“Mary Sinclair. Died, February 28th, 1908.”
Sinclair! Where had he heard that name? No, he had not heard but read it. It had been written by his old friend in North Queensland, among other details of the strange white fellow who had been made a sub-chief of a tribe ruled by one Wombra. His friend had named Clair Sinclair.
And now, here was Mary Sinclair, a Mary Sinclair who had died more than nineteen years ago. And it was from nineteen to twenty years ago that Clair or Sinclair had started out after King Henry. The triangle again, the eternal triangle. Was Mary the sister of William? Was it because of Mary that William had killed King Henry? The dates coincided strangely.
Bony got to his feet and began to pace to and fro between the graves, his mind racing in and out among little illuminated patches amidst encircling darkness, his hands gripped before him, his eyes almost closed. He had hoped that the solution of the mystery would have come from the blacks’ camp, as indeed it yet might, but always something turned up or happened to point to the homestead of Barrakee.
Hoofbeats of a horse caused Bony to pause in his walk and, looking up, he saw Mr Thornton, mounted on a black mare, riding towards him from the road. After the disappearance of Clair the squatter had wondered why the detective elected to remain, since the case appeared to be complete. Bluntly asking Bony for his reason, he had been told with equal bluntness that the case, so far as he, Bony, was concerned, was not complete, the motive for the murder being still unknown. This being a matter of indifference to the squatter and considering also the fact that Bony was doing good work about the homestead for which he was not being paid, Mr Thornton had not pressed the subject. On reaching the cemetery he smiled with his usual friendliness, saying:
“Good evening, Bony! Looking for inspiration among the tombs?”
Bony returned the smile, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
“Inspiration comes to me; I never seek it,” he said. “The favoured of Dame Fortune is he who ignores the jade. Is it not wonderful how in so little time the grass is already growing? In a week or two the ground will be covered.”
“It is wonderful—no doubt of that,” Thornton agreed, seating himself on the foot of Mary Sinclair’s grave and pulling out his cigarette-case. “It would be better, though, had the rain come a month sooner, for then the grass would have been better able to weather the frosts we are sure to have at the end of the month.”
“Well, well! Let us be glad that the rain has come,” Bony murmured. “It is as well, perhaps, that we cannot order Nature to act as and when we like. Just imagine now, if the great ones of history had possessed that power! Philip of Spain would himself have accompanied his armada and ordered the sea to remain calm; whilst the Emperor would not have been beaten by the cold after the burning of Moscow. Speaking of the dead, would you mind telling me who are the dead around us? Edward Crowley—who was he?”
They both glanced at the expensive monument to Bony’s left.
“He was the only son of Jim Crowley, the man who formed this run a hundred years ago. Edward was sixty when he died.” The squatter pointed out a grave over which stood a cross of red gum. “Harold Young sleeps there. He was my first overseer, and was drowned when foolishly attempting to swim his horse across the Washaways.”
“Ah! Sad indeed. Your own son nearly lost his life not very long ago in the Darling.”
“Do you mean Ralph?” Thornton demanded in surprise.
“Yes, I do,” replied Bony. “He dived into a deep hole about a mile and a half up the river, with the foolish idea of blocking a fish lair with some sunken snags. It appears that, when he moved one of the snags, others fell and caught him by the foot, keeping him prisoner.”
“Oh, this the first I’ve heard about it. Go on.”
Bony’s inherent love of the dramatic was fully aroused. He went on:
“As I have stated, your son’s foot was caught by the snags he had loosed twenty feet under water. He was unable to free himself, and he would assuredly have been drowned had not someone dived down after him and engineered his release just when the boy was at his final struggle. In fact, your son was that far gone out of this life that, even had his final struggle released him without other help, it is doubtful if he would have survived had she not brought him to the surface.”
“Great heavens, man! She! Who was this she?”
“A woman of my people—Nellie Wanting.”
“You don’t say so!” Mr Thornton regarded Bony with a look of slow-dawning admiration. “Well, she had grit, that girl. I thought the youngster had something on his mind. Doubtless he said nothing of it, fearing to worry us, especially his mother. But I must at least thank Nellie Wanting personally. The devil, now! Had the lad been drowned it would have killed my wife. How did you find out about this, Bony?”
“I learned the details from the girl’s mother,” the detective answered. “I would, however, deem it best if you did not make any mention of it. You see, the young man himself not having told anyone, it might be for the best to respect his motive for silence. Perhaps I have been indiscreet?”
“Not a bit of it,” Thornton assured him warmly. “But I must talk to him in a guarded way to be more careful and take less risks. In any case, I would like to reward the girl’s pluck. Tomorrow I’ll give you a fiver to give to her.”
“That, I think, would be appreciated,” Bony returned. “However, we are getting away from the dead who are still close to us. Who and what was this Mary Sinclair here?”
Mr Thornton looked sharply at the indicated headstone. For a second he hesitated. Bony noted it, but when the squatter quickly turned his eyes on the detective Bony was regarding yet a further headstone.
“Mary Sinclair was our cook and died of peritonitis,” Mr Thornton said, and at once regretted mentioning the cause of her death.
Bony appeared little interested, however. He asked about the fourth grave, and was told that the occupant had been a boundary-rider who was thrown from his horse and killed.
“Is it correct that we are to expect a flood?” asked the half-caste, deftly turning the subject.
“Reports have it so,” Thornton replied. “Most of Southern Queensland is under water, and all the tributaries of the Darling are running bankers. It would not surprise me if we should have a record flood, and I am hoping we don’t get it till after shearing. I have been intending for years to bridge the Washaways, but have always put it off. But let us go. I am getting cold.”
“Ah, yes! The sun has gone. Do you ride on. I shall not forget to call for Nellie’s present in the morning.”
They parted with friendly nods, but when Thornton had left him Bony’s face grew serious.
“So she was the cook, eh?” he murmured.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Black is White
IF MR THORNTON had been aware of the gradual change in his son, Kate Flinders had been acutely aware of it. There were several points that constituted the change which had seemed to begin on the night of the surprise party.
At first, Kate thought that the change might be in herself, because after the revelation that she loved Frank Dugdale she knew she regarded her betrothed in an entirely different light. The unenviable position in which she found herself she faced with courage. No doubt existed in her mind that she loved Dugdale and that he loved her, and had she been offered her freedom she would have felt both relief and joy. But she had not been offered her freedom, and, knowing that she could not expect it to be offered, she determined that at least she would try to banish Dugdale from her thoughts and be loyal in them to Ralph. And the basic reason for this decision was that her marriage to Ralph was actually desired by the two people whom she loved so well.
For Kate was nothing if not loyal. Her promise given she would keep it, and resolutely crush down any feeling for Dugdale beyond the old light-hearted friendship. But it was a task terribly bitter, so bitter that the joy of life was dulled, while to make matters worse Ralph had grown preoccupied, his
usual affectionate attentions slowly becoming more indifferent.
The day after Bony discovered the clue in the cemetery was brilliantly fine, and for several hours during the morning Kate was busy among her hens and broods of early chicks. It was whilst feeding the latter, in the bottom end of the garden, that Bony paused in passing, and spoke.
“It should be a matter of pride, Miss Flinders, having all those chickens out so early in the year,” he said, removing his old hat and standing before her bare-headed.
Kate smiled. Of all the hands on her uncle’s run the half-caste aboriginal was the most interesting. He was, in fact, not a little “intriguing”. Several exceptionally educated and refined men had worked on the run at various periods, men whose presence there as station-hands was mystifying; but until the appearance of Bony she had not met a man so deferential to her sex, so frankly admiring of her looks for beauty’s sake. There was, too, something so easy in his speech, as though, whilst recognizing the difference of their social status, his worldly wisdom entitled him to address her at all times.
“I am proud of my chicks, Bony,” she said smilingly.
“They are, if I may guess, Buff Orpingtons, Miss Flinders.”
“Your guess is right; they are.”
“Ah! Excellent table birds, indeed, but not so excellent in producing eggs as, say, the Black Wyandottes,” murmured Bony.
Kate stared at him, and then burst out laughing.
“Is there any subject you are not well up in?” she asked.
“Too many, I am afraid,” Bony admitted. “Just now I am reading Hepplewaite’s treatise on the general paralysis of the insane, a subject of which I am lamentably ignorant.”
“Do you know, Bony, that every time you speak to me you make me feel that my education has been dreadfully neglected?” she said, with another laugh. “But why in the world are you interested in insanity, of all things?”
“Because I am interested in all things, the human mind particularly. When a human being commits an act there is always a cause before it and effect after it. For instance, when a man who all his life has dressed in quiet colours suddenly takes to wearing violently-coloured socks and ties, it may be assumed that the thought has entered his mind that no longer is he young. The subsequent act proves his desire to retain his youth, at least, to make other people think he is still young and—er—daring. But the subsequent effect is to make other men regard him as—what shall I say? Vulgar, no; loud, yes. That is the effect—loudness.”
Kate could not refrain from a slight start. The threatened abnormal charge of blood to her face made her turn her head to the task of adding a little more food to the chicks’ pan. What a strange coincidence that Bony should have said that when Ralph’s sudden liking for vivid colours was one of the points of the change in him she was noticing! Or had Bony noticed it, too?
“There is no cause without effect,” Bony went on. “At one time a friend of mine died of the disease I am now studying. It was unaccountable, for he was healthy and of healthy parents; but, when he was admitted to a home for such sufferers, it was found that for many years he had been addicted to opium. The doctors said that opium was the cause. Undoubtedly it was the cause of his death, but there must have been a cause leading to the first indulgence. And that, the real cause of my friend’s death, was disappointment in a love-affair.”
“Then I hope, if I am ever disappointed in a love-affair, I shall not be so very foolish,” Kate said, still busying herself with her chicks.
“I thought of something much more drastic when I was thus disappointed,” Bony remarked, sighing.
“You!” Kate flashed round, but Bony was already leaving her. He smiled slightly.
“Even I, Bony,” he said softly. “Good morning, Miss Flinders!”
The detective was much pleased with this conversation, which had its cause and would have its effect. He had learned that Kate had noticed Ralph’s growing predilection for colours, and also he had learned that Kate was suffering from a disappointment in love; because, though her face was turned from him, he noticed the blood, which had come into her face on his introducing the subject of disappointed love, spread to her neck. But Bony thought that it was over Ralph. He was not to know that it was on account of Dugdale.
Leaving the garden by the wicker-gate, the half-caste crossed the billabong and sauntered up the river-bank with the intention of visiting the blacks’ camp, and when almost there he saw Nellie Wanting crossing the dry bed on her way to the homestead. Bony slowed in his walk and awaited her under one of the gums.
“Good morning, Nellie!” was his greeting when they met.
“Good day-ee, Bony!” she replied in her soft drawl.
“We are well met, Nellie, because I was coming to talk to you on very private business.” Bony seated himself on a fallen tree and motioned to her to sit beside him. Then, abruptly: “Are you in fun, Nellie, or do you love Mr Ralph Thornton?”
The girl, who had seated herself, sprang up. She looked at Bony as though he had struck her.
“What—what for you say that?” she demanded, the whites of her eyes very plain, her scarlet lips held apart whilst she waited for his answer. Then, since he did not reply immediately, she whispered: “What do you see, what do you find out, eh?”
“I have seen enough to make me feel very sorry for you, Nellie,” Bony said at last. “It would have been better if you had fallen in love with poor old Bony, who has a gin and three little children. You don’t expect Ralph Thornton to marry you, do you?”
“But he loves me,” she said simply.
“Does he? Are you sure he does, just because you want to believe he does? Ralph Thornton can never marry you, Nellie.”
Quite suddenly she sat down on the ground at his feet and burst into sobs. Bony’s great heart throbbed in pity. He saw the shaking shoulders and the bowed head. He saw with infinite pity the cheap cotton blouse, the cheap but spotless navy-blue serge skirt, the flesh-coloured stockings, and the brilliantly polished high-heeled shoes. Wearing a grass-plaited sarong, he thought, she would have been a queen. Wearing the clothes of a white girl, decking herself to please her lover’s eyes, she appeared a travesty of womanhood, a travesty and a tragedy. Leaning forward, he placed a sympathetic hand on her short black curls.
“You think he play with me because I am black,” she sobbed. “But he love me. He tell me so again and again. I love him, yea—oh dear! I love him. He drown, and I pull him out. I save him, and he belonga me all right now. I love him long time before I pull him out of hole, but he love me then and always ever after. He marry me and I go away long way off with Ralphie. He make me call him Ralphie. Even if he won’t marry me, no matter. I go way with him, I go bush with him, and help him—bush all alonga me. I wanta go, he wanta go. He want me and I want him.”
The man found himself regarded by tear-drenched eyes.
“Oh, Bony—dear old Bony!—done you see my Ralphie all belonga me, and me all belonga him?” she pleaded.
“What does your mother say about it?” Bony inquired.
“Ole Sarah—she dunno. You no tell her, Bony.”
“What do you think she would say if she did know?” the half-caste persisted.
For a while Nellie was silent. Then:
“She no say nothing.”
“That may be. But what do you think Mrs Thornton say when she know her son has gone bush with you, Nellie, you, a gin?”
“What matter what she say, then?” Nellie countered naively.
“A great deal, my girl, a great deal. They would very soon have your lover back. And you would be ordered off the run, kept away like—like a dingo. Can’t you understand that?”
“They’ll never find us when we go bush. We’ll be, oh! so clever. We’ll have plenty tucker and walk, walk, walk all day, far, far away.”
Bony sighed. It was evident that the affair was already becoming serious, and that young Thornton was planning to make an irrevocable outcast of himself. For an outcast
he would assuredly become if he took the girl away into the bush. Had the two met in the far north of Queensland, or the Northern Territory, the public eye would have been closed in a portentous wink; but here, in New South Wales, the home of the bluest-blooded squattocracy, such a course would result in utter social damnation.
So Bony played the age-old trump card, the chief trump card of all:
“But the time would come, Nellie, when out there in the bush he would begin to think of his father and mother and the home he had left. He would look at you. And you would see in his eyes the longing for all those things he had lost.”
“I won’t let him think of that,” she said fiercely. “I shall love him so, so much that he would not have any time to think like that.”
“You won’t stop him thinking when you lie asleep,” Bony pointed out gently. “And you will know, girl, that he is there living like we black people because of you. You will know that you have dragged him down to our level, he who now is so proud, so white, so high.”
Nellie made no reply to that. Bony had let her see the matter from an entirely new angle, had started a train of thought which kept her silent. Still he urged further:
“You don’t know it, Nellie, but you are an exceptional girl. I have studied you. In spite of the loose morals of your people, made loose because the iron tribal customs of old have been swamped by the white man’s damnable civilization, you are a thoroughly good girl, a throwback, as it were, to your ancestors of five hundred years ago.
“Just think now. Suppose you let Ralph take you away into the bush. It will be lovely to be wrapped in love for a little while—and a little while it will be, in spite of what you think. Love will sleep one day, and he will awake to see how deep has been his fall because of you. Now, suppose you say to yourself: ‘I love my Ralphie so much that I won’t let him fall because of me. I’ll make him stay as he is. I’ll watch him grow older, see him boss of Barrakee, see him become so fine, and I shall be able to say to myself: ‘Ralphie, you have become great because I love you so much that I would not let you sink to be an outcast, a wild man, a dingo.’ Would not that be so much nobler, Nellie, wouldn’t it?”
The Barrakee Mystery Page 15