Chapter Text
I had written of Raffles for the last time, and did not wish to revisit the past again. The old days are probably best left where they were, and I, still too fat at 40 and my eyesight failing, was not the same man I had once been.
The tales I told of my erstwhile adventures had proved popular and I had no need to turn to the crimes of my youth to pay for my meals, neither had I any cause to fabricate any new ones.
There were a few omissions in my tales, as well as quite a few stretches of the truth. As a male historian I had to exercise caution on may occasions, though I can't help but think, in retrospect, I all too often gave the game away somewhat.
Raffles was gone and I was lonely. Despite my frequent visits to the many and varied Turkish baths of London, there were very few times where I had opportunity to do very much about that particular problem.
I did not lack for companionship of a more social and less carnal kind. My old friend, nameless still so as to not cause her any undue embarrassment, often entertained me, providing tea and cakes and sympathy. We were both old maids now, she and I. Respectable, and to all outward appearances, beyond any of the silly fripperies of youth.
It was not enough for me. I could not revisit the follies of my earlier years nor did I have any desire to do so. She had once been dear to me, but I was all too willing to give her up to lead a life of crime with Raffles – the only person I can truly say I ever loved.
At thirty I had caught sight of myself in the mirror and reflected on how little effect my sins had had on my looks. I seemed a callow, dare I say, handsome youth less than a decade ago. That was before the injury to my leg that has made me permanently lame, before I found comfort in far too many cakes of sympathy. Before Raffles left me alone.
I said I no longer lack for money; while this is true, London life was a drain on the pocket.
One winter's day at the tail end of 1909 I received a letter. I had no close relatives, but the letter claimed I had an uncle, long lost of course, who had recently died in Australia. He had left me a farm and an annuity.
I was happy with the annuity, though I could not see myself as a farmer. Sheep rather scare me.
Even so, my relative's last will and testament made it a necessity to visit that vast land to see my estate. I was not allowed to sell until I had spent at least six months living in the place and making sure the farm workers were well provided for should I decide to dispense with my inheritance.
There was, to my mind, no doubt that I would get shot of it as soon as possible, but a long holiday away from London and all its memories might be just what the doctor ordered. Not that I usually listened to my physician.
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Australia was big. I knew that just from looking on an atlas, but until I visited the place I had no idea just how big. I landed in Sydney early in 1910. The day was warmer than I had expected after leaving the snows and freezing fog of my native land just after Christmas. It took over a week after landing to get to my farm.
By the time I arrived I must have lost almost a stone in weight – and while that still did not make me even close to slender it made a surprising difference in my countenance. Whereas some chaps looked drawn and haggard after a loss in weight I looked well on it. Younger, even.
I kept to the shade while travelling as my complexion is not really the sort that takes well to extremes in temperature but I still caught the sun a little, giving me the appearance of a glow of good health that had long ago fled my London-face.
I was almost the Bunny of old rather than old duffer Manders that I had since become.
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At the farm I was greeted by a strange old woman with eyes like bits of flint. I say greeted, but the curt nod and slight sneer was not particularly welcoming.
I tried to use the old Manders charm on her, but it was never really effective on flinty eyed crones, least of all now.
“Is there a farm manager?” I asked her “Or someone else I can ask about the lay of the land?”
“Manager?” She lifted a beetle brow at this.
“Yes, I was told I should deal with the farm workers and find out how best to proceed. I don't think I am going to be much use at this farming lark! I suppose you know everything about the place, you must have worked here for quite some time I imagine.” I said brightly, hoping for some gleam of sympathy in the old woman's face.
“Well, I don't know about that,” she said. “I was told to provide for the new owner, but I never met the old. Don't know much about this place at all, as a matter of fact.”
She must have noted some note of confusion in my all too open face.
“Far as I know this place has been deserted for years,” she added.
I sat down and quietly drank the tea she had made. “Oh.” Was the extend of my reaction.
“Only person I have had any contact with is the solicitor fella. He employed me a few weeks ago and made sure everything was clean and tidy and ready for your arrival.” The old woman nodded again.
“Oh. Can I talk to this solicitor?” I asked, as calmly as I could. He must know the particulars.
“He's in the next town over, far as I know. It's only 100 miles away, so you should be able to find him.” She said. “Best not set off tonight though – there are bandits in the area. Don't want to get caught up in anything nasty.”
“No, indeed!” I admitted. Raffles' old tale of his first foray into the life of a cracksman had alerted me to the dangers alive in the Australian Bush. I had no desire to experience these dangers first hand. Excitement was not something I was used to these days.
“That Stingaree is on the loose around these parts, I hear!” She said warningly.
“Is that some kind of wild animal?” I asked, aghast.
The old woman chuckled. “Well, in a way.” And with that she left me to my own thoughts and memories.