Chapter 5: The Crayon Heiress – Goldie Lush-Mallon

From ... Hugh dunnits nonfiction book, 'Wild child, what you going to do......?'

“Don’t be too hard on me, Hugh. A wild child only behaves as the wild made her.”

I have waited a long time to write about Goldie Lush-Mallon. Of all the wild children whose stories clutter my case files and haunt my old age, Goldie’s tale is the one I needed distance from before setting down the unvarnished truth. It’s been years since the Montezuma Weekend affair – long enough for the jungle drums to fall silent, for the rumours to harden into legend. Only now do I feel free to describe what I saw and heard, back when a bright-eyed girl in feathers crashed a funeral and claimed a fortune. Consider this my belated eyewitness account of Goldie Lush-Mallon – part biography, part confession, all cautionary tale of a wild child who decided the world owed her a debt.

I first met Goldie on a blustery February evening, during the reading of Rowan Mallon’s will at the old family estate in Donegal. We – the legitimate Mallon relations and a few curious hangers-on like myself – were gathered in the great hall under the pretense of mourning. A storm rattled the windowpanes. Judge Blackheart (Rowan’s dodgy ex-judge of a solicitor) cleared his throat to begin the will, when BANG – the doors flew open and in swirled Goldie. That entrance was my introduction to the girl I’d heard whispered about in corridors: the alleged love-child of Rowan Mallon and some exotic showgirl. She did not disappoint. Goldie Lush-Mallon swept in late with theatrical flair, a silk scarf trailing behind her like a pirate flag, sunglasses perched atop her head despite the hour. She paused in the doorway – for effect, naturally – and banished the shocked silence with a morbidly cheerful announcement: “Terribly sorry I’m late. I do hope I haven’t missed all the mourning!” Then came that smile – broad as a Cheshire cat’s, and twice as insolent.

It took a moment for anyone to respond. Lady Petunia Mallon-Smythe, Rowan’s prim cousin and self-appointed guardian of family dignity, was the first to recover. “Who on earth—?” Petunia sputtered, lorgnette quivering as she peered at the new arrival. Goldie didn’t wait to be properly introduced. “Goldie Lush-Mallon,” she proclaimed to the whole room, hands on hips. “Rowan’s daughter.”  She said it as if announcing herself as Queen of Sheba. A collective gasp burst forth and echoed off the marble floor. In the corner I saw Beatrice Bluff (Rowan’s sister) turn white and clutch the arm of a chair as though to steady herself; Archie Mallon (a disinherited nephew) nearly dropped his whisky. Rowan’s daughter? The old rogue had never officially acknowledged any offspring. Yet here stood a young woman bold enough to stake a claim in front of us all. I admit, even my jaded heart skipped – I thought, by Jove, the cheek of it. This was going to be interesting.

Goldie cut a striking figure. She was in her late teens – nineteen, perhaps – but carried herself with the imperious confidence of a much older woman. Her outfit that night was half mourning attire, half jungle explorer’s kit: a tight black dress paired with battered leather boots laced up to her knees. A mourning veil hung neglected around her neck like a wilted lei, and – I’ll never forget – she had a bright red macaw feather stuck in her blonde hair. It bobbed as she moved. The effect was absurd and yet oddly charming, as if she’d dressed for both a funeral and a costume ball and couldn’t decide which she preferred. Later I learned that Goldie often wore feathers in her hair and spoke of “jungle whispers” from her childhood [1], but that night I only knew I was witnessing a masterclass in calculated eccentricity. Goldie’s entrance was designed to upstage everything, even death. And upstage it she did.

Trailing in behind Goldie was a second uninvited guest: her mother, Lola Lush. Lola floated in dramatically in her widow’s weeds – a long black gown, a veil actually over her face (unlike her daughter’s), and a posture that oscillated between grief and pride. Whether Lola was truly a grieving widow or a conniving gold-digger was the question on everyone’s lips [2]. Lola curtseyed to the assembled company with theatrical misery. “Forgive us,” she intoned, “but we have come for what is rightfully ours – my husband’s last will and testament.” At this second shock, Petunia practically levitated with outrage. “Husband? What husband?” The old woman’s voice cracked. “Rowan never married!”

Goldie stepped forward and slipped an arm through her mother’s. Together, they looked like a tableau from a melodrama: the wronged widow and the orphaned child, united against a cruel world. Goldie’s eyes gleamed with mischief, though her mouth formed a pout. “Perhaps not formally in your world,” she said sweetly to Petunia, “but Mummy and Daddy wed in spirit under a Peruvian moon.” I heard a snort from somewhere (Archie, I suspect), but Goldie pressed on. She claimed that Rowan and Lola had a secret marriage ceremony during one of Rowan’s Amazon expeditions – “deep in the rainforest, with a shaman for a vicar and parrots singing the bridal chorus,” as she described it with an airy wave of her hand. And from that wild union, Goldie explained with a proud lift of her chin, she was born.

It was audacious storytelling, utter rot most likely, but Goldie had a way of delivering such lines without cracking. She had learned from Lola, who I later discovered was a former cabaret performer. Mother and daughter shared a flair for the theatrical – their bond was at once genuine and an ongoing performance [3]. I stood near Inspector Clue Les (the detective who’d been called in for the event) and observed this exchange keenly. As a journalist and sometime detective myself, I pride myself on spotting lies. And yet that night, I confess, I wanted to believe the tale Goldie spun. Part of me – and not just me, judging by a few softened faces in the crowd – was enchanted by the idea of Rowan Mallon having a secret family raised in an “enchanted jungle” (Goldie’s words). It fit the mythic aura that had grown around Rowan over the decades. But was it true? That was another matter entirely.

Goldie seemed well aware that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof. So, with a flourish that I’m sure she’d rehearsed, she produced a document from her crocodile-skin handbag. It was yellowed and folded, a certificate of some sort. Those of us nearest leaned in. “My birth certificate,” Goldie announced. “In case anyone doubts me.” Judge Blackheart, ever the stickler when it suited him, harrumphed and extended a hand for it. Goldie, after a dramatic pause, relinquished the paper. The judge held it to his bifocals. His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. I managed a glimpse over his shoulder and had to bite my lip to keep from laughing: sure enough, the document’s writing looked as though it were scrawled in crayon [4]. There was a raised seal of some “Republica del Perú” at the bottom, but the entries for “Niña: Goldie” and “Padre: Rowan Mallon” were written in a large, looping script that absolutely resembled a child’s hand. If this was a forgery, it was either brilliantly tongue-in-cheek or terribly executed – I couldn’t decide which.

Lady Petunia, however, decided immediately. “What kind of birth certificate is that?” she exclaimed. “It looks like it came out of a Christmas cracker!” Goldie put on a hurt face. “It’s authentic,” she insisted, “The midwife only had a crayon to fill it out – the jungle lacks typewriters, you see.” A few guests tittered, which only egged Goldie on. “Daddy always said, print is dead, use what’s at hand.” Judge Blackheart, moustache twitching, coughed and handed the paper back. It was clear he didn’t want to rule on its legitimacy on the spot – not while tensions were climbing. Petunia huffed. “Preposterous. Rowan would never…This girl is an imposter!” And thus the battle lines were drawn: on one side, a gaudy slip of a girl claiming the Mallon name by right of crayon credentials and chutzpah; on the other, the outraged blue-blooded relatives determined to defend their turf from this interloper.

At that moment, I caught Goldie’s eye. To my surprise, she gave me a tiny wink. It was so quick I wondered if I imagined it. Looking back, I think Goldie pegged me as a potential ally – or at least a sympathetic onlooker – from the start. Perhaps I didn’t scowl at her like the others did. Perhaps she recognised the curiosity on my face and knew I was drawn to her story more than to the squabbles of crusty relatives. In any case, that wink held a world of conspiratorial bravado: Watch this, it seemed to say, I’ve got it under control. And oddly enough, she did.

Over the next hour or so (before blood truly began to spill – but I’ll come to the murders in a bit), Goldie Lush-Mallon commanded the room. It was astonishing to see such a young person seize the narrative of an entire family drama. When the will reading was temporarily derailed by a power outage and the ensuing murder of Judge Blackheart – yes, someone shot the poor judge when the lights went out, turning the inheritance squabble into a full-blown murder mystery – Goldie hardly missed a beat. In the chaotic aftermath of that first gunshot, as we all stumbled around in panic, Goldie’s shrill scream cut through the darkness, “Daddy, save me!” It was so over-the-top that even in the moment I thought it performative. By the time we got the lights back on and discovered the judge dead (and Rowan’s will missing), Goldie had latched onto the arm of Monty Mallon (the self-claimed grandson of Rowan). She clung to him dramatically, the picture of a frightened innocent. But I noticed her eyes scanning the room keenly, like a fox sniffing an opportunity.

I watched Goldie closely that night – after all, that was my unofficial role, to observe and later write about these people – and I saw a crafty mind at work behind the façade of a ditzy debutante. For one, she immediately formed a tactical alliance. Monty Mallon, another young claimant who fancied himself Rowan’s illegitimate heir, had initially glowered at Goldie as a rival. But when the judge was killed and suspicion filled the air, Goldie sidled up to Monty and cooed, “We youngsters should stick together, coz.” Monty, who moments before had been eyeing Goldie with mistrust, softened. I later learned they struck a quick bargain: Goldie wouldn’t question Monty’s dubious parentage if he supported hers. In effect, they agreed not to undermine each other’s stories, since the old guard in the room (Petunia, Bea, Archie and the like) would happily see both youths disqualified [5]. This was a savvy move on Goldie’s part; it removed one immediate enemy from her path.

Not that Goldie lacked for enemies. Lady Petunia was openly hostile, treating Goldie as an unschooled brat who needed to be shown her place. I recall Goldie deliberately provoking Petunia at dinner by asking in a loud innocent voice, “Auntie Petunia, is it true you keep Grandpapa Rowan’s letters in your corset? Only, you seem the type!” The table fell silent – everyone knew Petunia had indeed bragged of hiding a forged letter in her corset [6] [7], and Goldie’s cheeky query both exposed and embarrassed the old hawk. Petunia went puce with rage. “You ill-mannered little—!” she began, but Goldie trilled a laugh and said something about how nuns in her jungle convent taught her to secure important documents near the heart. I nearly choked on my soup.

Beatrice Bluff (Rowan’s sister) was less confrontational but clearly disgusted by Goldie’s antics. Bea muttered about “this generation’s lack of decency” whenever Goldie slurped her soup or applied fresh lipstick at the table. Goldie noticed Bea’s glares and responded by being even more outrageous – at one point she raised a crystal goblet and proclaimed, “A toast to dear Daddy – thanks for the life, and here’s to the fortune!” She downed her wine in one gulp as Bea gasped, and then Goldie giggled. It was wicked and hilarious and appalling all at once.

Yet, for all her flippancy, Goldie was fighting a very real battle for recognition. Beneath the rudeness and humour, I caught glimpses of genuine hurt. Once, after Petunia had called her a “little savage” within earshot, I spied Goldie alone on the terrace, clutching that dubious birth certificate and staring up at the stormy night sky. She was whispering to herself – perhaps reciting a pep talk or a prayer. She looked young then, and uncertain; just a girl after all, afraid she might lose. But when she came back inside, the bravado was back in place, good as new.

As the evening wore on, Goldie continually worked the angles of the murder investigation and the inheritance game, like an acrobat juggling two acts at once. She gave tearful statements to Inspector Clue Les about how frightened she was for her life (“First Daddy, now the judge… who’s next?”), all while subtly steering him away from inspecting her own motives. (Clue Les, incompetent as he was, needed little steering; a prettier distraction was enough to send him in circles, and Goldie provided that readily.) Simultaneously, Goldie snooped for clues about the missing will. I caught her peeking into the late judge’s briefcase at one point, under the guise of fetching a glass of water near where it lay. She had fingers as light as a pickpocket. Indeed, rumor has it Goldie swiped a few pages of something during the confusion – perhaps a draft will or a treasure map Rowan left behind – though she later denied it hotly.

What impressed me most was Goldie’s adaptability. Every time a new shock or twist occurred, Goldie incorporated it into her own narrative. When a second murder happened (the hapless butler, as I recall, found poisoned in the pantry), Goldie announced that it must be part of a “curse” on Rowan’s fortune – a curse only she, as the “chosen heir raised in the rainforest,” could possibly lift. She started spouting off some pseudo-mystical babble about jungle spirits being angry that Rowan’s gold hadn’t been returned to Montezuma’s temple. It was utter nonsense, but delivered with zeal. Lady Petunia nearly had an aneurysm hearing this teenager lecture about curses and spirits at her dinner table. But a few of the more gullible guests (the vicar, in particular) nodded along, suddenly fearful that maybe Goldie was some kind of jungle medium. Goldie had read her audience expertly – she knew just when to play the fey mystic and when to play the frightened girl. It kept everyone off-balance.

To understand how Goldie became such a consummate improviser, one must look at her upbringing. According to Lola – and confirmed by bits of evidence Goldie herself shared – Goldie grew up in far-flung places rather than in any traditional home. She was literally “raised in a remote rainforest retreat” for part of her childhood [8]. Lola followed Rowan on his South American escapades until, presumably, he left her behind (perhaps pregnant, perhaps with a child not actually his – the truth of that is murky). So Goldie’s earliest years were spent in what she described as a “jungle commune”. She once boasted to Monty that her “bedtime stories were treasure maps” and she learned to read by deciphering glyphs on cave walls [9]. It sounds fantastical – and likely is, at least in part – but I do believe Goldie’s childhood was anything but normal. She had no school in the conventional sense. Instead, her education was Lola’s tall tales and the rugged tutelage of explorers, mystics, and misfits who wandered through their camp.

By her teenage years, Goldie’s life had become a globe-trotting grand tour without end – every year a gap year, as she liked to joke. She considered every suitor a gentleman and a meal ticket, every new city an opportunity. I tracked some of Goldie’s peregrinations through gossip columns and passport stamps. She spent her adolescence ping-ponging across continents: one summer in New York, another in Paris, winters in Hong Kong, springs in Marrakech. Goldie perfected the art of living richly without having a penny to her name. She had a knack for ensnaring willing benefactors – calling them “gentlemen callers” with a laugh – who would house her, feed her, dress her. And when each situation wore thin or threatened to require commitment, Goldie moved on. There was always another party, another flight, another free and available patron to pour her the next vodka martini. She often quipped that she liked her martinis like her men: free and available.

Her exploits abroad were the stuff of scandal-sheet fodder. I found clippings in the International Herald of a “blonde wild-child” evading police in Monte Carlo after sneaking into a high-stakes poker game on a yacht. A blurb from London spoke of a “Miss G. Lush-Mallon” causing a minor stir at Ascot – apparently she attempted to ride one of the racehorses sidesaddle after hours (the horse’s owner was besotted with her, to his wife’s horror). In Hong Kong, Goldie finagled her way into an exclusive charity gala by pretending to be a foreign princess; she was caught only when the actual princess arrived wearing the exact same gown. Goldie escaped that debacle by simply vanishing – some say she slipped into the kitchens and out through a laundry truck, others that she talked her way onto a departing billionaire’s yacht. However she did it, by the time furious organisers looked for her, she was off to Macau or Manila, onto the next adventure.

It’s tempting to dismiss Goldie as merely a con artist riding on good looks and audacity. But in truth, Goldie lived the only way she knew how. Lola Lush had taught her daughter that the world was a stage and fortune the prize of those bold enough to seize it. Goldie never had a stable home or a doting father, never knew the security of boundaries. So she made the whole world her home, and tested every boundary she met. Yes, she used people shamelessly – drained their wallets, indulged their infatuations, then left them – but I suspect she would argue those people had used her first, or that it was a fair trade for the experiences she gained. To Goldie’s mind, she was owed a grand life to make up for the lonely, chaotic childhood Lola dragged her through. Entitlement was practically Goldie’s religion. I remember her boldly telling Sister Margarita (a nun present that night for reasons too convoluted to explain) that “God wants me to have my fun now, Sister – I spent years in a convent school with no fun at all.” The good sister was scandalized, but Goldie just grinned and popped another champagne truffle in her mouth.

If Goldie is a wild child, it’s because she was never tamed by anything resembling normalcy. She learned from survivalists and scam artists, from her glamorous mother and the parade of dodgy “uncles” who came and went. She was reciting Tarot cards by age five, picking pockets by age eight, and charming grown men twice her age before she hit puberty. In a conventional sense, this is tragic – a lost childhood. But Goldie never viewed herself as a victim. She relished the freedom, the adventure. When I asked her (years later, during a follow-up interview for this book) if she wished she’d had a steady home and schooling, she snorted and said, “What, and end up ordinary? No thank you. I couldn’t have borne a normal life.” That’s Goldie for you – even her regrets come with a dismissive flick of the wrist.

Back at Mallon Hall that fateful night, Goldie’s unorthodox upbringing actually played to her advantage. The older claimants underestimated her, seeing only a flighty girl – but in truth Goldie was probably the most worldly person in the room. She had hustled on three continents, after all. She could size people up in an instant, knew which lies people were likely to swallow, and had the steel nerve to carry them through. For instance, when Declan McAudit (the family’s dour accountant) cornered Goldie about the specifics of her birth – pressing her on dates, locations, any legitimate record at all – Goldie shamelessly improvised a hazy fable about being born “somewhere on the Brazilian-Peruvian border probably, while Mummy was chasing butterflies and Daddy was searching for a lost city.” McAudit’s thin lips pursed in skepticism; he demanded to know who can corroborate. Goldie gave a tragic little shrug: “Alas, everyone there is dead now – malaria, you see. I’m the only witness to my first breath!” It was so outrageous a line that it effectively stonewalled further inquiry. McAudit realised he’d get nothing verifiable out of her and stomped off, muttering. Goldie shot me another secret smile once his back was turned, as if to say “easy as pie.”

Still, the question of Goldie’s legitimacy hung over the night like a precarious chandelier. Many suspected that Goldie was not truly Rowan Mallon’s daughter at all. I count myself among the skeptics. In rummaging through Rowan’s diaries and letters (I had the privilege to examine some later on), I found no mention of a child by Lola or anyone of her description. Rowan wrote freely of his escapades and affairs – he alluded to Lola as a fiery fling in Peru, but never of fathering a child with her. Moreover, I discovered a clue that Lola Lush had been involved with another expedition guide around the same time – a certain Argentinian chap – raising the strong possibility that Goldie’s father was someone other than Rowan. Goldie may well have been an orphan of the jungle in a sense, but not of Mallon blood.

However, during the Montezuma Weekend event, no concrete proof could be produced by either side about Goldie’s parentage. And in the fog of murders and treasure hunts that enveloped us, pressing Goldie on a paternity test was low on the agenda. (Besides, I doubt Goldie would have agreed to any such test – she repeatedly dodged Inspector Les’s suggestions of “verifying claims” once the immediate danger had passed. “There’s hardly time for science experiments, Inspector,” she chided him, *“with a killer on the loose!”) Goldie’s strategy was clear: keep everyone focused on the *drama at hand* (the murders, the missing will, the treasure clues) rather than the veracity of her claim.

And what a drama it was. Between murders, we still had the not-so-small matter of that missing will. Many suspected Goldie could be the thief – after all, she had the most to gain from a will disappearing if it didn’t name her. But I personally saw Archie Mallon pocket something suspicious right after the blackout, so my suspicions lay more with him at the time. Goldie vehemently denied any wrongdoing, of course. In fact, she turned the tables by loudly accusing the ghost of Montezuma for the vanished will, spinning it into her curse narrative. I remember her declaring with flourish, “The Aztec spirits took the will – they know it’s false. They want their chosen one (here she touched her own chest) to find the gold first!” This earned some groans, but again, a few credulous heads nodded.

Throughout the night’s twists, Goldie stayed in character. It was as if she had decided who Goldie Lush-Mallon was – a fearless jungle child destined to inherit a great treasure – and nothing, not logic nor derision, would sway her from playing that role to the hilt. That kind of commitment is almost admirable. Many times I observed Goldie calibrate her behaviour as circumstances required. When suspicion towards her grew too pointed, she’d dial up the naïve child act: big innocent eyes, talk of how “Mummy says we must trust the law to sort this out”. When she sensed others doubted her legitimacy, she’d pivot to the mystic heir persona: spouting a riddle or humming a tribal lullaby she claimed Lola sang to her in infancy. If someone cornered her with an accusation, she’d either take sudden offense and storm off (creating a distraction), or conversely, laugh it off and pat them condescendingly as if they were being ridiculous.

One particularly bold moment stands out: Petunia Mallon-Smythe, frustrated by Goldie’s slipperiness, at one point physically grabbed Goldie’s arm and hissed, “Young lady, I will get to the bottom of you.” Goldie looked at Petunia’s bony fingers on her sleeve and said in a low, dangerous tone quite unlike her usual prattle, “Unhand me, Auntie, or I’ll show you how we deal with snakes in the jungle.” There was an icy seriousness in that threat that startled Petunia (and me). Goldie’s smile returned immediately after, but for a second, we glimpsed a hardness in her – the steel of a survivor that underpinned all the frippery. Petunia released her grip, muttering something about “manners of a hooligan.” Goldie curtsied sarcastically and flounced away, but I noted her hands trembling once she was out of Petunia’s view. The facade had nearly cracked. It was a hint that Goldie’s confidence, while immense, was not unbreakable. She could be shaken – at least momentarily – by the prospect of her lie being laid bare.

As midnight neared, the Montezuma affair reached its fever pitch: secret passages were discovered, coded messages decoded, more bodies (two more!) found, and finally, the location of Rowan’s final testament was unveiled in a dramatic confrontation in the library. It turned out Rowan had recorded a gramophone message (the old devil loved his theatrics) revealing the true heir to his estate. All eyes were on Goldie as the scratchy recording of Rowan’s voice filled the room. My heart actually pounded for the girl – this was the moment of truth she had been hustling towards her entire young life. If Rowan acknowledged her, Goldie would be vindicated; if not, her deception would spectacularly collapse.

Rowan’s voice (or rather the actor we had playing Rowan’s voice, for those in the know) declared that his riches – if indeed any existed – were to be left to “the bravest soul among you, the one who best exemplifies my adventurous spirit.” A riddle, of course – Rowan didn’t make anything straightforward. But crucially, he did not explicitly name Goldie or anyone else. This ambiguous proclamation set off an immediate scramble: people argued, clues were re-examined to see who Rowan meant, accusations flew. Goldie, however, reacted in a flash. Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the horn of the gramophone and shouted into it (as if Rowan could hear), “Thank you, Daddy! I’ll make you proud!” It was absurd and a bit hilarious – addressing a recording – but her intent was clear. Goldie was publicly claiming that mantle of “bravest soul” for herself, essentially asserting that Rowan’s words were about her. And indeed, who had been more daring that night (and in life) than Goldie? One could argue no one matched Rowan’s audacity better than this wild child who invaded his will reading. A few in the crowd actually clapped or murmured agreement, either caught in her spell or simply exhausted by the whole saga and ready to yield the point.

Of course, others were not so willing. Petunia screeched that Goldie was a lunatic. Archie Mallon brandished a pistol (where he got it, who knows) and threatened to shoot Goldie then and there for trying to steal the Mallon fortune. In response, Goldie – quick as lightning – hurled a heavy bookend at Archie’s hand, knocking the gun away. I was astonished by her aim and ferocity. “No more killing!” she cried. “This treasure is meant to end bloodshed, not cause more.” How poetic – and manipulative – that statement was. In truth, Goldie was simply making sure she lived to see another dawn, but by couching it in nobility she again seized the narrative. She even managed a tear as she said it, as if deeply moved by Rowan’s posthumous call to virtue. I saw Monty nodding vigorously, echoing, “Yes, we must follow Rowan’s wishes!” The moment was pure, ridiculous theatre – and yet, it worked. It diffused the immediate danger to Goldie and somewhat quelled the mayhem.

In the end, how did it all resolve? Well, it’s no secret now that Rowan’s fabled Aztec treasure turned out to be more legend than reality. The “gold” everyone sought was largely symbolic. True, a small cache of artifacts was found hidden in the estate – a few ancient gold pieces, a ceremonial dagger, trifles really – but there was no multi-billion bounty. Rowan’s estate, such as it was, boiled down to a modest trust and the rights to his story (which ironically became more valuable once we all started writing books like this). The contention over “who wins” thus lost much of its heat when the prospective pot shrank. In the aftermath of that frenetic night, Goldie emerged with a few golden trinkets (she literally pocketed a couple, claiming Rowan “would want his girl to have a keepsake”), and – perhaps more importantly – a newfound notoriety-cum-celebrity. The Mallon family, keen to avoid scandal, decided against pressing charges for fraud or theft; it would look terribly unseemly, and besides, proving anything definitively would be difficult. Thus, Goldie Lush-Mallon walked away relatively unscathed. Not the heiress she had hoped to be, perhaps, but not empty-handed either. In her mind, I suspect she counted it a victory: she got to play the starring role in Rowan’s grand finale, and she left with enough shiny loot (and stories) to dine out on for years.

I had the chance to speak with Goldie briefly the morning after, as the sun rose over the soggy Donegal hills and guests departed that cursed house. She was loading a steamer trunk into a hired car (heaven knows what was in there – I assume half the silverware and random “souvenirs” from Mallon Hall). Lola Lush was already inside the car, apparently not keen on farewells. Goldie saw me and gave a weary, genuine smile – the first real, uncalculated smile I’d seen from her. She looked young and tired, her makeup smudged, the red feather in her hair bent at an odd angle. For a moment she was just a teenager who’d been up all night. “Well, Mr. Dunnit,” she called to me (for I had introduced myself during the night as a family friend and writer), “I hope you got a good story out of all this.” I replied that I had, thanks in no small part to her. She laughed, a short laugh. “Everyone loves a wild child until it’s their money on the line, eh?” There was both bitterness and pride in her voice. I ventured to ask what she would do next. Goldie thought a moment, then said with a dramatic sigh, “Perhaps I’ll take two gap years this time. Europe is lovely in spring, and Mother’s never been to Japan…” Always onto the next. As she stepped into the car she added, almost as an afterthought, “If you write about me, darling, be kind. Remember, I never had a chance to be anything but what I am.” She blew me a kiss and closed the door. Off they went, Goldie and Lola, dwindling down the drive in a cloud of exhaust and possibility.

Over the subsequent years, I heard sporadic updates about Goldie Lush-Mallon – usually attached to some misadventure or scandal in a far-flung locale. She popped up in Marrakech, running a short-lived “spiritual retreat” (that was likely more party than prayer). She was spotted in Bali with a tech mogul, then next in Sydney on the arm of a media tycoon twice her age. Each episode ended similarly: a furious wife or a emptied bank account, and Goldie flitting off like a bright parrot to the next perch. In letters she sent me (for a time, we corresponded – I think she enjoyed having someone who saw through her but didn’t judge her harshly), she recounted some of these adventures with equal measures of glee and world-weariness. Goldie remained defiant that the world owed her its riches. “If I don’t take them, someone else will,” she wrote once. “I just make sure I have fun doing it.” There’s that Wild Child creed if ever I’ve heard one.

Now, as I document her story in this book, I find myself reflecting on Goldie’s legacy in the Montezuma’s Gold affair and beyond. Was Goldie Lush-Mallon a villain, a victim, or something in between? She lied, certainly, and manipulated others without remorse. Yet, unlike some of the true villains that night, Goldie never acted out of sheer malice or bloodlust – hers was always a will to survive and thrive, taken to extraordinary extremes. She didn’t murder or physically harm anyone (save whacking Archie’s hand, which frankly may have prevented a greater harm). One could argue she brought a necessary spark of youthful irreverence that ultimately helped crack the stuffy pretenses and expose truths. Indeed, by challenging Petunia and Bea so brazenly, Goldie indirectly prompted their own undoing – their schemes were dragged into the light in reaction to her prodding. In that sense, Goldie functioned almost as a chaotic good element amidst the rogues’ gallery. The official family line, of course, never acknowledged this. To this day Petunia refers to Goldie only as “that dreadful girl.” But I see Goldie as a product of Rowan’s own legacy of adventure and deceit. She was, in a twisted way, exactly the kind of heir Rowan deserved – bold, unconventional, and with a blurred sense of right and wrong. Rowan spent a lifetime bending truth and chasing fortune; can we be surprised that someone popped up claiming to be his offspring in the same vein?

In the end, Goldie Lush-Mallon remains an enigma – perhaps even to herself. Was her entire identity a grift that she started believing? Or was she truly convinced from the start that she was Rowan’s daughter and meant for glory? The lines are hard to draw. I suspect Goldie found it easier to believe the beautiful lie than face an ugly truth. And Lola, for her own selfish reasons, certainly reinforced that fantasy. It’s likely Goldie will go to her grave insisting she is Goldie Mallon, rightful daughter of the jungle hero Rowan. And who’s to truly prove otherwise at this point? The birth certificate in crayon may as well have been written in blood for all it matters – Goldie lived as Rowan’s progeny in attitude, and perhaps that is the only reality that counted in her mind [10] [11].

Writing this chapter, I have attempted to be both truthful and fair, even as I can’t help but smile at some of Goldie’s absurdities. As a seasoned observer who has indeed seen too much, I confess that Goldie’s story still stands out as one of the most colourful threads in the tapestry of Montezuma’s Gold. She was the wild child who asked, what’re you going to do about it? – and indeed, none of us quite knew how to handle her. She exposed the pomposity of the old elite, challenged the authenticity of a legend, and personified youthful audacity unchecked by convention. Did she “get away with it”? Largely, yes. But life has a way of catching up. The last I heard, Goldie was sighted running a questionable “adventure coaching” business in California – essentially taking wealthy clients on faux-dangerous expeditions to teach them courage (the irony is rich). It seems even as her youth fades, she’s still finding ways to spin her narrative into something bankable. Ever the opportunist, ever the survivor.

I have chosen to title this chapter “The Crayon Heiress” because it encapsulates the dual nature of Goldie Lush-Mallon: at once childish (a crayon signature on a fake birthright) and presumptively noble (an heiress apparent). That night at Mallon Hall, Goldie straddled the line between farce and destiny. In the end, I believe Goldie’s greatest inheritance from Rowan wasn’t treasure at all – it was the story. She made herself a part of his saga, wove herself into the Montezuma mythos, and ensured that none of us would ever forget her part in it. Perhaps that is what she truly wanted: to not be just a footnote or an asterisk, but a chapter (indeed, a chapter like this one) in the grand adventure. If so, then Miss Goldie got her wish.

As I close this account, I look at the notes Goldie sent me long ago, one line stands out, scribbled in her looping hand (thankfully in pen, not crayon): “Don’t be too hard on me, Hugh. A wild child only behaves as the wild made her.”  Make of that what you will. I, for one, raise a glass (a free vodka martini, naturally) to Goldie Lush-Mallon – wherever you are, may your jungle whispers never lead you astray, and may you find whatever it is you’re truly seeking, even if it isn’t gold.

– Hugh Dunnit