Venom
House
ARTHUR UPFIELD
HINKLER BOOK
DISTRIBUTORS PTY LTD
Editorial Note
Part of the appeal of Arthur Upfield’s stories lies in their authentic
portrayal of many aspects of outback Australian life in the 1930s and
through into the 1950s. The dialogue, especially, is a faithful evocation
of how people spoke. Hence, these hooks reflect and depict the attitudes
and ways of speech, particularly with regard to Aborigines and to women,
which were then commonplace. In reprinting these books the publisher
does not endorse the attitudes or opinions they express.
An Angus & Robertson Publication
Angus&Robertson, an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia
31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
This edition published in 1994 for
Hinkler Book Distributors Pty Ltd
32–34 Graham Road
Highett, Victoria 3190, Australia
Copyright © Bonaparte Holdings Pty Ltd 1952
This book is copyright.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study,
research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright
Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written
permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.
ISBN 0 207 18614 6
Cover illustration by Stephen Graham
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
1 : 94
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter One
Introduction to Drowning
LIKE THE HOTELS, Australian trains are not what they ought to be, and Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte was glad to leave the bone-shaker at the four-pub town called Manton where he was to take the service car to Edison—Edison being a one-pub town on the coast south of Brisbane.
The youth guarding the station exit accepted his ticket with native indifference, and languidly informed him that the service car would be parked outside the Post Office.
The one point in favour of the service car was that it did have four wheels. It must have come from somewhere, and could be expected to go, if only for a yard or two. The driver was tall and lanky and young. He wore an English cloth cap back to front, hung a burnt-out fag to the corner of his mouth, and evidently preferred his shirt tails outside his drill trousers. The single redeeming feature was a pair of grey eyes which actually laughed.
“She’s all right,” he assured the prospective passenger. “Get you anywhere any time.”
“I want to go to Edison.”
“Then you gets to Edison when she gets there. You Inspector Bonaparte?”
“I am Inspector Bonaparte.”
The grey eyes took in the carefully-groomed passenger: his smart grey suit, light grey felt, brilliantly polished shoes. They also noted the dark complexion, the straight nose, the firm mouth, the eyes which recalled the blue of the sea.
“Well, we’re all set,” the driver asserted, tossing Bony’s suit-case upon the back seat already crowded with parcels, spare tubes and tools. “Hop in the front gallery, Inspector. No other passengers this trip. Old Mawson said to look out for you. Sorta busy, and couldn’t come himself.”
Bony almost committed Mr Pickwick’s injudicious error of asking the age of the cab horse. The alleged automobile complained when accepting his weight, and it shuddered when the driver started the engine by tickling something under the rusty bonnet and then leaping to the steering-wheel before the effect of the tickling could die in a convulsion. The gate-change gears were slammed into first and the journey begun with flying-saucer acceleration.
Twenty-one miles to Edison, isn’t it?” questioned Bony.
“And a bit,” replied the driver. “Could do it in thirty minutes, but the road’s crook and we gotta coupler places to call. You gonna go into them drownings at Answerth’s Folly?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Mike Falla. Me old man’s got a farm two miles outa Edison, but I couldn’t stick the cows and feedin’ pigs. Cars is more in my line.”
“You have other cars?”
“One more. Not as good, though. Can’t beat the old stagers, y’know. Cars we’re getting now falls to bits as soon as you take ’em on the road. They’re all spit and polish and no guts.”
The town road became a track, and abruptly the track dipped to take a narrow bridge spanning a chasm of a gully. The driver changed down to first and braked the contraption with the engine. Beyond the bridge Bony asked:
“Saving your brake linings?”
“Ain’t got none. They turned it up beginning of last winter.”
“You manage all right without brakes?”
“Yair. Nothing wrong with the ruddy engine to ease her up.” The cigarette butt danced a jig across the wide mouth. “Funny about them drownings, isn’t it? Beats me. Ed Carlow wasn’t exactly a siddy, y’know. Six feet something, and sixteen stone if an ounce. Fight sooner than spit. Don’t get it at all. And old Mrs Answerth was harmless enough, and she had nothing to be killed for. Sorta reminds me of Ginger, them drownings do.”
“Ginger!” murmured Bony.
“Yair.”
The track was like a snake on the rampage, twisting to avoid the larger trees of the scrub hemming both sides. Being mid-September in Southern Queensland, there were teeth in the air meeting Bony’s face. The yellow track, the grey-green tree-trunk and the dark green foliage of massed shrubs were painted with the vivid veneer of spring. The service car fought its way to a rise, gasped at the top and sang with relief when nosing down the opposite slope. Speed increased. Each successive bend was taken by the complaining tyres, and at each bend Bony anticipated disaster.
“One day you will meet an oncoming vehicle,” he remarked.
“Yair.”
The cigarette butt continued its dance. Like a lion springing from its lair, the car spun on to the floor of a wide valley, and followed a rule-straight yellow ribbon edged with wire fences. Beyond the fences flat paddocks were tiled with ploughed chocolate clods. Here and there were small neat farmsteads about which waved fast-growing maize. The time now being favourable to ask the driver for attention, Bony reminded him of Ginger.
“Dog,” replied Mike. “Greatest fightin’ dog I ever had. Red Irish terrier. Tackle anything from rats to the old man’s prize bull. Any stray dogs come around our place, Ginger got going. Usta tremble all over with a sorta joy. Always the same tactics, too. He’d kid the stray down towards the dam, sooling him to fight by pretendin’ he was scared. Then down by the dam he’d hop into him, and when the stray had had enough, Ginger would drag him into the water a
nd drown him. Always drowned ’em, he did. D’you know what?”
“Well?”
“The bloke what done our drownings musta seen Ginger doing his stuff, and got the idea off Ginger. Ed Carlow had been in a fight and the bloke held him under Answerth’s Folly till he drowned. And old Ma Answerth was held under, too. Same way as Ginger held his strays under.”
“There may be something in what you infer,” agreed Bony. “Many people know of Ginger’s methods?”
“Hundreds. I usta breed kelpies. Good many town dogs would come out to visit, and Ginger would attend to ’em. Then the owners would arrive and start an argument, but not before I’d buried the bodies. The old man’s no sap, and I can always pull my weight, but one day Mary Answerth came out looking for her heeler, and it so happens that Ginger was just getting her heeler into the dam. She outs with a shot-gun and shoots Ginger cold, and she called us plenty. We sorta objected, and she slaps the old man down and passed me a coupler jolts what snapped me off at the knees. Nothin’ worse, Inspector, than a woman with the wrong sorta punch.”
“Mary Answerth … she is the daughter of the late Mrs Answerth?”
“One. T’other is Janet. All lolly stick and lisp. Not bad-lookin’, though. There’s a son, too, but I’ve never seen him. A bit wonky, y’know. They keep him chained up. See this gate ahead? You hop out and open her while I circles.”
Having acceded to similar requests in the far outback, Bony knew what was expected of him. The driver changed to low gear and braked with the engine, and as they passed a gate in the right-hand fence, the passenger jumped from the vehicle and ran to open it. Meanwhile, the car proceeded past the gateway, circled and so came to it again, to pass through. Then, having slammed the gate shut, the passenger ran after the still moving car and boarded it. The driver’s judgement was excellent. So was that of the passenger.
A mile off the main track, they came to a farmhouse where the car was finally stopped by being run mid-way up a steep bank. There it was held by a block of wood thrust behind a rear wheel by a small girl. A woman appeared from the house, and Mike Falla gave her several parcels and a sheaf of mail. She regarded Bony with undisguised curiosity, and the driver said:
“Inspector Bonaparte. Gonna find out all about the drownings.”
Silently groaning at the publicity, Bony acknowledged the introduction. The woman raised her brows, and the little girl stared up at him whilst chewing the end of her beribboned pig-tail.
“Terrible, those murders,” exclaimed the woman. “We hope you stop them, Inspector. Always knew something awful would come out of Venom House.”
“Venom House?” encouraged Bony.
That’s what us locals call the Answerth place. You’ll be seeing it, Inspector. And Answerth’s Folly what’s all round it. Unnatural place, and queer people, the Answerths. And don’t you go and say anything about what I said. That Mary Answerth’s a real terror, and we don’t want her over here abusing us.”
“I wouldn’t mention it,” Bony assured her. “As you say, I shall be calling on the Misses Answerth.”
Mike Falla dropped the cigarette butt into the dust and retrieved it as though a treasure. He chuckled dryly, saying they would have to be going, and motioned the passenger to take his seat. He climbed in behind the enormous wheel, and then leaned far out to supervise the little girl who juggled with the chock. Expertly she dragged it free without being run over when the car slid down the bank. There was a violent jerk when the engine crashed into power. Bony waved good-bye to the woman and child, and prepared for his act when the car reached the road gate. They said nothing, prior to the performance, and afterwards, when Bony, winded by exertion, settled again, he asked:
“How long have you had this run?”
“Nine monse. Started the first of January. No one else put in for the contract, so I got it. She pays good, too.”
“It should do … on the capital outlay.”
“Aw! Fair go, Inspector. Bloke gotta start sometime, some’ow. The old man went crook ’cos I left the farm, but he came good when I got the contract. Gimme his car.”
“Did it have any brakes?”
“Too right, she did. But a front wheel came off her and she ended up against a tree and caught fire. Had to buy this one, and it put me back, but I’m coming good slow-like. One day I’ll have enough dough to buy a bus. Y’see, once the electric power comes to Edison the town’s bound to grow. People will want to come to our beach. What with the electric power and a good road, well, I’ll be on the up and up and able to run a fleet of buses.”
The cigarette which had accompanied the wide mouth all the way from Manton danced again. Bony watched it with interest, and this time he studied Falla’s face and found character.
“Edward Carlow,” he prompted. “Been long in the district?”
“Yair, born there … near Edison. His old man had a farm. Never did no good. When he died, the farm was took off the Carlows. Mrs Carlow had nothing but what she stood up in, and Ed was sick of working for his old man what usta booze all they made. There’s young Alf, too. Him and me went to school same time.
“When old Carlow pegged out, Ed started a butcherin’ business in Edison. Got helped, they say, by Miss Janet Answerth. As there wasn’t no butcher’s shop before, Ed came good. Some say he come good too fast for proper tradin’. Might be something to it. In no time Ed bought a new delivery van. Used it to bring the carcases from the slaughter yard they built out of town. Got more’n a bit flash as time went on. Bought a nice house in Edison and give it to his mother. Me old man said he wasn’t surprised when Ed ended up in Answerth’s Folly.”
Abruptly the track turned away from the valley and snaked upward among the hills. The service car roared along the defile created by the jealous forest, and Mike concentrated on his work. Presently he said:
“Me old man usta tell me: if ever you robs a bank, Mike, be sure to plant the dough and don’t spend none of it for five years. People is terrible suspicious these days. If you buys a new shirt, they wonders where you got the money. You keep your eyes on our stock, Mike. A butcher who don’t have to pay for a carcase of meat makes a hell of a good profit in his shop.”
“Did Edward Carlow ever fall into trouble?” asked Bony.
“Not him. Ed was too wise to slip up on anything.”
“And yet he was found drowned in Answerth’s Folly.”
“That’s where he ended up. Still, old Mrs Answerth wasn’t flash. She ended up the same way. Anyhow, it seems that Ed ending up like that was a good thing for his mother and young Alfie. Mrs Carlow now manages the shop, and Alfie helps her. A farmer close by does the slaughterin’ for ’em.”
The track became steep, rounding bend after sharp bend, beyond ten yards each bend a blind one. Rounding a bend, they found a horse standing squarely on the track. The animal made to leap into the forest, slipped and sat down. Mike yelled and barely managed to steer his vehicle past the horse’s tail. And then when rounding the hundred and first bend they saw standing squarely on the track a giant of a man wearing skin-tight moleskin trousers tucked into short leggings and a blue shirt. Just off the track was his saddled horse.
So steep was the rise that the engine was not overstrained to brake the car to a stop. Mike clambered out, and the big man joined him.
“Gud-dee, Henery!” shouted the driver.
“Gud-dee!” responded the giant. “You bring out that cross-cut, Mike?”
“Yair. Roberts said they had them wedges you ordered, so I fetched ’em, too. Meet Inspector Bonaparte, come down from Bris to find who done the drownings.”
“Gud-dee, Inspector!” rumbled the giant. “Hope you has more luck than the d-s what come down on the Carlow murder.”
“Thanks,” Bony returned, now thinking that on arrival at Edison he would surely be given a public reception.
Cross-cut and wedges, parcels of bread and meat, one letter and several newspapers were placed on the road. Mike accepted payment, having to
raise the hem of his shirt to thrust it into a hip pocket. There were further “gud-dees”, and the horseman was left standing by his horse and cutting tobacco from a black plug with a knife like a cutlass.
“Bit of a character, Henery Foster,” Mike remarked. “Got his camp in the bush a mile and a bit off the track. Terrible good axeman. Cuts fence posts and sleepers for the railway. Does pretty well.”
The track began to fall away round the bends until it came to flat country where grew bigger trees and the scrub was thick and verdant.
“A bit further on is where they found Ed Carlow’s van,” Mike said. “It’s where three tracks junction at an old logging stage.”
Bony recalled the details of the sketch map attached to the Official Summary of the Carlow Murder Investigation, but to pursue the subject taken up by this nonchalant young man, he asked:
“About a mile from Answerth’s Folly, isn’t it?”
“Yair. Three mile to Edison. Seventeen and a bit to Manton. Can’t get what Ed Carlow was doing with his van at the logging stage. There was nothing on it when old Mawson found it.”
“You have been to Answerth’s Folly, I suppose?”
“Usta sneak a bit of fishin’ in it with the other kids,” replied Mike. After a prolonged chuckle, he added: “Had to keep wide of Miss Mary Answerth, though. She wouldn’t have no one inside their fences.”
“Ever go to the house?”
“No, never. Water all round it. Leastways, water all round the sorta island it’s built on. There’s a causeway to the island, but the water covers it now. You can wade over the causeway if you know where the holes in it are.”
“The Answerths use a boat, of course?”
“Yair. But they keeps it locked to a tree stump this side, and don’t never use it unless specially. They wades over the causeway. Funny lot, them Answerths.”
Shortly after giving that information, Mike Falla drove his service car into a large clearing. On the far side was a car and a station wagon. Beside the car stood a man and a woman. Compared with the woman, the man was puny.
Bony - 16 - Venom House Page 1
