Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

The Reverend Weston took up his creel, shouldered his rod, smiled at Bony and departed, and, when slowly winding in his line, Bony watched the ungainly figure grow small as it, passed under the trees towards the distant bridge.

“Quite a day,” remarked Mr. Luton when Bony entered the kitchen to find him trimming lamb chops for grilling. “Any bites?”

“Yes, a bite by a fish under water. And several bites by fish out of water.”

“Three of ’em,” stated Mr. Luton.“A doctor. A policeman. A parson. Old Knocker Harris did his job all right, didn’the. A whisper down these parts is as good as a radio during a race meeting.”

“I have been instructed to warn you against over-indulgence in the cursed drink. And, moreover, I have been requested to remind you of your years.”

“Is that all?” exclaimed Mr. Luton. “Didn’t he call me a sot?”

“I believe he did.”

“Then why didn’t you back me up by knocking him down?”

“Recalling how well you look, I accepted the charge as being amusing.”

“And he caught a fish?”

“Yes. Made his cast within a yard of my bait.”

“Parson’s luck,” snorted the old man. “You can’t win.”

“I shall, next time. Can I do anything?”

“If you like. Fetch some back logs for the fire tonight. There’s plenty on the wood-heap. Leave ’emon the edge of the veranda till we want ’em. Howd’you like your chops?”

“Lightly grilled.”

Mr. Luton was about to serve dinner when Knocker Harris appeared at the back door and was invited to sit at table. Instead of the old dungarees, he was wearing a go-to-town reach-me-down suit badly in need of pressing. His brown eyes were twinkling, and he chewed energetically that he might swallow quickly the tobacco he had cupped into his mouth on arrival.

“Had a good day?” enquired Mr. Luton.

“Not so bad, like,” replied Knocker Harris.“Did a bit of business. Said a few words here and there.”

“Who did you see in town?”

“Oh, this one and that.”

Mr. Luton chuckled, placed a plate of chops and mashed potatoes before his guests, and himself sat at the head of the table, stiff and proper as any proud patriarch. On his either side squatted a dog, and on the hearth sat the purring cat.

“Any luck?” asked Knocker Harris, gripping a chop bone in aknuckly hand to enjoy the last of the meat.

“A good bite,” replied Bony.“Got away. I was half asleep and missed the strike.”

“Yougets that way sometimes, waiting. J’uhave any callers?”

“Three.”

“Ah!”

“The quack, the parson, and the policeman,” interjected Mr. Luton.

“Is thatso! ” Knocker Harris was immensely pleased. “Well, I expected something, like. Soon’s as I got to town, I seen the quack’s car outside his surgery, and I says ‘Howd’you do’ to the chemist standing in his doorway. Then I had a chin-wag with a couple of old ’unson the seat outside the pub, and Isorta mentions we has a famous visitor out our way who knew Ben and seems to want to know a bit more, like. Then I went across the street and bought some pills off the chemist. Ilets it drop to him about the visitor out here. Then in comes the quack to get something, and I leaves him being told about the visitor by the chemist. Seemed very interested by thenoos.

“When I got back to the seat outside the pub, the old ’unshave gone in for their snifter, so I sits on the seat pretending to count me change, like. It happened that the newspaper bloke came out of the bar and, seeingme, he sits down and starts a yabber. ‘How’s the fish biting?’ ‘How’s the countrylookin ’?’ So I told him we had a famous visitor what knew poor Ben and seemed like grieving ’coshe’d died so quick, like.”

“Did you mention my name?” Bony asked, and Knocker Harris looked hurt.

“ ’Coursenot. You told me not to. I said what you told me. Said that our visitor was a detective. The paper bloke wanted to know your name, and I told him I just missed hearing John tell it. Anyway, he went off back to his paper to write it out, and I went for a dram of rum and had a word with the barman, like. He told me that Jukes would be leaving in his launch for his up-river house-boat, so I hunted a bit for Jukes and he said he’d beleavin ’ about three and I could take a ride with him.

“After that I mucked abouttalkin ’ to people. Trade’s pretty bad and theyain’t got much to do, like. Then I ambled down to the jetty and boardedJukes’s launch to wait for him to turn up. The policeman turned up ’fore he did, and he wanted to know about our visitor, what his name was and all that, like.”

Knocker Harris returned his interest to the grilled chops, and Mr. Luton waited before saying:

“Whatd’youmean… all that?”

“Oh! Wanted to know why we had our visitor. He wanted to know what he’d come for, like. Wanted to know if he was a relation of yours. You know, all them kind of questions, and I’m dumber than usual. What time did he get out?”

“About four.”

“Didn’t waste much time, did he.”

They ate in silence until Mr. Luton served baked apples with custard sauce. Then Knocker Harris said:

“The policeman would come in his car from the bridge. So would the quack. Which way did the parson come?”

“Down-river, following the path,” replied Bony.

“Ah!”

Another period of silence before Mr. Luton asked:

“Something on your mind?”

“Yair,” admitted Knocker Harris. “Beenwonderin ’ who’d been poking around me camp, that’s all. That ruddy nosey parsonmusta. Like his cheek. If I was to go mucking around up at the big house, they’d yell for the police, but they don’t mind rooting through my camp when me back’s turned, like. A quid for the rich and a kick in the stern for the poor. That’s it all over. Wait till the local politician comes asking for me vote. I’ll tell him…”

“How do you know that the parson visited your camp?” interrupted Bony.

“Medog told me when I got home. There isn’t much to that dog, but he can talk. To me, anyhow. First off, he told me someone had been mooching around the joint.”

Immediately the meal was over, Knocker Harris remembered he had to re-set his belled fish-line, and Mr. Luton told Bony it was a mere excuse to get out of the washing up. The two men completed this chore, and then the night had come and a roaring fire was lit in the lounge and they settled to gossip.

The conversation was adroitly kept away from Wickham’s meteorological work, and centred upon the people who lived in his house. Yet it did seem that Mr. Luton’s knowledge of them was scanty, and his opinions coincident with those of his old friend. And Wickham’s opinion of those he housed appeared to be governed by the degree in which they interfered with his work.

“Who ran the estate?” asked Bony.

“Feller by name of Sinclair. He still manages it. Employs four men. Him and his wife lives at the back of the station, and the men live in a hut. Ben always said Sinclair made the place pay. Couldn’t do aught else, what with the price rise of wool and fat lambs.”

“Have you any idea of what Mount Mario might be worth today?”

“Near enough,” answered Bony’s host. “Last year Ben was offered one-fifty thousand pounds, walk-out walk-in basis.”

“Did he own much beside the property-investments, other property?”

“That I couldn’t say,” slowly replied Mr. Luton. “He did tell me he had some securities in that chest down below.”

“Down below? The cellar you mentioned?”

“Yes. You want to look?”

“Certainly.”

“All right. We’ll go down. Know anything about locks?”

“One can do much with a piece of fencing wire. I remember seeing some by your back fence. I’ll obtain…”