Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“No, I think not. Towards the end of his ministry there, I understand that she prepared his sermons because the elders expressed dissatisfaction. Anyway, the appointment was terminated, and after a period of comparative idleness he accepted the call to this church in Merino.”

“When the wife prepared all the service, eh?”

“That is so,” agreed Lawton-Stanley sadly.

“What was his health like… at college?”

“He complained often about his heart.”

“What was the medical verdict about that, do you know?”

“I never heard that he consulted a doctor.”

“Any vices?”

“If he had he kept them mighty secret.” Lawton-Stanley was about to say something further but desisted. Bony waited. Then he prompted his host, and the bush evangelist said: “James is just naturally a vampire man.”

“Oh, indeed! Interesting! Does he crawl out of his coffin after sundown to…?”

“You know what I mean, Bony. You know as well as I do that there are men and women, and they are not rare, either, who exist on the spiritual strength of others. That type invariably marries the gentle, forbearing, and retiring partner. They maintain the domination. The victims become so dominated that they dare not even try to flutter to maintain independence of soul. The dominant partner is invariably an invalid whose aches and pains are all that matters in the home. They must ever come first. They must be waited on hand and foot. They must be served by submissive victims. ReadTheBarretts of Wimpole Street.”

“I have done so, but I know your vampire people without having read that book. Lots of men have been hanged and imprisoned for life for having murdered their vampire wives. Quite decent and respectable men, too. I am glad, Padre, that we agree that James is just a vampire man. That is a good name, too, although there is another which would the better fit Mr Llewellyn James. I won’t use it… in your presence. Did you know his family?”

“Yes,” admitted Lawton-Stanley.

“Any insanity?”

“Yes. The mother’s brother was a certified lunatic.”

Bony rubbed his hands, saying:

“Ah… hum! You know, I always have had the idea that the murderer in these parts is not quite normal.”

“Is any murderer normal?”

“Normal!”Bony echoed. “Of course they are normal. They are just as normal as the petty thief. It is only now and then that one comes across the abnormal. In this case of mine there is a strong suspicion of abnormality, resting on the cunning with which the crimes have been committed and the apparent absence of motive.”

“Why do you suspect James?” asked Lawton-Stanley.

“I didn’t say that I suspected him.”

“No. But you do. Come, tell your old pal.”

Bony smiled.

“None of yourvampiring with me, now,” he implored. “Promise not to tell?”

“Certainly.”

“Cross your fingers and promise properly,” Bony commanded, and chuckled when the evangelist gravely obeyed. “You don’t look like Rose Marie, Padre, but that is her definition of a promise, signed, sealed, and delivered. I understand from Mrs James, and others, that the parson suffers from a weak heart, so that he has to be careful not to exert himself. Under no circumstances may he chop a little wood or do a little digging in the garden. He also suffers from a debilitated brain, to the extent that he cannot concentrate sufficiently to prepare a sermon. But, Padre, he can ride a horse at such a pace as to drench it with perspiration and to wind it, and he can concentrate sufficiently to read light literature, such asA Flirt in Florence. Ever read that novel?”

“I never read any novels.”

“Oh, come now! You mustn’t be sowowserish, Padre! A nice tale of juicy doings in Florence would so improve your mind. No, James doesn’t square with life. You don’t like James, and I’m blessed if I do either. But we must not permit our prejudices to cloud our judgment. Now I’ll be off. There is a lot of work in front of me. I’ll leave the cups and things to you. Never forget that you crossed your fingers. Thank you so much for the tea.”

“You haven’t told me yet why you suspect the fellow,” objected Lawton-Stanley.

“Oh, I have,” Bony countered smilingly. “See you again shortly. And look here-if you could persuade Mr Llewellyn James to take a little morning exercise with the gloves, please, Padre, please plant a good ’un on his nose for me.”

Full daylight greeted the detective when he emerged from the evangelist’s truck, his expression of lightness changed to one of stern concentration. It was still too early for even the early risers to be about the street.

On leaving the truck, he walked along the sidewalk towards the police station, and, as was his habit, his eyes mechanically registered the prints of human feet upon the ground. The street at this end was not swept clean by the shop people and the sand lay fairly thick.

He was not positively sure of the fact, but the ground all round the truck was covered with the faint remnants of so many tracks as to lead him to believe that the bush evangelist had held a service the previous evening. The truck was parked several yards westward of the garage, and when Bony came into the wind shelter provided by the garage he found the tracks on the sidewalk much clearer. He recognized the tracks of young Jason going in and out, and he recalled that that young man was to supply the evangelist with additional electric power. Passing along the street were the tracks made by Mrs Marshall and Rose Marie, who at a later hour were followed by Constable Gleeson. They were a few of the tracks he recognized. Then, when he drew opposite the gate giving entry to Mr Jason’s private residence he saw that Mr Jason himself had stepped off the roadway and had crossed all the other tracks to reach his house. Adjacent to the police station fence the wind had smoothed away all impressions made upon the ground the previous night.

On passing the police station, Bony crossed the street and slowly walked back to the hotel, rounded that building to reach the back of it, and then skirted the rear of the hotel, another building, the rear of Mr Fanning’s shop and house, and so reached the butcher’s stables within the yard.

The two horses came trotting towards him, whinnying a request for chaff, and he went through the wire fence and made friends with them, murmuring in a language which they appeared to understand. He gave especial attention to the horse with the white blaze on its forehead, and noted the imprint on the ground made by each of its hoofs.

Approximately in the centre of the yard stood the ramshackle stables, and after him entered the horses, looking for breakfast. He found chaff in an inner compartment and fed a little of it to them. And then he examined two saddles placed on pegs driven into a roof support.

The saddle carried by the horse owned by James was easily marked by the colour of the hairs upon its felt saddlecloth. The stirrup irons were crossed over the saddle, which could have been done when the saddle was placed on its peg. But likely enough the hooded man, who last had used that saddle, had ridden without using the stirrups, for into them he could not thrust his hessian-covered feet. That would account for his poor riding when attempting to shoot Bony, which had given the detective hope that he could be outwitted, as, in fact, he had been.

On leaving the stables. Bony walked to the gate in the yard fence. This gate was opposite the wooden door in the corrugated iron fence at the rear of the butcher’s premises. Here the tracks made by the parson’s horse when led into the enclosure an hour or two previously were almost obliterated by the wind. The depressions were more than half filled in, and there was no possibility of the wind having spared those extremely faint depressions left by hessian-covered human feet.