A TradeIn Information
REFRESHEDby a ‘spot of shut-eye’, they breakfasted late and remained at table as they smoked. Bony, as usual, was well groomed, and his host was wearing a rough tweed suit.
“What was Ben Wickham’s opinion on cremation, d’youknow?” Bony asked.
“Didn’t ask him,” was the reply. “He never talked about it that I recall.”
“Were his parents cremated?”
“I know that one, Inspector. They were buried in the cemetery at Cowdry.”
“Why, then, was Wickham’s body cremated? He expressed no such wish in the will.” Mr. Luton evaded comment, and Bony went on, “Do you think, if Benjamin Wickham held a decisive view of the manner in which his body should be disposed of, that he would have discussed the matter with you?”
“Yes, I think he would,” replied Luton. “But he didn’t talk of it, and neither did I.”
“Then we must assume that the subject of the disposal of the dead was not one of interest to him; that he never spoke of it to his relatives and friends. His parents had not been cremated. From whom did the suggestion of cremation originally come? I should like to know. Death is the profound finality of life; cremation is the finality of death. We may study the bones of a man dead many thousands of years; we cannot study the dust of a man scattered to the four winds. I shall ponder these truths while taking your dogs for a walk.”
Mr. Luton watched Bony pass through the wicket gate, preceded by the dogs, who were infinitely more keen on hunting than walking. His strong jaw was set toa hardness and his eyes thoughtful. He was still thoughtful when he went to the rear and fed the hens, and returned to wash the dishes and straighten thehouse, and, later, to carry three empty beer bottles to the river and toss them in. The habit of years stood by him. The empties he had filled with water that they would not float.
A boy came shortly after eleven with a telegram for Bony, payment of a special rate having ensured its delivery. The Electricity Department’s meter reader came just after twelve, and Mr. Luton paid the account with a cheque. To Mr. Luton, long accustomed to a peaceful retreat, the morning was unusually crowded, and was lighted by the return of Bony, who suggested they split a bottle of beer.
The glasses were filled, when Mr. Luton remembered the telegram.
“Ah!” breathed Bony, gazing upon the flimsy, “I’ve been expecting that. It will be a message from my Chief at theC.I. B. in Brisbane instructing me to report at once. I have received many such telegrams, and most I have ignored. Then comes a follow-on message from the Chief Commissioner’s secretary ordering me to report at once, or else. This form of blackmail being unsuccessful, another telegram arrives, suspending me from duty, and unless I report by a certain date I shall be sacked.”
“That brings you to book,” smiled Mr. Luton.
“On the contrary. I report when it suits me, and it suits me only when I have finalised an investigation. So I discuss the situation with my Chief Commissioner, who damns and blasts my eyes and swears I’m not a policeman’s bootlace. I have to point out that, despite this relative position, I do bring home the bacon. So all is forgiven.”
“I can quite believe it,” Mr. Luton said, seriously.
Bony opened the telegram, and read aloud:
“FROM SUPERINTENDENT LINTON, C.I. B. BRISBANE. REPORT AT