However, all this was conjecture of less moment than the fact that someone had climbed into the tree before Mabel Storrie was nearly murdered. Allied to this fact was the evidence that someone had climbed into the trees overhanging the Broken Hill road and, almost certainly, had dropped from a branch when she was passing beneath them.
Which of the many people living in and around Carie would climb trees? Boys and many girls, too, are great tree-climbers, and of boys and girls Carie had its normal share. But these trees were a full mile from the township. Nevertheless, a mile, or even more, is nothing for healthy youngsters to walk after birds’ eggs and bees’ honey. There were no children at Wirragatta or at Storrie’s Selection, but there were two youths employed on Wirragatta who were capable of climbing trees after young galahs.
Then Bony’s next step was to ascertain if the galahs’ nests had been robbed, and to do this he did not propose to make inquiries of the townspeople or those at the station.
From introspection his brain again took charge of his eyes. They probed the green-clothed branches of the tree in which he was perched and those of neighbouring trees that were almost interlocked. His gaze moved with deliberate system, moving along each successive branch from trunk to extremity. Thus it was eventually that his gaze became applied to a particular section of a particular branch of the tree next his. Without difficulty, or danger of falling, he passed from tree to tree, and thus was able to bring his gleaming eyes to a point twelve inches from the section of branch which had caught his attention.
For some time he studied this section of living wood, brows knit, brain working to establish the cause of a certain phenomenon. For a distance of eighteen inches the bark of the section was of a different tint. He gripped the same branch with both hands a little beyond the tinted section and began to rasp it. The action produced exactly the same tint-soft rust on the background of grey-green.
The result of the experiment pleased him.
At no little risk of accident, the detective climbed and swunghimself from branch to branch, on which he was able to see the same discoloration, for some sixty yards, when he reached a point in the line of trees where there was a break. Down the last tree he slowly descended, and on the trunk he found unmistakable evidence it had often been climbed.
The evidence provided by the trees went to prove that a party of boys had often played follow-my-leader by swinging themselves along the branches of at least twenty trees. Either the boys, or one man, had made a kind of tree-trail over a long period of time, on each occasion making much the same jumps and using the same hand and footholds.
Along the dry bed of the creek Bony walked to the Broken Hill road, knowing himself safe from observation, his eyes glittering when the sunlight shafts fell on them. For two hours he climbed trees, and at places trod a blazed trail among their branches, a trail blazed for such ashe to see and reason upon.
At odd hours throughout the whole of the next week, Bony climbed trees, finding in them many things of profound interest which had no possible bearing on his investigation. He came to know Nogga Creek from Junction Waterhole to Catfish Hole and up along Thunder Creek almost to Storrie’s house. His work resulted in astonishing knowledge having a direct bearing on his investigation-knowledge given him chiefly by the galahs and their habits.
These rose-breasted, grey-backed parrots favour box-trees in which to nest, those along the two creeks joining to become Wirragatta River having been especially favoured for countless years. And this was the story told by the galahs…
During the late summer, autumn and winter these birds congregate in large flocks, when they feed together on the distant flats and roost together in adjacent trees. Towards the end of July the units comprising the flocks become imbued with the nuptial madness. Their harsh cries become more harsh and louder still. Their feats of wing become more daring and brilliant, it appearing to the observer that they determinedly “show off” like the male lyre-bird and the male peacock. Then, within the space of a week, the flocks break up into pairs, and during the courting period the old nesting-holes in the trees are cleaned out and prepared for the eggs and the young birds.
Countless generations of birds use the same nest-holes every spring. The holes, of course, have their genesis in the work of the borer and thebardee*. The rain continues the rotting of the wood, which is pulled out by the birds back to the living walls of wood. To the bottom of these nest-holes is sometimes the length of a man’s arm. *A beetle larva of Australia, Bardistuscibarius, that bores into plants and is used as food by Aborigines.
The only enemies of the young birds were formerly the wild cats, and now the domesticated cats run wild, and the defensive measures taken by the parent birds to defeat the cats will be attributed to instinct or reason according to the views of the reader. Like all close observers, Bony voted for reason.
When a nest-hole is first prepared, the birds tear away the bark from about the entrance, and, if the hole is at the junction of a branch with the trunk, they clean off the bark about the branch for several feet. With distended combs and much vociferous screeching, they beat and beat their wings against the exposed wood until it is polished to the glass-like surface of a dance floor. No cat, therefore, can possibly find foothold to reach the nest-hole and then claw out the squabs. Every year thereafter the bark-cleared spaces are repolished in this manner.
As previously stated, Bony found many galahs’ nests in the trees along Nogga and Thunder Creeks. At this time the nesting-season was well past, and the young birds, having learned to fly, had with their parents joined into flocks.
Along Thunder Creek and along Nogga Creek, eastward of Catfish Hole, the nests provided the detective with indubitable evidence that they had housed young birds this last season, but in those nests in the trees from Junction Waterhole to Catfish Hole there was found no such evidence. Instead, the wisps of grass and feathers deep in these particular holes were old and brittle. Not onlythe last nesting-season, but at least the season before that, the birds had not used the nest-holes along this section of creek.
It had already become obvious that along this section of trees-from Junction Waterhole up to Catfish Hole-in which the galahs had refused to nest, a party of boys played follow-my-leader and had blazed an easily followed trail among the branches. Either boys, or one man, had made and subsequently used this trail.
The age of the trail was established for Bony by the galahs. About the edges of the wing-polished spaces the bark had grown and overlapped them. With his knife, the detective conducted countless experiments on this overlapping bark until he proved to his entire satisfaction that the birds had not nested along this section of Nogga Creek for four years. The boys, or the single man, by climbing from tree to tree repeatedly, had frightened them from doing so. The trail, therefore, was at least four years old-from two years before Alice Tindall was murdered.
Bony never seriously considered the trail to have been made by a party of boys playing follow-my-leader. He had become convinced that it had been made by a man, and, too, the man who had killed Alice Tindall and attacked Mabel Storrie.
Why did this man climb these trees and swing himself along from branch to branch? Why had he not done his tree-climbing along other sections of the creeks? What, indeed, could be his object? No man would be likely to experience pleasure by doing this. There were no bees’ nests to rob of honey, and for years there had been no young galahs to take from the birds’ nests. His object could not be to leave on the ground no tracks at those times he killed, for did he not always select a night when the next day was certain to be wildly stormy?
And so the galah’s story presented Bony with a singular problem. Why, for at least four years, had a man used the trees along a section of Nogga Creek as another would use a garden path? Try as he might whilst he worked, cleaning the boundary-fence ofbuckbush, Bony could not solve it. The only man he could imagine doing this “tree walking” was the Wirragatta cook, Hang-dog Jack, and Hang-dog Jack, besides being
a human travesty, was also a terrific contradiction.
Bony’s mind was still gnawing at this bone late one afternoon as he walked down along the creek road to the homestead after a day’s labour, when there overtook him young Harry West astride a fearsome brute of a horse all a-lather with sweat and still sprung with viciousness despite a gruelling gallop.
“Good day-ee, Joe,” shouted Harry, even as he slid to earth to jerk the reins over the beast’s head and fall into step beside the detective.
Harry West was young and tall and graceful as Adonis, if not so handsome. He was reputed to be the best horseman in the district, and the discerning Bony had quickly noted Harry’s natural ability to do well those things he liked doing. With a small-bore rifle Harry could bring down crows on the wing. With a stockwhip he could flick away pins stuck into a table without disturbing the flour scattered about them. But, although he had attended school until the official leaving age, he was unable to compose a simple letter. He was remarkably proficient in counting hundreds of sheep passing through a gateway, but was beaten by a simple problem sum. In his opinion, any work not able to be done from the back of a horse was exceedingly degrading. Bony was considering the removal ofWest, Henry, from his list.
“She’s come, Joe,” Harry said, the blood mounting into his tanned face even as his hard elbow prodded Bony’s ribs. The smart felt hat was pushed back and there was to be seen a greased “quiff”, which, however, was a poor sort of thing compared with that so carefully and expertly trained by James Spinks, Mrs. Nelson’s barman.
“Who has arrived, Harry?” Bony asked mildly.
“Who? Why, you know. The ring! She came by this morning’s mail.”
“Ah!” murmured the enlightened detective.
One of his first tasks at Wirragatta had been to advise Harry West about an engagementring, and with a jeweller’s catalogue to aid him he had chosen a platinum ring set with a square-cut diamond.
“She’s a humdinger,” Harry announced with tremendous enthusiasm. When recalling the price paid, Bony thought the ring should certainly be that, and more. Harry ran on: “If they had sent a ring with a round diamond, I’d have sent it back with my opinion on ’em. That was a natty idea of yours, thinking of a square diamond. Can’t say I everseen one before.”
“It is because they are not common that I urged you to purchase a ring set with one. That you simply had to buy a platinum setting was against my advice. A hundred guineas is a great deal of money to spend on a ring.”
“Itain’t too much to spend on a ring for my Tilly. A thousand-quid one wouldn’t be good enough for her. Any’ow, if we fall hard on bad times, this ring will pawn for a goodish bit.”
“I admire your forethought, but not your pessimism, Harry. Having had the pleasure of meeting and speaking to your young lady, I concur that a cheap ring would be an insult.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Harry said as another man might when accepting a knighthood. Hazel eyes regarded Bony with bashful intensity. “Cripes!” he burst out. “I wished I could talk like you.”
“Practise, my dear Harry.”
“Iain’t gotno time.”
“Then let us talk about Tilly. Do you intend to marry her one day?”
“Tooflamin ’ right I do,”came the prompt reply. “I heard only yesterday that old Alec, the boss stockman, was pulling out, and aimed to retire to the Hill. He’s occupying one of the married cottages, you know.”
“The married cottages! Oh, you mean one of the cottages occupied by married people on the far side of the river. So you think you may obtain the occupancy of one?”
“Iain’t sure, Joe. Isorta hinted to the boss this morning that I’d like to get married and settle down on Wirragatta. I’m a bit young yet, I suppose, but if old Alec leaves, I’m as good as the next for his place. Like to see the ring?”
“Yes, I would.”
With approval, Bony noted Harry’s firm chin and the straight nose. For two minutes, whilst the horse whistled and stamped and tugged at the reins looped from Harry’s arm, they stood to admire the expensive ring. The price paid was enormous for a station-hand.
“Think she’s good enough?” asked Harry with swift doubt.
For an instant Bony thought he referred to Tilly, the maid-guardian to Mrs. Nelson. Then:
“Why, yes,” he replied. “It is a truly beautiful ring. So you really want to marry her and settle down for life?”
“Too right-with Tilly. She’ll do me, Joe.”
“Then, married to Tilly, if you always play the game of life as it should be played, you will never regret it.”
For a space, they walked in silence. Then Harry said earnestly:
“Whatd’youthink of my girl, Joe?”
“When she smiles, she is lovely,” Bony told him, remembering Tilly’s plainness of features and beauty of eyes. “It will be your life-long vocation to keep her smiling. How old were you when you first came to Wirragatta?”
“Seventeen. I bin here a bit over five years.”
Bony plunged.
“I suppose that you, like most boys and young men, have often climbed these creek trees for galahs’ eggs?”
“Can’t say as I ever had the time,” replied Harry. “I wasmore keen on horses and things.”
For a little while they walked in silence, and then for a little while they again discussed Tilly. Eventually Bony suggested:
“When the blacks, who used to camp hereabouts, suddenly left, you must have noticed the quietness at Wirragatta. I understand that the tribe was quite a large one.”
“Too right! Theremusta been half a hundred all told when mustered: After poor Alice Tindall was murdered they all cleared off. I don’t blame ’em. Old Billy Snowdrop, the head man, tipped something like that would happen. He was a funny bloke, all right. Heuster reckon his tribe was cursed by a special banshee or ghost wot lived in the trees, and after they all cleared off and went outback I seen him one day, and he asked me if I ever seen or heard the banshee after he got Alice. The banshee, I mean, not Billy Snowdrop. Get me?”
“Yes, I think I do. That is all very interesting,” Bony remarked softly.
Chapter Eleven
A Strange Fellow
HANG-DOG JACK WAS beating his triangle, calling the hands to dinner, when Martin Borradale stepped into the office to find Donald Dreyton at work on his books.
“Hullo! Time to knock off, isn’t it?”
Dreyton, looking up, smiled.
“I was beginning to think so,” he said, and reached for his pipe and tobacco plug. “Have theStorries got away for Adelaide?”
“Yes. Stella and I have just got back from seeing them away. They made Mabel very comfortable on the truck, and her mother and Dr. Mulray were able to sit with her. Mulray is going down as far as Broken Hill. Mabel seemed bright, but the terrible shock she received is still painfully evident. Mrs. Nelson has been very generous to her.”
“You were not particularly mean,” Dreyton said dryly. “I remember drawing up your cheque for a hundred.”
“They will want it. Mrs. Nelson gave them another hundred and let Storrie off paying the half-yearly interest on her mortgage, which was due this week. What with all that and the sixty-odd pounds raised by public subscription, Mabel should not lack the very best surgical and nursing service. Old Mulray says he thinks one operation at least will be necessary.”
“Simone done anything yet, do you know?”
Martin shook his head, saying, “I have heard nothing. It is time something was found out about this strangling swine. Even Stella is getting jumpy, and behind old Alec’s leaving, I think, is his wife, who is terrified to leave the doors unlocked after dark. Anyway, I dropped in to speak about a quite different matter.”
Borradale paused, and Dreyton noted the flush swiftly mounting into his face. When he again spoke the words came quickly.
“Look here, Donald. My sister and I have been discussing you.”
“Indeed!” Dreyton said politely.
There was but little physical resemblance in Martin to his sister, but a great deal in mannerisms. His eyes were clear and steady-so like his sister’s. Dreyton wanted to look away, for he was finding it difficult to meet Martin’s gaze. As the temporary book-keeper hesitated to speak the younger man proceeded rapidly and with evident embarrassment.
“I am going to be perfectly frank,” he said. “Allen was a good book-keeper, and quite a good fellow, but he was wholly unable to forget he was a book-keeper when out of the office, when over in the house or on the tennis court. We have missed your conversation, your dashed good society, and never before or since you were with us have we been able to accept anyone so entirely without reserve.”
Dreyton’s brows now were raised a fraction, and still he made no attempt to speak.
“Hang it, man! You’re a mystery,” Martin exclaimed. “You talk about everything but yourself. You leave a comfortable job and decent living conditions for the life of a fence-rider, which is tougher than that of any stockman. Surely you must be sick of it by now?”
Dreyton’s stony expression melted into a slight smile. He stood up and deliberately stretched.
“By no means,” he said. “Look at me! I am as tough as leather. I am as healthy, as fit as a Melbourne Cup winner. I see the sun rise every morning, and I can lie abed and look at the stars before going to sleep at night. I can read with profit, for I have the time and the peace to think of what I have read. I miss the tennis, of course, and the good food and the agreeable society, but, Mr. Borradale, I think I have gained more than I have lost.”
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