The House Of Cain

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Good morning!” he said in a gentle, refined voice.

  “Good day-ee!” Monty drawled––a puzzled Monty, for this man was dressed in a neat blue city suit, and appeared never to have done any manual work in his life.

  “Hooshing” down the beasts, the big man assisted Martin to alight, and led him to the short shade of the hut Mallowing had indicated for their use. Then, with the dexterity of long practice, he removed the loads and saddles, which Mallowing helped him to carry within.

  “Now, Mr. Sherwood, I will show you the best of our two horse paddocks, where your camels will find fair feed and water. Earle, we leave Mr. Martin Sherwood in your care.”

  “This is really terrible weather,” remarked Earle, when the other two had moved away with the camels. “Heat, dust, and flies. I no longer wonder at people refusing to live in the bush.”

  “Nor I,” Martin agreed, an expression of well-subdued surprise on his face. “Excuse me, your name is Earle, is it not?”

  “Yes. Percival Earle, one time of Bathurst,” came the answer, in a slightly hardened voice.

  “Surely you were prominently featured in the newspapers about twelve months ago?”

  “Yes, I believe I did receive some attention from that quarter. But may we not discuss a subject less personal?”

  Martin’s eyes were wide, but astonishment showed plainly on his face. This human being, who moved outside his world of darkness, took shape in the eyes of his mind as something monstrous. Only with effort did he calm his voice.

  “What kind of a place is this?” he asked quietly––a simple question which brought a simple answer.

  “It is a house of refuge for poor harassed souls, Mr. Sherwood. Here we find peace and rest, and security from the world, and try to find peace and rest and security from our thoughts. We can shut out the world, but it is hard to shut out memory.”

  “I wish I could see,” Martin said almost absently.

  “I wish you could, too.”

  The tone of the words rather than their bare meaning seemed to emphasize their significance. They were spoken as though Earle devoutly wished that Martin could see him as he was, and not as he imagined. It was Earle who spoke next.

  “Mr. Anchor is now coming to us,” he said softly. “You will find him quite a gentleman, but be guarded in your acts and speech.”

  A moment later Anchor’s well-modulated voice reached the blind man.

  “Kindly accept my regrets, Mr. Sherwood, that I could not receive you in person. I requested Mallowing to explain my dilemma.”

  Martin, recovering his composure, played for time.

  “We understand perfectly,” he said. “Through Mr. Mallowing, you most kindly provided for our arrival at an unfixed and unfixable hour. The reading must be high to-day, surely.”

  “When I crossed the veranda just now I noticed the mercury touching 121 degrees,” came the suave voice. “By the sky we shall have a cool change, probably to-night. Let us heartily hope that this is the last heat-wave of this summer.”

  They chatted about the weather until Monty and the little man returned, when Anchor, having been introduced to the bushman, himself guided Martin and led the others to the wide, darkened veranda, where the sun-glare was kept out by green bead blinds. And, when his guests were comfortably seated in low wicker chairs, he rang a tiny bell, saying:

  “It is a relief to get away from the flies. Lunch will be ready in half an hour; but, before I show you to your apartments, what can I offer you in the way of refreshment––liquid refreshment?”

  Martin somewhat hesitatingly suggested a sherry and bitters. Beer out of a bottle was Monty’s preference.

  “I believe in cultivating a little comfort,” Anchor remarked when he had made known their wants to a maid who answered the bell. “Comfort makes for longevity; good food and good liquor assure it. I boast an ancestor who, it is recorded, served as cabin-boy on the Mayflower. Every day, for one hundred years, he consumed four gallons of beer stiffened with rum. So, you see, I have authority.”

  This appeal to “authority” brought a delighted chuckle from Monty and low laughter from his brother.

  “Pardon me,” the blind man said. “But beer and rum do not seem to mix with the Mayflower.”

  “Ah! but the records don’t state that the beverage was consumed whilst at sea,” came the silken voice. “By the way, I have to say that Miss Thorpe is resting now, but will meet you at dinner this evening.”

  “Then she is expecting us?”

  Anchor looked steadily at Monty, who asked the question. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.

  “But certainly,” he said. “We have been expecting you throughout the last week.”

  “You mystify me.”

  “Quite simple, as I will explain later. Forgive me for hurrying you, but I must explain now that, although you are to consider this house and ourselves entirely at your disposal, there is one hardship we all suffer from, and that is punctuality at meals. Our chef, you will soon know, is really an artist, both in cooking and in English of the Billingsgate flavour. He is a gentleman of peculiar temperament who, when annoyed, becomes alarmingly violent with the plates and things if any of us are late at meals.”

  “All cooks are bad tempered;’ Monty asserted from experience of bush cooks.

  “My chef is horribly so,” said Anchor, rising and leading them along the veranda to the hall. “Yet we cannot possibly do without him. Once we were without a chef, and Mallowing practised on us with the result that we were all bad tempered.”

  Monty was astonished by the hall furnishings, which were in a manner quite unfamiliar to him. A visitor to the average squatter’s home would have been no less surprised by the taste displayed in the perfect Jacobean hall, complete with carved black oak chest-seats, high-backed narrow chairs and small round tables bearing knick-knacks of the period. The polished armour of a Crusader stood in one corner beside a large illuminated tapestry entirely covering the further wall.

  Anchor led them across the polished black oak floor to a corridor from which opened many rooms, led them to the end of it, without a glance at the Hogarths decorating the walls, to a large and lofty bedroom lit by two pairs of French windows which opened outwardly on the veranda.

  “The luncheon bell will ring in five minutes,” the host warned them. “Here I think you will find everything necessary for a hasty toilet. I will show you the bathrooms later. Now, please do not linger. I myself will come for you when the gong sounds. I am afraid of but one human being in the world, and that is the tyrant of our kitchen. Au revoir!”

  When the door closed behind him the big man stepped to Martin’s side and whispered: “Friend Anchor would be a nice, kind sort of bloke if it wasn’t for his eyes, old son.”

  “There is something about his voice which I do not like,” Martin said as softly. “Monty, I have made two discoveries.”

  “You have! Pass’em over.”

  “First describe Mallowing and the man Earle.”

  The big man did so in surprisingly few words.

  “It fits, brother mine,” Martin went on. “Mallowing is George Mallowing, wanted by the Victorian police for the murder of his wife. As for Percival Earle, you will remember that this time last year he killed his three children at Bathurst.”

  A low, long whistle broke from Monty.

  “I think, Monty, we are within a hornets’ nest.”

  “Then you watch me stir ’em up,” the bushman drawled, his eyes alight, his face wreathed in a broad smile of genuine happiness. “Somebody has brought our suit-cases here, old son, so we will get along with our toilet, from which we must not omit attention to the cannons. How’s yours?”

  “Loaded––and in my hip pocket.”

  “Good! I’ll sling mine under my arm. I know, absolutely know, for a sure fact, that there’s going to be lots of doings in the very near future.”

  But, if Monty temporarily had forgotten the existence of Austiline Thorpe, the blin
d man had not. He felt sick with apprehension.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DISTINGUISHED COMPANY

  THAT remarkable man, William J. Anchor, tapped on the door almost immediately after the silvery-toned gong was struck.

  “I trust you are quite ready for lunch,” he said on being invited to enter, and for the life of him Monty could not decide whether their amiable host was really anxious not to arouse the wrath of his cook or was enjoying some subtle joke invented for his own delectation.

  With Martin’s hand resting on Monty’s fully-sleeved arm––for after much pleading he had imprisoned his neck in a collar and donned a light jacket––Anchor led them through the corridor, across the hall, and into a spacious room cooled by electric fans.

  This room, like the hall, was furnished in the Jacobean style and was tastefully if not elaborately decorated. Three French windows extending from floor to ceiling, and now wide open, gave free access to the veranda. Beyond the f1y-gauze could be seen the gushing bore, and the surrounding expanse of stunted bush growing on sand-hill and flat, now without the usual dazzling glare and inky-black shade, owing to the high-level haze having totally obscured the sun.

  Near the central pair of windows was the tall, lank form of Dr. Moore, in conversation with the tubby Mallowing, who, turning at their entry, smiled broadly at the bushman. Monty nodded at him, then began to examine the doctor-aviator with the calm, casual gaze of a horse buyer. Moore as coolly returned the stare, inwardly admiring the splendid physique and lithe carriage of probably the most magnificent specimen of the race he had ever seen. Silently, for some three or four seconds, they regarded each other.

  Then, with the grace of a courtier, Anchor placed the tips of his fingers behind the big man’s left arm and escorted them to the doctor for introduction. The act, simple though it was, had its significance, because Monty knew that the light fingers had discovered where he carried his gun, and that the action had been performed for that purpose.

  “You face Dr. James Moore, Mr. Sherwood,” came the bland voice of the owner of this strange house. “Moore, be pleased to meet Mr. Montague Sherwood. You have already met Mr. Martin Sherwood.”

  “Not an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Sherwood,” the doctor said in his slightly high-pitched drawl. “You were away hunting your camels when we called at your camp yesterday.”

  “How do?” responded the big man in that purring voice of his which was so musical when he chose to make it so. “I must apologize for my absence on the occasion of your visit; in consequence of which I fear my brother’s welcome was somewhat lacking in warmth.”

  “It was quite warm enough, Mr. Sherwood,” chuckled Anchor. “It gave me a shock to find myself covered expertly by an automatic. Come! luncheon is served. Let Mr. Martin sit here, and you here, next to me.”

  On turning round, Monty discovered several persons standing about the long table laid for twelve diners. Their host chose the end of the table farthest from the door, placing Monty on his right and Martin next him along the board. Opposite Monty sat the doctor, with Earle next him and Mallowing beside Earle. Seated at Martin’s right was a huge, vicious-looking mountain of flesh, having the body of a whale and the face of a gorilla.

  At the door end of the table sat a plump and good-looking woman of perhaps forty years of age, still handsome in spite of her years and the climate. On her right was the laundress girl, and on her left the pretty maid who had brought them their drinks on the veranda.

  Between the laundress and Earl lounged the most remarkable looking member of the company. He was perfectly bald, and his eyebrows contained no more than some half a dozen hairs. Standing, he measured less than five feet; sitting his head did not reach the top rail of his chair. At first glance one received the impression that he was a very old man, but on further and more careful examination one was startled by the obvious fact that he was quite a youth. He appeared to be a rejuvenated octogenarian; in point of fact, he was an incredibly aged infant.

  He is the last to be described because on account of his situation he was the last to be examined by Monty’s keenly alert eyes. The big man had already decided that both Anchor and Moore might be dangerous, but he was convinced that this degenerate could be most dangerous. As for the gross personage beside Martin, he could be regarded with contempt in any scene where quickness of action was of paramount importance. His strength and vitality had been sapped by gluttony. The bushman was introduced to them all by name, and over the table decorations nodded and bowed with a happy smile. Some there were who thought him a fool, but his name did not hold for them the significance it held for the real dwellers in Central Australia.

  “You will observe, Mr. Sherwood, that we are a democratic little crowd. The only exception is our famous chef: not for want of invitation, but because he too often prefers solitude, and we have found it prudent to indulge his preferences,” Anchor remarked whilst expertly carving a cold roast of beef. “Mrs. Jonas, at the other end, attends to the tea-urn––provided to conform to Australia’s tea-drinking habit––and between us we manage to feed the multitude.”

  “After all, the distinction between squatter and man is absurdly overdrawn,” Monty returned, looking across at Dr. Moore. “It is the last surviving relic of serfdom among the enlightened and free people of the bush.”

  “Well, you know, as an American I am in agreement with you; but the doctor, being an Englishman, pins himself to feudalism,” Anchor said, glancing slyly at the dark-spectacled medico. “What really baffles my friend is that I, an honoured descendant of the cabin-boy on the Mayflower, and therefore of aristocratic and four-bottle lineage, should be so unworthy of that lineage as to wallow in the mongrelly doctrines of Karl Marx. Really, my dear Moore, you of all men should appreciate that we are all made of the same muck, and all give forth the identical effluvium when we have been dead a month.”

  The doctor grunted unintelligibly, and attacked his meat with not a little show of temper. Obviously Anchor was touching a raw spot. Mallowing smiled, and unashamedly winked at Monty. The aged infant smirked, whilst the laundress smiled faintly at the maid. But Mrs. Jonas continued to gaze sternly at the tea-urn.

  “Well, somehow I seem to enjoy eating a little more than when Master Gilling graced the board,” observed Mallowing with twinkling eyes.

  “Tut, tut, Mallowing! I am surprised at you,” Anchor said to him, his bland features certainly indicating no surprise. “Poor Gilling was badly born, badly reared, had everything against him from the start. Under our influence and discipline he had the first real chance, I think, in his life. Let us deplore the loss of this opportunity to show brotherly love.”

  For a while the conversation became general, Martin entering the lists with Anchor on the deplorable tendency of modern fiction to clothe sex immorality in the garments of virtue, wherein he was very ably seconded by Mrs. Jonas. Between them they routed Anchor, who effected masterly retreat with colours flying. It was towards the end of the meal that their host again asserted command of the table.

  “You find yourselves, gentlemen, in distinguished company,” he said in dulcet tones, addressing the Sherwoods. “Not only are we democratic, we are also perfectly frank with one another and with our few visitors. In the hope that you will get to know us intimately, and therefore feel more at your ease, I will venture to outline part of the history of each of our present members, and the reason we are joined in such domestic amenity.”

  “Is that really necessary, Anchor?” interposed Dr. Moore sharply.

  “Permit me, my dear Moore, to emphasize my great age and mellow experience,” replied the host, smiling gently with his face, but a hard glitter flashing into his agate eyes. The words were innocent and spoken calmly enough, but the visitors detected the ring of ruthless authority in the voice, a will that would brook no interference. That trait has the drawback that sooner or later it leads to downfall.

  “Pray excuse me,” requested Mrs. Jonas, rising abruptly.

  “Cert
ainly,” Anchor acquiesced, still smiling blandly when, Mallowing having opened the door, she sailed from the room, disapproval plainly visible in the angle of her head. She was followed, a little more submissively, by the laundress.

  “You will remember,” Anchor continued when the tubby man had regained his seat, “that some few years ago the third wife of an American millionaire died rather suddenly while staying, accompanied by her husband, at a hunting lodge in the Adirondacks. A young and clever medico, also a guest, attended her with the keenness to be expected in a quondam lover. Not being satisfied with the––er––symptoms of the lady’s illness, he insisted on an autopsy which revealed rather an extravagant quantity of arsenic in her body.

  “The husband was so affected that he disappeared, and not long after that the inquisitive doctor was the immediate cause of the unfortunate millionaire’s two former wives being exhumed from their peaceful graves and subjected to analysis. It was then ascertained that the three bodies contained sufficient arsenic among them to inconvenience an army.”

  “You are referring to the rubber king, William J. Hook?” Martin asked.

  “I am, Mr. Sherwood. Believe me, William J. Hook found a speedy and painless death most necessary. His next incarnation was in the person of William J. Anchor.”

  This amazing confession nearly brought the blind man to his feet; but, feeling Monty’s cautioning hand on his arm, he restrained himself. They were regarded curiously by the remainder of the diners as though it had been usual in the past, when such a confession was made, for the hearers to be stunned or galvanized into horrified action.

  Across the corner of the table Monty gazed steadily at their urbane host, who returned his look with a faint smile through hard, unwinking eyes. That this mild-looking, smooth-spoken, elderly man, who would have adorned any bank parlour in the world, was the most infamous murderer of this century, was to the Sherwoods a veritable bombshell. But not for an instant did the startling nature of the communication affect the big man’s expression. He was smiling with much of the air of a generous man listening to the first romance of his only son.