The Barrakee Mystery

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Bony expected a wild outburst against the fate of his birth, and a feeling of remorse for having deserted the Little Lady, and for having broken his troth to Kate Flinders. When, however, Ralph did raise his head, his face was quite calm and his eyes, if a little misty, quite steady. He said:

  “Then that accounts for my being here. I have been wondering why I am here. I am glad you have told me, for now that I know my mind is at rest. How does the Little Lady feel about it?”

  “Badly, Ralph, badly,” Bony murmured, rolling his fourth cigarette. “In spite of it all she still loves you, still wants you with her. She is expecting you. I told her she might expect you.”

  Again the young man’s head sank to his knees. “You have told me,” he said, “how when a young man you were white of skin. I suppose I shall not remain white much longer?”

  “A few years at the longest, Ralph.”

  “A few years! Somehow I am not greatly sorry for myself. My thoughts now are of Mrs Thornton, to whom I was and am so necessary. You would think, wouldn’t you, that such a love would keep a fellow back from this—this—And yet what you find here is irresistible to me.”

  “Of course it is,” Bony agreed. “But it seems no reason why you should wholly desert Mrs Thornton.”

  “It is an all-sufficing reason. I could never look into the eyes of anyone at Barrakee again. I would see shame in those of my foster-father, contempt in those of Dugdale; in Katie’s eyes I would find horror and loathing.”

  “I don’t believe it,” protested Bony vigorously. “Even should you find what you expect, you will see in the Little Lady’s eyes only a hungry love, a mother’s love. She is ill, Ralph, very ill. Won’t you come back with me now?”

  For a little while Ralph was silent. Then:

  “No, not now. I will go to Barrakee when it is dark, when no one sees me. I want to see only my mother.” And then, after another pause, he said, looking up again: “Leave us now, Bony, please. I want to think. I must think.”

  So it was that the detective went back to Barrakee, leaving Ralph with his face resting upon his knees. Nellie came out of the whirlie and stood near him, wanting to comfort him, yet afraid. The sun went down, and when it was almost dark he said to her:

  “I’m goin’ alonga Barrakee tonight. You will stay here and if by sun-up I am not back, you will take the boat and go find Pontius Pilate.”

  “Oh Ralphie,” she murmured softly.

  “You will do as I have said,” he commanded, more than a hint of the buck speaking to his gin in his voice.

  Nellie went into the humpy and cried noiselessly. The youth sat where he was, hour after hour, till by the stars he decided it was midnight. Then, rising he crept into the humpy, and with his hands found the sleeping Nellie. He kissed her without awaking her, and so left her, and walked down beside the floodwaters to the causeway and to Barrakee.

  He was aware that Mr and Mrs Thornton occupied rooms separated by the squatter’s dressing room. He knew, too, that the Little Lady’s bedroom was between the dressing room and another she used as her boudoir. There was some doubt in his mind whether he would rejoin Nellie immediately for he foresaw the possibility that the woman who loved him might temporarily overcome his determination never again to resume his former status.

  His mind, whilst he followed the causeway, was troubled by the old battle which he had considered lost, and well lost, in favour of Nellie’s embraces. No man can forget his mother; exceptionally few look back upon their mothers with no one tender memory.

  The whole of his life formed a chain of tender memories of a loving woman, whom he had cherished as his mother. He felt ungrateful, ashamed, not a little frightened; yet he knew that his severance from white people was dictated by a power which only that afternoon he recognized as the power of his ancestry. Realizing that he had brought pain and anguish to the woman who had given him her all, he blamed himself less than he blamed his fate. What he did not realize was that this midnight visit represented the last link binding him to her, that when it had been strained and broken the forces of heredity would become for ever victorious.

  Noiseless as a shadow he entered the garden. He moved across the lawn and round to Mrs Thornton’s rooms as lightly as a stalking cat, the inherent tracker in him enabling him unconsciously to avoid fallen leaves and obstacles the touching of which would make a sound.

  He came to the boudoir door and, opening it an inch, listened. There was no sound within. Familiar with the arrangement of the furniture, he crossed silently to the bedroom door, which he found open. Still no sound reached him. As silently as he had come he crossed the Little Lady’s bedroom and closed the dressing room door, whereupon he stole to the dressing table on which invariably stood a candlestick, for he knew that the electric current would have been shut off by Mr Thornton at eleven o’clock.

  Having matches with him he struck one and lit the candle. He turned then towards the bed—to see no one lying upon it. Yet there was something strange about that bed, not wholly revealed by the dim candlelight. Picking up the light, he stole towards the bed, and by it stood looking down upon the sheet that was spread over a distinctly outlined form.

  Even in that terrible moment, when his limbs were shocked into paralysed inactivity, Ralph felt no fear, nor any desire to cry out or run. For a full minute he stood as a statue of marble, and during that minute the world appeared to die and become a whited grave. And then, very gently, he took a corner of the sheet in his free hand and pulled it down from the face of the dead.

  The candle became slightly tilted, and drop by drop the grease fell on the sheet. And drop by drop there fell on the sheet, near the grease marks, great globes of tears from his wide eyes.

  He set the candle on a bracket at the head of the bed, and very slowly bent forward and touched the Little Lady’s cold lips that would meet his never again. And then gently he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the granite cold brow and icy lips of the dead. Gently, soundlessly, he laid himself down beside the body, his brain numbed by the shock, his limbs strangely heavy. He felt inexpressibly tired. And there, with his head resting on a bent arm, he silently studied every beloved feature, whilst the large tears continued to fall.

  There was something tremendous in that soundless grief, far more poignant than if it had been accompanied by breath-catching sobs. The lad, during those terrible minutes, saw himself exactly as God had made him, and the sight brought about the revelation of all that he had meant to the dead woman, especially when nineteen years before she had made him her own. She had given him a great maternal love, she had surrounded him with that guarding love, yet a love not potent enough to keep him safe from the power, the unseen power, of his ancestors of the bush. No power was adequate to deal with that inherent, compelling impulse.

  The candle on the bed bracket burned steadily down to half its length before he moved. No man might know all that passed through his mind, wearied by the struggle of the last few months, stunned by the disclosure of his origin, shocked by the discovery that the Little Lady, his mother in all but birth, lay dead with a broken heart.

  And she had sent Bony for him, and he had not come till it was too late!

  He kissed her once, and after a little while kissed her again. One long look, his face saddened by tragic grief, he gave to her to whom he had belonged.

  One agonized sob burst from him just before he extinguished the candle; and slowly, very slowly, he drew away from the bed which had become a bier, and passed out of the homestead of Barrakee for ever.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Flood-Waters Subside

  TOGETHER WITH Mr Thornton, Bony walked down the veranda steps to the garden. They walked slowly, Bony with bent head, the squatter with head held high, unashamed of the sorrow that welled from his heart and shadowed his fine face. Coming to a garden seat, the half-caste caught his companion by the sleeve and urged him to be seated.

  He spoke softly, a world of sympathy in his voice, and told the stor
y he had read from the closed dressing room door, the half-burned candle, the grease spots on the sheet, and beside them the marks of Ralph’s tears ... For a while, when he ceased speaking, there was silence. Then:

  “What do you intend doing regarding my wife’s confession that she killed King Henry?” inquired Thornton with forced calmness.

  “Nothing—nothing whatever,” Bony replied. “As I have said before, I think, I am a detective, not a policeman. Sinclair willingly paid the price. The law is satisfied. The police are satisfied. Knowles will take no action against Dugdale or Blair and McIntosh. The case is finished. Besides, I would find it utterly impossible to tarnish the character of so great a woman as was the Little Lady. If she, and not the poor Empress Josephine, had been the beloved of the Emperor Napoleon, today the nations of the earth would be a peaceful and prosperous World Federation.

  “You are a fortunate man in having been her husband. Remember that. It will ease your load. I myself have been fortunate in having known her. I leave Barrakee less vain, less sure of myself, a better man than when I came. Good-bye! My car is coming.”

  The two rose to their feet and shook hands. Thornton tried to smile and, unsuccessful, sank down on the seat. Bony looked back once when crossing the lawn, and then, seeing Kate descending the veranda steps, swept off his hat and said gravely:

  “I leave your uncle on the seat yonder, Miss Flinders. He needs your consolation and sympathy—he needs your love. Presently, when this tragedy has been dimmed by time, remember that you and he have now and always the respectful regard and sympathy of—Bony.”

  She stood watching him pass out of the garden and climb into the car that waited to take him to the train at Bourke. At that moment she almost loved this strange being, with his understanding, gentle smile. And then, forgetting him, she ran to her uncle, and, seating herself beside him, slipped an arm about the broad shoulders, drew the greying head down to hers, and whispered:

  “Uncle dear, do not grieve so much. We have lost them, but we still have sweet memories of them to cherish always.”

  ***

  It was the first Tuesday in October, and the shearing had cut out very early that morning. The company that had contracted to shear Mr Thornton’s sheep was well satisfied, as it usually was with the Barrakee operations; for there was not and never had been any labour trouble. The last of the men had been paid off, the last lorry had gone with its load of men, and because the day was warm Kate and the squatter were lunching on the veranda of the homestead.

  Time, the healer of all sorrow, was at work on these two whom the falling flood had left high and dry upon the hill of Eternal Hope. The girl noted with joy that the lines of grief on the rugged face of her uncle were disappearing one by one, and sometimes he laughed gently in the old amused way, thereby brightening her eyes and swelling her heart.

  “We shall be hard at work for another fortnight getting the sheep settled into their summer paddocks,” he was telling her. “Now that the water is falling rapidly the river paddocks are becoming very dangerous, there are so many places where the sheep can get bogged. But when the work is finished, dear, we’ll take a long holiday to Sydney, and a trip to New Zealand thrown in. How will that do?”

  Looking into her glorious eyes, he was not surprised to see the coming and going of a shadow. It was momentary, and was followed by a gleam of happy expectation.

  “Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked.

  “Why, of course, Uncle. It will be lovely.”

  Leaning across the small table he took her hands affectionately in his, saying:

  “No secrets, now! You would like to go on that holiday, and yet you wouldn’t. Why? You have been a rock to which I have clung, let me now be a rock to which you can cling.”

  He saw her eyes grow misty, and then her head drooped, and on his hand splashed a large tear.

  “Do you love Frank very, very much?” he asked her softly.

  A moment passed before she raised her face and regarded him with brimming eyes.

  “How did you come to find out?” she whispered.

  “Because the flood left me with a keener vision to see the troubles of others. Don’t be downcast, Katie. I have seen the trouble lying behind your eyes, lying behind his eyes, too. We will talk of this again. Will you have afternoon tea ready at three o’clock? I have an important business visitor calling this afternoon.”

  “Why, of course,” she agreed, smiling bravely. “I hope he will be nice.”

  “M’yes. Not a bad sort of a fellow. In fact, when I met him a few weeks ago, he impressed me very much. Well, I must get along to the office. There is a tremendous amount of work waiting for me.”

  They left the lunch table together, and arm in arm strolled to the garden gates, where he embraced her with gallant tenderness before going on to the office. There he seated himself at his table and wrote letters for an hour.

  “Find out if Blair has come in, will you, Mortimore?” he said over his shoulder to the bookkeeper.

  “Certainly, Mr Thornton,” replied the old man, who then, taking a pith helmet from a peg, went out. The squatter smiled softly, and turning to the telephone, rang up Thurlow Lake and was answered by Mrs Watts.

  “Has Dugdale left yet, Mrs Watts?” he asked.

  “Yes. Oh yes! He had a cup of tea about eight o’clock,” she said. “Told us he had a rough crossing of the Paroo, on account of the mud.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “About half past eight. Certainly not later than a quarter to nine.”

  “Very well. Thanks! I’ll ring up Cattle Tank.”

  A minute later he was speaking to Flash Harry.

  “Seen Mr Dugdale today, Harry?”

  “I’m seeing him now, Mr Thornton. He’s coming along the track from the Washaways,” replied the man who only took off his hat when he went to bed.

  “Then ask him to wait till I get there with the car, will you?”

  “Righto!”

  The station-owner put down the receiver and turned to Fred Blair, who had just come in.

  “Good day, Fred. How’s the Three Mile Creek?”

  “Better. Only three sheep bogged,” Blair reported.

  “Ah! Then I suppose you’ll be wanting to go for a walkabout and spend that sweep money, eh?”

  The little man’s blue eyes danced. “Yaas,” he drawled. “But not all of it. Not by a long shot. I’m thinking of gitting married and buying a fruit farm down near Adelaide.”

  “A fruit farm?”

  “A fruit farm. It’s a sin for a man like me wot knows all about sheep bein’ obliged to go in for fruit wot I don’t know nothing about.”

  “Humph! Would your wife be prepared to live in the bush, say at Eucla Station, where Dugdale now is?”

  “Of course,” Blair said simply.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, Blair, but I think Dugdale will be taking a job here that I am offering him. Only last week I saw the chairman of the Land Board and asked him if he would consent to Dugdale giving up the lease of Eucla in your favour, and he said that he would.”

  Blair gazed at the squatter with growing wonder in his blue eyes.

  “I like you, Fred,” Thornton admitted frankly. “You’ve stuck by me when the flood pushed me hard, and every man was urgently needed, and when you had plenty of money. I shall be seeing Dugdale this afternoon, and I will inform you about the transfer for certain this evening. I thought that you could take over Dugdale’s sheep and improvements, for which I shall pay him cash. You can pay me how you like.”

  Blair found a speck of dust in his right eye which he removed by the simple method of drawing a bony, hairy forearm across the optic. Yet his voice was quite steady when he said:

  “Excuse me bolting, but I’ve got to write a letter to me tart.”

  And Blair bolted, because he felt another speck of dust in his other eye.

  At half past two the same afternoon Dugdale sat beside Thornton, whilst the car hurtled towar
ds Barrakee over country covered with waving grasses a yard high. They had been discussing sheep and wool, when the squatter said abruptly:

  “I have asked you to Barrakee to put to you a certain question, Dug. It is this. Do you love my niece?”

  Although he kept his eyes on the track, Mr Thornton knew that Dugdale looked at him for one second with strained intensity. Then, very softly, came the answer:

  “God alone knows how much, and for how long.”

  A minute passed in silence. Then, from Thornton:

  “I am glad of that, Dug. You will find her waiting for you. I believe you will make her a good husband, and because of my loss I don’t want to lose her altogether. Would you stay at Barrakee if I made you my partner?”

  “Yes.” Dugdale’s voice was very low.

  “Thank you,” Thornton said as though the younger man were conferring a favour. “I thought, perhaps, you would be willing to give up Eucla. I could buy your stock and improvements and sell them on terms to Fred Blair. The Land Board agrees to the transfer of the lease.”

  “I am quite agreeable, Mr Thornton.”

  “Would you object greatly to calling me Father or Dad?”

  “No. I’ve been wanting to do it for years, Dad.”

  And then the squatter’s eyes were lifted from the track and looked into Dugdale’s face with genuine affection.

  ***

  Martha, wearing a pink blouse and sky-blue print dress, her feet unencumbered by hateful, unnatural footwear, rolled ponderously along the veranda, and set upon the small table the afternoon tea-tray. Kate Flinders smiled into the ugly yet lovable old face, and helped the gin to move the table a little way along the veranda to where the vines cast a heavy shade.