Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

He waved to her from the wicket gate, and then sought the Broome police, finding them with Black Mark on the hotel veranda. The licensee accompanied them to the jeep, and before climbing into the vehicle, Bony said to him whilst holding his black eyes:

“I’ve had a little chat with Irene. She knows nothing about those torn garments found in the wardrobe. You really would like to know who strangled Mrs. Cotton? ”

“You’re just telling me.”

“I may tell you one day… on several conditions.”

“Name ’em.”

“That you will say nothing of those torn silkgarments, that you do not question Irene regarding what she and I have been talking about, because I’ve told her not to tell you. And also that you will keep to yourself the fact that I am a friend of Inspector Walters, and the fact that I am interested in who strangled Mrs. Cotton.”

Black Mark expanded his chest, and the chest appeared to lift the fringe of his beard.

“Goes with me,” he said.

Conference

WITH the passing days Bony became increasingly perturbed. Time, he had said so often, was his greatest ally, but in this matter of double homicide, Time as an ally had to be ignored because the double murderer took count of Time only as measured by the moon. And now the moon was growing old and the period of darkness long.

Bony sat at the table in his “office”, a secluded corner of the station veranda. The table was littered with notes, and two small conch shells were disgracefully full of cigarette ends.

Were it not for the ageing moon, he would have been fully satisfied with his progress in this investigation. His patience wasn’t wearing thin, but the moon was being now soan?mic that on the next morning it wouldn’t rise before 2.38. Additional measures would certainly have to be taken to safeguard further possible victims of this strangling maniac.

At eleven, when Mrs. Walters brought him morning tea, she found him slumped into the chair turned sideways to the desk and one leg resting on a corner of it. Failing to notice her approach, he was all activity when he did, thanking her for troubling about him, and then asking if she could spare a few minutes.

Mrs. Walters gladly assented to give him all the minutes he might want, and on making her comfortable in a chair on the far side of the table, he said:

“I am finding so much femininity in this investigation that often I wish I were a woman, with all a woman’s knowledge of other women, and all a woman’s knowledge of men. Women can see deeper into others of their own sex, and much deeper into men than men can. You have been so helpful that I am going to pester you for further assistance.”

“I shall be only too glad to help in any way, Bony,” she told him, and so eagerly that he smiled his appreciation. “When you use the word femininity, I understand just what you mean.”

“I thought you would. Now just listen while I run over a few items, some of which are not known to your husband or to Sawtell. And what wesay, let it remain between us. Now then. On Saturday, April 7th, Mrs. Cotton’s personal washing was left all night on the line because the lubra turned up late that day. The next morning, a silk nightgown belonging to Mrs. Cotton was missing. It has never been recovered. A few nights later, on the 12th, Mrs. Cotton was found dead in the hotel yard, and subsequently I found in her wardrobe all her silk underwear torn to shreds.

“A few weeks later, history is repeated. On May 3rd, Mrs. Mallory, who served Mrs. Eltham, washed her laundry. The clothes not being dry at nightfall, they were left on the line. During the night a silk nightgown was stolen. Two nights later, Mrs. Eltham was strangled, and subsequently I found her silk underwear ripped and torn and bundled inside her wardrobe. Both women, you will recall, were found in a state of nudity, and beside each body was the torn nightgown they had been wearing when killed. Those nightgowns were ripped only once. What do you make of all that?”

“I think that he killed those women because he feared them.”

“Psychiatrists have gone very deep into the human mind, and they admit there is yet a very long way to go. One fact deducible from that destroyed feminine underwear is that the destroyer is an introvert, one whose sex life was so unbalanced by circumstances that he has been transformed into a homicidal maniac. Such a person can continue the social round, or in business, and yet be entirely unsuspected by those with whom he associates.”

Bony paused to give Mrs. Walters opportunity to comment, and when she remained silent, he asked a question which astonished her.

“Have you at any time in your life met a man who, superficially, was charming and yet revealed something in himself which frightened you?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“In Broome?”

“No. It was before I was married and came to Broome. I have met men I have instinctively known I could not trust. There seemed to be something evil despite their agreeable manner.”

“H’m! Have you met a man of that type here in Broome?”

Mrs. Walters’ mouth became tight and her dark eyes clouded.

“Remember, we’re talking in confidence,” Bony said.

“Well, there’s a man in Broome with whom I’d not want to be alone. The man is Arthur Flinn. He was the man who ignored your question of what happens to the exhibits at Activities Day, and Mrs. Simmonds told you they were sent to Perth for sale.”

“Ah! So he is Arthur Flinn.” Deftly Bony changed the subject. “How many widows are there in Broome who are comparatively young and able to afford expensive silk underwear?”

“Well, there’s Mrs. Sayers for one,” replied Mrs. Walters without hesitation, and Bony drew forward a slip of paper and jotted down the name. “Then there’s Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Clayton and Mrs. Abercrombie. And we must include Mrs. Overton. That’s five.”

“Thank you. Of those five widows, who would do their own washing or have it done at their homes?”

“I think no woman in her senses would send silk clothes to a laundry,” replied Mrs. Walters. “Anyone able to afford such a luxury could afford to have it washed by a lubra at home, or do it herself.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Are there any other widows… additional to the five you have mentioned?”

“Several I could name, but they are not in the upper circle occupied by the five and those two unfortunates.”

“You are kind to be so patient with me,” Bony said, smilingly. “A few more answers and I’ll let you out of school. Do you know any of those five women intimately?”

“Oh yes. I’m on visiting terms with Mrs. Abercrombie and Mrs. Overton. And, of course, Mrs. Sayers. I don’t know Mrs. Watson so well although I’ve met her often at school functions. Mrs. Clayton is a bit stand-offish, her husband having been an author.”

“Er, I can understand that,” Bony hastened to say. “Well, I think we’ll take steps to protect those five widows. I’ll talk to your husband about it. How oftend’you leaveyour washing out all night at this time of year?”

Mrs. Walters took time to consider.

“Seldom during the winter months. Perhaps once in every four weeks

… due to a wet wind coming in from the sea.”

Bony stood up, saying:

“I’m grateful for your co-operation, Mrs. Walters, and now I’ll be slightly better armed to tackle your husband. He’s been quite sore with me because I haven’t told him how I knew someone had been in Mrs. Eltham’s house after it was finally shut up.”

“Yes, I know, Bony. Harry hates mysteries.”

Bony chuckled. “I just love them,” he asserted. “I find a good mystery the very breath of life.”