Arthur Upfield: Death of a Lake

“In an envelope?”

“No. Just folded three times. It was lying on top of the clothes.”

Bony lit a cigarette.

“You have been candid, Mr Carney. Now tell me why you did not hand that letter to Mr Martyr, or to SergeantMansell.”

“I thought it might be a forgery, put in the case by whoever had taken the money, and could have murdered Gillen. I decided I’d stand by and wait to see who left here, and then I’d have the satisfaction of reporting it to the police. But no one left the place.”

From the floor at his feet, and hidden by the cases from Carney, Bony picked up the parcel of money.

He was satisfied by Carney’s reactions that Carney did not know its contents, but he asked the question:

“Have you seen this parcel before?”

Carney shook his head, and was directed to relax on the row of cases placed along one wall of the shed.

“Produce Robert Lester.”

The constable disappeared. The sergeant lit his pipe. He was the senior officer of a police-controlled district, and yet refrained from asking questions of the man who could give orders like that.

Lester sniffled before he came on. On seeing Bony, he sniffled again, and for the third time when told to sit on the tea-chest. On being informed that Inspector Bonaparte wished to ask a few questions, his watery eyes dried up. The bright blue eyes were expectant, and he knew there was a trap baited to take him, and wished he were far, far away.

Nonchalantly Bony removed the trap and placed it on the ground at his feet… the parcel of money. He reached for pencil and paper and drew a sketch of the front of the men’s quarters, the while Lester sharply watched him, the sergeant curious, and the audience of one, Carney. Then the voice so different from the easy drawl of the horse-breaker:

“Now, Mr Lester, tell me: do you sleep soundly at night?”

“Fairish, I think,” replied Lester.

“Do you sleep soundly in the daytime?”

“Caw! Hell of a hopesleepin ’ in daytime. I can’t answer that one, Bony.”

The sergeant coughed disapprovingly at suchlese-majeste.

“You remember that afternoon when you were feeling off colour following a nightmare in which you were climbing in and out of a tank? You were awakened by Miss Fowler and told the house was on fire. You were having a nap on the veranda, remember? Were yousound asleep then?”

“Must have been. Never heard the fire; leastways, I thought it was a willi-willi passing by.”

“You had lunch at the usual time… half-past twelve. After lunch you returned to the quarters. Who served the lunch?”

“Joan.”

“Did you see Mrs Fowler?”

“No.”

“Did you hear Mrs Fowler talking in the kitchen, or moving about in the kitchen?”

Lester proved that he had indulged in retrospection.

“Not a sight or sound of her.”

“After lunch, did you dally at table talking with Miss Fowler?”

“No. She seemed in a bit of a temper.”

“With whom? You? Her mother?”

“Didn’t let on.”

“So that you must have left the kitchen after lunch at about one o’clock?”

“Yair. Mustabeen.”

“What did you do after leaving the annexe?”

“Went over to the quarters. I had a smoke, and wanted a paper to read, but there wasn’t any and so I mademeself comfortable and took a nap.”

“Would you say you were asleep before one-thirty?”

“I would,” answered Lester, adding confidently: “And by theshadders I’d say it was just before two when I was awoke by Joan to see the ruddy house going up.”

“Thank you! Now look at this sketch of the quarters showing the room doors, the steps up to the veranda.” Bony rose and passed round to stand beside Lester. “Was the old armchair about here?”

“She was. Yes, that’s about where she was. Always is, remember?”

“I should do, Mr Lester. Was the back of the chair towards the steps?”

“Yair.”

“Would the door of the sitting-room be, say, ten feet from the chair?”

“About that, I reckon.”

“Then the back of the chair would be sixteen to twenty feet from the door to your room?”

“Yair. That’s so.”

“And even if you had been awake, you would not have seen anyone move up the steps, walk across the veranda and enter your room?”

“I might have heard ’em.”

“But you were asleep.”

“Dead to the wide, matter of fact.”

“Right!” snapped Bony. “See that brown paper parcel?”

“Yair,” assented Lester, staring at the trap brought up from the floor.

“What was it doing under your bed after the fire?”

“Search me.” Lester was plainly puzzled, and Bony was satisfied.

“Thank you, Mr Lester. Please join Mr Carney.”

He slouched away to sit with Carney. He sniffled before automatically biting a chew from a plug. He sniffled when Bony said:

“Produce Richard Martyr.”

Telling Tales

MARTYRSATONthe tea-chest. He looked to SergeantMansell. The light-grey eyes, invariably in startling contrast with his complexion, were almost lazy until the sergeant said that Inspector Bonaparte wanted to ask questions. When Bony looked up from his notes, the pale-grey eyes were small, and the firm, determined mouth was small, and there wasa paleness about the small nostrils.

“Mr Martyr, what time did you leave the homestead on the morning of the fire?”

“Ten past eight.”

“You did not return until after the fire, accompanied by Carney?”

“No. We saw the smoke plume from Winters Well… sixteen miles away.”

“I was here with Barby, Lester and Miss Fowler when you returned with Carney after the fire. You gave instructions to the effect that we were to accompany Barby to Johnson’s Well, and remain there until you returned from reporting the fire to Mr Wallace. You left before we did. When you had passed over the first ridge, you stopped the utility, watched the out-station to see us depart for Johnson’s Well, and then you returned to the out-station. Why?”

“I did not return from beyond the first ridge.”

“You did. Your tracks betrayed you.”

“All right! I remembered that the Boss would ask me did I look into the safe to see if the books had been destroyed. I ought to have done it before I left. The stock books and records are important, and the Boss would be anxious about them.”

“You opened the safe and found the books… in what condition?”

“Fairly good, to my relief.”

“What did you do then?”

“I locked the safe and carried on.”

“Leaving the key in the lock?”

“I…” Martyr automatically touched the pockets of his jodhpurs.

“Must have done. Damn!”

“What else is in the safe besides the books?”

“Oh, tax stamps, a few pounds in petty cash.”

“Do you customarily carry the safe key in your pockets when you leave the out-station?”

Those pale-grey eyes stood by their owner.

“No. Usually it’s kept on a little nail in the wall behind the desk.”

“And yet a little while ago when the key was mentioned you unconsciously tapped your pockets.”

“Why not? I remembered I took the key from the safe that morning and pocketed it because I was in a hurry.”

“Of course, Mr Martyr. Obviously the contents of the safe were of such great value that you would not habitually carry the key in a pocket when out on the run. The books found not to be seriouslydamaged, forgetting to relock the safe and remove the key is understandable. To replace the safe and cover it with ash is, however, curious. Well, now, I don’t think there is anything else.”

Martyr rose and strode to the open door. Bony called: