Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“That would be convenient to me.”

“Well, then, it might be as well to get a little sleep this afternoon.” Bony stood up, and Mr. Dickenson said:

“I’ll do that. Do you think it permissible to take a little relaxation before I turn in?”

Bony did not betray his doubt of Mr. Dickenson’s will-power to withstand much longer the siren voice of Mr. Barleycorn. However, he acted with wisdom.

“I do think it permissible. We have both earned a couple of sustainers.”

Forces Organised

THE police station office was closed. Walters had gone off to receive Dr. Mitchell’s post-mortem report and to attend the funeral of Mrs. Overton. He expected a large number of people to be at the graveside. Sawtell, having spent the morning in the murdered woman’s house testing for finger-prints, was at his own ill-equipped laboratory at home, and Clifford was making enquiries concerning Mrs. Overton’s domestic arrangements.

Before Bony was a list of five names headed The Widows of Broome. An ink line ran through the name of Mrs. Overton, and the ink line appeared to magnify the remaining four names-Sayers, Clayton, Watson and Abercrombie. With Clifford’s departure for Perth and Constable Pedersen still away in the bush, the police strength in Broome this coming night would be only two.

The horns of dilemma continued to prod Bony and make him extremely uncomfortable. The build-up of the murderer was so tenuous, so vague, that it was difficult to see his picture. The psoriasis clue was indefinite because even had Dr. Mitchell been ordered to inspect every man and woman in Broome it would achieve only the identity of every sufferer and not indicate the one among them who strangled women in their homes. First establish the murderer, then the sloughed skin found in the homes of two of his victims would be added proof of his guilt. The four women must be guarded every night henceforth, but if the murderer discovered the precautions taken he would not walk into any parlour.

However, there were four widows, and there must be four guards: Walters and the sergeant, himself and old Dickenson. He could hope for time and luck, and he would certainly need both. Meanwhile, he had letters to write for Perth, and was making a request to the superintendent in charge of the C.I.B. when he heard someone knocking on the back door.

Mrs. Walters’ footsteps sounded in the kitchen, and quite clearly he heard her exclaim:

“Why, Mr. Percival! Will you come in?”

Then Mr. Percival’s voice:

“Thank you, Mrs. Walters. Just for a moment or two. Mr. Rose delegated to me the matter of your husband’s complaint regarding some of our boys’ slovenly pronunciation, and I thought I would call in about it.”

Mrs. Walters explained that, the front-office door being locked, she regretted having to ask the visitor to walk through her kitchen to reach the lounge, and Mr. Percival said Mrs. Walters was not to bother as he could not stay more than a minute.

“You know, Mrs. Walters, boys are boysall the world over,” he said with his clear enunciation. “I’ve been with them all mylife, and I know them inside and out. When thrown together as they are at school, they are both faddists and copyists. You have without doubt noticed that Keith takes up something with enthusiasm, and with equal enthusiasm drops it to take up something else.”

“Oh yes, Keith is like that. Nanette is different.”

“Yes, I suppose she is.” Mr. Percival cleared his throat. “The point I am trying to make is that this deliberate mispronunciation of which your husband rightly complains is probably the result of one boy showing off, as we call it. It’s extremely silly, but it’s merely a fad which is bound to pass. When I was at school we gave certain words an entirely different pronunciation from that in normal use. We thought it clever, and no doubt our boys think this clever, too. I lectured the entire school on the subject the other day, and thestaff has received instructions to correct the fault whenever it is heard.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Percival. My husband…”

“I feel sure he will understand,”proceeded Mr. Percival. “I’ve learned that the great majority of our problems are not after all so very serious if dealt withwith a degree of mental detachment. It is so easy to permit a problem to magnify itself. We at the college have made the training of boys almost a science. We endeavour to accomplish an ideal, which is why the boys at a public school appear to be turned out from one mould. We are very proud of our boys, Mrs. Walters, and we shall not be disappointed in your son.”

“It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Percival,” Mrs. Walters said, happily.

“Well, I must be getting along. Mr. Rose is attending the funeral of poor Mrs. Overton. It is all very dreadful. She was such a fine woman, and we shall miss her. Always ready, you know, to assist us with our social activities. The boys thought a very great deal of her. Gloom hangs over the entire school. Am I correctly informed that the murderer has been arrested?”

There was no hesitation by Mrs. Walters, and Bony silently applauded.

“Well, a man has been arrested. Constable Clifford is taking him down to Perth this evening. My husband tells me very little about his official work, you know. Says I’m not to be trusted.”

“A generality, of course. I am relieved… we all must be… that the perpetrator of these horrible crimes has been apprehended. We should, however, withhold personal judgment even in such time of stress to which we have been subjected. We have reason to be proud of the ethics and procedure of our British criminal courts. By the way, I have not seen Constable Pedersen recently. Is he still out in the bush?”

“Yes. We can expect him only when we see him,” replied Mrs. Walters.

“Ah, yes, yes. Our boys hero-worship him. His talks on bushcraft and the wild natives have made him extremely popular. Well, thank you, Mrs. Walters. I am glad that the little matter of the gunners andjists has been ironed out. We have been hoping to welcome Mr. Knapp at the school. Mr. Rose and I met him down at the store, and he almost promised he would call on us one afternoon.”

“I will remind him. I’m sure he won’t have forgotten.”

“Thank you. I trust he is enjoying his stay at Broome.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Percival.” “Tell him I’m leaving shortly,” willed Bony. “Tell him… tell him… tell him.” Mrs. Walters said: “We shall be sorry when he leaves us.” “Shortly… shortly… shortly,” willed Bony, but Mrs Walters said: “Good-bye, Mr. Percival. It was nice of you to call.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Walters,” and Bony knew he was then beyond the kitchen doorway. “Good-bye!”

Bony permitted his wrist-watch to mark off a full minute before he left his “office” for the kitchen. He said nothing to Mrs. Walters and she was astonished to see him sink to his knees and squint across the surface of the linoleum just inside the doorway. Size eight were the shoes on Mr. Percival’s feet.

“When talking to you, where did he stand or sit?” he asked.

“He stood just there,” replied Mrs. Walters, indicating a point midway between the door and the kitchen table.

“A broom, please.”

She brought him one, and he swept the floor and carefully retrieved the flotsam accumulated since it was last swept. The envelope containing it he marked with the letter P. Mrs. Walters looked her astonishment.

“I am cram-full of suspicion of everyone,” he said, a clear twinkle in his eyes. “Mr. Percival wears the same size shoe as worn by the murderer of Mrs. Overton, but his shoes are not worn along the inner edge of the heels.”

“They oughtn’t to be, anyway. Mr. Percival’s shoes were almost new, I should think,” argued Mrs. Walters. “Oh, he couldn’t be…”