A police constable, lounging on a bench on the verandah, snapped to attention at the sight of Maidment’s blue serge uniform. Caleb recognised him as one of the Buneep police contingent that had been sent to Maiden’s Creek during the smallpox scare.
‘Constable Brown,’ Maidment said.
‘I’m pleased to see you, sir,’ Brown said, indicating for the party to move to the bank of the creek, out of earshot of anyone in the hotel. ‘My own sergeant’s in Melbourne, giving evidence at a trial.’ He pushed his hat to the back of his head and scratched his thinning scalp. ‘And to be honest with you, this is a strange one.’
The three Maiden’s Creek men glanced at each other.
‘Just tell us what happened.’ Maidment snapped.
‘The dead man joined the coach in Melbourne. Witnesses says they thought he was drunk. He slept to Buneep and the coach stopped for the regular meal. The other passengers got out, but he said he felt unwell and stayed in the coach. Landlord brought him out a brandy and water. They resumed the journey, and all the passengers agree that when they left Buneep, he was snoring in a corner—very loudly, in fact. It was a relief when he went quiet. It was only when they stopped here at first light today that they realised he was … well—he was dead. Quite dead.’
Maidment glanced back at the hotel. ‘They’re all here?’
‘Yes, and none too happy about it.’
‘Who are they?’
‘There’s an Italian couple name of Benneti, a lawyer bloke from Sale, and an English cove. And the driver of course. Burrell’s also here with the Maiden’s Creek passengers who were going on to Melbourne and Sale. They’re none too happy either.’
Maidment gave the constable a curt nod. ‘Good job holding them. What about the deceased?’
‘I searched his pockets and here’s his valuables.’ Brown detached a small sugar sack from his belt. ‘Thought I’d better keep ’em safe. I’m guessing you all know him?’
‘If it’s Dr Bowen, then yes. Any indication of how he died?’ Russell asked.
The man shook his head. ‘None. Peaceful … looks like he’s still asleep. Gave the English bloke a right scare when he woke up to find a dead man leaning on his shoulder.’ Brown’s lips quirked as if he wanted to smile, leaving Caleb with the impression that the policeman didn’t think too much of the ‘English bloke’.
‘There’ll need to be a coronial inquiry,’ Russell said. ‘Maidment, you take written statements from all the witnesses, and Hunt, I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, but we’re going to need an autopsy.’
Caleb drew in a breath. ‘Is there no other doctor who can do it?’
Everyone looked at Brown, who shook his head. ‘The Buneep doctor is out of town, tied up with the same trial as my sergeant. It would take days to get another doctor here.’ He glanced at the hot sun. ‘And this heat … well … to be honest, he’s already on the turn. Needs to be buried as soon as possible.’
Russell shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Hunt. I know he was your friend, but let’s find out what killed him and then we can give him a decent burial.’
A hard ball knotted in Caleb’s stomach. ‘Can I speak to the witnesses before I start?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ Maidment frowned. ‘You’ve got the facts.’
‘I want a firsthand description of how he appeared before his death. It may help to determine what killed him.’
‘They’re in the front parlour,’ Brown said.
They followed the constable back to the hotel. Gulliver met them at the door, his brow creased.
‘When are you going to get this matter finished? The guests are not happy and I have a business to run,’ he said in a low, angry voice. Seeing Caleb, the scowl deepened. ‘Every time I see you, there’s trouble.’
‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ Maidment said.
Gulliver jerked his head at the door to the parlour. ‘They’re all in there. I’ll get Mrs Gulliver to rustle up some tea for you.’
They were greeted by a furious clamour of voices as the detained coach passengers demanded to know when they could resume their journeys. Russell held up his hand and raised his voice, requesting those passengers who had not been on the Melbourne coach to leave the room.
Alone with only the Melbourne passengers, he introduced himself, Sergeant Maidment and Caleb, and in the sort of voice he probably used to keep his five children under control, informed them that the sergeant would be taking their statements. Once the formalities were complete, the passengers could resume their journeys.
Caleb’s gaze swept the room. The Italian couple would be members of the large Italian community of woodcutters who had made a settlement a few miles out of Maiden’s Creek along the Thompson River, supplying wood to the mines for props and the insatiable boilers. They were both young, very young. They sat close together, holding hands. The Sale lawyer had a long, sad face, emphasised by a drooping, shaggy moustache and thick glasses. He certainly looked like he would be happier behind a large stack of precedents than being stuck in a remote hotel parlour answering questions.
That left the Englishman. A man of about Caleb’s age with sandy hair and a neat moustache, he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, clad in impeccably tailored trousers and highly polished, but now dusty, handmade boots. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the newcomers.
‘This isn’t good enough,’ he said, his perfect vowels betraying his class. ‘I have important business in Maiden’s Creek.’
‘And if you are cooperative, you will be there in the morning,’ Caleb snapped.
The Englishman rose to his feet. ‘And who are you to speak to me in such a tone, sir? If I want to leave, I will damn well leave.’
‘You are welcome to walk,’ Caleb said. ‘The Maiden’s Creek coach is not leaving until the sergeant and Mr Russell, as Justice of the Peace, says it can leave. It is not my decision.’
The Englishman’s lip curled. ‘I thought this was an English colony,’ he said. ‘Since when have we let Yankees think they can dictate to English gentlemen?’
That old, raw wound—the insult of being called a Yankee—rose in Caleb.
‘Enough.’ Russell interrupted before Caleb could respond. ‘We will attend to your concerns shortly, sir. Please be patient.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Where’s the driver?’
‘Out back in the kitchen,’ Brown said.
‘The doctor here has a couple of questions before we take statements,’ Russell said.
Caleb thanked him and addressed the passengers. ‘Did anyone see Dr Bowen when he arrived at the coach in Melbourne?’
‘I did,’ the lawyer said. ‘He bumped into me without apologising.’
‘Can you describe him?’
The lawyer blew out his moustache. ‘I thought the man was drunk.’
‘Why?’
‘He was staggering, slurring his speech—’
‘It took him three tries to even get into the coach,’ the young Italian man interjected. ‘He trod on Eva’s foot.’
‘Did he smell of alcohol?’ Caleb asked.
The passengers looked at each other.
‘Now you mention it,’ the lawyer said, ‘no, although I did see him drink some brandy at Buneep. His hand was …’ The lawyer held out a trembling hand. ‘I’ve seen drinkers before, doctor, and they can’t hide that.’
‘Anything to add?’ Caleb addressed the Englishman.
The Englishman leaned his chair back on two legs and looked at the ceiling. ‘Nothing to add. Except that I was the poor sod who woke up to find a dead man leaning against my shoulder.’ He brushed the shoulder of his jacket as if Bowen had been an annoying piece of lint. ‘You are wasting our time, doctor. You—sergeant. Let’s get on with the formalities, shall we? I, for one, have had quite enough of the hospitality of this inn.’ The chair came back to earth with a thump.
Maidment thanked everyone and assured them he would return to take formal statements shortly.
; The party traipsed through the hostelry to the kitchen, where the ill-tempered Melbourne coachman confirmed that on his arrival at the point of departure in Collins Street, Bowen had been unsteady and slurring his speech. He had no luggage with him.
Maidment glanced at Caleb. ‘Did he have anything when he left Maiden’s Creek?’
Caleb nodded. ‘A small valise.’ He indicated the size with his hands.
‘Anything else about him?’
The coachman shook his head. ‘Didn’t disembark at Buneep. Barman sent out a brandy and water. That’s it, until the Italian woman screamed and I had to stop the coach on account of the fact the man was dead.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Such a carry-on I never did hear. Don’t know who was making the most noise, the woman or that bloody English cove.’
They thanked the coachman and turned to the constable.
‘Where is the doctor?’ Russell enquired.
‘In the stables,’ Brown said.
‘I think we have put off the moment long enough. Brown, lead on,’ Russell said.
They crossed the dusty, chicken-infested yard to the outhouses. Amos Burrell, seated on a fence railing, watching his two coach horses graze in the paddock beyond, raised a hand but made no move to join them.
The word ‘stable’ was probably a misnomer, it was more like a hut, thrown together with whatever material came to hand: slabs of bark, corrugated iron, old wire, beaten tins and crooked beams. Although the floor had been cleared and swept, the scent of horse and a miasma of dust hung in the air. The sickly odour of death clung, like the clouds of interested flies, over the still figure lying on a trestle table in the centre of the room. Bowen’s dusty boots protruded from beneath the torn and stained sheet that had been thrown over the body.
Bowen had been dead over twelve hours and Maidment swallowed as he turned down the sheet to inspect the face of the corpse. ‘It’s Bowen,’ he said in a dispassionate voice.
Russell gave the mottled face a cursory glance, nodded and hurried outside, clutching his handkerchief to his mouth. Caleb and Maidment looked at each other as the sound of the magistrate losing his lunch drifted in through the rough walls.
‘Enough light, doc?’ Maidment asked.
Caleb nodded. ‘There’s a couple of hours of daylight left.’ And he wanted to get the grim task over with. He gestured to the young Buneep constable. ‘Are you up to helping me, Brown?’
The young man turned pale then flushed. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Sit in a corner and take notes,’ Caleb said. ‘Can you manage that?’
‘I think so.’ The man sounded dubious.
Caleb fixed him with a hard gaze. ‘If you faint, I can’t help you.’
Brown shook his head. ‘I’m not squeamish, sir. My father’s a butcher, but I’ve not seen a person—’ He swallowed and nodded. ‘I’ll be fine, doctor.’
‘Good. You can start by drawing me a few buckets of water, and I’ll need a couple of empty pans of some sort.’
Brown nodded and left the room with the haste of someone glad to have an excuse not to be there. He may not be squeamish but he probably appreciated the distinction between the butchering of an animal for food and the methodical dissection of a human being.
Caleb turned to Maidment and Russell, who had rejoined them, his face pale and moist. ‘Constable Brown and I will manage just fine—I don’t need either of you. I suggest you deal with the statements and see those folk on their way before you have a riot.’
Alone with the corpse, Caleb blew out a breath. He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tied on a heavy leather farrier’s apron he found hanging on a hook in a shadowy corner. He unpacked the bag he had brought with him, laying out the surgeon’s instruments on a bench. They were Bowen’s, not his own fine set. No need to boil them, he thought grimly.
‘Well, my friend,’ he said aloud. ‘Are you going to tell me what killed you?’
He carefully undressed the corpse, folding each item and setting it on the bench. Brown’s search had been thorough and the pockets were empty.
A shadow moved across the door and Caleb turned to see Amos Burrell, hat in his hands.
‘We’re going to miss ’im.’ Amos said.
‘Yes, we will,’ Caleb agreed.
‘Just thought I’d pay my last respects,’ Amos said. ‘That bloody English cove is threatening to ’ave me ’orsewhipped if I don’t get going soon. Don’t know why ’e’s so keen to get to Maiden’s Creek. Not much I can do about it. If Maidment gives me the nod, I’ll probably get ’em to the Thompson River, but I’m not risking my ’orses on Little John’s in the dark.’ Amos nodded towards the corpse. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, Doc.’
Brown returned carrying the two buckets of water and three battered tin dishes under his arm. He set the dishes on the table beside Caleb, his gaze averted from the now naked corpse.
‘I washed ’em,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t sure what you needed ’em for.’
Caleb was in no mood for explanations; their purpose would become clear soon enough. Now he had to force himself to be completely professional. This was not Bowen, not the man he had come to call a friend. This was a riddle that needed an answer.
A close examination of Bowen’s torso and face aroused Caleb’s suspicions. Bruising, which often did not show when the body was fresh, had begun to appear on the doctor’s torso. Powerful blows had been inflicted to the man’s rib cage, and his probing fingers confirmed a couple of cracked ribs.
When he pointed these out to the young constable, Brown whistled. ‘Someone worked him over good and proper.’
‘Was there any money in his purse?’
Brown shook his head. ‘Didn’t really think about it, but he wasn’t carrying a purse or his luggage.’
‘So are we looking at robbery? Help me turn him over, Brown.’
Bruising also stained Bowen’s back and kidney region, leaving Caleb in no doubt that Bowen had been thoroughly beaten shortly before his death, but unless he could find substantial internal damage, he doubted the beating alone would account for his death.
He found the answer on the back of Bowen’s head. Clearly visible through the thinning grey hair was a raised lump and considerable bruising.
‘Is that what killed him?’ Brown asked.
‘Possibly. I’m afraid I’m going to have to open him up to be sure.’
Brown took a step back when Caleb picked up the first knife. Caleb cast him a questioning glance, but the young man steadied himself and hunched on a stool, taking Caleb’s dictation.
An hour later, Caleb had his answer and he sent Brown to fetch Maidment and Russell.
The two men entered the room diffidently, Russell’s nose twitching at the smell of blood and bile. Caleb had covered the corpse but he wanted the two men to see what he had found. Using a scalpel he indicated the damage.
‘He died from a severe brain injury. A brain injury can mimic the symptoms of inebriation,’ Caleb said. ‘When he boarded the coach in Melbourne, he was not drunk, he was already dying.’
Maidment nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘Significant bruising to his torso, several cracked ribs. Badly bruised kidneys.’ He held his tongue about the condition of Bowen’s liver. Years of alcohol abuse had left the man with a liver that would have killed him within a few short years, if that, anyway.
‘What are you saying?’ the policeman asked.
‘It is my medical opinion that shortly before he boarded the coach, Dr Bowen was attacked and beaten. During the attack, his head was struck by a hard object, causing massive internal bleeding to the brain, or he fell and hit his head.’
‘Murder.’ Maidment pronounced the word with heavy emphasis. ‘Or manslaughter, at the very least. Thank you, doctor. That’s helpful. I will need a statement from you.’
‘What do we do now?’ Russell asked.
Maidment glanced at the shrouded body. ‘We need to get him buried. I’ve asked the station carpenter to knock t
ogether a coffin and we’ll inter him here.’
‘We’re not going to take him back to Maiden’s Creek?’ Caleb asked.
Maidment shook his head. ‘Expensive and difficult and in this heat, he needs to be buried as soon as possible. This isn’t the first death at Shady Creek and there’s a cemetery of sorts on the property. Brown?’
‘Sir?’
‘We need to find a priest to officiate. Hunt, do you know his religion?’
Alcohol, Caleb thought. ‘Not something we ever discussed but from a few things he let slip, I’m guessing Catholic.’
‘Is there a priest in Buneep?’ Russell asked.
Brown nodded.
Maidment scratched his stubbled chin. ‘I’m going on to Melbourne to lodge a report and get the investigation going. I’ll take Brown with me and stop in Buneep and speak to the local priest. Mr Russell, I suggest you and Hunt stay here the night and see Bowen interred.’
Russell nodded. ‘It’s too late to leave now. Our hosts have beds for us.’
‘I’ll get going,’ Maidment said. ‘I can send a telegram to Melbourne from Buneep so they’ll be expecting me tomorrow.’ He shook his head. ‘Sad business. I’ll bid you good day and get on my way.’
Caleb stood in the doorway and watched both men walk back to the hotel. He turned back to the table and restored whatever dignity he could to Bowen’s mortal remains.
It was dark by the time Caleb emerged from the stable, drying his hands and untying the leather apron. The hot day had passed into a warm night and he found Russell sitting on the verandah of the hotel, a glass of whiskey in his hand and the bottle and a second glass on the bench beside him. The parlour was deserted, all the passengers having departed to their various destinations.
‘Poor man,’ Russell said as he poured Caleb a drink. ‘Is there anything that could have been done?’
Caleb shook his head. ‘I doubt it. An injury like that was always going to kill him.’
Russell frowned and looked down at his glass. ‘Would he have suffered?’
‘I can imagine the bruising from the beating would have been uncomfortable,’ Caleb observed, ‘but no, whatever happened to him before he boarded the coach meant he probably died in his sleep without further pain.’
The Postmistress Page 17