The Noon Lady of Towitta (12 page)

He pushed me aside and marched over to the horses standing quietly in the shade of the giant red gums along the creek. I was worried about losing him. Could I wait another three months? If he left that day with us fighting, I worried that he would not return. I swallowed my pride and asked him to return over the Christmas holiday period when my parents were away for several days. Things were a little merrier on his return, some of the passion was rekindled and we made new plans. I believed everything was going to be all right when he left me for a few days in Adelaide.

‘Look, Sister, I don't want to talk about him any more today. It upsets me. I had blocked him from my mind and I didn't know he could still affect me so. We had plans for a happy future together in Adelaide, but after he left me that day, I never spoke with him again.' Sister Kathleen put her hand on my arm. ‘Mary, I quite understand.'

‘I don't believe you do, Sister, because I said goodbye to Gustave when he left for Adelaide, and the very next night Bertha was slain.'

‘That is simply dreadful. Please don't say anything more now, you look white as a sheet.'

‘I'll be all right, Sister, really I will. All this was so long ago now.'

‘That may be so, but I don't think I can bear to hear any more today. Let me make you comfortable before I go.'

15

When Sister Kathleen looked in the next day, I was resting after a night of tears and anguish brought on by mentioning Gustave and feeling the pain of his loss.

‘How are you feeling today, Mary?' Sister asked, always solicitous. I shrugged. I'm sure I looked tired and wretched.

‘Perhaps we can sit on the verandah,' I suggested, ‘and talk a little of other things. Tell me about your father who is a publican, and more of your German family.'

‘Hmm. My Aunt Vera married into a medical family. They're quite well known – they had something to do with setting up a special German hospital. You may know it.'

‘I do, everyone does, it's the one near Light's Pass, isn't it?'

‘That's the one.'

‘That's been there for decades. They mend bones and practise a special medicine, I believe. There's a name for it … some kind of healing.'

‘Yes, it's known as homeopathy. But enough about me today. Are you feeling strong enough to continue your story?'

‘I'm strong enough, Sister,' I reassured her, ‘but this might be a little hard for me. Until recently I had thought many times about Gustave and me all those years ago, and cried when I realised what I had lost. But until yesterday I had not talked about him to anyone.'

We dragged cane chairs to the verandah and Sister Kathleen left me to find refreshments. When she returned she handed me cake and prompted, ‘What are you going to tell me today? Yesterday you stopped after Gustave went away. You mentioned Bertha's death.'

Oh yes, I remember. Well you can imagine my ordeal following that dreadful night when Bertha was killed. Our isolated farm was suddenly crawling with police and journalists. And, of course, those who lived in the area took a diversion past our gate to see what was happening at the Schippan farm. On the morning following Bertha's death, a Corporal Rumball and Dr Steel arrived at our farmhouse. A posse of police from Adelaide led by Detective Priest was not expected to arrive until the next day. When the detective's name was mentioned, I knew we had met before in Adelaide when Rebekah had died.

Our farm was filled with men with duties following a suspicious death. Soon after the arrival of Detective Priest and his men, these men stomped around with tape measures, notepads and pencils, spades and trowels. There were detectives, troopers on horses, trackers and messengers, as well as journalists from the Adelaide newspapers. I was told that these men were billeted around the neighbourhood in private homes while our farmhouse became the headquarters. Although we were allowed into the kitchen and pantry, we weren't allowed into the bedroom where Bertha's body was found. Eventually, Mr Priest came over to talk to me.

‘G'day to you, Miss Schippan. So we meet once more in tragic circumstances.' I returned his greeting, twiddling my handkerchief and willing myself to remain composed.

‘So, Miss, you have returned to Towitta. This is a dreadful business and you must be very distressed. I hope you weren't injured yourself? I'll come and take your evidence as soon as we have organised the men, animals and stores.'

‘I'm sure I'll still be here when you need me, Mr Priest. Yes, I remember you from North Adelaide. I came home about six months after Rebekah's death when I was taken ill. And thank you for enquiring about my injuries. I'm not really hurt, just a few cuts and bruises, and I am very tired. My brothers and I are very frightened that the stranger may return; we will not feel safe again until you have found him.'

‘Don't you worry, Miss. You are safe now and we will find the murderer, whoever he is.'

It still seems like yesterday. It was hot and dusty. Detective Priest worked his men like soldiers. The troopers were sent in all directions to collect evidence from anyone who was in some way associated with us. They lifted and looked under every movable object as far as the eye could see and collected exhibits that were minutely examined before being arranged and labelled. They scribbled away in notebooks for the inquest.

I sat aside with Mother who had returned by this time. She kept asking me questions and when I wouldn't answer them she cried and sobbed. When I wasn't cooking, washing-up or otherwise helping her I sat on my own and watched everyone rushing about. Father liked to know everything going on about him and wandered about asking the men questions about their work. I saw him and August building an outside fireplace so that Mother and I could help prepare food and drink for the large army of people. We'd never had so many people at the farm at one time.

The mounted troopers brought extra kettles and pans and provisions for the many meals. With the promise of generous payment, Father killed two of his precious sheep each day. There were plenty to choose from but they were pitifully thin and scraggy. This provided mutton which we cooked and ate with potatoes and cabbage and anything that could be found from around the district. Father saw this as an opportunity to earn much-needed cash, more than any of us had seen for a while. It went without saying that Mother and I were expected to be kitchenhands but I didn't mind at all. It kept us busy and took our mind off the reason for their presence in the first place. There were about sixteen policemen, our family of five, and about ten other men who were scientists, journalists and the like. So we spent a lot of time cooking and cleaning up after every meal.

About four o'clock one afternoon, we were rounded up for a meeting in the implement shed where we listened to the coroner, doctor and detective give their opinions of the events of two nights before. Father was asked again if he had identified Bertha, and he replied in a stern voice that he had. Willy and August, who had earlier sneaked back into the house, spoke morbidly of the pools of dark brown congealed blood, the noisy presence of swarms of blowflies and the awful smell. After agreeing that Bertha's death was due to stab wounds, the inquest was adjourned for nearly a week so that more evidence could be gathered and the case ‘worked up', as it was called.

16

After Sister Kathleen had gone I slept fitfully, reminded about Bertha's funeral that was to take place the day after the first inquest. By the time Sister Kathleen visited a few days later, I had relived the funeral night after night and felt distressed thinking or telling Sister Kathleen about it. But as usual she had her way of prising from me the stories that had remained locked away for years.

She was cheery and calm and, as always, this soothed my mind. Then she presented me with a small gift. ‘Look what I've brought you, Mary. I thought you might like this bottle of scent.'

‘Sister, you shouldn't have. It's rather wasted on me for I'll never finish it you know.'

‘Now, Mary, I don't want to hear that. You're getting better every day. You tell me these family stories and take my mind away from the home – and frighten me half to death. So it's the least I can do.' And we both laughed, but uncomfortably so.

When we made ourselves comfortable in the enclosed verandah she reminded me that we had planned to talk about Bertha's funeral. She blushed as she said this, suddenly realising that this was an indelicate thing to have said with my own death not far off. She also sensed I was overly tired.

‘So how have you been?' she asked, keen to distract me from talk of funerals.

‘Not so good, I'm afraid. I am so exhausted. The last time you left I thought about Bertha's funeral and it stayed with me for days, disrupting my sleep. I wish I could forget it but I can't. So I'd better tell you about it, so it will leave my mind. But I do find it distressing talking about undertakers and funerals.'

‘You really don't have to go through this, Mary.'

I've been reliving this for days, so I may as well tell you about it. I told you about the first inquest. The undertaker came the next morning as the funeral was in the Sedan cemetery in the afternoon. Mother was given permission to prepare Bertha's body which had been laid out on her bed by Mrs Lambert. I was too nervy to help her and she never pressed me to do so. Bertha was dressed in her Sunday frock with one of Mother's old lace collars wrapped around her neck to cover the gaping wounds. When the undertaker arrived in the morning he placed Bertha in a simple black painted coffin.

We all dressed up in our Sunday clothes for Bertha's funeral. Father wanted Bertha in the coffin to be on display in the yard before we travelled to Sedan so everyone in the family and nearby neighbours could see her, if they wished. This was a Wendish tradition and was very important to Father and Mother and all our relatives. So after much discussion with Detective Priest Father had his way, despite the dreadful furnace-like conditions and the way in which Bertha had been brutally murdered by a stranger. I had not seen Bertha since her death and had no wish to look at her now she was placed on view. I found it too morbid. I think when Mother said that Bertha's face was as pale as a ghost, it really upset me.

Being a Wendish coffin, the sides were folded down to show off the body but there was no sign to suggest how she had died. The troopers helped to keep the affair private. They fenced off a small area near one of the barns with posts and ropes so that it was difficult for anyone casually passing by the farm to see Bertha's coffin from the roadway.

Our aunties and uncles arrived throughout the morning and joined us for an early lunch. Despite the intense summer heat, they had journeyed from Mount Pleasant, Eden Valley, Springton and Angaston to give us support for the funeral. Even my oldest brother Frederick had come back under the protection of one of the uncles from Eden Valley. Father and he had not spoken since the day he had left home, and despite the tragic circumstances Father refused to speak to him still. Frederick told me he was not in the least upset by this.

The coffin was transported in the undertaker's carriage while Mother and Father followed. Frederick, Willy, August and I sat in the Matschoss's cart; they were our neighbours. We always called Mrs Matschoss Aunt Martha because she was Mother's closest friend. Several other families followed behind as we wended our way over the dusty roads in the face of a stinging gritty wind to the cemetery at Sedan. I could hear Mother sobbing and when I looked round I saw my aunties were weeping too, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Willy and August, who hardly spoke, had blank expressions on their faces like funeral mutes. They showed no distress whatsoever.

When we arrived at the windswept graveyard, enclosed by a low concrete wall and topped with barbed wire, a crowd of men trickled out of the nearby public house to look at the passing cortege. They removed their hats out of respect. No one needed to move closer for a look as the ceremony could be clearly seen from the pub's shady verandah.

The ceremony at the graveside was painful. The service conducted by Pastor Schaerer was only minutes long for it was still over a hundred degrees in the shade. He was assisted by Pastor Heidenreich of Bethany. Father supported Mother, but I just clutched my only white lace hankie and dabbed my dry eyes. It was difficult for me to believe what was happening. I did not feel part of the funeral; it seemed to be taking place while I watched, distant and disconnected. The wind was so strong that the pastors' voices were sometimes blown away.

When Bertha's coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with the sandy dirt, the publican, Mr Meyer, his wife and other helpers brought trays of cold water and cordial for us to drink. Mother was at breaking point and beyond noticing what was happening around her, but Father seemed deeply touched by this kindly gesture, especially as he had a healthy dislike of public houses. Mrs Meyer gave Mother a comforting embrace and said, ‘We are all so sorry for you, Mrs Schippan.'

At these few simple words, Mother collapsed in tears and had to be lifted back onto the wagon. The rest of us followed and returned to Towitta at a brisk trot, despite the intense heat. No one spoke. Every now and again when there was a lull in the wind, Mother's pitiful sobbing reached us. I clenched my jaw, looked straight ahead and thought of happier times spent in Adelaide and with Gustave.

Back at Towitta, Mother and I made tea, producing sliced cake for those few relatives who returned home with us. There was little talk. No one knew what to say without someone breaking down in tears. An auntie spoke to reassure me, ‘Now look here, Mary, the murderer will soon be caught and you'll have nothing more to fear.' There was much concern that I was in shock, terrified of the intruder turning up again. I said nothing.

Having told Sister Kathleen about Bertha's funeral, it seemed there was nothing more to be said. I felt exhausted.