Noticeably underwhelmed by Joe’s display of temper, Stuart also stood. ‘Yes, you can go. For the present, anyway,’ he added. He had interviewed Randall twice, and Mick Herbert once. Both men had reasonable motives to do away with Ingleside’s owner, but in all honesty, so did Joe. Stuart’s mouth tucked in at the corners. Yes, he had more suspects than he’d expect. And long after Joe had left the constable’s expression remained thoughtful…
The day after Bill Walpole’s funeral, Constable McSweeney rode to Ingleside to take another look at the murder site and the weir. Bill’s dried pool of blood had stained the soil and, getting off his horse, McSweeney began to walk around the area. To anyone watching the constable’s movements it would have been obvious that he was trying to work out where the murderer had lain in wait to ambush the grazier. Grunting, he walked up the slope, where the bushes grew more thickly. It was an ideal place to hide.
McSweeney tramped around the bush, searching for clues, and—after an hour or so—his patience and devotion to duty were rewarded. Glinting dully as the sun hit a patch of grass, he found two spent cartridges. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. A triumphant smile lit his long, plain face—he’d found evidence of the murderer’s whereabouts. Now, he squinted in the sunlight, could his luck continue? Eyes downcast, he continued his search for clues.
The previous night there had been a heavy shower of rain and some of the soil on the slope had been dislodged; enough to expose a small piece of smooth timber to the constable’s curious gaze. Stuart prodded the piece of timber with his boot, pushing the soil away to reveal more. Amazingly, it was the butt of a rifle. Dropping to his knees, he dug until the rifle was unearthed.
Before he picked it up to examine it, McSweeney’s features broke into another satisfied smile. He recognised the weapon: a Winchester ’73. He pulled out his notebook and thumbed through to the page where he’d recorded his interview with Henry Kennedy from Hawker. Henry had stated that the rifle he’d sold to Joe had an identifying mark, the initials T. R., from the previous owner, on the underside of the rifle butt. As he pushed soil out of the way, the constable saw what he was looking for.
McSweeney looked up at a single tall eucalypt and the blue sky above it, and nodded three times. After which he muttered, in a satisfied voice, ‘That does it…’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
News that Joe Walpole had been arrested for the murder of his father spread through Gindaroo and the district faster than a raging bushfire, and was almost the sole topic of conversation wherever people met: at the hotels, at Quinton’s general store, at the two churches, and among various Queen Street shop proprietors.
Amy was in the hospital’s small office, attending to administration work, when Winnie came in, her cheeks flushed. ‘Constable McSweeney’s brought Joe Walpole in and charged him,’ Winnie informed her friend, her dark eyes alight with excitement. ‘Killed his own father…for money. His inheritance! He’ll swing for that, and good riddance to him.’
‘He is innocent until proven guilty.’ Amy tried to be fair, but deep within her a wave of relief began to spread through her mind and body. She and Randall had been very concerned, because McSweeney had interviewed Randall twice.
‘It’s good news for you and Randall.’ Winnie correctly anticipated how her friend was feeling. And, on seeing Amy’s startled expression, she explained, ‘Oh, it’s been rumoured that certain people have been happy to point the finger at Randall because he hated Bill’s guts. Just after Joe was arrested I overheard a man in the Royal’s bar say that the constable believed Joe had done his best to implicate Randall to draw suspicion away from himself.’
‘Knowing the type of man Joe is, that doesn’t surprise me.’ Amy’s memories harked back several years to the first time she had met Joe in her father’s surgery, and later to his ill treatment of the Duchess, then trying to cheat those Afghani riders out of their prize money at the races, and finally his mercenary attitude towards selling Danny’s letters to Randall. It was obvious that Joe was a man of questionable character and judgment. ‘I feel sorry for Margaret. She must be beside herself with grief. First Bill and now Joe. I hope Reverend Whitton and his wife are looking after her.’
‘They are, so Dot told me. Beatrice Whitton’s staying with Margaret at Ingleside till Beth returns home.’
Amy’s eyebrows lifted as that information was delivered. ‘Beth’s coming home? When?’
‘Coincidentially, she and her family were on their way here for a holiday and, as we speak, they’re on a ship bound for Fremantle. They should arrive in Adelaide within the week.’
Beth was returning to Ingleside. Margaret would definitely appreciate Beth’s strength to help her through this ordeal. Still, it might be awkward coming face to face with Beth after all these years.
Only after Winnie had taken her leave, no doubt to spread the word about Joe to others, did the full import of her friend’s news make a deep impression on Amy’s consciousness. Joe’s arrest exonerated Randall of any involvement in Bill Walpole’s murder.
For several moments, tears of relief stung her eyes and one lonely droplet slid down her right cheek. She made a decision. The rest of the paperwork—settling accounts, writing letters, checking the nurses’ reports—could wait until tomorrow. She could telephone Randall at Drovers and tell him the news, but she wanted to see his expression when she told him, and then embrace him.
Gindaroo’s stone and timber police station was small. It only had one cell, which was approximately eight feet square with a narrow, barred window placed too high to see out of. The cell’s furnishings consisted of an iron-frame bed, a none-too-clean mattress, two blankets and a stained pillow. There were two buckets, one for drinking water and one for washing in, and a chamber pot.
Furniture in the station was also spartan, with one large table that acted as the constable’s desk, a hard-backed chair, and two other chairs, presumably for visitors. At the rear of the building a door led to a roughly paved, walled yard. In one corner stood an outside toilet, and in the other a stable for the constable’s horse, with a set of doors that led to a rear lane.
Joe had been incarcerated at the police station for almost a week because the police hadn’t decided when to move him to the larger police station at Hawker to await trial. Bored, he sat on the bed, one foot tapping on the timber floor, his head in his hands, trying to work out—as he had every day since his arrest—how he’d got into this situation. He still believed that he had planned everything so well, over a period of several months. Destroying the weir and hinting to everyone that Randall had done it had set his plan in motion. Then buying the rifle and using it as the murder weapon so the police would think Randall, a crack shot, had killed his father, and telling Constable McSweeney about the ongoing feud between Randall and his father, had all been well thought out.
Randall, Randall, Randall. Strangely, it all seemed to revolve around that bastard, he thought sourly. Drovers’ owner had ratted him out, he was sure of it. His foot stopped tapping as he thought about the experiences he’d had with Randall McLean over the years, and how the war hero had always made him feel inferior and incompetent. That was why blaming Randall for his father’s death would have been the perfect revenge.
He’d been sure McSweeney would believe it all and arrest Drovers Way’s owner, and that would be that. The one thing he hadn’t figured on was the constable’s level of energy and his passion to conduct a thorough investigation—leave no stone unturned, so to speak, to find the right culprit. So, Joe thought, who was to blame for his predicament, for him being locked up?
It was all Randall’s fault.
Randall had dobbed him in, told McSweeney about the gambling, about Joe being Bill’s sole heir. That had been enough to arouse the constable’s suspicions and send him out to the weir again, where he’d found the spent cartridges and the rifle. Joe shook his head in disgust. Christ, why hadn’t he buried the rifle miles away from the weir? Not doing so had been a stup
id mistake on his part. But no matter, he’d claim till his face turned blue that the rifle had been lost months before. Unfortunately, he had enough brains to realise that with the other ‘coincidences’, the law would discount his claim about the rifle.
So now, all his marvellous plans, how he was going to spend his inheritance, his plan to have a life of leisure and pleasure, had been turned upside down. His upper lip curved in a sneer and a rush of anger raced through him. All because of Randall bloody McLean. A ball of bile lodged in his throat and almost choked him. He coughed it up and spat it into one of the buckets. Randall and Amy, and practically the entire population of Gindaroo, were laughing at him. His features contorted into a mask of impotent rage. He didn’t like people laughing at him. After several days looking at the bars that kept him caged, the seriousness of his situation was finally beginning to sink in. Yet, had anyone asked him, he would have said he felt no remorse for the crime he’d committed. If his father had been kinder to him, more generous, there would have been no need to resort to killing him.
Christ, Joe Walpole, you are in a pickle.
He got up off the bed, the iron frame squeaking as his weight was removed, and strode over to the bars that kept him captive. Wrapping his fingers around the metal, he shook them with all his strength. Nothing—they didn’t move, not even a quarter of an inch! He’d checked it before and knew the frame was solidly bolted to the floor and the ceiling. Anger made him thump the bars with his open hands in the silence of the station. McSweeney was out somewhere, probably skiting about his detective skills. Joe listened to his empty stomach grumble. What had passed for this morning’s breakfast—two pieces of cold toast, black tea and a couple of slices of cheese—had been digested ages ago, and he was waiting for Fred Smith’s wife, Valda, who’d been asked to keep him fed, to bring lunch. He reckoned that the police department in the state of South Australia paid a pittance to those who fed prisoners, so he wasn’t expecting lunch to be much. Still, Valda coming in would give him the opportunity for a brief conversation, providing McSweeney wasn’t around.
Restlessness, mixed with frustration, took possession of him, and he began to pace the cell’s floor. Three paces to the left, three paces to the right, back and forth, back and forth. He stopped and for several minutes studied the gap at the bottom of the cell door, where Valda slid the food through on a tray. Was he skinny enough to fit under it? He lay down on the floor to check it out. No bloody way. Staying on the floor, his anger building again, he thumped his fist into his other open hand.
He had to find a way to escape. He just had to…
Beth Cameron-Smith, holding her youngest daughter’s hand, studied Amy McLean from her vantage point near the clothing racks as Amy came in to Quinton’s and moved towards the store’s provisions section. Grudgingly, and with a touch of envy, Beth had to admit that the passage of time had only made the woman who’d taken Randall from her more beautiful than she had been in her youth. Always graceful, Amy now exuded an air of self-confidence, and after an exhaustingly long conversation with her mother, Beth understood why.
Amy was Gindaroo hospital’s administrator; she ran some quaint women’s league devoted to improving life and amenities for those in the community; and last year she had even run for a councillor’s position in Gindaroo. Beth’s father had been cranky that Amy had got elected. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she was married to the most attractive grazier in the district, who, in spite of Beth’s father’s machinations, a severe drought and the ongoing Great Depression, was managing to survive. Oh yes, her mother and Beatrice Whitton had told her all about Amy and Randall’s trials and tribulations. That Beth’s bombastic late father had been unable to carry out his threat of bankrupting Drovers Way had come as no surprise to her. Randall was an enterprising grazier, stubborn to the point of disbelief, who simply wouldn’t give up while he could draw breath.
Beth’s thoughts showed that maturity and a lengthy absence from Gindaroo had changed her earlier peevish desire to exact revenge on her ex-fiancé. In fact, by the time she’d reached Britain, that she hadn’t been in love with Randall, and what had hurt was mostly Walpole pride. No, it hadn’t been true love, just infatuation and a strong desire to please her father by bringing Drovers Way closer to possible acquisition.
Beth had made a good marriage to Wendell Cameron-Smith and enjoyed life as a country squire’s wife. They had three lovely children, William, Frances and little Alice, and now, with Joe arrested for murdering her father, she was going to step in and take what was—or would be when Joe was convicted—rightfully hers and her children’s: Ingleside and everything else.
She hadn’t thought about Randall for a long time, and now, as she did, she admitted that she did not bear him any malice. Their broken engagement had been the best thing for her, and for him. So it was important to set matters straight and show not just Randall and Amy, but the wider Flinders community, that the feud between the Walpoles and the McLeans was well and truly over.
‘Amy McLean. A good morning to you,’ Beth said as she joined Amy at the counter.
‘Beth! Oh!’ Amy blinked repeatedly, and for a moment or two was unable to disguise her surprise at being greeted in such a friendly fashion. ‘Hello. I—I’d heard you’d come home.’
Beth gave Dot Quinton, who was hanging on their every word, her basket and her shopping list. ‘Just as well. Such a terrible business. Poor Daddy didn’t deserve such a fate.’
‘No one does,’ Amy replied quietly. ‘I’m sure Margaret’s pleased you’re back. It must be hard for her having to deal with Bill’s death, and now Joe’s arrest.’
Beth nodded. ‘It’s difficult for all of us. Having a murderer in the family is something one never expects to experience.’ The stigma was going to be with the Walpoles for years, she thought. ‘Even now I can scarcely believe Joe capable of doing such a terrible thing. Poor Daddy. Joe’s certainly not the brother I thought I knew.’
However, even as she said the words Beth didn’t quite believe them. Joe had always been strange—with his slyness, his mean temperament, his laziness. But murder…!
‘I think everyone in town was shocked.’ Amy’s tone was sympathetic. ‘Will you be able to stay long?’
Beth decided it was time everyone knew her intention. ‘Originally we were coming for a holiday, then when we got the terrible news by cable while at sea we decided to stay and support Mother. The truth is, Mother can’t manage Ingleside and the other properties, so Wendell and I have decided to stay permanently. William and Frances will go to boarding school—as they would if we were in Britain—and Alice will go later, when she’s old enough.’
‘Margaret will be pleased,’ Amy repeated automatically.
Beth resisted the impulse to smile. It was child’s play to tell what Amy was thinking. Would Randall be similarly affected by her return to Gindaroo? ‘Yes, it will all work out,’ she said. She took Alice’s hand and, with her other hand, lifted the basket of groceries to her side. ‘Give Randall my best wishes, and tell him that things will be different with Wendell and me running Ingleside. The first thing we intend to do is to demolish the weir. It was wrong of Daddy to build it in the first place.’
Amy, unable to contain her delight, said with a smile, ‘I’ll tell Randall that.’
Beth led Alice out of the store and to the automobile, where Wendell waited. A feeling of satisfaction enveloped her. She knew how the bush grapevine worked in the Flinders, and by this afternoon all the people in town who mattered would know that she was in control. Her next task was to see Byron Ellis to discuss the various legalities concerning her father’s will. That Daddy had left her a piddling annuity—he’d deeded everything of real value to Joe—rankled mightily, but with her brother facing a lengthy conviction, perhaps even the gallows, she had to know exactly where she and her family stood…
He was free! Escaping from the police cell had been simpler than he’d expected it to be. Just after dinner he’d pretended to be sick, a
nd McSweeney—young and inexperienced in dealing with prisoners—had unlocked the cell door to investigate. The constable had dropped like a dead weight when Joe had picked up the empty metal water bucket and hit him on the side of the head. He’d punched and kicked the constable’s inert form a couple of times to make sure he stayed unconscious for a while, then made his escape out the back door, stealing McSweeney’s horse to get him to Ingleside.
Joe had worked out a plan. His will to survive told him he had to get as far away from Gindaroo as quickly as possible, but he wasn’t going to leave empty-handed. There was money in his father’s safe, as well as his mother’s jewellery, and he’d take as many small valuables as a pair of saddlebags could hold, then head south-east into Victoria to start a new life in Melbourne. He had been told that many opportunities, as well as anonymity, could be found in a large city. Or maybe he’d take a berth on a ship and go and visit Danny. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. But first…
Breakfast at Drovers was over and the men had left the homestead to work on their various tasks when the telephone in the hallway rang.
Nora was closest so she answered it. She held a hand over the receiver and called Amy. ‘It’s Constable McSweeney. He wants to talk to Randall. I told him he’s ridden out to one of the boundary fences. He says he’ll talk to you.’
Amy, ready to leave for work at the hospital, tried to curb her impatience. What did the constable want now? When were they going to be left in peace?
‘Amy,’ the constable’s voice crackled through the line and, as usual, he didn’t mince words, ‘Joe Walpole escaped last night. Knocked me unconscious and took off on my horse. Beth Cameron-Smith reported that he’s been to Ingleside, got a fresh horse, stolen some cash and jewellery, and he’s armed. According to Beth, he rode south, but in an easterly direction.’
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