Page 101 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

I push thoughts of the future away. Carpe diem, Elora. “It’ll be amazing if it is there, after all this time.”

“Do you have a photo of it? How will you know if it’s the right one?”

“Not a photo, but a description—greenstone in a gold setting. And apparently inside it has their initials inside—A and H for Atticus and Hinerangi.”

“Well that should do it.” He takes the turnoff for Arrowtown as the GPS directs him.

The road snakes alongside the glistening waters of Lake Hayes, then heads off through a countryside of green and brown fields, dotted with vineyards.

Arrowtown itself sits on the banks of the Arrow River. When we arrive, Linc drives slowly along Buckingham Street, so we get to see the center of the gold-mining town in all its glory. It’s lined with well-preserved buildings, used by the European and Chinese immigrants who started arriving here from the 1860s, when the miners first discovered gold.

“There’s gold in them thar hills,” Linc says, looking up at the mountains behind the shops, galleries, and bars in their unique settings.

“Who said that?”

“Apart from me? Mark Twain, I think.” He turns right at the end of the road and follows the GPS instructions. “It’s just up here.”

He turns off into a wide road with smart bungalows on either side. Halfway along, he parks outside a neat brick-built cottage and turns off the engine. An old sign swings in the light breeze—it reads Arrow Antiques.

We get out and walk up the garden path. I’ve seen photos of Arrowtown in autumn, of the trees in their stunning red and gold coats. Today though the lawns and trees are lush and green.

As we approach the house, the door opens, and a guy in his forties wearing shorts and an All Blacks top comes out.

“Linc?” he asks, and Linc nods. “Jack Albright,” he states, holding out his hand, and the two of them shake. “Come in,” he says, and he leads the way into the place, which is like half a cottage, half a shop.

Linc and I follow him into a decent-sized room. It’s devoid of furniture, and consists of about thirty cardboard boxes, some taped up, some half full of items like plates and dishes, ornaments and books.

“Sorry,” he says, “there’s nowhere to sit. We’ve sold all the furniture. As you can see, we’re in the process of clearing the house. Dad had a lot of knick-knacks, and they all need to be packaged up and taken to the charity shop.”

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I say. Linc squeezes my hand, as if saying thanks for remembering to say that.

“Thank you.” Jack looks around and sighs. “Dad spent the last few years trying to get rid of his stock, but as you can see, there’s still a lot left. So, anyway… you were looking for the Bell Ring, right?”

“Yes,” I say, my heart starting to race, “Atticus Bell was my ancestor. I work at the National Museum, and I was hoping to find the ring for an exhibition we’re holding next month.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it,” Jack says, and my heart plummets. “I searched through all the boxes,” he continues. “But I had an idea, and I’ve literally just found this.” He takes out a notebook and hands it to us.

It’s an old receipt book, the kind where you write on a top sheet, and it makes a carbon copy on the sheet below it. The top sheets have all been removed, leaving the carbon copies beneath.

“It’s one of Dad’s receipt books for his antique business,” Jack says. “I’ve marked the page you need to look at.”

Linc opens the book at where a Post-it Note is stuck to the top of a page.

The receipt is made out to a Maureen Lyttle, for the price of two thousand, four hundred and forty-nine dollars. The date was the sixteenth of June 2015. In the notes section, the tiny, neat handwriting reads ‘Antique Ring: gold band, large oval greenstone, engraved with the initials A & H, style suggests a date of the 1860s. Original seller referred to it as the Bell Ring.’

“Oh!” I gasp. “That’s it! Oh my God.” I take the book from Linc. “It’s got an address!”

“Dad sometimes noted it down,” Jack says. “He was very meticulous with his record keeping.”

“Milford Sound,” Linc says. “Does anyone actually live there?”

“There’s a small village,” I reply. “Only about a hundred people. Maybe she or someone in her family works in tourism. Is it okay if I take a photo of this?” I ask Jack.

“Of course.”

I photograph the page and give the book back to him. “Thank you so much.”

“I hope you find it,” he says. “It was a nice piece. It sat on Mum and Dad’s mantelpiece for a few years when I was a kid.”

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