The Barrakee Mystery

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “The lure of the bush gripped him. I could see it in his face, and I marvelled. He felt the lure and could not explain it even to himself. And then came this last, this fatal yet inevitable surrender. He fell in love with a black gin. He was betrothed to a beautiful white girl, he was heir to a great estate, yet he fell in love with a gin. Mr Dugdale reasoned with him. I discovered the affair and pleaded with the girl. She went away, persuaded by me, but the youth learned of her whereabouts and wrote passionate letters, and she, being a woman, and a poor ignorant black woman, too, could not resist.

  “Blame not the boy, Little Lady. You could not wipe from his heart the lure of the bush planted by his black father, not with all your forethought, all your love. Do not blame nor cherish anger against him, Mr Thornton. Would you be happy in the city now? Would you not long for the bush? You are wholly white, but the lad was half black, half wild, half of the bush. And you, Miss Flinders, bear no rancour for the wrong done you. Crimson lips and black velvet cheeks were a greater magnet than your lily complexion and azure eyes. For countless ages his ancestors found beauty in large black eyes and black velvet cheeks.

  “The boy fought his battle, the battle which could end only in his defeat. I watched and wondered. I saw a headstone in the cemetery bearing the name of Mary Sinclair. I knew Clair’s name was Sinclair, from a friend in North Queensland who remembered him. And at last I saw the light. I saw clearly how Mrs Thornton’s maternal desires overwhelmed her judgement, her prudence, even her morality. As I have said, she took to her bosom an asp.

  “I knew what she knew. I knew that Ralph Thornton was to marry Miss Flinders, that Miss Flinders, unknowingly, would marry a half-caste Australian aboriginal. The wonder of it was that neither she nor Mr Thornton guessed. Even during the few months I have been at Barrakee, I have seen Ralph’s skin slowly darkening, as my skin slowly darkened when I was his age. Five or six more years at the outside, and the colour of his skin will be as mine is.

  “My duty, then, was clear. Sinclair, in his letter to Mrs Thornton, written just before he died—for even the water has not obliterated the drops of blood which I assume fell from his lips—rings clear the call of Duty. This is what it says:

  Dear Mrs Thornton,

  I am dying, and have but a few hours at most to live. Friends have been supplying me with tucker, but Knowles got me. If he hadn’t, some other policeman would. Only yesterday I heard that your adopted son is betrothed to the Darling of the Darling, and that is not right. You must not let that be: you must not wrong a white woman. Let her be told, and then if she wishes they can marry.

  You know me for a poor man, my sister for a poor working woman. Yet our people were high, and always did we keep our colour. Keep yours. Do not let your love of Mary’s child blind your eyes to facts.

  You are safe, Little Lady. I am about to pay the price for all you did for Mary. When I die, I die free of debt to you. And dead, I demand of you that this marriage does not take place.

  Till the end,

  Your obedient servant,

  William Sinclair.”

  Bony refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope. In the same envelope he put Mrs Thornton’s letter to Sinclair, and then for a while regarded her and her husband and niece with curious intensity.

  Memory of a Sydney waxwork exhibition occurred to him in gazing at the Little Lady. The waxen pallor of her face, the expressionless immobility of her features, the absolute stillness of her body, caused her to resemble nothing so much as a dainty doll. What she was thinking or what she felt was hidden by a deathlike mask. Her husband, seated at her side, appeared shrunken in stature, hardly recognizable for the hale, bluff, and genial squatter of Barrakee. Kate, only Kate, retained her vividness, but down her cheeks Bony observed that now and then ran unheeded a tear.

  “It is not for me, or for any man, to judge you, Mrs Thornton,” he said very softly. “Only a woman could understand a woman’s craving for a baby to love, a woman’s determination to fight for a baby she has come to love. Throughout your actions there is, I think, only one point to censure, and that was in not telling your husband that King Henry was Ralph’s father. Had you confided in him, you both would have been better able to meet the inevitable event of his return to his native wilds, whilst the betrothal doubtless would never have been permitted.

  “My duty, as I saw it, is finished. I am a stickler for duty, as was that illustrious man whose name I bear. These letters are now yours. Destroy them. I shall forget their existence. The case of King Henry will end with the death of Sinclair, who has paid the price that the law would have exacted.

  “As for the young man, you will never get him wholly back. The chains forged by countless nomadic ancestors are too strong. I know, for I am bound by the same chains. Probably he will tire of the gin and return to you for a few weeks, but the bush will draw him back for ever longer periods. I will send him to you this evening, after I have told him everything. Judge him not; for you cannot judge him, as I, Bony, cannot judge you.”

  Chapter Forty

  Maternal Love

  WITH QUITE startling suddenness Mrs Thornton came to life. Her eyes, flashing upward, met those of the detective, in them a blazing white light of hope and joy. Yet, if her eyes became alive, her body for a few seconds longer remained immobile. Instinctively the half-caste rose to his feet, whereupon the Little Lady rose, too, and almost ran to him.

  “Bony, did I hear you say that you would send him to me presently?” she cried appealingly, placing both her hands on his shoulders and searching his face with eyes that were astoundingly brilliant.

  “I did so, madam,” he said gently. “This morning I discovered their camp. I shall now return to it, where I shall explain everything to the lad. I cannot promise that he will remain with you; in fact, I know he will be unable to do so, but I can promise that he will come to you this day.”

  And then Mrs Thornton did a very strange thing for a woman so proud, so self-contained, so strong of will. She sank on her knees and took his hands in hers whilst looking up into his red-black, downcast face.

  “Oh, Bony!” she cried softly, “I am a wicked woman. I have been a wicked woman for years and years, and now when I should be scourged with scorpions you whip me with a feather. You say you cannot judge me, but I know you understand how I loved Mary’s baby, how I thought ahead for it, how always my mind dwelt upon its future and my heart lay down for its little feet to tread upon. If God had only let my real baby live!”

  Slowly her head fell forward on their closed hands. For a moment Bony kept still. His usually impassive features were softened to an almost beautiful expression of tenderness. Gently he raised the Little Lady to her feet, when she regarded him once more, but with eyes no longer wide and appealing, her face showing again its habitual firmness. Into her eyes came suddenly a cloudiness, and her body drooped.

  “Take me to a seat—I am tired,” she gasped. “Bring me a little water, please.”

  Her husband instantly was at her side, and almost carried her to a sofa, where Kate Flinders was arranging the cushions. A glass of water was offered, and she drank as though exceedingly thirsty.

  “Sit down, please; I have something to say,” she said painfully at last. “Just a moment—my heart is beating—too fast. Better presently.”

  It was Kate who ministered to her aunt, wetting her fingers and soothing the Little Lady’s forehead, while one round arm was about her shoulders. The others one by one sat down, and after a while Mrs Thornton spoke with her eyes closed:

  “I have fought many battles and won them all, but this is my Waterloo,” she said haltingly. “Like the great Emperor, I have risen to great heights and tasted the joy of life; and like him, too, when the pinnacle was reached, I fell. His enemy was Man; my enemy is Nature.

  “I remember as though it were yesterday when Ralph came,” she went on slowly, dreamily. “My baby lay dead in the cot beside my bed. Mary’s I heard crying in her room. For years, and during th
e waiting period especially, I dreamed of my baby, planned for him, schemed to protect him, and ensure his love. And he for whom I had planned, and dreamed, and hoped, and felt, lay dead in the tiny cot I had created myself.

  “It was a warm afternoon. My husband was engaged with the carpenter making the coffin. The windows were wide open, and above the cries of the sleepy birds and the droning of the insects there came the regular chug-chug of the steam-engine. And there upon my bed, my empty bed, I writhed in the agony of my grief and the torturing pains of my body, which screamed for the feel of tiny pulling hands and gentle working lips.

  “Then Martha came in to me. She told me that Mary was very still. Martha was frightened, and I made her lift me up and carry me to Mary’s bedroom, where she put me down beside her.

  “‘Mary, are you worse?’ I asked her. But she was silent. If she heard, she could not or would not speak, and while I lay on my side looking at her white rugged face the baby between us clutched my nightdress with his little hands and cried out again. And then—I don’t know how it happened—I took the baby in my arms and suckled it.

  “Oh, the glory of that moment, the sweetness of it! The relief from the torturing pains, the satiation of awful hunger! What kisses I showered upon the dark little head and the little pink shoulder! And, whilst thus I held Mary’s baby in my arms, Mary opened her eyes and smiled at us.

  “‘Will you take him, Ma’am?’ she whispered eagerly.

  “‘Oh, Mary, if only you knew how much I want him you would not ask,’ I said weakly.

  “‘Make him yours, Ma’am! Oh, Ma’am! I am dying because of my sin. Never let him know of it, or who his father is.’ For a little while she lay so still that I thought her dead, and then quite distinctly she said: ‘I don’t know why—perhaps it was because he was so magnificent a man that I became as putty in his hands. When he put out his arms I was compelled into them; when he touched me he lifted me off the earth. Oh, Ma’am! he is King Henry.’

  “I looked at Mary with amazement. Then I looked down into the child’s face and gazed long at the child’s body. I saw the tender flesh was as white as my own, and I could not believe it. It was incredible, impossible; and when again I turned to Mary I saw that she was dead.

  “Martha carried Mary’s baby and me back to my room. I made her take the dead baby and lay it beside the dead Mary. John came, and I told him what had happened, everything but the name of the man Mary had mentioned. The doctor came, and I persuaded him to shut his eyes to the exchange, and when he signed the certificates the living baby was my own, my very own.

  “Very quickly I grew strong again. I lived in paradise with the baby, whom we had christened Ralph. Three weeks, deliriously happy weeks, sped by, and then one early evening, whilst baby and I were in the garden, King Henry came and demanded the baby. He knew, and I could not deny it, that my baby had died, and that Ralph was Mary’s child and his own.

  “When I refused to surrender it, he said he would sell it to me for ten pounds. I went into the house and brought out the money, and paid him. A week after that he came again, saying that ten pounds was not enough. I gave him another ten pounds, and when he took it I saw in his eyes the determination to batten upon me for ever.

  “For long days and longer nights my mind dwelt upon the problem of Ralph’s father. It came to me that I must kill him. Then came the idea of getting Mary’s brother to kill him. I had seen William Sinclair several times when he came to Barrakee to visit Mary; the last time he came was the day before Mary died, and I did not see him. I wrote to him the letter you read out, Mr Bonaparte, and three days afterwards I learned from Martha that King Henry had fled from the vengeance of William Sinclair.”

  The Little Lady took a few sips from the glass held against her lips by the kneeling Kate, from whose white face slow tears fell on Mrs Thornton’s dress. When the Little Lady again spoke, her voice was low and tired, so low that Bony drew his chair nearer her.

  “The months and years passed quickly after that, and every day I felt more secure,” she went on. “With indescribable happiness I watched my baby grow and heard him lisp his first words. I used to cry for very happiness. The years were just wonderful, and as he grew up into a splendid young man I came to believe that Mary was mistaken, that she had named the wrong man, or made some mistake when her mind was clouded by the approach of death.

  “And then one day I saw a man working in the garden. It was just after Martha told me that King Henry had come back to the Darling and was coming to Barrakee. Imagine my relief when I was told that the new man’s name was Clair, and instantly guessed that he was Sinclair. There he was working in the garden, my protector, my son’s guardian.

  “King Henry came back. He sent word through Martha that he wanted to see me, that I was to meet him near the station boats after dark that evening. I made Martha go and tell Sinclair that, and he sent her back to say that I must not be there.

  “But at half past eight Martha and I went and waited between the boats and the billabong. It was very dark. Sinclair joined us. He told us to get on the house side of a gum, and keep still. He was angry at our presence, and would have sent us away had not it been too late. We could hear someone coming along the riverbank.

  “Indistinctly, I saw Sinclair throw the boomerang. It hit something, and I heard it fall between where he was and us. King Henry sprang upon Sinclair and bore him to the ground. Now, though Sinclair was a heavy man, King Henry was much the stronger. How it happened I don’t know, but I found myself beside them as they fought on the ground, the heavy boomerang in my hands.

  “In spite of the darkness I saw that King Henry had both his hands about Sinclair’s throat. I saw with horror my protector’s face grow ghastly and horrible. I was shocked by the knowledge that Sinclair was being killed, that when he was dead there would be no one to stand between my Ralph and his terrible father. I saw my love destroyed, my hopes, all my care, my plans.

  “Upon the level of my waist I saw King Henry’s white head, and with such strength as I have never felt before, I struck it with the weapon in my hands.”

  The tired voice suddenly ceased. A stupendous silence fell upon the room, unbroken by a breath. Then:

  “It was Martha who helped Sinclair to his feet. The man fought for air and staggered, but, recovering, bent over the black fellow and felt his heart. Then he took me by the arm and, with the trembling Martha on my other side, he led us quickly to the garden gate.

  “‘Remember,’ he said, ‘whatever happens, remember that it was I who killed King Henry. You must live free to love your son. You are free now.’

  “I remember the lightning. It flared as Martha and I stood before the gate. I almost ran to my room, and when there I found the boomerang still in my hands.”

  “It was you, then, who warned Sinclair at the Basin?” Thornton put in quietly.

  “Yes. I went into the office on my way to the store that morning,” Mrs Thornton said softly, her voice hardly a whisper. “I could not have Sinclair caught. He might, I considered, tell the truth at the last; but I misjudged him. Sinclair was a gentleman. I wish you—I am feeling ill. Please—please, take me—to my room. Tell Ralph—to—come quickly.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Midnight Visit

  THE BRILLIANT sun hung over the western sand-hills and already the air had become appreciably colder. To the east a vast sheet of water shimmered under the gentle south wind, and reflected dully the foliage of the box trees growing on the submerged flats. The flood was at its highest point and about four miles north-west of Barrakee it lapped against the foot of a steep clean hill of sand.

  Midway up the hillock the wind had scooped out a wide ledge, and upon this was built a circular humpy of tobacco-bush. Smoke rose slanting northward from a small fire of boxwood, and about this fire Nellie Wanting was busy preparing the evening meal. Occasionally she stood to her slender height and gazed steadily out among the box trees, through which she knew Ralph Thornton would row
the boat back from a fishing expedition.

  He came presently, sitting in the stern and propelling the boat forward with one oar; and she waved a scarlet handkerchief in greeting, and showed her pearly teeth in a smile of welcome.

  From the summit of the sand-hill Bony waited, hidden by a clump of tobacco-bush. He had been waiting there for an hour or more, and he waited yet while Ralph backed the boat and climbed to the ledge with a string of fish and a tin of swans’ eggs in his hands. The half-caste saw the youth lay his catch beside the fire and then, turning, hold out his arms and take Nellie Wanting within them; and whilst they stood toe to toe, he slid quietly down the hillock to them.

  “Bony! What do you want?” was Ralph’s challenge, even before he released the girl. Instinct prompted her to hide within the whirlie, leaving the two facing each other: anger on the face of the younger, genial friendliness on that of the older.

  Ralph was dressed in plain tweed trousers and blue shirt open at the neck. He wore neither boots nor hat. Even during the short time Ralph had been away from Barrakee, Bony saw how much darker had become his complexion.

  “I have come to speak to you on a matter of importance to yourself,” Bony said in his graceful manner. “I have been waiting for you for some time. Could not your wife provide us with a pannikin of tea whilst we talk?”

  Ralph hesitated, then nodded and called to Nellie. They seated themselves near the fire, and Bony rolled himself a cigarette. Not until the cigarette was made and he was inhaling the smoke did he speak. Gently and slowly he told the story of King Henry’s murder, and then revealed the motive of it. He explained with wonderful tact how Ralph was not Mrs Thornton’s son, but the son of King Henry and Mary Sinclair. And when he had finished the young man sat with his face hidden upon his arms, resting upon his hunched knees.