Picnic at Hanging Rock Read online

  ‘Mademoiselle! What is the meaning of all this?’

  ‘Mrs Appleyard – something terrible has happened.’

  ‘An accident? Speak up! I want the truth.’

  ‘It’s all so dreadful . . . I don’t know how to begin.’

  ‘Compose yourself. A fit of hysterics will get us nowhere. . . . And where in Heaven’s name is Miss McCraw?’

  ‘We left her behind . . . at the Rock.’

  ‘Left her behind? Has Miss McCraw taken leave of her senses?’

  Mr Hussey was pushing through the sobbing wild-eyed girls. ‘Mrs Appleyard. may I speak to you alone? . . . I think the French lady is going to faint.’ He was right. Mademoiselle, exhausted with the strains and stresses of the day, had passed out on the hall carpet. From the servants’ quarters Minnie and Cook, who had long since removed caps and aprons for a fitful sleep, had come running through the baize door under the staircase, which Miss Lumley in a purple dressing gown and curl papers was descending with a lighted candle. Smelling salts were produced for Mademoiselle, and brandy, and with Tom’s help the governess was carried off to her room. ‘Oh, the poor things,’ said Cook, ‘they look worn out – whatever can have happened at the picnic? Quick, Minnie, don’t bother asking the Madam, we’ll give them some of my hot soup.’

  ‘Miss Lumley . . . get these girls to bed immediately. Minnie will help you. . . . Now, Mr Hussey.’ The door of Mrs Appleyard’s sitting-room closed behind the broad still magnificently upright weary back. ‘If I might have a drop of spirits, Ma’am, before I begin.’

  ‘You may – I see you are exhausted . . . Now then, tell me as briefly and plainly as you can, exactly what has happened.’

  ‘My God, Ma’am, if only I could tell you . . . you see, that’s the worst of it. . . . Nobody knows what’s happened. Three of your young ladies and Miss McCraw are missing at the Rock.’

  Extract from Ben Hussey’s story as given to Constable Bumpher of Woodend, on the morning of Sunday, February the fifteenth, at the Police Station.

  After the two teachers and myself realized that nobody in our party had the correct time, both my own watch and Miss McCraw’s having stopped during the drive out, it was agreed that we should leave the Picnic Grounds as soon as convenient after lunch, as Mrs Appleyard was expecting us back at the College no later than eight o’clock. The French lady arranged we should have some tea and cake after I had harnessed up my horses as we had a fairly long drive ahead of us. I should say it was then about half past three, judging by the way the shadows were moving on the Rock.

  As soon as my billies were boiling I went over to tell the two ladies in charge that tea was ready. The elderly teacher who had been sitting reading under a tree when I had last seen her, was not there. In fact, I never saw her again. The French lady seemed very upset and asked me if I had noticed Miss McCraw walking away from the camp, which I had not. She told me: ‘None of the girls saw which way she went. I can’t understand her not being back here on time – Miss McCraw is such a punctual lady.’ I asked if all the rest of my passengers were present and ready to leave. She told me: ‘All but four. With my permission they went for a short walk along the creek so as to get a closer view of the Hanging Rock. All except Edith Horton are senior girls and very reliable.’ The three missing girls had travelled with me to the Picnic Grounds on the box seat. I knew them quite well. They were Miss Miranda (I never heard her surname), Miss Irma Leopold and Miss Marion Quade.

  I wasn’t particularly worried so far, only a bit put out by the delay in getting away. I know that part of the country pretty well and I soon had the girls organized to look for them, in pairs, round about the creek on the flat, cooeeing and calling out as they went. About an hour must have gone by when the girl Edith Horton came running out of the scrub near the South Western base of the Rock, crying and laughing and with her dress torn to ribbons. I thought she was going to have a fit of hysterics. She said she had left the other three girls ‘somewhere up there’, pointing to the Rock, but seemed to have no idea in which direction. We asked her over and over again to try and remember which way they had gone, but all we could get out of her was that she had got frightened and had run back downhill all the way. Luckily, I always carry some emergency brandy in my flask. We gave her some and wrapped her up in my driving coat and Miss Rosamund (one of the senior girls) took her off to lie down in the drag while we went on with the search. I called all the girls back and counted them and this time we went further afield – right up to the base of the Rock on the southern elevation, trying to find Edith Horton’s tracks but they had petered out almost at once on stony ground. Without a magnifying glass it was impossible to see anything in the way of a footprint. None of the scrub seemed to be disturbed except for a few yards where she had come out on to the open ground and started to run back towards our camp at the creek. For further reference, we marked the opening between these trees with some sticks. Meanwhile two of the senior girls had gone off along the creek intending to make some enquiries from another picnic party who were there when we arrived, before lunch, but they had put out their fire and left – probably while I was attending to my horses. Four people and a wagonette. I think it was Colonel Fitzhubert’s but did not actually see any of them to speak to. Several of the girls said they had seen this wagonette driving away earlier in the afternoon with the young fellow on the white Arab pony riding behind. We must have gone on calling and searching for several hours. I couldn’t believe my senses that three or four sensible people could disappear so quickly in such a comparatively small area without some kind of tracks. I am still just as mystified as I was yesterday afternoon.

  As even the lowest and most accessible levels of the Rock are exceedingly treacherous, especially for inexperienced girls in long summer dresses, I was afraid of letting them out of my sight in case they got lost themselves what with the holes and precipices and to my knowledge only one over-grown track leading towards the summit, which presumably the missing persons did not take, as I made a point of looking there very thoroughly at the point where it starts. There were no signs of crushed undergrowth, footprints, etc., either here or anywhere else.

  As it grew later and darker – we had no means of knowing the time except by the sinking sun – we lit a number of fires along the creek in such a way that they could be seen from various angles by anyone on this side of the Rock. We also kept on cooeeing as loudly as we could singly and all together. I got the two billies and beat on them with the crowbar I always keep in the drag for emergencies.

  By this time the French lady and I were at our wits’ end to decide whether to drive back to Woodend with the news or to go on looking. We had only the two oil lamps on the drag and my hurricane lamp lit up a few square yards at a time. If the missing persons were still somewhere on the Rock, which I had begun to doubt, without matches they would be in real danger after dark unless they had the sense to sit tight in a cave until daylight. The French lady and some of the girls were getting a bit hysterical and no wonder. None of us had had so much as a cup of tea since lunchtime. We were too worried to think of making it. We had some lemonade and biscuits and I decided to take the party back to the College without looking any more that night.

  I don’t honestly know if I did right to act as I did but I take full responsibility for the decision. I am pretty well acquainted with the three missing girls and I reckoned that unless they had all three met with an accident which seemed unlikely, Miss Miranda who is well used to the Bush would have kept her head and found some safe place to shelter for the night. As for the teacher, I hope for her own sake she didn’t wander off on her own. A knowledge of arithmetic don’t help much in the Bush.

  After calling in at the police nation at Woodend, on the way home, and briefly informing the officer on duty what had occurred at the Hanging Rock, we drove to Appleyard College without further delay. I forgot to mention that I made a careful investigation of the public lavatories (Ladies and Gents) situated at the Picnic Grounds abo
ut half way between the creek and the base of the Rock. There were no footprints or any other signs of recent use.

  5

  For the inmates of Appleyard College, Sunday the fifteenth of February was a day of nightmare indecision: half dream, half reality; alternating, according to temperament, between wildly rocketing hopes and sinking fears.

  The Headmistress, after a night passed in staring at the wall of her bedroom interminably whitening to the new day, was on deck at her usual hour with not a hair of the pompadour out of place. Her first concern this morning was to ensure that nothing of yesterday’s happenings should be so much as whispered beyond the College walls. The three wagonettes that ordinarily took the boarders and governesses to the various churches had been countermanded before Mr Hussey had taken his leave last night, churches in Mrs Appleyard’s opinion being hot beds of gossip on a fine Sunday morning. Thank Heaven Ben Hussey was a sensible creature who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut except for the confidential report already in the hands of the local police. At the College absolute silence until further notice was the rule. It may be fairly assumed that it was obeyed by those of the staff and pupils still on their legs and able to communicate after last night’s ordeal, at least half of the picnickers being confined to their rooms with shock and exhaustion. However, we may have our suspicions that Tom and Minnie, as natural news-spreaders, and possibly Cook, all of whom had unofficial visitors during Sunday afternoon, were not quite so conscientious, and that Miss Dora Lumley may have exchanged a few words at the back door with Tommy Compton who delivered the Sunday cream. Doctor McKenzie of Woodend had been sent for and turned up in his gig soon after breakfast: an elderly G.P. of infinite wisdom who, taking in the situation with one shrewd gold-spectacled glance, prescribed a whole holiday on Monday, light nourishing food and some mild sedative. Mademoiselle was confined to her room with a migraine. The old doctor patted the pretty hand on the coverlet, sprinkled a few drops of eau de cologne on the patient’s burning forehead and observed mildly, ‘By the by, my dear young lady, I hope you’re not so foolish as to blame yourself in any way for this unfortunate affair? It may very well turn out to be a storm in a tea-cup, you know.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, Doctor – I pray that you are right.’

  ‘Nobody,’ said the old man, ‘can be held responsible for the pranks of destiny.’

  Edith Horton, for once in her life something of a heroine, was pronounced by Doctor McKenzie to be in good physical trim thanks to the prolonged fit of screaming – in a girl of her age Nature’s answer to hysteria – although he was a little disturbed by her remembering nothing whatever of the thing that had sent her running back alone and terrified from the Rock. Edith liked Doctor McKenzie – who didn’t? – and appeared to be trying, as far as her limited intelligence allowed, to co-operate. It was possible, he decided as he drove home, that the child hit her head on a rock – easily done in that rough country – and was suffering from a mild form of concussion.

  Mrs Appleyard had spent the greater part of Sunday alone in her study, following a conversation with Constable Bumpher of Woodend, who had brought with him a none too bright young policeman for the purpose of taking notes on a relatively unimportant matter which Bumpher expected to be satisfactorily cleared up before Sunday evening. City people were forever getting themselves lost in the tall timber and getting Christians off their beds on Sunday mornings to find them. It appeared, however, that the facts concerning the three missing schoolgirls and their governess were more than ordinarily vague, apart from Ben Hussey’s story which did no more than sum up events already known and confirmed. Bumpher had arranged for the two young men picnicking at the Hanging Rock on Saturday – so far the last people to see the missing girls crossing the creek – to give the police any further information which might be required, if they had not already been found, on Monday. The only other person that Bumpher would like to speak to this morning for a few minutes, if convenient, was the girl Edith Horton, who had actually been with three of the missing persons, possibly for several hours, before she had returned panic-stricken to the luncheon camp. Accordingly, Edith, red eyed in a cashmere dressing gown to match, was brought down to the study only to prove an inarticulate and utterly useless source of information. Neither the Constable nor the Head could extract anything more constructive than a sniff or two and sulky negatives. Perhaps the young policeman might have done better but he was not given a chance and Edith was escorted back to bed. ‘It doesn’t signify,’ said Bumpher, accepting a glass of brandy and water. ‘In my private opinion, Ma’am, the whole affair will be cleared up within a few hours. You’ve no idea how many people get themselves lost if they stray a few yards off the beaten track.’ ‘I wish, Mr Bumpher,’ said Mrs Appleyard, ‘I could agree with you. My head girl, Miranda, was born and bred in the Bush . . . with regard to the governess, Miss McCraw . . .’

  It had already been established that nobody had seen Miss McCraw leaving the picnic party after lunch. Although for some unknown reason she must have suddenly decided to get up from under the tree where she had been reading and followed the four girls towards the Rock. ‘Unless,’ said the policeman, ‘the lady had some private arrangements of her own? To meet a friend or friends, for instance, outside the gates?’

  ‘Definitely no. Miss Greta McCraw, whom I have employed for several years, to my knowledge has not a single friend, or acquaintance even, on this side of the world.’

  Her book had already been found with her kid gloves exactly where she had been sitting, by Rosamund, one of the senior girls. Both Mrs Appleyard and the policeman were agreed that a mathematics mistress, no matter how ‘smart at figures’ as Bumpher put it, could be fool enough to lose her way like anyone else, although the point was rather more delicately made. Even Archimedes, it was suggested, might have taken a wrong turning with his thoughts on higher things. All this the young policeman took down with much hard breathing and pencil licking. (Later, when the passengers in the drag on its outward journey were briefly questioned, it would be recalled by several witnesses, including Mademoiselle, that Miss McCraw had been talking rather wildly of triangles and short cuts, and had even suggested to the driver that they should go home by a different and quite impractical route.)

  A continuous search of the Picnic Grounds and as much of the Hanging Rock as could be clambered over and observed at close quarters, had already been set in motion by the local police. One of the most baffling features, as already reported by Mr Hussey, was the absence of any kind of tracks other than some crushed bracken and the bruised leaves of a few bushes on the lower slopes of the eastern face of the rock. On Monday, unless the mystery had been solved, a black tracker was being brought from Gippsland, and – at the instigation of Colonel Fitzhubert – a bloodhound, for whom certain articles of the missing persons’ clothing were labelled by Miss Lumley and handed over at the constable’s request. A number of locals, including Michael Fitzhubert and Albert Crundall, were already assisting the police in the careful toothcombing of the surrounding scrub. News travels as fast in the Australian Bush as it does in a city, and by Sunday evening there was hardly a house within fifty miles of Hanging Rock where Saturday’s mysterious disappearance was not being discussed over the evening meal. As always, in matters of surpassing human interest, those who knew nothing whatever either at first or even second hand were the most emphatic in expressing their opinions; which are well known to have a way of turning into established facts overnight.

  If Sunday the fifteenth had been a nightmare at the College, Monday the sixteenth was, if anything, worse; beginning with a ring at the hall door at six a.m. by a young reporter from a Melbourne newspaper on a flat-tyred bicycle, who had to be restored by Cook with breakfast in the kitchen and sent back newsless on the Melbourne Express. This unhappy youth was the first unwelcome caller of many, many more. The massive cedar door, rarely used except on ceremonial occasions, was opening and shutting from morning till night on a variety of callers, some well inte
ntioned, others merely inquisitive, including a few male and female hyenas drawn quite frankly and openly by the smell of blood and scandal. None of these people were admitted. Even the curate from Macedon and his kind little wife, both dreadfully embarrassed, but imbued with a genuine desire to help in time of trouble, were dismissed like everyone else with a curt ‘not at home’ on the porch.

  Meals were served with their customary clockwork precision, but only a few of the usually ravenous young women who sat down to the mid-day dinner did more than trifle with the roast mutton and apple pie. The seniors gathered together in little whispering groups. Edith and Blanche sniffed and slouched arm in arm for once uncorrected; the New Zealand sisters endlessly embroidered, murmuring of remembered earthquakes and other horrors. Sara Waybourne, who had lain awake all Saturday night waiting for Miranda to return from the picnic and kiss her good night as she always did, no matter how late the hour, flitted restlessly from room to room like a little ghost until Miss Lumley, whose head was pounding like a sledge hammer, produced some linen to be hemmed before tea. Miss Lumley herself, and the junior sewing mistress, when not engaged in running messages for the Head and other unrewarding duties, complained to their mutual satisfaction of being ‘put upon’ – a handy phrase which covered everyone in authority from the Almighty down. The essay on the Hanging Rock, still chalked up on the blackboard as the major exercise in English Literature for Monday, February the sixteenth, at eleven thirty a.m., was never so much as mentioned again. At last the sun sank behind the glowing dahlia bed; the hydrangeas shone like sapphires in the dusk; the statues on the staircase held aloft their pallid torches to the warm blue night. So ended the second dreary day.