Free Lily's Leap by Tea Cooper Page B

the room slowly came into focus.
    The big bed sat flush against one wall with a large cedar chest at its foot. A table served as a desk and piles of leather bound books and ledgers of different shapes and sizes covered every surface. Papers and documents spilled across the tabletop and polished timber boxes of various sizes balanced as makeshift bookends and additional surface space. Rolls and rolls of paper and notebooks sat propped and stacked in confused abandon in every corner.
    A sagging bookshelf ran along one wall, each shelf littered with artifacts and objects d’art the like of which she had never seen. She picked out what looked like a charred aboriginal boomerang, a spear which on closer inspection proved to be the seed head of an enormous dried flower head and then she stretched out her hand and reached for a massive egg, blown and polished and covered in tiny ochre-colored dots. She dislodged it from its resting place and it rolled almost falling to the ground before she caught it at the edge of the shelf. Turning it carefully in her two hands she held it up to her nose, it smelled faintly of dust and something oily. A coiled lyrebird feather curled across a piece of flimsy layered bark colored with more strangely organized daubs of paint.
    Putting the egg carefully back in place she moved to the cedar trunk at the end of the bed. Balanced on top of it were two smaller finely polished boxes. The corners were protected by beaten brass. A small metal key rested in the lock. She turned it cautiously and the lock opened smoothly. Nestled inside the faded red satin was a large timepiece. Frowning she picked it up and studied it. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She carried it carefully to the window and turned it in the half-light. The faded letters on the face gave her the clue and she realized with a start that it was a compass. She rotated it slowly, her fingers tracing the scratched brass casing as she watched the needle swing from point to point.
    With the compass cradled comfortably in her hand she moved restlessly around the room examining the maps and documents on the table and finally picked up one of the rolled-up cylinders of paper. She unfurled it carefully and laid it on top of the crumpled and faded patchwork quilt covering the bed. Using the compass as a paperweight she stretched it out and stared down at a hand drawn map. It showed details and accuracy far more involved than those in her father’s library. Small illustrations of fish illuminated the lines of the river, a detailed drawing of a leaf and seed pods and distinct rocky outcrops marked specific sites. She peered at the signature marked the bottom right hand corner then stepped back and looked around the room in bewilderment.
    A larger box with a leather strap stood in the corner of the room. Struggling to balance its unexpected weight she eased open the brass clasp. Nestled inside she found a small telescope, tripod and what looked like a pendulum. She closed the box carefully and gasped as she dislodged a large worn leather pouch. The weight of it surprised her and she lifted it carefully. A length of chain with polished brass handles tumbled into her hand. She paused trying to make sense of the collection of instruments and tools. It was a strange hoard for convict bushranger.
    Her mind raced as she struggled with the significance of the notebooks, maps and instruments. Were they bounty stolen on the road in some hold up? She picked up the compass from the bed flinching as the map rolled back up with a sudden snap breaking the silence of the room. Turning it in her hand she traced her fingers over the engraving on the back Thomas Roscomon 1835, London. The name didn’t ring a bell at first and then she realized Tom could well be the diminutive for Thomas.
    She blinked slowly. This man, Captain Tom, the bushranger was no lightweight and unlikely to be a convicted felon unless he had stolen the hoard he kept locked in this treasure