‘We’re getting there. With Tinga’s help I have moved half the ewes to the pasture near the first dam, where there’s good feed.’
‘Daddy, next spring can I have a lamb of my own to look after?’ Kate asked, a wistful expression on her face.
‘Are you old enough to look after a baby lamb, Kate? They take a lot of work when they’re little.’
‘I’m a big girl, Daddy, I’m sure I can,’ she replied. A serious nod of her head confirmed her commitment.
‘Well, if a lamb gets orphaned you can give raising it a try.’ Randall smiled benignly at his daughter who, to him, was growing up so fast. She had easily mastered riding the pony he’d bought her for her last birthday after the episode with the feral dogs; she could milk Crystal the cow as well as Nora or Amy could; and next year she would start school in Gindaroo.
Nora, who’d been scooping up the empty dinner plates and stacking them by the sink, asked a general question, ‘Who wants sweets?’ She smiled confidently as she spoke, already knowing the answer, and Randall grinned as everyone chorused, ‘Me!’ No one at the table ever said no to Nora’s sweets. Like Jim and Mike, Nora was a real treasure for Drovers; as well as being a good general cook, her skill in the desserts department surpassed anything Jim or Amy could concoct. As everyone tucked into their tapioca pudding, Randall let the conversation flow around him without contributing to it. He was concerned; he’d be a fool not to be. He knew that Gindaroo’s constable would be paying him a visit soon.
In the early hours of the next morning, Randall moved restlessly under the covers as the nightmare that had haunted him for years manifested itself again, but this time with a peculiar twist. Instead of seeing the German soldier’s face seconds before he pulled the trigger, Bill Walpole’s florid features swam before his closed lids. Then he pulled the trigger and Bill’s blood was everywhere, on his uniform, on his hands and soaking into the soil.
Breathing erratically, eyes still closed, Randall sat bolt upright in bed and fought his way back to consciousness. Still in the throes of the dream, he kept wiping his hands as if there was something unpleasant on them. His body gave an almighty shudder and the next instant he relaxed. Eyes opening, he saw Amy, his ‘rock’, staring at him.
‘Oh, Randall, the nightmare again.’ She turned the kerosene table lamp on and put her arms around him. ‘You’ve been doing so well. You haven’t had one for a couple of months.’
‘I know.’ He waited a minute or two for the vivid images to sink into his subconscious. ‘This time it was different.’
‘How, darling?’
‘Instead of the German soldier’s face, it was Bill Walpole’s, and I had blood, Bill’s blood, all over me.’
‘How strange.’ She thought about that and then corrected herself. ‘Not really strange. You heard about his death just today and everyone was talking about it at dinner.’
Randall looked at her. She was so beautiful, so caring, and so wise. His hand came up to touch her face, caressing her cheek, her throat and its delicate hollow. ‘You do realise that I’ll be on the constable’s suspect list, don’t you?’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes. But it’s ridiculous. You and Bill might have been enemies, but you didn’t hate him enough to want to kill him. And isn’t it up to the law to prove you did it—which won’t happen—rather than you prove that you didn’t?’ Her lips pursed as another thought occurred to her. ‘Perhaps it’s up to us to work out who would profit more than you, or who had a stronger reason to kill Bill.’
Absorbing her suggestion, Randall was quiet for a while. Then, ‘You mean give the constable a suspect other than me to check out?’
‘Yes.’
He kissed her on the lips and she leaned across and turned out the lamp. ‘You, my darling wife, are a clever girl. By the time the constable calls I hope to be able to give him an alternative suspect.’
They snuggled down under the covers and soon Amy heard Randall’s deep, even breathing and knew he’d fallen asleep. Poor man, haunted by the war nightmare, and now this. She couldn’t blame him for being worried; a few vindictive people would happily point the finger at him, rightly or wrongly. Well, her chin set with determination, let them try. She knew he wasn’t capable of committing such a terrible deed. Dear God, she said a little prayer as she drifted off to sleep, let him come through this ordeal unscathed…
In summer the workday started early at Drovers. Long shadows still lay on the ground as Randall finished breakfast and gave instructions for the day’s work to Jim and Mike.
Carrying Ian on her hip, Amy answered the firm knock on the back door. It was Constable McSweeney.
‘Good morning, Amy. I’ve come to see Randall.’
‘I’ve been expecting you, Stuart. Come into the drawing room and we’ll talk,’ Randall replied, coming up behind his wife. He led the way down the wide hall into the formal and rarely used drawing room.
‘I presume you know why I’m here.’ The constable removed his hat, and smoothed back his dark hair. ‘You’ve heard about Bill Walpole?’
‘Bad news travels fast. Jim Allen told me. It’s a sorry business.’
‘Randall, I’ve several people to interview so I’ll get straight to it.’ Stuart pulled out his notebook, opened it and read what he’d written. ‘It’s common knowledge that you and Bill have had, umm, your differences over the years. Joe told me his father never forgave you for the business with Beth. As well, there have been several other instances in which the two of you have clashed.’
‘I’ll not deny it. For years Bill has tried to ruin Drovers as well as me. You can understand that I didn’t take kindly to that.’
‘You’re not sorry he’s dead?’
Randall’s eyebrows shot upwards at the constable’s bluntness. ‘I don’t wish death on anyone, not even Bill. But in all honesty, now that he’s gone my life will be more peaceful.’ He watched Stuart jot a notation down in his book.
‘I see. Tell me, Randall, where were you yesterday morning between the hours of seven thirty a.m. and, say, eleven a.m.?’
‘Here. Doing chores, mostly trying to fix our tractor’s engine.’
‘Can anyone corroborate that?’
Randall’s jaws tightened. Stuart wasn’t mucking about with niceties or diplomatic questions. ‘I don’t know. I had breakfast then went straight to the machinery shed. I repaired some fencing around the shearing shed, then worked on the tractor. After lunch I continued working on the engine till I got it going.’
‘So,’ the constable nodded gravely, ‘no one at the homestead actually saw you between breakfast and lunch?’
Randall thought for a moment. Had anyone seen him? ‘I guess not.’
‘I see.’ The constable tapped his pencil on the notebook and stared at the owner of Drovers Way. ‘Did you shoot Bill Walpole yesterday?’ he asked straight out.
‘God, Stuart! No.’ Randall dug his hands, bunched into tense fists, into his trouser pockets. ‘If I’d wanted to kill Bill I would have done a better job than the person who did it. I killed men in the war, but I never shot anyone in the back. Only a rank coward would do something like that.’
‘I agree. I believe you own a Winchester ’73 rifle. Have you used it recently?’
‘I keep it locked up in the study but I haven’t fired it for about a month.’
‘Before I go, if I may I’d like to take a look at it. And I’ve heard that as well as being a grazier you’re a crack shot. Didn’t you win first prize in last year’s marksmanship competition at the Hawker Show?’
‘I did, but I’m not the only one in the district who can shot straight. Several other men are pretty good. Frank Smith and Mick Herbert are good with a rifle too.’
‘So I’ve been told. However, neither Frank nor Mick owns a Winchester ’73, and the bullet Dr Pearce dug out of Bill’s back fits a Winchester ’73 rifle.’
‘Are you accusing me of murdering Bill?’ Randall decided to be as frank as Stuart was being.
Unfazed, Stuart replied, ‘Not yet.’
‘Stuart, do you really think I’m the only person in the Flinders who had a grudge against Bill?’
‘No. Joe helped me to compile a list of possible suspects and I’m checking out each man. One or two other men, though I’m not at liberty to say who, had a strong motive to kill Bill. When I’ve collated all the interviews I believe I’ll have a better idea as to who committed the crime.’
Randall latched onto that. Mick Herbert for one. The man was still livid about his and Bill’s land transaction. ‘So, Joe’s been helping. I suppose the grieving son would.’ Stuart failed to recognise his note of sarcasm. ‘However, if I may, there is one more name you should add to your list.’
Stuart’s features mirrored surprise. ‘Whose?’
‘Joe Walpole’s.’
The constable blinked in amazement. ‘Joe! You’re not serious?’
Randall’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m deadly serious. Since I heard about Bill I’ve tried to think of someone other than myself who would benefit mightily from Bill’s death. It’s rumoured that Joe will inherit everything.’ He stared at the constable. ‘Could that be a motive for murder?’
‘Kill his own father? No,’ Stuart shook his head, ‘it’s not possible. He’s very upset over his father’s death.’
‘Perhaps he is. However, Joe’s also known to be quite a gambler—ask anyone at the Royal or the Criterion Hotel, they’ll tell you. He’s often in debt to some bookie, and if you ask around you’ll learn that Bill was tight with his money. He kept Joe, shall we say, needy. Once I rescued him from a bashing by a couple of toughies who’d come to collect a debt for the Hawker bookie Reggie Brown.’ With some satisfaction Randall saw that Stuart was taking in every word. ‘All I’m saying is that to be thorough you should investigate every possibility.’
Stuart made another note in his book. ‘That’s true. And…interesting.’ He put the notebook into the pocket of his uniform. ‘Now, I would like to have a look at that rifle of yours.’
‘Right. I keep it locked in a cupboard. I’ll get it.’
Randall was relieved to escape from the drawing room for a minute or two. The constable’s questions made him feel decidedly uncomfortable, even though he had nothing to feel guilty about. Still, he understood why the policeman believed him to be a suspect, but he thought he’d opened Stuart’s eyes to other possibilities, especially Joe, and how he’d gain from his father’s death. On a personal level, Randall found it hard to believe that someone could be ruthless enough to kill his own father for profit. But Joe was as sly as, if not more sly than, his father had been, and it was common knowledge that he longed for the riches an inheritance would give him. And what was more, remembering his behaviour during the Great War, when he managed to get out of conscription, many also believed him to be a coward. So in Randall’s mind, it was possible.
Randall took the rifle in to the constable, who gave it a thorough inspection.
‘It’s been cleaned. Was that recently?’
Randall shrugged. ‘About two weeks ago.’
‘And it hasn’t been fired since?’
‘Not for a month or so.’
The constable picked up his hat. ‘Well, I’ve asked enough questions. Thanks for answering them so honestly.’ Unaccountably, his plain, serious features broke into a grin. ‘Not everyone does, you know.’
‘I hope you find the man who killed Bill,’ Randall said as he saw the constable out. ‘For his family’s sake.’ For my sake too. If the police didn’t solve the crime some people would go on pointing the finger at him as the likely culprit, which wouldn’t be good for him, Amy or the children.
Joe leaned on the bar of the Royal Hotel, staring moodily into his half-empty glass of beer. He was bored. People coming up and offering him their sympathies were hypocrites. Most of them couldn’t care less that his father was dead. He’d expected McSweeney to arrest Randall by now, but that hadn’t happened either. Damn it, he just wanted it all to be over. Wanted his father laid to rest, to have Byron Ellis read the contents of the will, and then get on with the business of living a better life than the one his father had forced upon him since he’d reached adulthood. Oh boy, everything was going to be so different. He’d find a woman, buy one if he had to, get married and raise a family. Then he would be like everyone else in the Flinders, but, he chuckled deep in his throat, he’d be the one with the most money.
What the hell was McSweeney doing, anyway? He had questioned everyone on the list they’d drawn up. As well, the constable had asked a lot of questions around town. Even gone to Hawker for the day to confer with the sergeant of police stationed there. McSweeney was supposed to be smart, so how come Randall hadn’t been locked up? Randall had the opportunity, he owned a Winchester ’73 rifle, and everyone knew he hated Bill Walpole’s guts. Not without cause, mind you. But what more did McSweeney need to know to make a case against McLean? Joe expelled his breath in a frustrated sigh. He was buggered if he knew. Cranky at the constable’s slowness, he picked up his glass and downed the remains in two thirsty swallows.
‘Aahhh, there you are, Joe. I’ve been looking for you,’ Stuart said as he came up to the bar. ‘I’d like you to come to the station and answer a few questions.’
Joe barely repressed the urge to sneer. ‘More questions? Jesus Christ, I’ve told you everything I know,’ he said. His tone was slurred because he had just finished his fourth pint.
Unimpressed, Stuart stared stolidly at him. ‘Not everything, Joe. It’s just police procedure. You know, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.’
Joe pushed himself away from the bar, wobbling a little as he straightened up.
‘All right, let’s get it over with.’
At the police station Stuart waited for Joe to make himself comfortable in a chair on the other side of his desk before he started the interview.
‘Certain information has come to my attention, Joe, about you. You appear to have a serious gambling problem, and evidently you’re not a lucky gambler. You lose more often than you win.’
Joe interrupted. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Randall McLean and others. As well, several people in town have told me you’ve spoken to them about being dissatisfied with the wage your father paid you.’
‘That’s no secret. So what? Stuart, are you implying that I might have killed my own father because he was tight-fisted? If you are, I bloody well resent it.’
‘Just doing my job, Joe. Checking out all the possibilities.’ Stuart wasn’t put out by the aggression in Joe’s voice. He picked up a pencil and made a note on a piece of paper lying on the desk.
Joe didn’t like the way Constable McSweeney was staring at him. It was a nerve-racking, intense stare, calculated to be unsettling. ‘R-Randall’s the murderer. The evidence, the rifle, points to him, not to me. I don’t own a Winchester ’73.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I just said I didn’t.’
‘That’s odd,’ Stuart’s features were deadpan. ‘I was in Hawker several days ago and I checked out the general store, which has a firearms section. The owner, Henry Kennedy, claims you bought a Winchester ’73 a few months ago.’
Oh, shit! Joe could feel sweat pooling in his armpits and wanted to wipe beads of perspiration from his top lip, but if he did the constable would assume him to be guilty of something. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ He racked his brain to come up with a satisfactory answer. ‘I lost the rifle in the bush, not long after I bought it. Anyone could have picked it up.’
‘Rather careless of you.’
‘Yeah,’ Joe agreed. ‘I bought it because I saw how well Randall shot with his. You remember he won a competition at the Hawker Show? I thought the rifle would improve my shooting ability, but I lost it before I had the chance to find out.’
Listening to Joe’s explanation, Stuart rubbed his clean-shaven jaw thoughtfully. Then, with his stare narrowing on Joe, he asked, ‘I believe you expect to inherit the bulk of
your father’s estate. Bill was the wealthiest man in the district, wasn’t he?’
‘I’m his only son. Of course I expect to inherit just about everything. And,’ he decided to take a risk and give Stuart a conspiratorial wink, ‘when I do, I won’t forget my friends, if you know what I mean.’
Stuart’s frown was disapproving and he made another note on the piece of paper. ‘I’ll forget you said that. Now if I were to ask you where you were the morning of your father’s death, what would you tell me?’
Joe’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down nervously. ‘Shit! Are you saying I’m a suspect? Who bloody well said so? Tell me!’
Stuart didn’t mince words. ‘Until I find your father’s killer, everyone with a reasonable motive has to be regarded as a suspect.’
‘And what’s my reason for such a crime?’
The constable thought for maybe half a minute or so, tapping his pencil repeatedly on his desk before answering. ‘Greed: getting tired of waiting for your inheritance. And desperation. I’ve heard you owe a considerable amount of money to several people. Besides, I only have your word that you “lost” the rifle you bought.’ Stuart’s gaze remained trained on Joe, watching for a reaction. He didn’t have long to wait. Joe’s mouth tightened and he began to fidget. ‘Where were you that morning, Joe?’
‘Uummm, I was at Ingleside until I went to find my father.’
‘I see. Someone at Ingleside could confirm this, I presume?’
‘Not exactly.’ Joe’s cheeks flushed and his eyes darted around the station house, looking everywhere but at the constable. ‘I was alone, riding around the wheat fields—we’re doing crop rotation this year.’ Suddenly he jumped up from the chair, and in doing so managed to push it over with the back of his knees. ‘Damn you, Stuart. How dare you accuse me of killing Dad? What about McLean and Mick Herbert? They both hated Dad.’ His mouth clamped shut for a moment or two, then, ‘I’m not answering any more questions.’ He shook a threatening finger at the constable. ‘I—I’ve a good mind to report your behaviour to your superiors. If you’re not going to arrest me, I’m walking out of here.’
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