The Lost Valley

Prologue Hobart, 1929 — Mr Robert Abbott, close friend of the Premier and Hobart’s most prominent businessman, was forty-one-years old when he took a rifle and shot his wife in the head. He then turned the gun on himself. Robert had planned his crime. The twins away at boarding school. Staff with the night off. A very special 20th wedding anniversary celebration at home with Helen, just the two of them. Crystal vases stood crammed with roses. A silver ice bucket held his wife’s preferred brand of French champagne. They feasted on oysters and poached salmon in the garden as the sun went down. After dinner, they danced in the drawing room to a carefully arranged play-list. A mix of their favourites, up tempo at first. Putting On The Ritz. Happy Days Are Here Again. Helen loved Charles King. Then a little jazz and ragtime. He showed off his moves, and her face flushed with pleasure as he swirled her about in her lilac dress. How beautiful she was. His wife could still foxtrot with the best of them, although her Charleston lacked some of its former, youthful energy. Helen’s breath came in little pants and her generous bosom heaved as he stopped to change the record. As the night wound down, the music grew slower and more tender. ‘I love you, Robbie,’ she whispered, as they waltzed cheek-to-cheek to strains of Don’t Ever Leave Me and Gershwin’s Feeling Sentimental. It was an unseasonably warm evening for a Tasmanian early spring. The heady scent of jasmine wafted through the open window, so evocative of a lifetime spent together in this house. Robert breathed in a great draught of sweet air. This was as fine an evening as had ever been. So fine, he almost changed his mind.