Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

“Yes, yes!” Mrs. Nelson interrupted. “Mr. Borradale thought of me and my baby and of John, whom he had caused to be locked up for safety’s sake. Mrs. Borradale was crying for her child… and it was dead. Mr. Borradale and old Littlejohn brought the dead baby to my little home. He pointed out to me that my child would be badly handicapped by his drunken father, and he offered me five thousand pounds to make the exchange.

“You and the others who know, and the world who will know, must not be too hard on me. It wasn’t all on account of the money. My husband was fast being ruined by something other than drink. His father was mad before him, and my John was mad, too. We were very poor, but up to the time my son was born I didn’t mind that so very much. Underneath everything, despite his goings on, my John was a wonderful man. But… there was the creeping madness and the drink. Mr. Borradale offered my baby a life filled with opportunities if I consented to the exchange. He paid me five thousand pounds and Mrs. Littlejohn another thousand pounds. And I am glad I allowed the exchange. I am glad, glad, glad that I sold my baby for five thousand pounds. I have watched him grow up a fine man, a wealthy squatter, a Justice of the Peace.

“When Dr. Tigue died without kith or kin, he willed me all his few possessions. I already owned the house and furniture. From his books I tore out the page relating to the babies, and I tore out the page concerning the neck injuries I got when poor John nearly strangled me in one of his frenzies. His father was put away because he almost strangled a woman.”

“That injury left scars, did it not?” Bony said. “When Mabel Storrie accidentally saw them you closed her mouth with the gift of an expensive ring.”

Mrs. Nelson nodded.

“You seem to know everything,” she said. “Yes, my poor John was always queer. Before Martin was born he nearly strangled me one night when he returned home. He was perfectly sober, I know. He very nearly killed me after we had taken over the hotel, and it was then that I got these scars. Ah, me! What chance did Martin ever have, what with his father and his father’s father back of him? What chance did he have for all his wonderful upbringing? Somnambulism! It was something much deeper than that-an inherited evil which came with the wind.

“Yes, I knew who killed Alice Tindall and Frank Marsh, and who almost killed Mabel Storrie. It could have been none other than John Nelson’s son, my baby, whom I sold for five thousand pounds.”

The small, blue-veined hands were being twisted over and over each other. The little china-white face was kept turned to Bony, and the small, dark eyes, anguished and tear-filled, began suddenly to search his.

“What could I have done?” she asked plaintively. “Could I denounce my own son? Could I give up to the police my own child? I didn’t, anyway, and I’m glad, glad, glad that I didn’t. As for poor John! No woman ever loved a man as I loved him. Even when he was the cause of selling my baby I didn’t cease to love him. But I bought this hotel in order that he would die before he was taken away to an asylum, if he didn’t murder me. I have made money, my friend, but I have done a little good with it. I have worked and suffered, but I have been repaid with years of peace and happiness watching my songrow to splendid manhood. I… I…”

The small voice trailed into silence.

“He is to be buried tomorrow, and Miss Borradale thought you might like to see him,” Bony said gently. “Perhaps we could arrange a secret visit to Wirragatta tonight.”

“That is kind of Miss Borradale. She takes after her sainted mother. But… but I will not see Martin. I want to remember him as he was-the Squatter of Wirragatta.”

Bony noted her pride in the fact that her son had become a squatter. In her young years squatters had been like powerful princes of the bush.

Then Mrs. Nelson said, “So you are a policeman. What are you going to do with me?”

“Do with you? Why, nothing,” he replied, astonished. “For Barry Elson’s sake, as well as for the peace of mind of the people here, it must become public that Martin was responsible for these tragedies. Nothing, however, will be made public concerning Martin’s parentage, for no good to anyone could be derived from such a disclosure. You will accept my very sincere sympathies, will you not?”

The white-haired head nodded and sank forward, to be supported by theberinged hands. Bony stood up.

“I must leave you now,” he said. “Is there anything I could do?”

“No, thank you, excepting to ask Tilly to come to me.”

And so Bony left her. In the dining-room he found Tilly.

“Tilly, your mistress wishes you to go to her. She has had bad news, but she will want you not to question her.”

Tilly’s plain face bore an expression of anxiety.

“All right, Joe. Did they-have they had any news of Harry out there at Westall’s? That sand-”

Bony said firmly, “Harry will be coming back in the near future to become boss stockman at Wirragatta, and to marry a certain young lady. Good-bye, Tilly, and life-long happiness.”

On his return to Wirragatta Bony asked to see Stella Borradale, and was shown into the morning-room, which already had been cleaned. Stella greeted him bravely enough, but the signs of tears were still evident.

“Will you sit down?”

“Thank you, Miss Borradale,” he said. “I have been talking to Mrs. Nelson and she confirms my history of Martin’s birth. She does not wish to see him, wishing to remember him as he was. That part of this very sad and terrible case will never be made public. She was very brave about it. Now that we know everything we must admit her sterling qualities.”

Stella compressed her lips to stop their trembling.

“I will go to her… after… tomorrow evening. I shall always remember him as my dear and splendid brother. Oh Bony! He was so fine and generous. It wasn’t… it wasn’t really Martin who did-”

“No, Miss Borradale. The man who left his bed to climb among trees was not Martin Borradale, but Martin Nelson. The man we knew was Martin Borradale. The other was born during a raging sand-storm. He inherited his father’s mental disease and was controlled by the peculiar conditions of these wind-storms, which affect his mother and many others as well. The man we knew took the brave and the honourable course by slaying that evil born in a sand-storm.”

“My brother Martin! I can’t help it, Bony.”

Bony continued to talk to her for some little while, telling her of Martin’s wish concerning the advancement of Harry West, and of Hang-dog Jack, whose injuries were not as serious as had at first been thought, and which would permit him to return to work in a few days.

“I have a long report to write,” he said, presently, rising to stand at her side. “Donald Dreyton wishes to see you. May I ask him to come here?”

It was strange, he thought, that Stella Borradale should be seated just as Mrs. Nelson was seated when he left her.

Stella nodded, saying with forced calmness, “Yes, I will see him here.”

The brilliance of the stars was remarkable. Without being conscious of it, Bony filled his lungs with the cool fragrant air several times during the crossing to the office building where, at his table in the office, Dreyton was found, his pipe forgotten, his eyes expressive of anxiety.

“I thought you would not object to me writing a long report here, Mr. Dreyton,” Bony exclaimed. “There is, too, a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Dreyton nodded.

“Very well, Mr. Bonaparte.”

Bony drew a chair to the opposite side of the table at which Dreyton sat, and at once began the manufacture of cigarettes.