Free The Songmaster by Di Morrissey Page A

the baby spirits who live in the waters of the wunggud pond, waiting to choose their parents.’
    ‘I’d like to own this one,’ said Beth softly.

    The mansion on Mulholland Drive in the LA hills was floodlit, and a would-be actor acted as valet, parking the stream of expensive Hollywood cars as they arrived.
    It was a low-key party by Joseph Singer’s usual standards. But this was a different crowd to the movie people.
    Rowena surveyed the eddying mass of wealthy art patrons, charity social set, and the merely moneyed. Slowly she moved down the curved staircase to the foyer and main entertaining area beyond the columns, potted trees and massive art pieces.
    The last thing she felt like was being her father’s hostess. She was tired, drained of energy and restless.
    The evening dragged. The invitation had been for six to nine, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, a chance to mingle with some prestigious artists, gallery and museum heavyweights to celebrate the donation by Joseph Singer to the Armand Hammer collection of a series of artefacts and paintings. The curator of the Singer private collection had been ‘culling’ and the accountants had found a tax advantage to the donation which made room for further acquisitions.
    It was past ten o’clock and Rowena slipped into her father’s library to escape, hoping that in the absence of the hostess, the guests might take the hint and leave.
    She was in the room, closing the door on the laughter and tinkle of music and glasses, beforeshe realised a man was seated in a leather chair. He was elderly and rose stiffly to his feet.
    ‘Forgive me.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Your father will be back in a moment, we were sharing a quiet brandy. I believe he is farewelling the other guests.’
    Rowena sank into a chair. ‘He’s not farewelling all of them, there’s still a mob out there.’
    He gave a slight smile at the phrase. ‘So you have been travelling, I understand.’
    His clipped German accent, courtly manners, thinning white hair and moustache set him apart from the rest of the party.
    ‘I’m Rowena Singer by the way.’
    ‘Gustav Lubdek. I met your father some years ago.’
    Rowena nodded. Count Gustav Lubdek. An industrialist who’d made a fortune post war, invested in films amongst other things. She recalled some reference about him being an art collector. ‘You are here on business for movies, art or . . ?’ She let her question hang in the air.
    The count shrugged. ‘I am retired. I confess I collect the occasional piece, but things of rarity are . . . rare.’ His eyes moved across to a shelf where several objects sat by a row of books. ‘I am wondering about that . . .’ He pointed to a skull, stained a deep burnished brown and intricately painted in a dull red pattern. ‘Unusual markings. A little macabre but . . . interesting.’
    Rowena paused, then seemed to make upher mind to speak about it. ‘Yes. It’s mine. I brought it back from my trip to outback Australia. It’s Aboriginal.’
    ‘Ah. I have heard a little of this Aboriginal culture. Is it of interest?’
    ‘Yes. I understand the rock art is highly significant. It’s very powerful imagery . . . and possibly the world’s oldest. Especially in the Kimberley . . . where they talk about ancient, secret paintings.’
    ‘Is this so? This interests me greatly.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Are you returning to this place?’
    ‘I’m thinking about it. Why?’
    He too came to a decision to be frank with his friend’s daughter. ‘I would be interested in acquiring some of this art. Perhaps we could discuss this further another time?’
    ‘I don’t see why not. I have some contacts out there with the Aboriginal people. If I can help . . . what did you have in mind? You should go there to see the rock art. It’s painted in sacred caves. There are modern painters there, however, whose art you can buy.’
    The door opened and her father and another man came in. The count rose and gave