Finding the old gardener shouldn’t be too hard. He said his street was first on the left after the park and then second right. Number eighteen, blue-and-white house with roses out the front. Billie indicated left, ignored the pretty little Victorian house that deserved a second glance, took the right and slowed down when she spied the numbers on letterboxes. Number eleven, wrong side of the road. There we are, number sixteen, eighteen. Got it. His mention of a few roses was seriously underestimated. The front garden was a mass of brightly coloured blooms that most horticulturists would swoon over. The man had a serious amount of green-thumb genes by the look of it. Something Billie lacked in spades.
Even though she was thrilled to find two staff members still alive, it was a shame that the cousin, Ernest Wallace had died. By all accounts he was closest to the girls, spending considerable time at the estate. His death five years after Wilhelmina’s passing wiped out the last of the known family tree, his widowed mother had died not long before him.
She grabbed her messenger bag, climbed out of the car and slammed the door. The net curtain moved at the window and she smiled. The old man must be getting so excited to be involved in the project, that he’d kept an eye out for her. Billie brushed down the sleeves on her blouse, straightened the cuffs, pushed her watch up out of the way and smoothed her trousers down. Right, professional and ready to dig for information.
She pushed open the wrought-iron gate and made her way up the cracked footpath, pausing halfway to inhale the rich perfume of the garden.
Don’t forget the roses.
A hollow gush of air bounced around her head with the words, and Billie blinked trying to keep calm. Don’t let this happen now, not here. She reached out and touched a satin smooth petal, letting the warmth from the sun centre her until she could get a grip on her mind. The petal dropped and landed on the clipped grass. She gave herself a mental shake, hurried up the two steps to the veranda and lifted her hand to knock when the door opened.
An elderly man hunched over a walking stick peered from under bushy grey eyebrows at her. “You’re early.”
Billie peered over his shoulder, the old upright clock in the hallway ticked loudly, showing the time. Five minutes to eleven. “Sorry, Mr. Wilkes. I thought I was going good for time. My mistake. Is now alright then? I can wait in the car if you have something else to do first.”
“Seeing as you’re already here, I guess it’ll have to be. Come in, then.” He stepped back and biting down a smile, she stepped into the dim hallway and waited while he closed the door.
“Not sure how much use I’ll be to you. Probably forgotten more than I’ve remembered.” He shuffled past her and disappeared into another room. Billie stepped forward to follow him when photos on the wall caught her attention. She paused, recognising the house in the background of a black-and-white print. Whoever had taken the photo had set it in rose gardens overlooking a lake hugging one side of Foxborough Hall. A different façade of the house than she’d seen before, but with its large turret rising high above the house it was unmistakable.
“Are you coming or not? I don’t have all day you know.”
“Sorry.” She bit back a smile and hurried into the lounge room where he sat on a beige floral velvet rocking chair. Billie took a seat opposite him on the matching couch. “Mind if I take notes?” She delved into her bag and pulled out her notepad and a pen.
“Not sure there’ll be anything worth taking notes for.” He watched her over his glasses with a keenness that belied his reticence for the interview.
“Oh I’m sure there will be. Your roses are spectacular I have to say. From all accounts you were the gardener for quite some time at Foxborough Hall and I can tell you’re an exceptionally good one too, looking at the roses outside and the garden in the photograph.”
“That I was. Started there when I was twelve I did. Followed my father right out of school and took up an apprenticeship with him. Only job I ever had.” His eyes closed and a smile touched his lips, his dimples deepening at the corners of his wrinkled cheeks.
“I wish that was the case today. Nobody seems to stick to the same thing for very long, do they?” She held her pen to her mouth, tapping it. “Tell me what you remember of the family.”
His eyes flew open, wary now as he focused on her. “Why? What are you trying to find out? You never did say exactly what you were writing about. I thought it was to do with the gardens.”
“The house has been handed over to the Historical Society recently. In his will, Mr. Wallace bequeathed it to the town if no relatives came forward within a certain time. That time has come and gone and they want the paper to do a story on the estate.” Billie poked her pen on the notebook, making small swirls on the corner of the page. “I think the idea is to rally national excitement in the property so visitors walk through the door, which in turn will pay for the upkeep of the house.”
“Shame that.” A shadow crossed over his face. “If his daughter hadn’t died in that train crash, the place would still be full of laughter. Such a happy girl that one and right popular with the farmers on the estate too. Treated them all fairly and never had no airs or graces when she was working with them, unlike her father.”
“Gertrude, was it? Weren’t there two children to that marriage, Mr. Wilkes?”
“Gertrude was the younger daughter. No, I’m talking about Miss Wilhelmina. She was following in her father’s footsteps running the estate and doing
