. Again she was reminded that she would have laughed, and her cross mood would have faded, if she’d had a friend to share it with.

  Anthea was fond of summing people up, and fancied she was good at it. She would have liked to dismiss Chris Blackie as an old fuddy-duddy, or a closet gay; but found she couldn’t, quite. She was conscious of a quick defensiveness when it came to men, and was not above donning her own uniform as a suit of armour, an action - not that she could choose to leave it off when she was on duty - that sometimes provoked them further. She’d been trained to confront and handle aggression in many forms, and was proud of this training and acquired skill. She was sensible enough not to seek to provoke anyone, man or woman, in the course of her work; but there was something else, an innate timidity perhaps, or else simple inexperience, which she was scarcely aware of, and preferred not to acknowledge. It showed itself in her attraction to forceful men with definite ideas, men who knew what they were about as men.

  That windy morning, sitting on her park bench, nursing her bad mood, Anthea was prepared to dismiss her boss, kneeling in his flower beds on a rubber mat, in his dark brown gardening gloves and track pants, old white shirt and heavy cotton hat. She dismissed the senior constable’s hobby and his means of pursuing it. It embarrassed her to receive compliments about his roses, in the chemists or the greengrocers, delivered as though she could not be anything but grateful; almost as though she’d had a hand in growing the prize specimens herself.

  She ached with embarrassment as she imagined accepting his offers of beans, carrots and tomatoes, as though there was no question that she’d stay on through the summer. She’d learnt from the woman in the sandwich bar where she bought her lunch that Chris lived in a fisherman’s cottage next to the boat harbour, the same house he’d been born in, where he’d nursed his mother until her death from breast cancer. Anthea had nodded as though she already knew this, though the shrewd look the woman gave her indicated that she saw through the pretence. One point of the story was that the house was on a tiny block, front and back yards no more than pocket-sized.