Arthur Upfield - Batchelors of Broken Hill

Yet another massive steel fireplace, the grate concealed by a low screen of floral design. Above the mantel stood the youthful Queen Victoria. She was like someone Bony knew but could not recall. The picture was in oils and unsigned. Against another wall stood either Empress Josephine or Madame de Pompadour, also in oils, and the face was like that of Queen Victoria, and yet different. The resemblance was in the eyes. Bony again looked upon Queen Victoria. Itwas the eyes. And at some time he had looked into those eyes. He was sure of it.

The eyes, he felt, watched him as he moved the torch beam along the books in the glass case, as he examined the writing-desk, as he explored the contents of the camphorwood chest set between the two windows.

Again he stood before Queen Victoria. There was something about her mouth too. Ah! The mouth resembled that of Mills’s drawing of the woman seen by Mrs Wallace. He leaned against the mantel, lowered the beam of his light, strove to remember, and the beam fell behind the fire screen to reveal the grate filled with coloured paper ribbons.

Among the coloured paper something gleamed like gold.

Bony removed the screen and the paper, disclosing a large tin. Jimmy held the torch, and when Bony lifted out the tin he saw it was fitted with a press-on lid. There was no label. The metal was quite clean.

“Open it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy removed the lid with his window-opener. The torch beam revealed its contents to be dark in colour, part powder, part lumpy.

“Cocoa?” guessed Jimmy.

“No, cyanide. Put the lid on.”

“ ’Struth! ’Noughto kill an army.”

The tin was put back among the paper and the fire screen replaced.

“We’ll go through the other lounge on this floor,” Bony said, and they passed into the passage which immediately gave entry to the hall.

Beyond the hall a second passage reflected light from the kitchen. It was sufficiently strong to reveal the carpet, the hat-stand, a Jacobean chest, a wall mirror, a small table bearing a bowl of artificial flowers, and the front and lounge doors.

Silently they crossed the hall, observing that where the staircase was flush with the wall it was blocked by a polished wood door. Four steps led to the door: noted by men who missed nothing. They stopped at the passage leading to the lighted kitchen. No sound came from the kitchen. No sound came from above. Bony estimated that from the hall to the kitchen was fifty feet, with one door to the right and two to the left.

Where was Mrs Dalton?

“Stay here,” he told Jimmy. “I’ll take a chance to see what is in the kitchen.”

Jimmy waited, seeing Bony steal along the passage to pause outside the kitchen door, edge round the frame, and enter.

The kitchen was roomy. The wood range was polished like ebony. The table was scrubbed white. The dresser was decorated with green-spotted china. The usual cupboard beside the range, filled with pots and pans. A tall cupboard contained brooms. The dresser was fitted with two drawers above a cupboard. One contained cutlery, table mats. The second drawer contained a meat saw, two butcher’s knives, and a butcher’s steel. The cupboard held two new buckets and six chaff bags. In another cupboard was a used bucket, floor polish, and mop heads.

The meat saw was brand new. The butcher’s knives were new. The steel had never been used. They were set out as though displayed in the window of a hardware store.

There was a scullery off the kitchen, but Bony could delay no longer and drifted back to Jimmy.

Together they ‘went through’ the second lounge, furnished formally and without the intimate objects found in that other lounge once occupied by Muriel Lodding. Leaving this room, they re-crossed the hall and sat in the mouth of the passage leading to the bedrooms.

“Just as well be comfortable while we wait,” Bony said. “Wish I could smoke. What do you think they would want with a butcher’s meat saw and knives?”

“Well, a butcher wants ’emto cut up carcasses.” Jimmy was silent for many seconds before gripping Bony’s arm and asking:

“Where was those things?”

“In a drawer of the dresser, laid out as though ready for employment. Never been used yet. Clean-and sharp.”

Silence again. Then Jimmy:

“Can’t get that stink.”

“I should know it.”

Again silence-a long silence. A board creaked and both men were on their feet. Another board creaked. Someone was coming down the stairs. The hall light blinded them, and instinctively they withdrew farther into the passage.

They heard the stair door open, and then they beheld Queen Elizabeth stepping down the hall-as though from a throne to forgive again her Essex. The years had ravaged her face, but the royal dignity was superb. She turned to the kitchen passage. In each hand she held a white Persian cat. She held them by their back legs. They made no protest. They were dead.

She could have taken the cats no farther than the kitchen, for almost at once she returned and mounted the steps to the door, closed it. The lights went out. A board creaked. Then another.

“Ninth and thirteenth treads, remember,” Bony murmured.

“Them cats dead-or me?” Jimmy asked.

Minutes passed-perhaps five-when again the first of two stair treads creaked.

“Hell! She’s coming down again,” Jimmy hissed.

The hall light flashed up. They heard the stair door open. They saw Marie Antoinette step down to the hall. She was magnificent. She carried in each hand a Persian cat, held them by the back legs. They were dead.

Marie Antoinette disappearedkitchenwards, reappeared without the cats, went upstairs. The hall was blacked out. Jimmy moaned.

“How many more?” he asked fiercely.

“Queens or cats?” countered Bony.

Prolonged silence, until Jimmy plaintively asked:

“Whatis this joint?” No answer from Bony. “I’ll tell you, then. Lunatics’ Retreat, that’s what it is. Do we have to stay?”

Further silence, this time terminated by knuckles upon wood. There was someone at the front door.

Henry and Dear Henrietta

“BACK TO the bedroom,” ordered Bony. “Have both window and door open for a fast getaway.”

The man on the porch-it could not possibly be a woman-again thudded a fist against the door, insistently, rudely. The sound was swallowed by the house, without echo, and in the ensuing silence the creak of the stair treads seemed almost as loud as the knocking. The hall light flashed up, and the stair door was opened.

Descending to the hall came Mrs Dalton. She walked slowly, and with something of the sleepwalker, to the front door. Deep within the passage Bony heard her release the chain and turn the key. On again seeing her, she was backing to the centre of the hall, and there said harshly:

“Come in.”

The door was shut and the key turned. A clergyman appeared, a tall man and stooping, with white hair and ragged beard. The hands clasping the round clerical hat were large and capable.

“Forgive me for calling at so late an hour,” he said mellifluously, as though the years of intoning Gregorian chants could not be put aside. The woman’s voice was icy.

“So considerate of you to telephone. Having watched you last night, I expected you to enter by a window.”

“It was my intention, but, Madame, I decided it would be undignified, and, ah, unoriginal, in view of my errand. I am happy to find you looking so well.”

“I cannot compliment you on your role. The hair-”

“Required only for street lights. Pardon me.”

The beard vanished. The white hair became grey and short. The figure gained in stature, lost its frailty. A handkerchief appeared, to be used as though to wipe the face of perspiration. The mopping done, the face was that in the Tuttaway file. The man stood as though awaiting applause, and said when Mrs Dalton was silent: