Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

The result of moving the dead man’s remains from the ashes was obvious. Simpson would report the removal to Carl Benson. They would know that the crime had been discovered, and whatever it was which motivated them would be destroyed, rehidden, or otherwise placed far from them. Bony decided that to remove the remains from the ashes would be a mistake, but just how serious he could not estimate. On the other hand, to leave them for Simpson to destroy might also be a mistake subsequently to be regretted. The issue was decided by the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte’s advice: “When in doubt, do nothing.”

That Simpson had murdered the old yardman without the knowledge of Carl Benson, that Benson was an accessory after the fact, and that Simpson was so controlled by Benson as to obey that order to disinter the body and burn it had been made perfectly clear during their meeting at the pyre. And, finally, what actuated a man like Carl Benson to be implicated in murder must be unique in motives. The Carl Bensons of this world and time do not become accessories after the fact-of murder-unless governed by an extremely powerful motive.

It was when rolling his swag that sight of the brandy decided Bony to call on old Simpson and endeavour to extract from him further information concerning the owner of Baden Park, and when he seated himself with his back against that tree which Shannon had employed for a knife-throwing target, the world was dark beneath a sky still containing a little light.

It was twenty minutes after eight when Simpson passed in his car on the way to spend the evening at Baden Park, and it was nine o’clock when Bony circled the hotel, mystified because it was entirely empty of illumination.

As the Buick had passed him he had observed Simpson at the wheel, light from the instrument panel bringing his face into sharp relief. He had not seen passengers, but Mrs. Simpson and Ferris could have been in the rear seat. That they had retired to bed and were asleep thus early could not be assumed.

Quite without sound Bony mounted the front veranda steps, and he was proceeding soundlessly along the veranda when the cockatoo said sleepily, but distinctly:

“Get to hellouta here!”

On reaching the corner, Bony waited, listening, one hand resting against the roof support. He remained there for five minutes, hearing not a sound to indicate movement within the house, the night itself containing only the croaking of frogs along the creek.

Soundlessly, he left the veranda corner and moved to the openfrench window of old Simpson’s bedroom. On the threshold he halted, listening and hearing nothing within, not even the old man’s breathing. He took one step into the room. He raised his right foot to take the second step when he was stopped by a thin scream of terror, which faded into a struggle for articulation.

“No-not now, Jim! Not now, Jim! Leave your old father be. I done nothing wrong, son. I said nothing, Jim, not a word, not even a whisper. Don’t stand there like that. I can see you, Jim, standing against the windows. I been asleep, Jim. I been-”

The voice from the bed was cut off, and Bony knew that air was being taken into the old lungs to be again expelled in the scream. In that moment of silence he said as he strode to the foot of the bed:

“Stop it! It’s John Parkes. It’s all right. Jim’s gone to Baden Park.”

The old man began to sob, and his sobbing was almost as bad as his screaming. Bony returned to thefrench windows, to stand there listening for sounds of human movement without and beyond the bedroom door. When the sobbing stopped, the silence was a weight.

On returning to the bed, Bony asked the whereabouts of the invalid’s wife and daughter, and when the old man replied terror haunted his quavering voice.

“They’re away,” he said tremulously. “They went offyestiddy. Jim sent ’emtoMelbun for a week. Hey! You sure you’re John Parkes? You-you’re not Jim, are you? Go on, talk. Let me hear your voice.”

“No one else in the house bar you?” Bony asked, as he passed to the side of the bed and sat down. He felt a groping hand touch his arm, slide down to the wrist, become clamped about his hand. The old man sighed with relief, attempted to speak, failed, tried again, and mastered his terror.

“It’s John Parkes, all right,” he said. “What you doing here?”

“Anyone else in the house?”

“No. Did you bring a drink?”

“Thought you might like one. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Sleep! I daren’t sleep. Gimme a drink-quick. Can’t you tell I’m all in, lyin ’ herewaitin ’-waitin’-waitin’ for-”

“Waitin’ for what?” prompted Bony.

“Oh, nuthin ’ much. Me imagination’s bad tonight. You know, bein ’ all alone in this big house. Gimme a steadier, John Parkes, and tell me what you beendoin ’ and all.”

Bony felt about the bedside table, found a tumbler with a little water in it, added brandy to the water, and passed the glass to the eager hand. Pity stirred within him when he heard the ecstasy which followed.

“Didn’t you take your sleeping-tablets tonight?” he asked, and the old man tittered and was silent for a space. When he spoke the fear was back in his voice.

“Jim sent the women away. Musta made up his mind sort of sudden. Took ’emto Stawell earlyyestiddy afternoon. I got to thinking about that time they went away when Ted O’Brien was found drunk in the spirit store. This time there wasn’t no Ted O’Brien. There wasn’t no Glen Shannon, either. There was no one. Only me.”

“Well, he could look after you,” Bony observed. “Why worry?”

“Yes. Jim can always look after me. Too right. Jim can look after me. Cooked me a good dinner tonight, he did. Gimme a drink afterwards, too. Let me sit on the veranda till dark, and it was when it was getting dark that I started to think things, wondering, sort of, why hegimme that drink. After he had put me to bed he says I have to take me tablets, as he can tell I’m going to have a bad night if I don’t. So I keeps the tablets under me tongue andswallers the water. And then he put the bottle of tablets on the table side of the empty glass, and out he goes with the light. The tablets I spit out and put in me ’jamas’ pocket.”

“Well, what was wrong with all that?” Bony asked.

“Nuthin’, I ’speck. Only that drink, the first one he’s given me in years, andleavin ’ the bottle of tablets on that there little table. He never done that since that time I took two extra to the two Ferrisgimme. I wassorta bad that time. They had to get the doctor to me. I thought-I thought-”

“What did you think? Just you tell your old pal.”

“I thought- When I heard that ruddy fowl say: ‘Get to hellouta here.’ I thought it was Jim comesneakin ’ home-leavin’ his car back on the road a bit, like he’s donemore’n once. Then I seen you at the winder, and I thought you was ’im. I thought-”

“Well, go on, tell me what you thought.”

“I thought he had come back to sneak in on me to see if I’d take any extra tablets.”

Bony ignored the implication, saying:

“Pass me your glass. Have another drink. Your nerves are on edge.”

“On edge!” echoed the old man. “I’m all in, John Parkes, all in, I tell you, lying here in the dark andthinkin ’ things and wondering what Jim was doing with that dray. I heard it-in the dark this morning-going away into the scrub. I got to thinking things-how he took the dray into the scrub that morning he said he sacked old Ted O’Brien. Didn’t bring it back till high noon, either. You won’t tell Jim I tell you things, will you?”

“Hang Jim!” Bony exclaimed somewhat appositely. “Don’t worry about me saying anything to him. D’you know why he sent your wife and Ferris to Melbourne?”