The Widows of broome b-13

by Arthur W. Upfield

  With Bony on one side and her children on the other, Mrs. Walters passed through the iron-pillared gateway and sauntered along the main drive, talking vivaciously and entirely satisfied. The main school building of two storeys had its every large window protected by an iron shutter, now raised and providing protection against the sunlight.

  The lawn fronting the building was gay with colour: men in tropical white and wearing sun-helmets, women in bright dresses and many having coloured parasols, and here and there masters wearing their black gowns and, much more numerous, the boys in light-grey suits and caps of black-and-white rings. From the roof of the school flags flew from four tall white poles. Cave Hill College wasen fete to receive parents and friends.

  Mr. Sylvester Rose, Princes College, Aberdeen, B.A., Adelaide University M.A., and several honorary degrees, welcomed the guests. He detached himself from a group of ladies and came forward to greet Mrs. Walters. He carried his mortarboard under his arm, and his gown swung out behind his sturdy figure. Nearing sixty years of age, he moved with the virility of a man much younger. His face was square, and his hair barely tinged with grey. The hazel eyes were large and alert, and the forehead was broad and high.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Walters, welcome!” he said, his voice carefully modulated. “So glad you have come to our Activities Day. And such a fine day, too. Your husband… I do not see him.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Rose, he was detained at the last moment. He was looking forward to coming, too. Please meet an old friend of my sister, Mr. Knapp.”

  “Howd’you do, sir.”

  “Well, thank you. And you, sir?”

  “I am always well,” stated Mr. Rose. “You are indeed welcome. We hope to show you the hand-work done by our boys. Come along now and find seats. In a few minutes we are… not gunner, Keith… we are going to serve afternoon tea. Good-afternoon, Miss Nanette.”

  “Good-afternoon, sir,” replied Nanette with creditable poise.

  Mr. Rose begged to be excused to greet other arrivals, and a woman hurried forward with smiling face.

  “Hullo, Esther! So glad you’ve come. I’ve been hoping you would. You look well.”

  Bony was presented to Mrs. Merle Simmonds, and informed that Mrs. Simmonds and her husband lived on a pastoral property named Tallinbah, eighty miles out of town. Then he was being introduced to her husband, a large man who appeared very tough until he smiled and warmly shook hands. Simmonds knew where to find vacant chairs, and he kissed Nanette and told Keith he hoped the “arvo” would soon be served.

  It was allbustle and colour to cram a large canvas with interest for Bony, whose knowledge of the psychology of men and women was deeper than exteriors. Here on this brilliant lawn beneath the pure sky, here among these chattering people might be the man who experienced hellish ecstasy when his hands gripped a woman’s throat. Fine feathers do not make fine birds.

  It was a passing thought, for against this background Bony was quite happy. Simmonds knew Brisbane. Simmonds had been at St. Peter’s, Adelaide. Simmonds had carried his swag in Queensland looking for work. Simmonds flew his own aircraft. Simmonds was natural. Bony liked him. He liked Mrs. Simmonds, too. She and Mrs. Walters made a good pair. And when he was presented to three youngSimmondses, he liked one of them and held judgment on two.

  Without warning, he was being formally presented to Mrs. Sayers. This afternoon she was arrayed in porcelain blue, and her hair was slightly more auburn than it had been at their first meeting in the police station office. Without doubt, her dressmaker was more successful in cut than in influencing her clients in their choice of colour.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Knapp,” trilled Mrs. Sayers.“Didn’t have much of a chance the other day.” Bony gave his inimitable bow, and offered his most charming smile. “How are you keeping?”

  “I have no cause for complaint, now, Mrs. Sayers,” he murmured. “When accepting Esther’s invitation, I had no idea I would meet so many beautiful women in Broome.” For a tenth of a second, her brown eyes hardened with suspicion, but seeing no guile, she accepted the bold compliment.

  “You must come and have tea with me before you leave, Mr. Knapp. You, too, Esther. You bring Mr. Knapp, and don’t disappoint me.” She almost giggled.“Heavens! I haven’t talked to anyone sensibly for ages.”

  Mrs. Sayers floated away, and Mrs. Simmonds chattered to Mrs. Walters. Simmonds spoke of his old school, and Bony mentioned the Brisbane High School and the University whilst thinking that Mrs. Sayers might not beso superficial as she wished the world to believe. She was a widow. She was still attractive. Her name was on the list of The Widows of Broome.

  A youthful master entered the circle. He was obviously keen on his work. He accepted Bony with interest. Another master came, one much older, lean and stooped. He did his best to conceal how bored he was with the show. Teaching had got him, had sucked him like a vampire, and there was not much left for the profession to drain from him.

  “What’s he like in school?” Bony softly asked Keith. The boy scowled and said that “Old Stinks” was “a swine” in handing out lines.

  “Not like Old Bilge,”conspired Bony.

  A grin replaced the scowl.

  “What is that master’s name?” Bony asked, indicating a large-framed, florid man talking to a smaller man of serious mien.

  “He’s Mr. Percival,” whispered Keith. Slipping a hand across his mouth to prevent the outburst of laughter, he added: “Wecall him Happy. ’Cos he never smiles. Alwayscreepin ’ andsneakin ’ around to report to Old Bilge.”

  Five minutes later Bony was shaking hands with Mr. Raymond Percival, M.A., Ph. D. Mr. Percival seemed to tower above him, and his grip was almost painful. His dark eyes would have bored into Bony’s mind had not Bony been on guard, and, Bony decided, no juvenile culprit would long withstand their probing. Following the swift examination, Mr. Percival’s reaction became negative.

  Despite the conversational handicap, Bony continued to sum up the people gathered on the lawn. All the “best” people were there. It was easy to separate the goats of Broome from the sheep of the Interior. Some of the men eyed him with interest; others with contemptuous hostility. Bony thoroughly enjoyed himself.

  Boys appeared wheeling rubber-tyred trolleys bearing tea-urns, multi-tiered cakes and mounds of delicacies. Each trolley was in charge of a boy wearing a chef’s cap, and his assistants served the tea whilst the “chef” cut and served the cake. They displayed tremendouselan in the task of waiting on the guests.

  “He’s a wonderful man, really,” someone was saying. “Matron told me that all he thinks about is his boys. Puts himself out no end to gain their confidence and be a father to them.”

  “Wonder he never married,” another woman said. “Should have done, you know, and had boysof his own. Quite presentable, too, in addition to his position. Can’t say I’m wildly enthusiastic about him, although Fred thinks the world of him. Says he’s the best headmaster the school could possibly have.”

  “Percival must have felt the thump when Rose was appointed over him,” observed a man. “Not a pill I’d like to take.”

  “Poor Mr. Percival. And such a brilliant man, too. How are your boys getting along?”

  “Very well. Socially the boys are well trained here, don’t you think? The masters might supervise their washing more strictly. I noticed that our Tom’s neck is perfectly disgraceful, and I’m sure he hasn’t scrubbed his teeth for a month.”

  “It’s funny you should mention that,” a new voice broke in. “My husband complained that our boys never wash their necks. It seems that it’s not done! They merely step through the shower from one side to the other.”

  Bony regarded Keith. He was polished like a lord’s door handle, but then he was a day boy and came under his father’s inspection. Abruptly the hum of conversation died away and, glancing round, Bony observed that the headmaster had mounted one of the garden seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, in his best Assembl
y manner. “I propose that we proceed to Sayers Hall, where the work of the boys is now on display. It has been judged by Mr. Marshall Gallagher and Mrs. Sayers, to whom is due our united thanks.”Soft hand-clapping. “We, the staff and boys of Cave Hill College, wish to express our deep appreciation of your continued interest in our activities, and we trust that the result of this year’s labours will please you, and further we promise that we will endeavour to do even better next year.

  “Much of the basic material to which our boys have applied their creative gifts has been brought in by the aborigines as an expression of their gratitude for the boys’ discarded clothing, which is carefully collected and distributed among the several missions. You will agree that boys do grow. Often I regret that they grow up too quickly, and it does seem that before we can reach candid understanding of our small problems, they are of age to leave us. But our boys never lose their affection for their school norwe our affection for them. Again, on behalf of the staff and my boys, I thank you.”

  Bravo! mentally applauded Bony. Quite a natural little speech despite the old school tie touch, and with the small crowd he entered the school and so came to Sayers Hall.

  On benches, tables and desks were arrayed the exhibits, and they were well worth inspection. There were cigarette boxes, needlework boxes, ink-stands and pen racks of polished mulga wood. Larger work-boxes were studded with the extraordinary variety of shells gathered from the reefs. Boab-tree nuts were carved and painted with commendable skill, and paper-weights of all shapes and sizes were carved from the rainbow stone which has the appearance of chocolate cake layered with cream. There were emu eggs of light green and of dark green cut to reveal the deeper pure white shell in designs and figures of the aborigines’ legends. Stencil work, carpentry, and leather work were well represented, and many of the coloured drawings and mosaic work must surely have satisfied the arts master.

  “What happens to the exhibits… eventually?” Bony asked a heavy man in white drill.

  The gentleman stared with expressionless eyes deep-set in a pasty face… and turned away. The curtain dropped instantly before Bony’s eyes, but the smile entered them again when Mrs. Simmonds hastened to explain that all the exhibits were sent to Perth shops, and the money received was paid into the mission funds. Thanking her, Bony nonchalantly regarded the man’s large hands, maintaining his gaze until the gentleman thrust them into the side pockets of his white tunic.

  The boys came into the hall and mixed with their parents, Keith excitedly leading his mother and sister to see his exhibit, which had gained a class B certificate. A few minutes later, Mr. Percival stood on the platform to speak, and his speech, if slightly pedantic, was given with a voice more pleasing than that of his chief. He called upon Mrs. Sayers to present the prizes, and Bony wondered how it was that Mrs. Sayers was given so much importance.

  The prize-giving accomplished, and the lady receiving an ovation following her speech, the usual votes of thanks were proposed and seconded, and what Bony decided was a very pleasant interlude drew to a close.

  “Quite a good show,” remarked Bill Simmonds when they were again on the lawn.

  “I thought the general level of the exhibits very high,” Bony agreed. “I’m glad I came.”

  “It’s always worth while, you know. We’ve come in every year, since the school was built. A great acquisition to the North-West.”

  “It must be. When was it built?”

  “Eighteen years ago. Someone got the idea that Broome has a wonderful climate for growing boys. Then it was remembered that the expense of sending children down to Perth was too heavy as well as the worry of their welfare on the way down and home again at the end of term. A private company was formed, and a hundred thousand pounds was subscribed in no time… almost half of it by Mrs. Sayers. She backed a gold mine. She generally does.”

  “There was no difficulty in staffing the school?”

  “At first, yes. Percival was appointed the headmaster, but somehow he didn’t quite suit and he was superseded by Rose. It made him a little sour. He’s Rugby and Cambridge. Rose didn’t go through a public school. But Rose is a born organiser, and he understands boys. Not a bad sort, Old Bilge.”

  “I understand Percival is known as Happy,” remarked Bony.

  “That’s so,” Simmonds chuckled.“Can’t beat the kids for burrowing under surfaces. They didn’t like Percival, but he’s a damn good schoolmaster all the same. Now don’t forget, if you should ever pass Tallinbah without calling in, I’ll be after you with a shot-gun.”

  As he drove Mrs. Walters and the children back to the police station, Bony thanked her profusely for a most entertaining afternoon.

  Chapter Seven

  At Dampier’s Hotel

  JOHNNO was from Java. For several seasons he had worked under-water as a number-one diver, and when paralysis tore into him one afternoon, he decided to quit diving and run a hire car service. The service consisted of one old car, but in transporting people to and from the aerodrome, and the stores, he prospered surprisingly. His speciality was conveying gentlemen to Dampier’s Hotel.

  Precisely at seven, he appeared at the post office to pick up Mr. Dickenson and Napoleon Bonaparte. He stopped with complaining tyres, agilely alighted and opened the door for his passengers, smiling as though they were his dearest friends. He was small and electrical, and he wore khaki drill shirt and shorts with an air of naive grandeur.

  “There’s no need for abnormal speed, Johnno,” remarked Mr. Dickenson as he took his seat. His worn clothes were less conspicuous against the upholstery of the car, but given a top-hat to crown his head he could have been the President of France. The car swept into high speed, and Johnno lounged over the back of the front seat to converse with his passengers and steer with one hand.

  “As long as the wheels stay on we may arrive,” remarked Bony.

  “Arrive!” echoed Johnno. “I always arrive. Peoples say, Johnno you arrive at nine o’clock, two o’clock, any ole time, and I arrive. Peoples like to arrive. I like to arrive. We all arrive.”

  “Then keep on the road,” advised Mr. Dickenson.

  The off-side wheels were gouging into the soft earth off the narrow strip of macadamised roadway, and Johnno brought the car to the path prepared for it, and laughed. Sweeping past the southern boundary of the airport, with its control tower and hangars and white boundary markers, they were running over a natural earth road of the North-West. The road skirted the dry tidal flats of the Dampier Creek, the surface almost white and powdered with the dust which rose like belching smoke behind the car. When the track turned suddenly into the scrub and the ground was sandy and red, the “smoke” was rising high above the trees so that anyone in Broome chancing to look out would know that Johnno would presently arrive, barring accidents.

  It was quite a good road for the North-West, and safe at ten miles an hour. All Johnno had to do was to keep the wheels in the twin ruts made by motor traffic, but at thirty miles an hour this is somewhat difficult. Kangaroos leisurely hopped across in front of the car. Bush turkeys ran, then stopped to look their astonishment, and the several species of cockatoos shrieked their defiance at Johnno and his car.

  By the time they reached the big red gums bordering Cuvier Creek, Mr. Dickenson was grim, Bony was inclined to keep his eyes shut, and Johnno was still laughing. He pulled up with screaming brake drums at the veranda steps of the large and rambling one-storeyed structure which had been the Mecca of thousands of travellers over the last sixty years. Johnno stood at the door he had opened for his passengers, his good teeth emphasising the dark velvet of his creaseless face.

  “What time do you wish to leave?” he asked.

  Bony turned to Mr. Dickenson, and the old man raised his white brows and considered.

  “Perhaps at eleven,” he said, tentatively, and Bony agreed.

  “Very well. I arrive at eleven,” predicted Johnno. “You pay now, eh? Yes, three pounds. No worry then going home about money. You enjoy
yourselves. Money is hell. You sing and you laugh, and you leave everything to Johnno. And if you are a bit too, too merry, Johnno will put you to bed when you arrive.”

  “Fair enough, Johnno,” Bony said, chuckling, and from the veranda he turned and watched the car disappear into the scrub beyond the pall of red dust.

  The top-most branches of the creek gums were bedecked with rubies by the setting sun, and the remaining branches of a tall dead tree were outlined in white by cockatoos preparing to roost for the night. As this land is north of Capricorn, the twilight is ever short, and Bony wanted to view the hotel yard before the light failed. He made the universal excuse, and Mr. Dickenson led the way through the building to the rear door.

  It was a spacious yard of plain red earth enclosed with a paling fence. Along one side was the narrow building devoted to single bedrooms and invariably occupied by male guests. At the far end stood the garages and stables, whilst a divisional fence marked off a large plot of lawn bordering the creek along the third side. The yard was scrupulously tidy, and the entire establishment was indicative of good management.

  Swept of all litter though it was, the tracker would have had an easy task to indicate to his white superiors the footprints of Mrs. Cotton’s murderer had the man who had found her and all those in the hotel who had trooped out at his alarm not smothered them with their boots. On recrossing the yard, Bony foundhimself familiar with the scene from the sketch-plan prepared by Sergeant Sawtell.

  Here was the “Spot Marked X”, to reach which Mrs. Cotton must have come from one of two doors at the rear of the house. Her bedroom faced the lawn beyond the division fence, and midway in that fence was a small wicket gate on which was the word “Private”. She could have walked through that gate, or her body could have been carried through it by her murderer. If the latter, then why? If she had been killed in her room, then why was her body brought out to the yard and left there some time before eleven-thirty? The theory that she had walked in her sleep was the only reasonable explanation.