The Barrakee Mystery

Chapter Eleven

Poor Old Bony

DUGDALE DROVE Kate Flinders and her uncle back to Barrakee the next afternoon. Ralph had been left behind, enthroned in the hearts of the overseer and his wife, and occupying the position of a god to the worshipping Sonny.

He had recovered from the faint of exhaustion to find himself in the horse-breaker’s arms, whilst that alarmed man was carrying him to the house, followed by the two women, Mrs Watts having been revived by Kate. But the next morning, though he was quite uninjured, the young man could hardly walk.

He was wearing a pair of the overseer’s trousers-his own having been frayed to ribbons-but the inner sides of his legs were red raw from the friction of the saddle, and walking was extremely painful. Kate and the squatter agreed that Mrs Thornton must not see him like that, or even know of his strenuous ride, for of late the Little Lady had complained of her heart.

“I think, Kate, we were wise to leave Ralph behind for a day or two,” the squatter remarked, after an unusually long silence. “We must tell your aunt that Watts required additional help. What have you been thinking about?”

“Ralph.”

The squatter waited, but Kate did not continue. He fell to wondering if his niece had discovered that she loved Ralph. Sincerely he hoped so, for her marriage to his and his wife’s adopted son had been their joint dream. The girl had come to them at the death of her mother ten years earlier, her father having died but one month before. She occupied a place in his heart similar to that occupied by Ralph in the heart of his wife. After an interval, she said:

“What did you say to Sonny, Uncle?”

“Quite a lot,” he replied grimly. “But, after all, he was not much to blame. He knew Ralph could ride, and like all of us who know horses, he didn’t dream that the gelding would fight like that, certainly not that the brute would go mad. No, he wasn’t much to blame, and he had the sense to get his rifle ready for use if the horse had thrown the lad and gone for him.” For a moment he hesitated. “By gum, I’d have given a thousand pounds to see that ride.”

“I would never have believed that a horse could have bucked so,” she said with shining eyes. “And never would I have believed that any man could have ridden him. Ralph was just wonderful.”

“He’s got sand all right, Kate. He’s altered a lot during his last school term. He is quieter, and I have the idea that he is thinking a great deal.”

“Worrying about something?” she asked.

“No, not worrying. Just thinking-thinking out some problem. I may be quite wrong. Do you love him, Kate?”

“Of course I do,” she flashed back.

Mr Thornton sighed. He knew that her unhesitating answer indicated one thing only. She went on:

“Why do you ask that, Uncle?”

“I was wondering,” was his answer. “I should like to know in plenty of time, so that I could see about the wedding.”

The car was travelling over the fine last stretch of road at fifty-five miles an hour. But Kate was insensible to the speed. A soft blush suffused her cheeks when she met the direct gaze of her companion.

“I don’t love him that way, Uncle,” she said. “Or at least I don’t think I do.” She added reproachfully: “You really should not have drawn that confession from me.”

He saw her embarrassment, took her nearest hand in his two and pressed it. His voice was only a whisper when he said:

“Perhaps not, Katie. But never keep any secrets from your old uncle. Some day you will love. Some day Ralph will fall in love. Your aunt and I would be happy if you were to fall in love with each-Butno matter, my dear. Whoever is Mr Right-and the man you choose will be Mr Right-be assured, Katie, that you and he have in me a lovers’ friend and confidant. I only want you to be gloriously happy.”

Looking into the beautiful face, he wondered as he always did at the purity written upon it. Just then her eyes were moist and her lips a little parted. She was about to speak, but refrained. Her eyelids fell and the blue liquid pools were hidden. Putting her other hand over his two, she clasped them with a tight, affectionate squeeze.

When they reached the homestead dusk was falling. Their explanation of Ralph’s absence given, they saw a momentary flash of disappointment in the Little Lady’s face.

“Well, well, don’t keep him out there long, John,” she said, putting her arm through his. “You see, he will always ride the most outrageous horses, and sometimes I am afraid.”

“Afraid you needn’t be. Ralph can ride anything,” replied her husband with conviction.

After dinner he left his wife reading in the long drawing room, and Kate playing soft airs on the piano, and proceeded to his office to read the mail arriving that day, and to ring up his riders. For an hour he lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk and was thinking of rejoining the ladies when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he answered, and reached for a cigarette.

A man entered, closing the door again softly. Striding to the desk, he came into the light from the low-hung bulb, and proved to be a stranger.

“Mr Thornton?” he asked in faintly drawling tones.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

The squatter saw before him a man, whose age he guessed to be between thirty-five and forty. His features were those of the white man; his complexion was a ruddy black, not the jet-black of the thoroughbred aboriginal. He was dressed as a bushman.

“I have a letter for you, Mr Thornton, which will explain my presence.”

The station-owner noted the accent and the grammar, which spoke of constant association with whites from an early age. He accepted a long blue envelope. It contained a sheet of foolscap, headed, “Police Station, Wilcannia”, and read:

Dear Mr Thornton,

The case of the recent murder near your house presents a problem, now no nearer solution. Murders of, or by, aboriginals generally are difficult to investigate, for as you well know the mind of the aboriginal baffles the intelligence of the white.

The baptismal names of the bearer are Napoleon Bonaparte, but he may be persuaded to adopt a nom de plume. In any case, he is entitled to admiration for his powers of observation and deduction, as proved by many past successes in the solving of mysteries concerning aboriginals. In short, he is the finest bush detective in the Commonwealth.

HQ have loaned his services from Queensland, and I have been instructed to ask the favour of your assistance, which is necessary. He himself suggests that you give him employment about the homestead, such as painting your two boats, which I observed required paint. Although he stands much higher in the Force than I do, he will want to dine and live with your hands.

The letter was signed by Sergeant Knowles, and was marked “Strictly Confidential”. Thornton glanced up and regarded his visitor with interest.

“Sit down, Mr Bonaparte,” he said, indicating the chair on the far side of his desk.

The man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. Hisblue eyes-the only other indication of the white in him-were twinkling when he said:

“My name, Mr Thornton, is Bony, without any ‘Mister’. Everyone calls me Bony, from my chief to my wife and children in Brisbane.”

“Then I, too, will call you Bony,” agreed the station-owner pleasantly. “How did you come by your startling name?”

“I can assure you it was no wish of mine to insult the illustrious Emperor,” explained the stranger. He accepted a cigarette with grace, and lighting it, went on, “I was discovered at the tender age of two weeks with my dead mother under a sandalwood tree in the far north of Queensland, and I was taken to the nearest mission station. There, a little later, the necessity for a name arose; and, whilst various names occupied the mind of the respected matron, she observed me trying to eat a copy of Abbott’sLife of Napoleon Bonaparte. I have concluded since that the matron was a humorous soul.”

“Sergeant Knowles says here that you have obtained not a little renown in the detection of crime. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.”

“I am glad to hear that, Mr Thornton.” Bony blew a series of perfect smoke-rings. Then, calmly giving expression to an astounding vanity, he added: “If everyone had heard of me there would be no murders. My occupation would be gone, and I would be a most unhappy man.”

“The sergeant says you want me to give you a job here,” Thornton said.

“Yes. I thought I might allay suspicion by painting your boats. That occupation will give me opportunity to examine the scene of the murder. I will live with the men. Is Clair still here?”

“Yes. But I am thinking of sending him out to the back of the run. Will you want him?”

“Not just now. Are the blacks-Pontius Pilate’s crowd-still camped up the river?”

“They are.”

“Good! I may want them. Treat them with all kindness, Mr Thornton, for, as I said, I may want them. Should they suddenly decide to go for a walkabout, I might ask you to give them rations to keep them.”

“Yes, all right. Have you formed any theories regarding the murder?”

“Plenty. However, it’s certain that the crime was the conclusion of a feud lasting many years. Did you know King Henry? Did he ever work here, as Pontius Pilate stated?”

“Although at the time I did not remember him, I found on looking up my business diaries that he was employed here some twenty years ago for a period of ten weeks.”

“Ah! And Clair?”

“Clair has never worked here before.”

For a little while they stared at each other. Then:

“Clair’s past is a mystery,” Bony said thoughtfully. “However, I do not suspect Clair above others. D’youknow if Clair can throw a boomerang?”

“As far as I am aware, he cannot. Why?”

Bony ignored the question.

“Have you seen at any time any of Pontius Pilate’s crowd throwing a boomerang?” he asked.

“No. Why these questions?”

“If you answer my next question in the affirmative I will tell you. Sergeant Knowles informs me that there are several gum-trees about the place where King Henry was found dead. At the time of the murder, or since, you have not by any chance observed a wound on the trunk of one of them, such as would be made by being sharply struck by a sharp-edged piece of iron?”

Instantly Mr Thornton was taken back to the day following the crime. Again he saw the two policemen quartering the ground looking for clues, and the trunk of the giant gum bearing just such a wound as Bony described.

“Yes,” he said, and gave the details.

“Good!” Bony announced with satisfaction. “We now know that if King Henry was not actually murdered by a boomerang one was thrown at him. How do we know? In his statement Frank Dugdale said that he heard a sound like the whirring of ducks, followed by a sharp report similar to a paling being struck by a stick. That was the flight of a boomerang and its impact against a tree. You see how sensible were the officials of New South Wales to loan from Queensland poor old Bony.”