Roofless stone walls stared at me as I stood gazing across what was left of the Fouracre Inn at Waroona, Western Australia. In the weeds at my feet was the leathery, flattened outline of a putrefied cat. It was a fitting greeting, for the woman who ran this tiny stopover in the early 20th century had been firmly spirited into eternity by unknown hands. Even before the 44 year-old solitary spinster Leah Fouracre was cut from her life, there drifted around a trembling tale of a boy, who, lost from his house, was found again on the property in the winter. Fastened high up in a fig tree, his skeleton was unveiled as the autumn leaves fled. Misery ghosted over the Fouracre land. Leah's murderer however, was set to pay for his crime --- he'd been caught. Let's open the letter that the condemned Sinhalese man, Augustin De Kitchilan gave as "My Last Confession". He snorts: Who (is) the murderer -- can you guess or shall I tell? No, no, guess who is the murderer of poor Leah Fouracre. Guess, guess, not me it isn't -- but who? Ah, by whom fell the noble death? Ah, who did pull the trigger of the Martini Henry? Ah, guess, him in the mist or him in the bured (burnt) up farm. Guess, guess, him-in-the-mist. Of course, so they say. So guess, guess, who was the murder (er) of Leah Fouracre. I bid you all my last farewell. I remain in death your loving brother. A second letter reads: "He with a smile would come to destroy a loving maiden fair, to destroy her virginal womb, who undreaming of the despair, would embracing give welcome. Ah, thou blind though maiden fair, hesitate thou thy welcome. For he would thus lead thee to despair. Ah, be warned thou maiden sweet by poor Leah Fouracre's fall. Here, he warns about the folly of naive trust. Leah was swooped on after offering de Kitchilan work and lodgings. It was said he came to know that she had gold and jewels. Recently released from Fremantle gaol after serving a term for theft he was obviously on the lookout for his next situation. A visitor to the Fouracre farm in August, 1907 -- Michael Lyon -- came upon Leah's fire-lashed body. Ghastly and cruel the scene was, for only a gush of rain from a thunderstorm had spared the place for evidence. De Kitchilan had made off south, seizing Leah's horse for his use. When arrested in Bunbury for impersonating a police officer, Leah's belongings were found on him; also, her bay horse was identified. This put him before the noose. He penned the two letters before his execution and they are most curious. de Kitchilan fiendishly asks us to guess, and guess again. Indelicately manhandled; robbed of her valuables; blasted in the head with her own rifle; set alight and left to burn in her bedroom -- yet equipped ghost hunters declare they have been unable to detect any "uninvited presence". Cameras and instruments will never record the thundering dread that Leah passed to me. She is there, but not as some "friendly spinster poking around in the ruins looking for a pot of gold sovereigns." No indeed. She is a most pressing and insistent spirit who beckoned me instantly to share the depth of insult she bears endlessly. Mislaid money is not her worry. It is the escape of the one who defiled her. For it was not the named murderer, but the other one who partnered this deed -- one who was close to him -- that she wails for. Of course he is dead now, but the uncaught crime is not, nor ever will be unless serenity is bestowed to her. This is the torturous gap that Leah herself cannot seal. Full graphics version here |
