Arthur Upfield - The Widows of broome

“I did not know.”

“Oh, yes. So was that schoolmaster at the college.”

“Indeed! Which one?”

“Percival.”

“Interesting.”

“There’s another point.”

“Proceed, please.”

“One night about a month before Mrs. Cotton was murdered Percival and Mrs. Sayers had a hell of a row. What about, I don’t know. He called on her when old Briggs was away at the pub, and he hadn’t been inside more than five minutes when I could hear her shouting at him to get out and keep out. Those were her words. She can be as vulgar as a fish-wife.”

The dusk was deepening, and the stars were emerging to make their nightly bow. The western sky gilded the plane passing over the town, and neither man spoke of itnor of its passengers.

“Having known Mrs. Sayers all her life, do you think her a woman capable of working with us?” Bony asked.

“She has brains, I must admit,” replied the old man.

“And discretion?”

“If you mean to keep a secret, yes. What she lacks in subtlety she gains in courage.”

“And Briggs?”

“If she ordered it, Briggs wouldn’t hesitate to cut a throat.”

“Thanks. Now let us to the plough I spoke of.”

Bony glanced back once, to see the gaunt figure melt into the shadow of a tall tree.

Bony Captures Mrs. Sayers

MRS. SAYERS invariably dined at six to permit her cook-housemaid to depart at seven. At seven precisely the cook reported and was dismissed, and the house was, figuratively, taken over by Luke Briggs. At eight-forty-five, Briggs invariably reported, asking if Mrs. Sayers required anything before he took his evening stroll.

Seen on his feet and without his chauffeur-cum-sea-captain uniform, Luke Briggs would have delighted Charles Dickens. He was quite bald. His face was the colour of teak and marvellously wrinkled. About five feet eight inches in height and weighing in the vicinity of a hundred and thirty pounds, he could be taken for a Cockney chimney-sweep or a race-course tout. To guess his age, one could range from sixty to a hundred, and then be out at either end. For his evening stroll, he wore rubber-soled canvas shoes, grey Harristweed trousers and a coat much too long for him. The coat made him look like a soldier crab inhabiting a conch shell, but it was worn for a purpose-the inside pockets were capable of taking a dozen bottles.

When Briggs entered the lounge this evening, Mrs. Sayers was seated before her escritoire writing letters. He stood in the doorway, and it seemed that it required mental effort to stop his jaw from its fascinatingly methodical chewing.

“Anything you want, Mavis?” he said, and at once the chewingrecontinued.

“No. Not now, Briggs,” replied Mrs. Sayers, without turning in her chair.

“We want a new booster coil, and while we’re about it we’d better have a new set of spark plugs… eight of ’em.”

The jaw chewed whilst the woman’s voice came across the room.

“Make the old things last another month.”

The jaw stopped chewing. It was as though Briggs had to turn a switch, and it seemed a pity that he couldn’t chew and speak at the same time.

“Impos!” he asserted. “You got an engagement at the collegetomorrer afternoon at three. No coil, no car. No car, you walk.”

“Damn you, Briggs. Go away. I’ll telephone the store first thing in the morning.”

Briggs departed along the carpeted passage to the rear quarters and left the house. On reaching the front gate, he noiselessly opened one panel and vanished in the direction of the Port Cuvier Hotel. Five minutes later, Mrs. Sayers heard the front-door bell ringing. She stepped from the house proper, crossed the wire-enclosed veranda and switched on the exterior light before opening the door.

“Why, it’s Mr. Knapp!” she exclaimed. “Do come in.”

“I offer many apologies and I have a hundred excuses, Mrs. Sayers.”

“Well you don’t need them. I’m delighted to see you,” Mrs. Sayers giggled. “And I’m all alone, too.” Closing the front door, she conducted the visitor to the lounge, chattering about the weather and saying that his visit relieved her from a lonely evening. She made him sit in a chair requiring a crane to lift one out, and she chose the settee, pulling forward an ornate smoker’s stand to serve both. “You didn’t bring Esther with you?”

“They have been tremendously busy,” Bony explained.

“You know, I’m so relieved that they arrested that terrible man. Poor Mabel Overton! It’s so sad. She was a lovely woman, Mr. Knapp. So sweet-tempered. And why he murdered her, I can’t imagine. If they don’t hang him for it, I’m going to raise hell.”

Words. Behind the brown eyes lurked a question. They had already noted Bony’s clothes, his hair, and every feature.

“Did you know her well?” he asked.

“Oh yes. We were friends for years. She was a good woman, but not tiresome. She never drank like I do, or smoked or said naughty words, like I do. She had everything I haven’t got.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you lack anything, Mrs. Sayers,” he said, smiling, and again glimpsed the question-mark behind her eyes. This was a shrewd woman, a successful woman through recognition of those qualities she did lack. He said:

“I’m sure you do not lack the ability to keep a secret, once you decide it is worth keeping.”

“When you’re brought up in a place like Broome by a father who was a pearl buyer and a male nurse who’s the son of the Sphinx, keeping secrets is second nature, Mr. Knapp.”

“I would be honoured did you consent to share one of mine.”

Again the smile unrelated to the brown eyes, and the giggle so unrelated to the character of this woman. “Dear Mr. Knapp, you intrigue me,” she gurgled, and Bony flinched. Then changing front so swiftly that he was astonished, she said: “Open up. If it’s an honest secret that hurts no one, I can keep it with you.”

“Thank you.”

Bony imparted his real name, his profession and purpose in Broome. He said that the arrest of Locke was primarily intended to deceive the man who had murdered three women and who would probably attempt to murder a fourth. He asked Mrs. Sayers to give him her full co-operation, and pointed put that the extent of the required co-operation might be more than she was then visualising. Whilst he spoke in low tones, she listened without interruption.

“I’ll co-operate, of course, Inspector,” she said quietly. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Ask any questions you like and I’ll answer them as best I can.

“I hadn’t any doubt that you would consent to assist me, Mrs. Sayers. Now these are the things I would like you to do. One: go on calling me Mr. Knapp. Two: continue to live as you normally do. Three: take certain precautions against danger to yourself which I will enumerate later.”

“Yes. All right, Mr. Knapp.”

“Now for my questions. Did Mrs. Overton complain to you of a man’s attentions to her?”

“No, not complain. She did say that Mr. Flinn proposed to her, but not what kind of proposal. She told me that she detested him.”

“Indeed!”

“She was engaged to a man in Melbourne, you know. I was writing to him when you arrived.”

“What is your feeling towards Mr. Flinn?”

“I think he’s a nasty piece of work.”

“He called on you the other day, I understand. A social call?”

“Hardly a social call,” replied Mrs. Sayers. “He wanted to sell a small parcel of pearls, and he found out that I know more about ’emthan he does.”

“Thank you. You are being really helpful. Would you tell me just why you think Mr. Flinn a nasty piece of work?”