Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“When you found Ben Wickham dead, did he remind you of that man at the bore?”

“He certainly did not. The feller at the bore died when he was awake. Ben died in his sleep.”

“Died in his sleep!” echoed Bony.

“Yes. He was lying peaceful, like he slept, when I found him.”

“His eyes were closed?”

“Partly so. I kept ’emclosed proper, with a florin apiece. That’s why I say he died of something given to him; not from the hoo-jahs.”

“Were the coins on the eyes when the doctor came?”

Mr. Luton was triumphant.

“Course not. I took ’emoff when I heard the car.”

The Squire’s Chest

WHENthey should have gone to bed, they went down into the cellar, Bony carrying the lamp, leaving the table and floor-covering in the living-room ready for quick replacement in the event of interruption.

At this second visit, Bony could not resist the impulse to chuckle at the mental picture of two wily ‘hard doers’ determined to maintain freedom against the onslaught of relations and outsiders. Additional to the neat stacks of spirits, there were a dozen cases of beer, and on a special shelf he had not previously noticed, because it was in a corner opposite the bar counter, he espied six bottles ofDrambuie evenly spaced, obviously by reverent hands.

“Quite a plant, eh?” remarked Mr. Luton.“Whisky there in that pile. Brandy over there. Rum right behind you, and the gin over here. We’d sense enough to be careful of the oil-lamp, and arranged the stock so we could find the right bottles in the dark. Once we camped down here all night, with the trap-door down. Air got a bit foul with the lamp lit, so we turned it out, and afterwards I ran a shaft to come up inside the wood-shed just behind the wash-copper. Could camp here a month with the lamp lit now.”

“Who planned it?” asked Bony, more to keep Mr. Luton occupied while he examined the place.

“It sort of grew from the years gone by. At the end of roaring hot days when we’d unyoke the bullocks and wasdrinkin ’ tea and too tired to eat, we’d tell each other what we’d do when we made our fortunes. We agreed we’d build a shack beside a nice cool river where the grass was always green, and where the sunlight was green, too, because it fell through bright-green tree leaves. And we agreed we’d build a private pub at the back of the shack, and stock her to the roof. We’d have a bar counter, and ice-boxes and things, and we’d drink from the best crystal glasses when we felt likeit, and tin pint pannikins when we felt like that. The crystal’s under the counter there, and the tin pannikins. Only difference we made to our pub was to sink her underground. D’youthink… Would you like to wet her?”

Bony refrained from looking at Mr. Luton. He knew what it was to be exhausted by a never-ending hot day on outback tracks, to the point of being unable to undertake the chore of cooking a meal. He knew what it was to crave with a poignant longing to feel iced liquor sliding down his gummed-up throat, and to feast his eyes on cool water lazing along under the moss-green branches of overhanging trees.

The invitation sprang from pride in having a dream made reality, the humility of spirit that life had been kind to make the dream come true, when reality never came to thousands of others who dreamed the same dream.

“It would be a pleasure to see you behind that bar, Mr. Luton.”

Mr. Luton’s smile was reminiscent. Lifting the counter-flap, he passed inside and, with the rows of shelved bottles at his back, gravely asked Bony what he would have.

“Whisky, with soda if you have it.”

This was a place where you couldn’t miss. Mr. Luton produced aseltzergene bottle and filled it with water. He fitted a cartridge to the bottle and smiled at Bony without speaking. There was a case on the floor, and this he had to open with hammer and chisel, that the show bottles on the shelves would remain intact. He set up a bottle of Scotch, and from under the counter brought up two remarkably fine crystal goblets. They poured their own drinks.

Bony made another complete survey of the dream come true. He raised his glass, and over it saw Mr. Luton’s raised glass, and his bright hazel eyes above it. He bowed, and drank.

Presently, Bony turned back to thecedarwood chest he had not re-locked with his piece of wire. He returned to the bar with the parchment envelope marked ‘WILL’.

“This, obviously, is your friend’s missing will,” he said. “As you see, the envelope isn’t sealed. I would like to read it for possible light it may throw on Ben Wickham’s life which he did not reveal even to you.”

“Go ahead.”

Bony read, and thoughtfully returned the will to the envelope.

“The major part of the estate, apparently large, is bequeathed to his sister, Mrs. Parsloe,” he said. “He willed twenty thousand pounds to Mrs. Maltby, ten thousand each to her husband and Jessica Lawrence, and to you he left this property… house, land, and, in his words, what’s under it. You are to receive also twenty thousand pounds. You have been appointed the sole executor. The executor to present all else in the chest to Dr. Linke.”

Mr. Luton was frowning.

“I didn’t want the money, Inspector. I told him so.”

“Wickham made other provisions,” Bony went on. “He left a thousand pounds each to Mrs. Loxton, the chauffeur, and Knocker Harris. There is one peculiar clause or provision in the will. The beneficiaries are divided into major and minor participants. If any of the major beneficiaries contest the will, and the legal points governing this are most explicit, the entire estate is to pass to Dr. Linke. Tell me, when Wickham said he intended leaving you twenty thousand, did he say, or even hint, that he had informed the others of his intention concerning them?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Luton. “Said he had told them what he had done in his latest will. Excepting one thing. He didn’t tell ’emwho was to have his weather records and papers and things. I think I can see why he put in that bitsayin ’ if any of them contested the will Linke was to get the lot. One or other, according to Ben, might argue the point about leaving the weather secrets to Linke.”

“What of Mrs. Loxton, the car driver Jackson, and Knocker Harris? D’youknow if he told them?”

“Ben didn’t mention them.”

“The will doesn’t state who drew up the document. Do you know who the solicitors are?”

“Parker amp; Parker, in Cowdry, as far as I know. Ben said that the present Parker’s father was his father’s law man. Eh! Don’t the Reverend Weston get anything?”

“Not mentioned.”

“He’ll snort. What’ll we do with the will?”

“Put it back in the squire’s old chest.”

“All right! But…”

“You have been trying hard to convince me that Ben Wickham was poisoned in this very house, Mr. Luton. You knew about thatcedarwood chest, and that Ben Wickham added papers to it as late as the day he came to join you on that last bender. You could have a key to that chest, or have opened it as easily as I did with wire. You could thus have gained access to the will, have learned its provisions, learned that you inherit twenty thousand pounds and this property, including ‘what is under the house’.

“You could have murdered Ben Wickham. None butyourself had such opportunities. That you have tried to convince me, that you have convinced Harris, that you tried to convince Dr. Maltby and the policeman that Wickham did not die as the result of alcoholic poisoning, would amount to very little, because the body no longer exists. All that you know. Nothing can be proved against you, and this you must know also. But the facts that you had easy access to the will, that the testator died under extraordinary circumstances in your own house, would make you a very strong suspect with the police and most especially with the relatives. You understand all that?”