"Blake!" he growled down the phone. "Oh, sorry, Christopher … what? The bus hasn't arrived?"
Christopher Beazley stood in his little house on the army base wondering where his mother had got to. Having only been told by the bus company that it was running late – four hours late – he had decided to ring the house in Ballarat and find out if Dr Blake knew anything.
"No, I bid your mother good-bye and watched it leave. She said she would ring when she got to you … and you say the bus company don't seem to be worried?"
"No, sir," Christopher cleared his throat, "you'd think that after this length of time they would have sent another bus in case they had a breakdown."
"Indeed," Lucien ran his hands over his head, "right, I'll fuel up and head out along the route. I'll find her, Christopher, I promise."
"Thank you, doctor," Christopher put down the phone, at least somebody cared. He went back upstairs to see if there was anything he could do to help Ruby with the baby.
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Jean had dozed on and off as the bus lumbered its way out of Ballarat and down the roads through Ararat towards Horsham. She tried reading but always came back to Lucien's words as he bid her farewell at the bus station, that he hoped everything would go well with the young family and that she would return when she was able to.
"I would like you to come back, Jean, to come home," he stuttered, "I'm sorry if I've given you the impression I won't miss you, because I will – very much – I'm … er … I'm rather fond of you."
She had blushed and smiled a little smile at his embarrassed admission he might feel more for her than he should for his housekeeper; but the truth was she felt more for him than was seemly – as his housekeeper.
Being in such a public place made it difficult to tell him how she felt, so she just agreed that she would return – when all was settled in Adelaide.
So, she sat on the bus to Adelaide, dozing and paying no attention to the scenery that passed by the window. They stopped around lunchtime for a break. There was a café and toilets but not much else; she made use of the facilities and stretched her legs. The driver changed with another waiting at the stop; there was nothing unusual in that, it was a long journey. Jean settled back down in her seat and took out her book, she would read for a while, she thought.
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She woke to a loud crash and a bang, passengers screamed and cursed, the bus lurched, rolled, and slid on its side until it came to rest suddenly as if it had hit something. Silence. Moaning in the dark. Dark – she must have slept for hours if it was dark. Jean eased herself from whatever she was now lying on, it was something warm … and wet. Glass fell off her head and scattered over the 'something' under her. She had a dreadful feeling it was a fellow passenger – dead – or at least bleeding profusely. Without light she couldn't be sure.
The glass was from the window she had been sitting next to, which meant it was her way out. She heard people begin to move, shapes shifted, and questions began to be asked.
"Best try and get out, first," she called down the bus, "does anyone have a torch, we need some light."
Nobody had a torch so climbing out of the bus had to be done by the faint light of the moon.
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They stood, sat, and lay by the side of the road, nursing bruises, cuts, and a few minor breaks. Jean thought there may be cases of concussion; her head hurt, and she felt slightly sick.
"This isn't the road we should be on," one passenger scratched his head, winced, and examined the dried blood on his fingertips.
"We should have arrived in Adelaide by now," someone else grunted.
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Lucien had called Matthew Lawson and Dr Alice Harvey, he also thought Mattie O'Brien might be useful.
"I suggest a couple of ambulances, as well," Alice mused.
"Right, well," Lucien stood up, "I think we ought to get going."
"I still don't understand why the bus company haven't sent anyone out," Dr Harvey frowned as she pulled on her coat.
"Me neither," Lucien agreed.
"Was there anything on the bus other than passengers and their luggage?" Mattie trotted behind, wondering what on earth was going on.
"If there was no-one is telling," Matthew grunted.
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The cars and ambulances travelled faster than the bus and with Matthew employing the sirens other vehicles pulled over to let them pass. He had told the passenger in each car to 'keep their eyes peeled', to look to the verges and ditches for any sign a bus may have crashed.
It was Alice who spotted her.
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"We need to get back to the main road," Jean stood up and wobbled slightly. "To hail a car, or another bus."
"We need to stay here," a man grabbed her arm, "safety in numbers."
"We're on a side road, no one is going to see us," she pulled away.
"The bus company will send someone," another woman whined, "surely."
"When?" Jean turned, a little too quickly, "how late are we to Adelaide? Hours. No one is coming from there. If they were really worried the police would have arrived by now, I'm going to find the main road, you can stay here, I'll send whoever passes."
As she stepped away, head held high, the others shook their heads.
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Jean had no idea how far the main road was and with every step she felt more and more nauseous, enough to have her heave into a ditch. There was nothing to spit out, she was thirsty and hungry and tired. But it was a strange sort of tiredness, as if she had been drugged. She stumbled over a stone and fell, feeling the road surface change under her knees – she had found the main road with its smoother tarmac and white line down the middle. As she had walked she had wondered who would know they were missing. Christopher would have called the bus company, surely, maybe he called Dr Blake – Lucien would worry, he would do something. She had promised to call when she arrived, so he knew she was safe, he had insisted.
"It's a long journey, Jean, a whole day," he had smiled softly, "I would like to know you have arrived safely."
The thing she loved about Lucien was that everyone mattered; it didn't matter what colour your skin was, which part of town you came from, which part of the world even, you mattered, and now she knew she mattered, she mattered a lot.
She wasn't sure which direction Ballarat was but unless the bus had crossed the road to head down the track she should turn right, but if she walked away from the tiny junction how would she find it again? She had to mark it somehow. She had nothing to tie round the tree stump, her jacket was still on the bus, her handkerchief was too small. Her dress was torn, caught on the broken glass as she climbed out of the bus window, but there wasn't a big enough piece to tie that wouldn't leave her standing in her slip.
The white silk hung limply on the tree stump, but Jean reckoned it would be seen in the headlights of any passing car or truck. She decided to walk in the direction of Ballarat. She didn't think she'd get far but she didn't want to sit there waiting for someone or something, by now she didn't know what to do or what to think.
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Lucien was becoming more frustrated as the miles passed by. There was no sign of a bus, or skid marks or an accident, nothing to suggest an accident had happened.
"Wait!" Alice shouted, "there!" she pointed to the edge of the road.
Lucien slammed on the brakes, which nearly had the rest of the cars and ambulances slam into him.
Suddenly there was a terrific explosion in the distance.
"Bloody hell!" he leapt out of the car and was by Jean's side, holding her up before she even registered he was there, the explosion had filled her mind with the thought of the people she had left behind the ones who refused to follow her.
"Lucien?" she whispered and fainted.
Mattie appeared at his side with his bag and one of the bottles of water they had brought with them.
"Water first, Mattie," he held out his handkerchief, not taking his eyes off Jean. Mattie poured water onto the soft cotton cloth and watched as he dabbed her forehead and cheeks, talking to her all the time; telling her she was safe, he was there, she was going to be fine.
The rest of the officers, Alice and the ambulance crews had turned in the direction of the explosion, driving down the dirt track that was marked by a silk slip tied round a tree stump.
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It was a mess; a heap of twisted metal, broken windows, and damaged people – more damaged than when Jean had left them. Some had been killed in the explosion, their twisted broken remains thrown with the force of the blast into the surrounding trees, others were burned – the smell of burning flesh and hair assaulted the senses of the police officers and medical crews that had arrived. They used their small extinguishers to put out the remaining flames while Dr Harvey started to catalogue the injuries and who needed attention first. The walking wounded were assured they would be taken to the nearest hospital, the conscious but badly injured were attended to by a senior medic from the ambulance, the unconscious were examined by Dr Harvey and graded from one to five; number ones needed the most urgent attention.
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Jean blinked and opened her eyes – it wasn't a dream, a hallucination, Lucien really was here, he really had come to find her.
"Lucien?"
"Hello, there," he smiled with relief. "What kind of a pickle have you got yourself into?"
"The bus … I was asleep …"
"How could you sleep on the bus, you're such a light sleeper?" Mattie frowned.
"I don't know, I felt like I had just come round from anaesthetic, and it was dark … we should be in Adelaide."
"Christopher rang, he was worried, and he said the bus company just said you were late."
"Christopher!" she tried to get up.
"Hey!" Lucien lifted her into his arms, "we are going to take you home, I'll ring Christopher …"
"But …"
"No buts, Jean. We'll see about getting you to Adelaide later in the week, if I deem you fit enough to travel." He strode, with her in his arms, to the car and settled her in the passenger seat. "Mattie, I'll just go and see how things are …" he nodded in the direction of the side road, "then you can take Jean home if I need to stay."
"Gotcha," Mattie nodded.
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"It's a bloody mess," Lawson grunted when he arrived at the site.
"How long between the crash and the explosion?" Lucien nosed around the site.
"Well, time enough for Jean to walk to the main road," Matthew hummed, "I suppose she isn't in the best shape?"
"No, and she says she felt as if she had come round from an anaesthetic," Lucien folded his arms. "I would think it took her some time, and I don't suppose she set off immediately. From that I would say the crash had little to do with the explosion."
"Superintendent," Alice appeared at Matthew's side, "we really need to get these people to hospital."
"What, yes of course," he grunted, "and we need light to deal with this." He turned and called to a couple of constables. "Right, lads, I'm leaving you two here. You shouldn't have any callers and it won't be too long 'til sun-up. The mortuary van will be along for the bodies …"
"Boss," they chorused.
"Keep your eyes peeled," he harrumphed.
They both gave a small salute and wandered out of the way of the ambulance crews and Dr Harvey – who scared them more than the Superintendent.
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"Dozed on and off," Mattie nodded towards Jean's sleeping form.
"Let's go home," Lucien opened the rear door for Mattie to climb into the back of the car, "I need to check her over, but my guess is all she needs is sleep."
"Well, she insists she isn't hurt, maybe a few bruises, a scratch or two, but nothing else."
"I'll be the judge of that," he grinned.
"Says who?" Jean mumbled from the passenger seat.
"Let's get you home," he patted her arm, "we'll talk in the morning."
Neither woman commented that it was already morning.
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When Jean had left she had stripped her bed and thrown a dustcover over it, she had nothing in her room and insisted she would be just fine on the couch in the living room.
"You can have my bed," Lucien carried her towards his room.
"Dr Blake!" she squeaked, "I will do no such thing."
"My rules tonight, Mrs Beazley," he continued, "Mattie can you get one of my pyjama tops out of the drawer? I'll leave you to change," he set her down gently on the bed, "then I'm coming in to give you the once over."
"Lucien," she hissed at his back.
"Come on, Jean," Mattie smiled, "you know he's right. Let me help you …"
"I can dress myself, Nurse O'Brien," she huffed, snatching the top and glaring at her.
The top Mattie had pulled out was silk, Jean had often run her hands over it when she did his laundry, it was soft and cool. It was a struggle to remove her clothing, but she wasn't going to have a girl young enough to be her daughter come and undress her and tuck her into bed like a child. She finally lay in his bed, her clothes placed tidily on the chair and the sheet and blanket pulled up demurely to just under her breasts. She wasn't tired anymore – she was exhausted.
"Can I come in, Jean?" Lucien tapped lightly on the door.
"Yes," she sighed.
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He tried not to smile at the sight. The top was far too big for her, her hair was mussed, and her eyes shone with the tears she had so far denied herself. The tears wouldn't be for her, but for all the people that had been hurt in the explosion that so far she had not asked about. She would know that some had not survived.
"I rang Christopher," he started …
"Thank you."
"I told him I would ensure you got to him perhaps later this week."
"I would like to go by train, this time," she cleared her throat.
"I shall drive you."
"No! I mean, thank you, but it isn't necessary."
"Hm," he sat on the bed and took her wrist, counting her pulse, "fast, but only to be expected. Let's see about your blood pressure …" she hadn't noticed he had brought the sphygmomanometer in with him, and his bag. She let him take the readings, shine his little torch in her eyes, check her neck and she answered all his questions about bruising and stiffness.
"Now, let's get you settled to sleep." He stood up and let her slide down the bed.
"Lucien, you can't sleep on the couch," she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts and potential nightmares.
"I'll be fine, I've slept in worse places." He tidied the bedclothes over her.
She reached out and grabbed his hand.
"Hey, it's alright … I'll stay until you are settled … if you want," he stroked he cheek with his finger.
"I don't want to be alone, Lucien," she let a tear roll down her face, "I keep thinking about … people died, didn't they?"
He knew it was no use lying to her, or trying the usual platitudes, Jean knew what he did in the morgue, she knew he dealt with death on an almost daily basis as well as life. She had heard the explosion; she knew it could have been her lying twisted and broken in the wreckage and it frightened her. He wouldn't leave her, not tonight.
"I'll be here; is it alright if I lie on the bed? Just on the top?"
She sniffed and nodded.
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Lucien heard her crying but didn't want to appear too forward by holding her so he just reached across the gap between them and held her hand. She rolled to face him, hiccupping sobs cutting the stillness of the early morning.
When he woke, perhaps a couple of hours later her head lay on his chest, her arm across him and his arm was around her. He didn't remember how they got to be lying like this, but it appeared to have calmed her and allowed her to rest.
But he had to get back out to the site of the incident, to see how many autopsies were needed … there was so much to do before he could drive Jean to Adelaide. A tentative knock on the door roused Jean who rolled away from him, embarrassed.
"Mornin'," he whispered, "sleep ok?"
She cleared her throat and nodded, no trusting herself to speak.
"Come in," he called.
"Morning," Mattie poked her head round the door, "thought you might like some tea. Mrs Toohey's arrived, what do you want me to tell her?"
"I'll come and speak to her," Lucien sat on the edge of the bed, "do you want to see her, Jean?"
"Not just yet, and not here." She gestured to her attire and while he didn't know how much of a gossip Evelyn Toohey was, Jean was in his bed wearing his pyjamas.
"Right," he turned to Mattie, "thanks for the tea, I'll wash and get ready, speak to Mrs Toohey then we shall see about getting you something more appropriate to wear." He turned back to Jean.
"All I had was on the coach, Lucien," she bit her lip.
"No worries," he squeezed her hand. "Mattie, if I give you some money can you go and get Jean something to wear …"
"Lucien …"
"Jean, how else are you going to get clothes, eh? You can pay me back later."
He stood up, "you can use my robe, to get to and from the bathroom. How do you feel about tackling the stairs?"
"I think I'll be alright," she hummed.
Mattie left them to sort themselves out. Lucien was right, Mrs Toohey should not see Jean where she was, in what she was wearing; she would try to keep her in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.
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"Oh, doctor," Evelyn Toohey jumped, "I … er …" he looked less rumpled, less as if he had been drinking whisky all night.
"Mrs Toohey, good morning," he smiled genially, "not my room today," he sat down at the table, "I should like it left."
"Oh, well, it is your room," she swallowed.
"Indeed."
"Just off, Lucien!" Mattie called from the hall, "shan't be long, I hope!"
He waved and looked at the egg and bacon before him. He'd have to eat it, though as usual it was burnt.
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Jean tied the robe around her and lifted it out of the way of her feet. She felt stiff and sore but managed the stairs and drew herself a warm bath. As the water ran, she found a spare toothbrush and toothpaste and cleaned her teeth. Looking in the mirror she saw a tired and pale woman. There was a smudge of blood on her neck from the person she had lain on when the bus crashed. She remembered Lucien hadn't remarked on it, but he had examined her and would have known it wasn't hers. She found Mattie's shampoo and soap and thought she wouldn't mind if she used it. Usually, she would have her hair washed and set at the hairdressers, rarely did she wash it herself, but she wanted to be cleaned of the feeling she was covered in something disturbing, unnatural – the reminder of death that clung to her. She slid under the warm water and let the warmth and scent of citrus from the shampoo wash over her and the soft lather of the soap soothe her prickling skin.
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Hair wrapped in a towel and her body wrapped in Lucien's silk robe, Jean headed back down to his bedroom. She had looked in her own and it seemed cold and unfriendly, the bed still unmade. She would have to make the bed up, until she could go to Adelaide, however she made the journey.
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Lucien wondered how he could get Mrs Toohey out of the house for an hour. Jean would need something to eat, and he didn't think overcooked bacon and eggs would aid her recovery. He could do passable scrambled eggs, more than passable, and some toast and more tea then they could work out how to run the house for the next few days. Also, he had to get out to the accident site and the morgue, he had a job to do. Matthew would be wondering why he wasn't poking about and under his feet.
"Is there anything you need, doctor?" she broke into his thoughts.
"Hm? Oh, er, yes. I have quite a lot to do, today, and I find I am out of a few things for the surgery. If I give you a list could you go and get them for me. They can go on the accounts."
"Oh, yes of course."
Lucien grabbed a page out of the notebook Jean kept by the phone and wrote down things he would habitually abuse for his experiments as well as bandages, dressings, and a skin salve she would have to wait for while it was prepared.
"The butcher's, Dr Blake?" she raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Take your time, Mrs Toohey, it's a fine day."
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Mattie drew into the drive as Mrs Toohey left the house. She had used Lucien's money wisely, she thought. Jean now had enough clothes to last to the end of the week without washing, she had included nightwear and a new robe and some toiletries.
"Successful?" Lucien held the door open for her.
"I believe so. Nothing outrageous or ostentatious."
"Good, she must be comfortable."
"Where is Mrs Toohey going?"
"Errands. I haven't told her Jean is here, or why. Jean, I think, has had a bath, I was just about to make her some breakfast."
"You, cook?" Mattie gaped.
"Scrambled eggs and toast," he laughed softly, "Li used to love the way I did them. I figured Jean might appreciate that over burnt egg and bacon."
"Right, you do that, I'll take these to her."
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Jean was sitting on the edge of the bed staring into space, she barely acknowledged Mattie was there until she spoke.
"Oh …"
"Hope they're ok, nothing too flash or showy." She put the bags on the bed. "Lucien's making you breakfast."
"He is? But … Evelyn?"
"Gone on some errands apparently; now come on, get dressed and we can work out what we say to Mrs T."
"I don't know," Jean took out some underwear, it was nicer than she usually bought, hers was nice but plain, Mattie had chosen some pretty pale coloured bra and knicker sets – she chose pale blue – matching suspender belts and slips. There was a neat sky-blue blouse and straight navy skirt that she chose for that day and a complementary cardigan. She added stockings and her shoes and let Mattie dry and style her hair for her. She was ready when Lucien entered with the breakfast tray.
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Lucien left for the accident site and Mattie stayed with Jean. When Mrs Toohey returned, they just told her there had been an accident and Jean would be leaving later in the week. No, she wasn't badly hurt, just shocked, and tired due to the lack of sleep.
"Is there anything I can do?" she frowned.
"No, thank you, I just need to keep busy," Jean shrugged, "perhaps you would like to take the day – on full pay of course – I can manage here …"
"Well …"
"Really, I'm not used to sitting around doing nothing."
"If you're sure …"
"I am …"
"Right, well I'll just visit the bathroom …"
"Of course …"
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Mrs Toohey was very curious. Jean was very well dressed for a woman who had been involved in a motor accident the previous night and until she had seen her in the kitchen she had no idea she was home. As she left the bathroom, she pushed open Jean's bedroom door and saw that the bed had not been slept in. She pursed her lips, Dr Blake had said not to bother with his room that morning – surely Jean hadn't spent the night with him, had she?
"I suppose I should make my bed up," she heard Jean say as she stepped off the bottom stair. "I can't expect Lucien to give up his bed for me tonight."
"I'll give you a hand, and we can get your clothes hung up."
"I owe him … Evelyn?" Jean felt rather than heard Evelyn enter the kitchen.
"I'll be off then Jean, call me when you need me to come back."
"I will, and thank you," Jean smiled kindly. She saw her out of the door and returned to the kitchen.
"I wonder how much she heard and how much she understood; perhaps I should have explained …"
"What? That Lucien insisted you sleep in his bed because yours wasn't made up. He looked after you, it's what he does." Mattie threw up her hands, but she knew Jean was right to worry. "Is she a gossip?"
"Only during sewing circle, I mean she talks about other people, things she has heard, she can be a bit … um … judgemental."
"You know you did nothing to be ashamed of," Mattie sighed, "come on, let's get your room sorted, eh?"
Jean knew she was right, but it still bothered her that Evelyn had worked out that she had spent the night in Lucien's bed.
"Jean? Jean?"
"What? Oh, yes, right," she stood up.
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"Wondered when you'd turn up," Matthew grunted as Lucien appeared at his shoulder. "How's Jean?"
"Shaken, upset, but not harmed … apart from a few bruises. I said I'd drive her to Adelaide when we've wrapped up this case." He looked around, "so, what've we got?"
"A surprising lack of a driver," Matthew frowned. "All passengers are accounted for, most had some kind of ID on them, and those that didn't were identified by others. It's just the driver we're missing."
"Not one of those in the morgue?"
"Apparently not, according to Dr Harvey."
"Well," Lucien took his hat off and scratched his head, "that points the finger."
"Yeah."
"If it took some time before the explosion … Jean said she felt as if she had been under anaesthetic, drugged, then my guess is that the explosion was caused by someone deliberately applying heat to the fuel tank or a fuel line." He watched the forensics team swarm all over the site like maggots. "How much of the luggage survived?"
"Not a lot, why?"
"Just wondered if Jean's stuff … well, it was all she had, and I know she took out a loan …"
"She did?"
"Shh," Lucien hissed, "she won't like me telling you. She wanted enough to rent a little house while she was in Adelaide as she didn't know how long she would be away …"
"Hotels can be expensive …"
"Indeed," he hummed.
"Well, we're getting it taken back to town for investigations, if we find her things I'll bring them over."
"Thanks; now what are your thoughts?"
"Mine?" Matthew choked, "I thought that was your area, wild ideas."
"Go on, I bet it's the same as mine."
"Insurance scam; feed dope through the air conditioning, knock out the passengers and drive down a back lane. Tip it over by turning too hard, do a runner and wait for the bus company to lodge the claim …"
"Well, seems like we're on the same page." Lucien shrugged.
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The case dragged on over the end of the week. They were unable to trace the driver of the bus, the owner of the company said he was new and probably took a wrong turn.
"But there are no turns along that road," Matthew grumbled, "straight through to Adelaide – there is no excuse for taking that side road."
"It was dark."
"Really?" Lucien, who had inveigled his way into the interview, sat back with his arms folded, "given the time the bus left Ballarat, and even factoring the half hour stop for the change of driver it wouldn't have been dark. Dim, perhaps, but not that late and with the time of year …" he let the insinuation hang.
The company owner had nothing to say about that – because Dr Blake was right.
"What is the name of this mysterious driver?" Matthew sat with his pen poised.
"Um, Gordon Rattray, like I say he was new to the route."
"Even so, surely you made him aware of the actual route, you didn't just send him out to find his own way?"
"He was the relief driver, he got on at the first break, I wasn't there."
"Look, eight of your passengers died, five are badly wounded and three are battered and bruised. Most of them have lost all they had, one I know has lost her belongings and a considerable amount of cash she had in order to stay and help her son and daughter-in-law with their new-born baby." Lucien leant forward, Matthew looked at him, "I take it you are going to compensate her for her losses? And everybody else?"
The man blanched.
"I suppose we'll have to," he sighed.
"I'd do it before they file lawsuits," Blake glared. Indeed, he had helped Jean write a letter to the company asking for compensation the previous evening.
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"Do you think I should?" she had stared at the blank piece of paper he had set in front of her.
"Jean, five hundred pounds is a lot of money, the bank will want it back with interest and while I am more than happy to pay that debt for you …"
"Oh no, you mustn't!" she gasped.
"… as I said I am more than happy to pay the debt, the bus company are liable, all the other passengers, or their families, should do the same." He smiled. They had become closer than ever since he had helped her through the first day after the accident. He had soothed her when she had a nightmare and was gentle with her during the day. He let her do the things she was used to doing in the house and they had agreed that rather than keeping Mrs Toohey dangling they should give her a week's pay and see if the agency could find her another position.
"Charlie and I can see to ourselves," Mattie nudged the constable's elbow as they washed up one evening, "while Lucien drives you To Adelaide."
"Yeah, we can do that," he had nodded. He, too, had noticed that the doctor and his housekeeper were closer than they had ever been.
So that was agreed upon, as soon as the case was cleared up, Lucien would drive Jean all the way to Adelaide in two days, stopping half-way overnight.
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He sat in the corner of the pub and quietly unclipped the handbag he had lifted from the wreckage. He pulled out an envelope of money and counted the five hundred pounds Jean had drawn from the bank that fateful morning. It had been a bit of luck that the woman had insisted on walking back to the road to find help and using the excuse of looking for injured passengers, he had climbed back into the bus and found saleable trinkets, wallets, and handbags – this was the best one he had come across. The explosion, he knew it was his fault, lighting a cigarette and flicking the match across a tiny leak in the fuel line, but it had meant he was just a passenger and not under suspicion.
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The driver sat in his small, nondescript little bungalow wondering what was happening. He had done exactly as the owner had asked, driven down a side road, turned too quickly and tipped the bus over. Under the cover of darkness, he had run as far as he could then made his way home to wait for the payoff. But he had heard nothing. The idea had been that the company would receive a pay-out from their insurers for the loss of the bus and after paying the passengers for their loss the remainder would be split between himself and the owner; they would then quietly slip out of state, maybe even out of the country, and begin new lives. He jumped, there was a knock at the door.
"Gordon Rattray!" a voice shouted, "police! Open up!"
He stood and looked around the familiar, tiny space and decided to head for the kitchen and the back door. If he was quick, he would be able to scale the fence and escape.
"Goin' somewhere?" the officer leant against the fence and slapped his truncheon into his palm. He spun him round and slapped the handcuffs on Rattray, just like he had seen in the movies.
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"Just as I suspected … well me and Matthew suspected," Lucien poured himself a healthy shot of whisky, "Insurance scam. Tip over the bus, claim the insurance and split it two ways."
"But the explosion?" Jean sat down and nodded when he waved the decanter at her.
"Nothing to do with the driver, or the owner. We think it may have been a cigarette or match, actually an accident. All the passengers that survived are asking where their wallets and purses are."
"Stolen, I bet. There was a man who didn't want me to walk to the road, but he didn't make too much effort to keep me there."
"I'm glad he didn't."
"Me too," she sipped her whisky that Lucien noted she was more likely to drink nowadays.
"He wasn't memorable looking," she continued, "just a man, and it was dark …"
"The police are keeping a lookout at the pawn shops for the items described by the passengers. Sorry, Jean, but I doubt your handbag …"
"It was a handbag, Lucien, not a particularly good one, and as we have cancelled my cheque book and changed the locks on the house, I am not worried about it. I'll find another."
He sat beside her and put his arm round her shoulders, a habit he had got into once the nurse and constable had retired to bed. Though they were aware of the change there were some things they were not privy to – such as the intense kissing Jean and Lucien indulged in when they were alone. She tipped her head to him and smiled.
"Adelaide?"
"Shall we set off tomorrow?"
"Yeah, stop halfway, Bordertown?"
Sounds about right, and they won't know us there," she smiled.
"Planning something, Mrs Beazley?" he slipped his hand round and cupped the back of her head, drawing her near and into a soft yet breath-taking kiss.
She didn't answer, just let the kiss she shared tell its own story.
By the time they had stopped kissing, his shirt was lying on the living room floor with her blouse, his singlet was draped over the back of the couch and her bra, that Lucien had expertly removed from under her slip, was trapped between them. Her centre throbbed with a need she had only recently been reminded of. Usually, she would go to bed after they had kissed and sometimes touched and finished the job with her own fingers. It wasn't as satisfying, she thought, as Lucien would be, but it had to do. She knew he did the same, took himself in hand, because she washed the bedding and his pyjamas. He had blushed when she first stripped his bed after a particularly vivid dream that had him spill onto the sheets, but she had just smiled and said she understood.
"Really?"
"Really," she whispered.
"Oh, Jean …"
"Not here, Lucien, darling," she kissed his cheek, "Mattie and Charlie …"
He cleared his throat, "of course. But …"
The kissing and touching had become more since that morning's admission, sometimes she let him bring her to the edge, and over, with his fingers on the couch. And as he recalled that conversation, he knew what she meant when she said "they won't know us there."
He slipped his hand inside her slip and cupped her small breast, teased the nipple to a hard bud with his thumb then pushed the fine strap down her arm and bent to take the nipple in his mouth. She arched up to him as he sucked and licked, palming the other breast – it was wonderful. Her knickers were wet with desire, her whole body thrummed with desperate need.
His erection ached, strained against his trousers; "come to bed, Jean, please."
Her only answer was to grab the discarded clothing and hold out her hand to him.
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The bedroom was dark, but they didn't need light. She took off her skirt and he took off his trousers. As he pulled her close, she felt the hard length press against her stomach, and she briefly thought he must be exceptional. He lifted the slip over her head and knelt down to take off her stockings and garter belt; he could smell her arousal and nuzzled her mons through her knickers.
"Beautiful," he murmured and kissed her. He pulled the final garment down and let her step out of them, kissed the dark thatch of curls and flicked his tongue between her legs.
"Oh god," she grabbed onto his shoulders, "Lucien …" he felt her tremble, "I want you."
He stood up and led her to the bed, where she pushed his shorts over his erection and down his legs. He was magnificent. So hard it lay against his stomach, red, the veins standing out. She ran a finger up the length then licked the substance she had taken. It was unusual, Christopher had never liked her doing things like that, he was a lie down and pound into her until he came type of man. Quite often it hurt because she was not ready but if she asked him to take it slowly, he slapped her and forced her onto her front and took her from behind. Lucien had already done things to her that her late husband had never done, so she trusted him not to hurt her. And this time she was ready.
Lucien lay her gently on the bed and lay next to her. They kissed and touched, stroked each other, breasts, chests, nipples, belly buttons, hair, genitals until he lifted her over him and let her find the most comfortable position for her. She straddled him, his erection twitching between them. Jean rose up on her knees, took it in her hands and positioned him at her entrance then sank onto him. He groaned with pleasure, her hot, wet heat enveloped him, his size stretched her, filled her. She began to move, just a little up and down, he pushed up gently, slid his hands up her body and held her with his hands under her breasts. She arched and rode him, gradually increasing her speed and he his thrusts until she tightened round him and threw her head back and she tumbled over into the abyss. He followed her quickly in spite of wanting to hold on a little longer.
When they finally came back into the room Jean knew there was no going back – not that she wanted to. She had wanted this for months, even more since the accident, and it was more than she could have imagined. She curled against his side and sighed.
"Alright?" he drew lazy circles on her shoulder.
"Yes," she whispered, "are you?"
"Oh, my darling Jean," he kissed the top of her head, "I am more than alright."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
As he lay there listening to her snuffling breaths he thought about his apparently upright housekeeper, the woman he had come to love. Never in all his wildest dreams did he imagine that beneath the serious, neat blouse and apron there beat the heart of a very passionate woman.
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They were up early the next morning, bed stripped and laundry in the washer before Mattie and Charlie were up. Jean had finished packing after her bath and set the suitcase – one of Lucien's she had borrowed – by the front door, it and Lucien's would be loaded into the car when they set off for Adelaide.
"Who's your locum?" Mattie swallowed a mouthful of expertly prepared bacon and bubble and squeak.
"Alice Harvey," Lucien grinned, "she offered."
"Oh …"
"She is a qualified doctor, Mattie," he laughed.
"Of course."
"The doctor has given her a key and told her to help herself to tea and biscuits, even the use of a room should she need one." Jean set to washing up the breakfast pots. "Can one of you water my plants, once a week should do it unless you see them wilting?"
"I'll do that, Mrs Beazley," Charlie laughed at the look of horror on Mattie's face, "least ways I'll do my best to have some alive when you come back."
"Thanks, Charlie."
"No worries."