Arthur Upfield - The Barrakee Mystery

“It is not for me, or for any man, to judge you, Mrs Thornton,” he said very softly. “Only a woman could understand a woman’s craving for a baby to love, a woman’s determination to fight for a baby she has come to love. Throughout your actions there is, I think, only one point to censure, and that was in not telling your husband that King Henry was Ralph’s father. Had you confided in him, you both would have been better able to meet the inevitable event of his return to his native wilds, whilst the betrothal doubtless would never have been permitted.

“My duty, as I saw it, is finished. I am a stickler for duty, as was that illustrious man whose name I bear. These letters are now yours. Destroy them. I shall forget their existence. The case of King Henry will end with the death of Sinclair, who has paid the price that the law would have exacted.

“As for the young man, you will never get him wholly back. The chains forged by countless nomadic ancestors are too strong. I know, for I am bound by the same chains. Probably he will tire of the gin and return to you for a few weeks, but the bush will draw him back for ever longer periods. I will send him to you this evening, after I have told him everything. Judge him not; for you cannot judge him, as I, Bony, cannot judge you.”

Maternal Love

WITH QUITE startling suddenness Mrs Thornton came to life. Her eyes, flashing upward, met those of the detective, in them a blazing white light of hope and joy. Yet, if her eyes became alive, her body for a few seconds longer remained immobile. Instinctively the half-caste rose to his feet, whereupon the Little Lady rose, too, and almost ran to him.

“Bony, did I hear you say that you would send him to me presently?” she cried appealingly, placing both her hands on his shoulders and searching his face with eyes that were astoundingly brilliant.

“I did so, madam,” he said gently. “This morning I discovered their camp. I shall now return to it, where I shall explain everything to the lad. I cannot promise that he will remain with you; in fact, I know he will be unable to do so, but I can promise that he will come to you this day.”

And then Mrs Thornton did a very strange thing for a woman so proud, so self-contained, so strong of will. She sank on her knees and took his hands in hers whilst looking up into his red-black, downcast face.

“Oh, Bony!” she cried softly, “I am a wicked woman. I have been a wicked woman for years and years, and now when I should be scourged with scorpions you whip me with a feather. You say you cannot judge me, but I know you understand how I loved Mary’s baby, how I thought ahead for it, how always my mind dwelt upon its future and my heart lay down for its little feet to tread upon. If God had only let my real baby live!”

Slowly her head fell forward on their closed hands. For a moment Bony kept still. His usually impassive features were softened to an almost beautiful expression of tenderness. Gently he raised the Little Lady to her feet, when she regarded him once more, but with eyes no longer wide and appealing, her face showing again its habitual firmness. Into her eyes came suddenlya cloudiness, and her body drooped.

“Take me to a seat-I am tired,” she gasped. “Bring me a little water, please.”

Her husband instantly was at her side, and almost carried her to a sofa, where Kate Flinders was arranging the cushions. A glass of water was offered, and she drank as though exceedingly thirsty.

“Sit down, please; I have something to say,” she said painfully at last. “Just a moment-my heart is beating-too fast. Better presently.”

It was Kate who ministered to her aunt, wetting her fingers and soothing the Little Lady’s forehead, while one round arm was about her shoulders. The others one by one sat down, and after a while Mrs Thornton spoke with her eyes closed:

“I have fought many battles and won them all, but this is my Waterloo,” she said haltingly. “Like the great Emperor, I have risen to great heights and tasted the joy of life; and like him, too, when the pinnacle was reached, I fell. His enemy was Man; my enemy is Nature.

“I remember as though it were yesterday when Ralph came,” she went on slowly, dreamily. “My baby lay dead in the cot beside my bed. Mary’s I heard crying in her room. Foryears, and during the waiting period especially, I dreamed of my baby, planned for him, schemed to protect him, and ensure his love. And he for whom I had planned, and dreamed, and hoped, and felt, lay dead in the tiny cot I had created myself.

“It was a warm afternoon. My husband was engaged with the carpenter making the coffin. The windows were wide open, and above the cries of the sleepy birds and the droning of the insects there came the regular chug-chug of the steam-engine. And there upon my bed, my empty bed, I writhed in the agony of my grief and the torturing pains of my body, which screamed for the feel of tiny pulling hands and gentle working lips.

“Then Martha came in to me. She told me that Mary was very still. Martha was frightened, and I made her lift me up and carry me to Mary’s bedroom, where she put me down beside her.

“ ‘Mary, are you worse?’ I asked her. But she was silent. If she heard, she could not or would not speak, and while I lay on my side looking at her white rugged face the baby between us clutched my nightdress with his little hands and cried out again. And then-I don’t know how it happened-I took the baby in my arms and suckled it.

“Oh, the glory of that moment, the sweetness of it! The relief from the torturing pains, the satiation of awful hunger! What kisses I showered upon the dark little head and the little pink shoulder! And, whilst thus I held Mary’s baby in my arms, Mary opened her eyes and smiled at us.

“ ‘Willyou take him, Ma’am?’ she whispered eagerly.

“ ‘Oh, Mary, if only you knew how much I want him you would not ask,’ I said weakly.

“ ‘Makehim yours, Ma’am! Oh, Ma’am! I am dying because of my sin. Never let him know of it, or who his father is.’ For a little while she lay so still that I thought her dead, and then quite distinctly she said: ‘I don’t know why-perhaps it was because he was so magnificent a man that I became as putty in his hands. When he put out his arms I was compelled into them; when he touched me he lifted me off the earth. Oh, Ma’am! he is King Henry.’

“I looked at Mary with amazement. Then I looked down into the child’s face and gazed long at the child’s body. I saw the tender flesh was as white as my own, and I could not believe it. It was incredible, impossible; and when again I turned to Mary I saw that she was dead.

“Martha carried Mary’s baby and me back to my room. I made her take the dead baby and lay it beside the dead Mary. John came, and I told him what had happened, everything but the name of the man Mary had mentioned. The doctor came, and I persuaded him to shut his eyes to the exchange, and when he signed the certificates the living baby was my own, my very own.

“Very quickly I grew strong again. I lived in paradise with the baby, whom we had christened Ralph. Three weeks, deliriously happy weeks, sped by, and then one early evening, whilst baby and I were in the garden, King Henry came and demanded the baby. He knew, and I could not deny it, that my baby had died, and that Ralph was Mary’s child and his own.

“When I refused to surrender it, he said he would sell it to me for ten pounds. I went into the house and brought out the money, and paid him. A week after that he came again, saying that ten pounds was not enough. I gave him another ten pounds, and when he took it I saw in his eyes the determination to batten upon me for ever.

“For long days and longer nights my mind dwelt upon the problem of Ralph’s father. It came to me that I must kill him. Thencame the idea of getting Mary’s brother to kill him. I had seen William Sinclair several times when he came to Barrakee to visit Mary; the last time he came was the day before Mary died, and I did not see him. I wrote to him the letter you read out, Mr Bonaparte, and three days afterwards I learned from Martha that King Henry had fled from the vengeance of William Sinclair.”