RISING TIGER | YOUNG WRITERS’ MYSTERY STORIES

Stories at the Huon Valley Hub…

Years 3 and 4

HELEN THE HATED

 ZARA STRONG

Geeveston, Huon Valley

2019 WINNER

YEARS 3-4 CATEGORY

FEMALE BUSHRANGERS

This story was found by Harry Viper after the death of Helen Viper.

Hello my name is Helen Viper and I was a woman convict.

I was sent to Van Diemen’s Land on the 15th of November 1839 for stealing a loaf of bread.

I was so terribly hungry, it was only a small loaf of bread and the baker I stole it from had loads of them anyway so I don’t know what the big deal was?

I married a man called Harold Viper who owns a bakery down town so I’m hardly ever hungry anymore.

I usually do all the work in the house.

In the mornings I cook Harold and my adopted son Harry a big plate of eggs, bacon and two slices of toast before mopping the floors, dusting the window sills in the bedroom and taking the big rug in the dining room and beating it with a stick over the balcony until all the dirt has been shaken out.

It was a gloomy afternoon when I went down town to visit my husband’s bakery when I saw a gorgeous brown horse with the most majestic black mane I ever saw on sale so I immediately decided to buy her for 500 pounds but I bet my mansion it was worth it!

I was very poor after that and there was no way Harold was lending me money because after all the bushrangers going around and stealing bread he was keeping every penny he could lay his hands on.

Then I thought...

Bushrangers make millions by stealing money and bread and other stuff so maybe I should become one, so I did!

My first crime was a quite successful bank robbery.

After that deed people were trying to join my gang all over the place but of course I only chose the best!

I ended up with a gang of 5. Mike the Man Killer. Ben the Betrayed, Daniel the Demanding, Andrew the Annoying and me Helen the Hated! We robbed banks, stole horses and as I predicted we made millions!

Richer than Harold who still didn’t know where I was!

After years of camping out with my gang and getting richer and richer I was finally caught and I was hanged in the prison, my neck broke straight in two then doctors in training took turns at cutting me to bits and running tests on because you see the churches didn’t want my body and didn’t want to put it in a coffin and care for it because I was a bad person so if you don’t want to end like I did, don’t turn bad!

After I was hanged my gang still lived on.

Mike the Man Killer took over my role as gang leader and they were actually a quite successful team!

Then Mary Ann the Misled joined the gang and things went to chaos from there on.

All my gang mates were hanged immediately but since Mary Ann was shot in the foot everyone had to wait until she healed before she was hung.

As for Harry...

Years 5 and 6

LADY JESS

 GRACE WINSPEAR

Hobart, Tasmania

2019 WINNER

YEARS 5-6 CATEGORY

FEMALE BUSHRANGERS

I flew through the bush. I could feel the hot pulsing of my horse under my fingers. My breath came hard and fast. I allowed myself a fleeting glance to check behind me, all was quiet. I slowed, looking all around, alert and listening.

Suddenly, I heard the drumming of hooves and shouting voices. I cursed under my breath and urged my horse into motion, faster, faster. Soon we were cantering, then galloping. The voices were not very distinct. One moment, they were right on my tail, the next, fading off into the distance. Still, I pushed my horse blindly faster. Suddenly, there was a gunshot, then another, then another. The first two went wide, but the third really drove home.

I cursed again, out loud this time, as I felt searing pain in my left leg. I fought to stay focused, ignoring the burning and searching for a way to lose my pursuers.

Aha! Salvation. An enormous clump of Bottlebrush coming up on the right. I steered my horse towards it and urged him into a flying leap, right smack bang in the centre.

It was prickly and uncomfortable, but we waited there for much longer than absolutely necessary. Only when it began to grow dark did we begin our journey back to base.

We arrived late, and I was met with a great flurry of anger, which immediately turned into concern once my limp was noticed. I hobbled over to the infirmary and proceeded to extract the bullet and bound the wound tightly. Many offered to help, but I refused. You don’t grow up in a circus without knowing how to treat a bullet in the leg.

We gathered round the fire and everyone grinned.

‘What’cha bring for us tonight Jess?’ Asked one of the new boys.

I flashed him a glare and he shrank back. Suddenly, I grinned and threw a sack at his feet. He chuckled and rifled through the contents. Pulling out three loaves of bread, a bottle of brandy, some slices of meat and, laughing, a packet of tea leaves.

We feasted on the bread and meat, toasting it over the fire. We laughed and joked, while taking slugs of brandy.

As was custom, Jerry brewed me a cup of tea while the lads shared impressive stories of past felonies. I found myself scoffing at the same new kid’s daring tales of villainy. Robbing three stagecoaches in a day singlehandedly? Not likely. Still, I admired him. After finishing one of his tall stories he leaned back and asked me mockingly:

‘Want a scone with your tea, Lady Jess?’

With a swift flick of my hand I swiped my gun from my holster, cocked it and levelled it at his head. All without taking my eyes off my tea. The whole bush seemed to hush. All eyes trained on the weapon I held in my dainty hand.

‘No thank you.’ I said. ‘Who’s on watch tonight?’ A tentative hand crept into the air.

‘I will relieve you.’ I rose and drained my mug. ‘Goodnight all. Unless there’s anything else you want to add?’ I gestured to the kid with my gun.

‘N-no Jess.’ He stuttered, never taking his gaze off the dormant gun. ‘When speaking to me, you will address me by my proper title.’ I demanded haughtily.

‘Lady Jess. Sorry.’ He then bowed deeply.

In the tense silence that followed, time seemed to stop. Everything watching and waiting to see what I would do next.

I chuckled, and then laughed so uproariously that it startled a few of the boys out of their drink-induced slumber.

‘Good one kid.’ I laughed. ‘It takes a lot to make me laugh.’

I wiped the tears from my eyes then finally holstered my gun. There was a collective sigh of relief. Tipping my head to the boys I then proceeded to take up my post by the edge of the camp.

It was getting late and my leg had begun to pound again. I was lost in my thoughts.

I had only been a bushranger for a few years but I already had a pretty fearsome reputation. At first, people wouldn’t believe that a woman could be a bushranger, and now look; a band of followers and my face on wanted posters within every ten miles.

Perhaps if I had not been shot, or if I had let someone else be on watch, or if the boys hadn’t have had so much brandy, it wouldn’t have happened. But happen it did, so there’s nothing I can do but recount the events.

It was probably 3 in the morning when I heard shouting coming from the base. I rushed back, expecting that we were under attack. I arrived to a blaze of flames and burning heat.

‘What the hell happened here?’ I shouted over the crackling of flames. ‘Some idiot forgot to put out the fire.’ Yelled Old Tim. ‘Now you stay back Jess. You’re injured, we’ll sort this out.’

I reluctantly consented, limping back over to my post. It was probably a few seconds before I noticed the rustling and thumping of hooves far off in the distance. I pricked up my ears and listened closer. Shouting now joined these sounds and I realised that the fire had alerted the Snitches on duty. (Snitches is our fun little name for the local policemen) I grabbed my gun and prepared myself for the oncoming battle.

I wasn’t much a good shot with the pain muddying my brain. I remember lots of cussing and gunshots. Pain in my right leg, but wasn’t I shot in my left? A crack as a baton connected with someone’s face. I suddenly found myself bundled up by Old Tim and locked in one of the caravans to stop myself from getting shot a third time. I was left to kick uselessly at the door and scream myself into a fevered, dreamless sleep.

When I finally woke, I saw two people hovering over me with bandages and worried expressions. I struggled to sit up.

‘Wha-?’ I slurred.

‘Don’t worry Jess.’ Said one of the men. ‘You got shot again, in the other leg this time. You’ve been asleep for three days. We have already moved base and none of our numbers were killed in the battle, though some injured. Does that answer all of your questions?’ I nodded dumbly and relaxed back into the makeshift cot bed.

I smiled broadly.

‘What’s she smiling about?’ Whispered the man who had been silent until now. I wanted him to be quiet again.

‘I love the bush life.’ I said.

‘But you got shot twice!’ He exclaimed. ‘And you’re a woman.

Shouldn’t you prefer sitting at home cooking cakes?’

I stared him down, not an easy feat lying down I can tell you. ‘If I made a cake, would you eat it?’

‘No,’ he said, averting his gaze. ‘It would probably be poisoned.’

‘And burnt to a crisp.’ I added.

‘With salt instead of sugar,’ chimed in the other man.

We all laughed. I slumped back into the bed and closed my eyes, surrendering to sleep’s warm, gentle pull. I only had one thought on my mind:

Get better so I can go back to being the most feared bushranger in Australia.

Open Category

FORCE OF NATURE

RUBY KELLY

Garden Island Creek, Huon Valley

2019 WINNER

OPEN CATEGORY

FEMALE BUSHRANGERS

There are some things people talk about that they want no one else to hear. They will go into a locked room or far out into the bush, but wherever they go I have a habit of finding out. I slip under the door or slide through the bushes, and though they feel my presence I am ignored, for I am as old as Time itself.

I have been everywhere, seen everything, and oh the stories I could tell you! But today I shall tell you a story I have been waiting a long time to tell, about a girl named Caroline.

I have known many people like her across the ages, people with something a little wild about them, people constrained by their society who loved me for the fact that I am free, able to come and go as I please. But there was something about her that kept drawing me back, compelling me to blow through her hair and rustle her skirts.

Many a glorious hour I have spent blowing along the creek flats, racing her as she rode on her horse, Fury. Tearing through the tree tops or whistling through the garden, there has scarce been a moment in her life when I have not been present in some small way, from the day she was first wheeled outside in her bassinet to the time I took my last mournful farewell, blowing through the crowd as she swung from the gallows.

I remember her as a child, crossing her eyes at her teacher while I slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls, enticing her to come out and play. I kept company with her as she grew, skipping rocks down at the creek or howling triumphantly as she stood on top of the cliff after a long climb. I would blow softly to dry her tears after her numerous fights with her mother and on warm winter nights I would swirl air laden with wattle blossom through her open window to help her sleep. In those days I was her only friend.

I remember swirling distrustful around Mr. Alden when he came to her house, and following them on their walks. I moaned sadly at their wedding and in the months that followed, as his true nature showed through, I would sing through the treetops bringing memories of a happier time to remind her that there was a life out there worth living. As it became clearer than ever that Herbert Alden’s company was one better avoided than sought, Caroline would spend hours out in the bush behind the small house, hiking along the cliffs and following the creek, trying to forget about the mistake that had tied her life to that of a scoundrel. It was on one of these rambles that she first met Elizabeth. A young girl, scarcely sixteen, she was crouched behind a rotten log by the creek and running a high fever when Caroline found her. Later, Caroline found out that she had taken to the bush in hopes of avoiding jail time for stealing from her employer. For now though, Caroline’s only thought was to get her home and into a bed. She took the girl to the hay loft above the stable, not wanting to risk Herbert’s wrath by bringing her to the house.

It was three days after this, during which Elizabeth remained in the loft, slowly regaining her strength, that Herbert decided he would bring home an aboriginal servant girl. He stumbled in late one night, swearing and cussing as he crashed around in the dark, a silent shadow following on his heels. He’d got her cheap, he explained drunkenly. A bargain. No, he didn’t know her name, and he didn’t care either. Call her whatever darn name you like.

She didn’t speak much those days. When Caroline asked her name, she simply replied with Maddy. She was observant though, and it didn’t take her long to work out that there was a third member to this small family, and she nearly scared Elizabeth senseless one afternoon by appearing by her bedside in the loft. She handed Elizabeth a cup containing a dark brew, and instructed her to drink it.

That was the start of the bond between these three women that would last right to the end of their short lives.

Exactly a week later the inevitable happened. Herbert had been growing more and more reckless, and one night he awoke Caroline to grab her valuables and saddle up. The police had cottoned on to him and they had to flee he had a brother in Melbourne who would hide them until it all blew over. But Caroline didn’t want to go.

‘No,’ she screeched, ‘I’m sick and tired of watching you make a mess of our lives, and I’m sick and tired of the fact that I can’t do anything about it! I hate my life! Do you hear me? I hate it!’

Herbert stared at her a long moment and then laughed. ‘Do what you will, woman. Go back to your family if you like, but if you think they’ll harbour the wife of a criminal you’ve got another think coming. It’s me or nothing girl.’

He made for the door, and when he saw she wasn’t going to follow, took the money out of the bread bin and rode away.

Caroline wrapped her arms around her legs, crying and shivering. She couldn’t stay here, not with the troopers coming, yet where could she go? This life wasn’t fair. She would give anything, anything for a chance to make her own rules, and get her own back on all the people who told her that she would never make do if she didn’t learn to curb her reckless nature. Suddenly she stood up. They thought she had a reckless nature? Ha! She’d show them reckless. After all, what did she have to lose? Her reputation had vanished with Herbert, now the only thing left to her was her life, which she would spend in one final fling of glorious rebellion.

Shoving on her clothes, she grabbed her pistol and went to the kitchen for food. She was met at the door by Maddy, holding a bulging hessian sack. ‘I’ve got food,’ she said, ‘matches too. Should last us a while, but I know how to get more when we run out.’

Caroline paused, and said, ‘Maddy, I’m running away. Looking for revenge, so to speak.’ She cringed, realising how silly it sounded, ‘You – I’m not – you don’t have to come with me.’

Maddy only smiled. ‘It seems I could do with a little revenge of my own, sometimes. Besides, you wouldn’t last a week out there by yourself. I’m coming with you. You’ll bring the girl too, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Caroline agreed weakly. Elizabeth climbed onto the back of Fury, Maddy took the packhorse, and as they followed the track down into the gully, I went ahead of them, freeing the moon from the clouds.

I have seen this before many, many times, and I knew where it would end. Too many times I have witnessed as some bright, young person, lit by an uncontrollable fire within, has thrown away their life trying to get revenge on a world that just didn’t understand. It is sad, but it is a fact. And now it was happening to my Caroline.

Their first act was to steal two horses from a nearby farm, one for Elizabeth and one for Maddy. After that first theft their raids grew more and more daring. Holding up the mail coach, robbing the Governor on his way home from a meeting, they kept on. After each raid they would retreat back to the ranges, Maddy’s skill combined with Caroline and Elizabeth’s knowledge of the area making them almost impossible to track.

And not for lack of trying, either. Dozens of troopers were out scouring the bush, and the price on their heads was up to eight-hundred pounds, yet they still remained uncaught.

I shouldn’t have helped them. It was going against the ancient laws of nature, and was only delaying the inevitable anyway. Perhaps by helping them I was doing more harm than good, but this didn’t stop me from blowing away their tracks, or dropping a limb in the path of a searcher who got too close. Something in me kept going back to the small girl dancing in the sunshine, and I couldn’t bear to see that flame extinguished. Silly, I know. I am a force of nature. What does it matter to me what the humans do to themselves? I have seen thousands, millions, of humans come and go and one more shouldn’t make any difference. It did, though.

The last night was warm and friendly, and as they rode down out of the ranges. It felt as though nothing bad could ever happen, even the guns in their hands looked more like some sort of toy than an instrument of murder. They were out to rob a special coach. Word had come to Caroline that it would be passing through that evening. What her informant had failed to mention, however, was the strong armed police escort.

As soon as the first shot was fired, they knew they had been tricked and tried to flee but the shot had alerted troopers in the surrounding area that the girls had been sighted, and hoof beats sounded behind them. The second shot killed Maddy on impact. Elizabeth screamed, and her horse reared back on its hind legs. She slipped, and her body slammed the ground, gun spinning from her hand before she had time to let off a shot. At the sound of Elizabeth’s scream, the fight seemed to go out of Caroline, she dropped her gun and slowly raised her hands, as the circle of troopers closed in around them.

They were captured and tried later that same week. Elizabeth was pardoned on account of her considerable youth, but Caroline was charged with robbery and the murder of one policeman, and sentenced to hang.

It had to happen, of course it did. One cannot defy the law without reaping the consequences. I know this, and yet this knowledge didn’t stop me from mourning the little girl I once played with. And as watched Herbert rise to become a successful business man, I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps this world isn’t as fair as it’s meant to be.

Years passed, and people forgot the beautiful young girl. Caroline lived on only in the history books and in local legend as a ruthless bushranger, head of a small gang that once roamed the ranges.

I tell this story to remind people that there was more. There always is. Every criminal, no matter their crimes, was once a little baby, and no person is wholly evil, just as no one is wholly perfect. More than that though, I tell it to myself, to keep my young friend alive, forever dancing in the warm sun beneath the wattles down by the creek.

THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT SHIRLEY’S

AVA MCMAHON JONES

Kingston, Tasmania

2022 JOINT WINNER

OPEN CATEGORY

AGATHA CHRISTIE IN TASMANIA

PROTESTS INCREASE AS WORKING CLASS CITIZENS DEMAND AFFORDABLE GROCERIES 

PRESSURE MOUNTING ON STATE GOVERNMENT TO LOWER PRICES OF EVERYDAY ITEMS 

GUEST LIST FOR FUNCTION TONIGHT: WHO’S GOING AND WHAT DIFFERENCE WILL THIS MAKE TO THE COST OF LIVING CRISIS 

The bell rang and the tram slowed to a stop. Cicely Lowell stepped off onto the busy Sandy Bay Road and almost immediately collided with another person. The stranger grabbed onto her shoulders and helped her to her get her balance. She straightened and thanked the stranger, not looking up. She was about to walk off when they said

‘Always one for the dramatic entrance. One may have even thought you didn’t recognise me.’ Cicely looked up and sighed in relief.

‘Oh, Jerald.’ She said, smacking his arm lightly. ‘I thought I had collided with someone, well, you know…’ She trailed off. Jerald smiled.

‘Easily offended?’

‘I was going to say important, but yours works too.’ Jerald feigned offence and they laughed, drawing a few glances from around the street. Jerald seemed to feel the people looking at them because he immediately tensed up and suggested that they start walking. They walked in silence for a few blocks before turning off the main road and down a quieter street. The buildings were incredibly grand. Cicely looked around in stunned awe for a moment, before collecting herself and turning to Jerald.

‘Jerald, you mustn’t let them bother you. We are here as guests of one of the most important people in the city. Are they?’

‘No, because they too are some of the most important and absurdly rich people in the city. Because they too are some of the most pompous-’

‘Jerald!’ Cicely reprimanded. ‘Don’t insult people like that. Even if they are ridiculously dressed and live in wildly overdecorated mansions with too much food to eat in a lifetime while we are trying to afford everyday groceries. Even if they are pompous, sometimes painfully stupid, superficial idiots who are too far disconnected from the real issues of our society to even notice real problems when they’re right under their powdered noses.’

Jerald tried to restrain himself but couldn’t. His roaring laugh broke the peaceful air of the street and Cicely couldn’t help but join.

‘Honestly, though. Please try not to insult them. For whatever reason it may be, they are trying to help us. All we need to do is stick out this ridiculous function and then things might be better.’

It was at this moment that a door opened just ahead of them. The house that the door led to was tremendously grand. It was one of the finer houses on the street and out stepped a man who was dressed from head to toe in the finest dinner party suit, hat, and shoes that the pair walking down the street had ever seen. Cicely could feel Jerald shifting uncomfortably next to her, obviously feeling underdressed already, despite wearing his finest clothes. The man looked around and saw them. Cicely could have sworn she saw a flicker of what could have been disgust in his eyes, but it was gone almost immediately and replaced with a large smile.

‘Hello! Are you here for the function?’ His tone was friendly, but Jerald did not respond.

‘Yes, sir.’ Cicely said, trying to enunciate her words. She had been told before that she tended to slur her words, and she did not wish to appear dull in front of a man who wanted to help them. Or a man who was already disgusted by them. He nodded.

‘Shall we walk? Shirley’s house is only a block or two. I thought a bit of a stretch would be good for me, so I decided not to take the car, although the night is proving to be a little chilly, isn’t it?’ He kept talking, and Cicely and Jerald shared a look. Driving? People with their sort of income could afford only to either walk or take a tram when they needed to go somewhere. And now this man was complaining about not taking a car two blocks because it was just a little bit cold? He was the one in the three piece suit, Cicely only had a thin cardigan to protect her bare arms from the chill.

Nevertheless, they reached the venue of the function and found it ridiculously decorated. A banner across the entrance, a decorative pile of champagne glasses stacked higher than Jerald was tall. Flowers decorating every wall, and to top it all off, a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the drawing room, which is where they all gathered to ‘mingle’ before dinner.

They were greeted by an enthusiastic woman named Shirley Martin, who Cicely and Jerald had seen in the papers. She was quite a controversial character. Supporting the working class, while encouraging the federal governments tax increases. She was loved and hated on all sides of the political and economic spectrums. She was a socialite and highly political, never failing to express her opinions in The Mercury. Jerald hated her.

Two long hours later, it was time for dinner. Before starting what looked like a delicious first course, they made a toast. To the suffering middle class and to the hard work done by Miss Shirley to put together this function and support those that are suffering. They drank, and all began eating the food.

By the second course everyone was asleep.

When they woke up, Miss Shirley Martin wasn’t there.

Ivy Lawrence was just packing up in the office when she got the phone call. It was the police department. Ringing about a disappearance at the high profile function that was running that night and they needed a detective on scene stat. Ivy sighed.

‘Sir, I’m not sure if you realise but it is half past nine, most of the detectives have left.’

‘Most?’ The chief of police said over the phone. Ivy rolled her eyes. ‘Well, sure, most. I mean there’s only one detective here at the

moment, but they may not be who you are expecting.’

‘I don’t care. Get them down here and get them down here now. This is a high profile case.’ The call ended there. Ivy sighed. She picked up her bag and started out towards the tram. She’d pick up some food along the way.

Ivy got off on Sandy Bay Road, eating a pie bought from a pie seller on Macquarie Street who was packing up. It was somewhat room temperature, but better than nothing. She turned down St Georges Terrace before turning right onto Colville Street. She saw police gathered around the entrance to the front garden. All attendees were gathered outside. Ivy walked up to the chief.

‘Hello, sir. You requested a detective?’ The chief of police turned to her.

‘Yes, where is he?’

‘She, sir. I think you’ll find I’m a woman.’ The chief sighed and turned away before turning back.

‘Was there no one else?’ Ivy could feel the exasperation rising in her. ‘No, sir. I told you over the telephone that there was only one detective still at the agency, that detective being me.’ Ivy could feel that the chief was about to continue patronizing her, so she cut him off. ‘I assure you detective; I am fully qualified to be in the field. I am experienced and learnt from no other than Hercule Poirot himself.’

That left the chief of police silent. Ivy nodded and walked into the house, the chief following her.

‘Sir, I’m Ivy Lawrence, detective with the Australian Detectives Agency. I have 12 years’ experience in the field.’ She said, not turning around.

‘Thomas Aldritch, chief of police at Police Tasmania. 23 years’ experience in the field.’

Ivy turned and held out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Aldritch.’ They shook and Ivy turned back to the scene of the crime. ‘Nothing has been touched, has it Mr Aldritch?’ He shook his head.

‘Police have received strict orders that by no circumstances are they to touch anything. Everything is how it was when they woke up.’

‘Woke up?’

‘That’s how the disappearance occurred. The guests all fell asleep. They woke up and she was gone.’

Ivy looked around the room and walked over to the chairs.

‘Where was Miss Martin seated?’ Mr Aldritch nodded in the direction of the head seat. ‘Her function. She was seated at the head.’

Ivy walked over and her eyes were immediately drawn to the dried blood. Then she tilted her head and looked at the tablecloth. The white was sharply contrasted to the deep red of the blood that had splattered onto it. Ivy examined the area more closely. Numerous drops on the plate, the glass, the cutlery, and the napkin. This was no disappearance. This was murder.

‘Mr Aldritch.’ Ivy said. ‘Please collect the suspects and bring them into the living room.’ Mr Aldritch nodded and left the room, leaving Ivy.

She walked down the hall and turned into what she believed was the living room. Within a few minutes, all guests were seated in the living room. Ivy turned to address them.

‘Good evening. I am Miss Ivy Lawrence of the Australian Detective’s Agency. I am here investigating the disappearance of Miss Shirley Martin. However, I have reason to believe that Miss Martin has been murdered.’

The suspects gasped.

‘Now, in order to set things right, I will be interviewing you one at a time upstairs, with Chief Aldritch as a witness. We will start with…’ Ivy trailed off while looking at the guest list. ‘Miss Cicely Lowell.’

The two women walked upstairs and into an informal living room, Mr Aldritch trailing close behind. They closed the door and sat. Introductions were exchanged and then Ivy started asking questions, notebook out, pen poised.

‘Could you please recount what happened tonight? After you arrived at the function?’

‘I arrived with Jerald at around 6 o’clock. Dinner was to be served at 8, but we were all to arrive two hours in advance so that we could discuss what needed to be progressed. And we did, for a while.

‘I was with Miss Shirley, discussing accessibility to different areas of the city for the working class, and how much impact transportation costs have on our incomes. A real discussion, and she seemed very interested, but I couldn’t help but be a little suspicious of her, what with her supporting the government’s tax increases.

‘Nevertheless, I spoke with her. Jerald was standing off to the side. He hates the upper class. Including Miss Shirley. Gradually more people got involved in the conversation Miss Shirley and I were having. They were all interested and seemed like they were interested in helping us. But Jerald refused to participate.

‘There was music playing, and Peggy Lee’s Ain’t We Got Fun started playing. Anyway, Miss Shirley exclaimed something like ‘‘Oh, what a great song! Perfect for an occasion such as this!”

‘I could see Jerald tense. I could tell he was going to pick a fight. She could see it too. So she said, ‘‘Oh, Jerald! This song is almost an exact description of your situation, of what we’re trying to change. That’s what tonight’s about, isn’t it? It’s for the working class- for your- benefit.”

‘That’s when Jerald snapped. He said: “Shirley, did you ever think, that by throwing this, you are spending hundreds of taxpayers’- working class dollars? We paid for your cooks, for the food, everything. Not directly, but we did. Because all money that goes in and out of your pocket is taxpayer money and you rich don’t pay taxes. The ones who need the money the most are the ones who give it away. Yes, that song describes our situation exactly, but we don’t have fun. We work and we work to give up our money so you can get richer. The song is right about another thing, the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. But we don’t have fun.” Then he went outside for a smoke.’

Ivy was writing all of this down very hurriedly. Cicely continued.

‘So just before dinner, I went to the restroom. On my way back, I heard Shirley and another guest talking. Tall fellow. He wanted to know why she even bothered with us. We just need to be put in check. The tax increases would keep us in line and then Shirley could be generous with her money. But cutting taxes, it would prevent most of the upper class from getting half their income. The upper class are starting to turn their backs on her. She’d be doing something she that she would regret. She explained that she was determined to try cut taxes for the poor but put more in for the rich. He wasn’t happy about that. He said that it’d be her funeral. And she said, knowing some of the people here, she wouldn’t be surprised if it was.’ Ivy looked up.

‘Thank you Cicely. You can go.’

Cicely left the room, and the other guests came through one at a time. It was the same story from all of them.

Ivy went downstairs and back into the dining room. She approached the door into the servants’ entrance and found it locked. She went outside and around to the entrance to the kitchens. She went inside. On the wall was a table layout. Next to it was a roster. She took both.

Heading back into the dining room, she examined the table. She went and took one of the glasses, shaking it lightly and sniffing it. She could smell something. Traces of a sleep drug. Blackmores sells stuff like that. Ivy examined each of the glasses, hoping for a sign. She found it.

All suspects were gathered in the living room once again. It had been 30 minutes since Ivy’s discovery concerning the water glasses, 28 minutes since she sent out police officers all throughout Battery Point to search every car in the vicinity. Two minutes since the body of Miss Shirley Martin was found in the back of a car five blocks away, with a slit throat. Ivy began talking.

‘This evening I was brought here to investigate the disappearance of Miss Shirley Martin. Quickly, I realised that all of you had a grudge against her. She was very controversial. Hated and loved on both sides of the spectrum. At 9.20 all of you woke up after falling asleep right there at the dinner table. You were all drugged. A pharmaceutical drug probably sold by Blackmores that caused you all to fall into a heavy sleep for a short period of time was put in your drinks. This could only have happened in the kitchens. One of the staff.’ Ivy looked around, looking for signs of smugness or relief, anything, no matter how faint. ‘However, they worked under orders. All of you were biased against Miss Martin, but who was it that would take it one step too far and murder her. About five minutes ago we found the body of Miss Martin, in the back of a car, with a slit throat.

‘Jerald. You were the one that I first suspected. Of course. You were very open about your opinion of her, and you are outwardly very cold. It would make anyone think that you would do it. But it soon became clear that you didn’t. Cicely told me that she overheard a conversation between Miss Martin and a very tall man. Cicely is above the average height for a woman, so for a man to be very tall, he would have to be very tall. There are a few men that fit that description.’ Ivy started pointing. ‘Mr Farn, Mr Pence, Mr Pall, and Mr Tristan. The man that Cicely overheard was warning her against supporting the middle class, or she’d regret it. Or, in his words, it’d be ‘her funeral’. Miss Martin presently replied, “knowing some of the people here, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.”’

‘I also inspected the dining room, and that’s when I discovered our culprit. In order to complete the crime, they could not have been drugged. I tested all the glasses, and all of them were drugged. Then I realised, they mustn’t have drunk from the glass. Mr Pall, no lips have touched your glass. You did not fall asleep. You slit the throat of Miss Martin while she was asleep and you convinced your nephew, who is part of the staff here,’ Ivy held up the roster, ‘to drug the champagne. You then locked the entrance to the dining room from the kitchens, and carried Miss Martin’s body out to your nephew’s car which you then drove and parked 5 blocks away, in order to get back in time for everyone to wake and so no one would notice your absence, isn’t that right? You did not support Miss Martin and you knew the only way to stop the tax increases for the upper class coming into play and then cutting off just over half your income, because you work at the taxes office, and most of your income comes from taxes paid by the poor, was to kill the most influential person in favour of these changes.’

Mr Pall paled. Then he ran towards the nearest window and leapt out. Mr Aldritch barked an order and officers from all around the block circled Mr Pall before he could escape.

One day later, Ivy hopped off the tram to find the agency building surrounded by reporters. She approached and suddenly she was being bombarded for a statement. She went up onto the steps of the agency and turned to face the growing crowd.

‘There is only one person I would like to thank at present,’ she said. ‘My mentor, Mr Hercule Poirot, who taught me everything I know.’ She looked to the back of the crowd and saw the man with the funny moustache smile.

The RISING TIGER exhibition features stories from these young writers

With thanks to Huonville Library, Pilipala Literary, the Huon Valley Council, Regional Arts Australia, RANT Arts, the Regional Arts Fund and the Tasmanian Government.

RISING TIGER | THE BOOK

The RISING TIGER Exhibition is based on an accompanying book.

Rising Tiger (Clan Destine Press, 2023) is a collection of 65 mystery stories from young writers living in the Huon Valley, Tasmania, and beyond.

Each year, the Terror Australis Readers and Writers Festival in the Huon Valley offers a Mystery Short Story Competition for all young writers to age 16. Entries arrive from across Tasmania, every state in Australia and from as far afield as New Zealand and Georgia (the country).

The young writers’ stories are entertaining, twisty and fun. They make life rather difficult for the judges.

This book contains the winning stories from 2019 to 2022, along with a range of other entries selected by the competition’s convenor, Dr L J M Owen.

The themes of the stories from these years were:

• 2019 – Female Bushrangers

• 2020 – Female Detectives

• 2021 – Scene of the Crime

• 2022 – Agatha Christie in Tasmania

We hope you enjoy this marvellous collection.

This book was created jointly by Pilipala Literary, Terror Australis Readers and Writers Festival and Clan Destine Press. It is sold at cost, and not to be used for profit. All rights to the stories remain with the young writers.

Terror Australis Readers and Writers Festival would like to acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land on which our festival is held, the Melukerdee People of the South East Nation, and pay our respects to Elders past and present.