Arthur Upfield - The Barrakee Mystery

“Mrs Thornton-how does she take it?” he asked.

“I am afraid, Dug, terribly afraid. My wife has turned into a block of stone, like the block of salt which held Lot’s wife. She hardly ever speaks, but the look in her eyes makes me afraid. Sometimes I think, after all these years, she is still a stranger to me.”

“And Kate?”The young man’s eyes were riveted on the saddened face of the squatter. There was a spice of sharpness in his voice, for at that moment Dugdale hated Ralph for preferring a black tulip to so fair a rose.

“Kate, of course, is greatly upset,” Thornton said slowly. “About her, I think, I have found out a surprising thing. She seems more concerned for my wife and me than for herself, as though she grieves because of our grief and not because of the wrong she has received. I have come to think that Kate did not love Ralph as a prospective husband.”

“That she feels relief at being justified in breaking the engagement?” demanded Dugdale swiftly.

“It appears that way. Matters being as they are, I am thankful for that.”

“And no one has any idea where he is now?”

“That is so.”

A long silence fell between them, a silence throughout which the squatter’s mind wandered aimlessly, deadened to lethargy, whilst the thoughts of the younger raced at lightning speed. Smitten though he was by the calamity which had fallen on the people dearest to him, yet he could not help feeling a sense of elation that Kate was not wholeheartedly in love with the fallen Ralph, a gladness that her hurt was not so very acute, a hope newly born when hope had been dead. He was about to speak when the office door opened and admitted Bony, who, seeing them seated at the broad writing table, came over and occupied a spare chair. Without preamble, he said:

“My work here is accomplished, Mr Thornton. Never yet have I failed in a case, and this one is no exception. I came to find the murderer of King Henry. I found him. I stayed on to discover the motive actuating the murder. I have found it. But at the end, at the moment when every clue, every proof, every motive, was in my hands, I found that I had a duty to perform-a duty not to the State, not to the Law, but to a woman. I would consider myself dishonoured if I evaded that duty, much as I could wish to; for I fear that, in doing that duty, I shall both shock and grieve you. I want you to request Mrs Thornton and Miss Flinders to meet both you and Mr Dugdale and myself in a place where we can talk in private. May I suggest your sitting room?”

“My wife is ill,” objected the squatter.

“She is ill because she has a millstone weighing her down,” Bony announced quietly. “At least I shall remove the millstone.”

For fully half a minute the station-owner gazed searchingly at the detective.

“I have a mind to refuse you,” he said. “Tell me what you have to say, and I will tell my wife.”

“Permit me to do my duty in the manner I think best.”

“I cannot agree.”

“I am sorry.” Bony regarded Thornton a little sternly. He went on: “In case you are unaware of it, I will tell you that I am a detective-inspector of the Queensland Police. I was sent here expressly to investigate the murder of King Henry. It was I who advised the arrest of Sinclair, alias Clair, the brother of Mary Sinclair, one time your wife’s cook and the mother of your adopted son, Ralph. If you refuse to allow me to speak to your wife in your presence, you will compel me to advise the arrest of Mrs Thornton.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“For complicity in the murder. Come, let us go to your sitting room and hold a conference. It will be so much better for all of us, even better for me, for I should find the arrest of your wife a matter of lasting regret.”

Bony met Thornton’s blazing eyes with steady calmness. He saw the fierce light die out of them, fade and become dull with the tiredness of despair which no further shock could lift. A chair scraped, and Thornton got to his feet. The others rose and followed him silently from the office, through the gates, to the house veranda, to the sitting room. Bony and Dugdale remained standing while Thornton went in search of his wife and niece. A clock ticked with startling loudness, ticking away the seconds of fate.

The door opened again to admit the Little Lady. When she saw Bony her eyes showed no recognition, but surprise flickered in them for a moment at sight of Dugdale. Behind her came Kate, and into her eyes leapt a light that blinded the eyes of Dugdale’s soul. The young man smiled at her, and moved forward to escort Mrs Thornton to a seat. It was Kate, however, for whom he performed this courtesy. Bony, having reached the Little Lady first, with ineffable gallantry led her to a great lounge chair.

“Mr Bonaparte wishes to speak with us all, dear,” Thornton explained, seating himself near his wife. Kate sat on the other side, Dugdale stood behind them. Bony’s eyes were half shut, as though he wished to conceal emotion or experienced pain. His voice reached the Little Lady faintly, as coming from a great way off. The startling scene in the office was burned into Dugdale’s brain. The possibility of the Little Lady’s arrest was balanced by the amazing revelation that Bony, the half-caste painter of boats, was a detective-inspector; whilst above and beyond that was Bony’s statement that Ralph was not Mr Thornton’s son, but the son of some woman named Sinclair, a cook.

“I fear that in order to make matters quite clear it will be necessary to go back to the year 1908,” Bony was saying. “It was a mere coincidence that Mrs Thornton and Mary Sinclair gave birth to boy babies within forty eight hours of each other. The records show that the baby born to Mary Sinclair died and the one born to Mrs Thornton lived. Whether the doctor attending the two patients was aware whose baby died and whose baby lives it is impossible to discover, as the doctor is dead and his case books are destroyed.

“In any case, Mary Sinclair died shortly after Mrs Thornton’s babydied, and Mrs Thornton took Mary’s child, reared it, loved it, and called it Ralph Thornton. But before Mary died she confided to Mrs Thornton the name of her betrayer.”

Bony saw the squatter’s eyes narrow and turn upon his wife, whose face was an alabaster mask. Bony went on:

“I think, and the philosophers agree with me, that the most wonderful thing in the world is a woman’s love for a baby. Mrs Thornton, saddened and heartbroken at the loss of her own child, took and cherished Mary’s child; but when Mary whispered the name of her paramour, the father of her child, Mrs Thornton deliberately took to her bosom a living asp. The laws of heredity are immutable, and it is a very great pity that she did not recognize this.

“The father, moreover, was unprincipled, or perhaps proud of his paternity. We will credit him with the latter motive when he interviewed Mrs Thornton a few weeks later and demanded his child. Apparently he was refused and offered payment, which he took; but, being dissatisfied, he came again to Mrs Thornton, who again paid and eventually wrote an appealing letter to Mary Sinclair’s brother, whom we knew till recently as William Clair. That letter I found in Sinclair’s pocket wallet.”

Dugdale’s hand went convulsively to his inside pocket. For a second or two he stared into the half closed eyes of the detective-inspector, then took a stride forward:

“You have no right to that wallet,” he said fiercely. “I don’t know how you came by it, but it was given me by Sinclair before he died to deliver to a particular person.”

“Exactly, Mr Dugdale,” Bony murmured. “He gave it to you to bring to Mrs Thornton. As the contents of the wallet bore upon the case under discussion, I relieved you of it. It is fortunate indeed that Knowles, or his juniors, did not do so. I will now read Mrs Thornton’s letter to William Sinclair. It is dated April 1908, and reads: