Arthur Upfield - Battling Prophet

“I didn’t kill Ben,” Luton said, quietly.

“I would be the most disillusioned man of this century should I become convinced that you had,” Bony murmured. “So, until I can produce a very much stronger suspect than you, and thus save you from much annoyance, the will shall remain in the chest. Agreed?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Be advised. Henceforth, do not put forward the assertion that Wickham was poisoned, not to anyone.”

Mr. Luton seemed a trifle less willing to agree, but did so. Bony glanced at his wrist-watch. He pointed out that it was close to midnight, and persuaded Mr. Luton to go to bed and leave him for an hour or so to delve among the records in the chest. To this the old man readily agreed, and departed without a glance at the whisky bottle.

Bony sat on the cases beside the barcounter, and automatically rolled a cigarette and applied a match. On only one point was he convinced, and that was Mr. Luton’s innocence of murder. But there was the opportunity for someone else to have murdered Wickham, the time of that opportunity being between four in the morning when Luton visited his friend to give him the dose of ‘medicine’, and six twenty-five when Luton was wakened by hearing Wickham laughing. A time period of approximately an hour and a half. Someone could have entered the front room where Wickham was being tortured by the hoo-jahs and offered him a drink containing poison. Wickham must have known who that someone was, trusted him-or her-and, not as strong-willed as Luton, have succumbed to the temptation to accept the drink.

Who? Any person mentioned in the will? The foreigners who appeared, at least, to have begun negotiations for Wickham’s weather secrets; the office burglars, even the person or persons who had met Wickham in the private rooms of the bank manager; even a hired assassin paid by those powerful interests opposed to Wickham, fantastic though this thought might seem to be?

The ‘who’ was of less importance than the ‘why’, if the dead man had been poisoned. Mr. Luton did have both motive and opportunity. Then again, Dr. Maltby, Mrs. Maltby, Jessica Lawrence, Mrs. Parsloe, had many thousands of pounds’ worth of motive, while the ex-housekeeper, the chauffeur, Knocker Harris, all had motive worth a thousand pounds. There was no beginning. There was nobody to begin with. There was nothing that a man could get his teeth into.

Bony shuddered and abruptly went to the chest and fell to real work.

The green notebook baffled him from cover to cover. He could not understand the diagrams nor the terms used to explain them. ‘Baric surfaces’, ‘synoptic codes’, baffled him, and the algebraic problems led him nowhere.

The files, however, did interest him. There were seven of them, one for each of the last seven years, and apparently they contained correspondence which Wickham had carefully excluded from his secretary. The letters were written from America, from France and Germany, from Finland and Italy. They contained offers of financial support, ranging from a high Government appointment at Washington to the sum of one million pounds from a man signing himself Edward Tilly, and giving an address in Lisbon.

There were newspaper cuttings either praising Wickham or condemning him, and it could not but be noted that encouragement came chiefly from the United States and vilification from Australia. Only on the last file, and during the last six months of Wickham’s life, was recognition grudgingly conceded by professional meteorologists and any interest taken in his achievements by the various Australian Governments.

If ever there was a prophet who had received no honour in his own country, and no support in his efforts to improve the lot of agriculturists, and therefore of the world, it was the late Benjamin Wickham. Bony was sickened by the petty jealousy in human hearts, and by the lack of imagination in men of high estate. He experienced relief when Mr. Luton descended with a huge jug of coffee and a dish piled high with buttered toast.

“Thought it time you had some shut-eye,” Mr. Luton said, faintly disapproving. “Coffee and brandy will make you look for bed.”

The tray with the coffee and toast he placed on the bar counter, and from the pocket of his dressing gown he extracted the brandy bottle in current use.

“You should not have risen so early,” Bony admonished him.

“I didn’t go to bed. I sat up afore the fire.”

“Oh! Why?”

“Been doing a spot ofthinkin ’. You know, I was a damn fool to put those coins on Ben’s eyelids.”

“I have been wondering why you did it.”

“Me, too. Could have been several reasons. I rememberthinkin ’ that Ben would like having his eyes closed properly. Then when the car was coming with the quack, I took the coins off, so’s the quack wouldn’t say I interfered. After we talked about men dying in the hoo-jahs, I come to see that myputtin ’them coins on the eyes stopped the quackbelievin ’ my idea about him being murdered.”

Bony drank the spiced coffee with appreciation. He said:

“You could not have deceived a pathologist, however. We know little of post-mortem effects. Wickham could have died through collapse of the heart caused by the action of alcohol, and not necessarily the action of alcohol on the brain. He might well have fallen into a coma. I rather think that if he died when in a coma his eyes would be as you described them.”

“Then you don’t believe he was given something?”

“I am admitting neither to belief nor disbelief. You tempted me to come here for the fishing. Then you captured my interest with your remarkable theories concerning the effects of alcohol. Then Doctor Linke furthered my interest by events concerning Wickham during the few weeks prior to his death. From these events stem many things. Result, Mr. Luton? The result is that I continue to probe until I am satisfied Ben Wickham was, or was not, murdered.”

A TradeIn Information

REFRESHEDby a ‘spot of shut-eye’, they breakfasted late and remained at table as they smoked. Bony, as usual, was well groomed, and his host was wearing a rough tweed suit.

“What was Ben Wickham’s opinion on cremation, d’youknow?” Bony asked.

“Didn’t ask him,” was the reply. “He never talked about it that I recall.”

“Were his parents cremated?”

“I know that one, Inspector. They were buried in the cemetery at Cowdry.”

“Why, then, was Wickham’s body cremated? He expressed no such wish in the will.” Mr. Luton evaded comment, and Bony went on, “Do you think, if Benjamin Wickham held a decisive view of the manner in which his body should be disposed of, that he would have discussed the matter with you?”

“Yes, I think he would,” replied Luton. “But he didn’t talk of it, and neither did I.”

“Then we must assume that the subject of the disposal of the dead was not one of interest to him; that he never spoke of it to his relatives and friends. His parents had not been cremated. From whom did the suggestion of cremation originally come? I should like to know. Death is the profound finality of life; cremation is the finality of death. We may study the bones of a man dead many thousands of years; we cannot study the dust of a man scattered to the four winds. I shall ponder these truths while taking your dogs for a walk.”

Mr. Luton watched Bony pass through the wicket gate, preceded by the dogs, who were infinitely more keen on hunting than walking. His strong jaw was set toa hardness and his eyes thoughtful. He was still thoughtful when he went to the rear and fed the hens, and returned to wash the dishes and straighten thehouse, and, later, to carry three empty beer bottles to the river and toss them in. The habit of years stood by him. The empties he had filled with water that they would not float.