Lawton-Stanley Talks
THE REVEREND LAWTON-STANLEY was a great man as well as fine Christian. He was a lover of all men and women, and he appeared to be utterly blind to their faults. His popularity among outback folk rested entirely upon his ready sympathy and his remarkable simplicity.
There was no “side” about Lawton-Stanley, and no narrowness of outlook. He composed love letters for young men and letters of conciliation to the wives of older men separated from them. Never did he leave a homestead without taking the mail for lonely stockmen stationed on the track ahead. He could talk horses with the best, and he could talk on any cultural subject to the many hungry for culture. When a man swore in his presence he smiled and fined the culprit a shilling, which went towards the fund for the purchase of Bibles. A lot of money passed into that fund, too.
Day was breaking when Bony slapped the side of the canvas hood covering the evangelist’s truck and softly called for the “padre”. The padre was sound asleep in blankets laid upon a straw mattress that in turn was laid on the floor of the truck, and when he awoke to recognize Bony’s voice he directed his visitor how to enter his house on wheels and switched on the tiny bedside electric light.
“A little early,” hesaid, faint surprise in his voice.“Anything wrong?”
“Nothing serious,” replied Bony, sitting down on a petrol case and producing tobacco and papers. “Just a little problem which I find I must discuss with you. Sorry to wake you so early. Mind if I start up that primus stove and make a pot of tea?”
“Do. Pump ’erup. Water in that drum with the tap. Spirit in the bottle over there. Make plenty. I like three cups.”
“Bad for the wind-so much tea before breakfast,” Bony asserted smilingly, and began work on the stove.
“Not nearlyso bad as those terrific cigarettes you smoke. It’s a marvel that you have any wind at all.”
“The wind I have got is a marvel even tomyself,” admitted Bony. “I can sprint a bit even at my age. Hope this thing won’t explode.”
“You sprint!” scoffed Lawton-Stanley. “Why, I could give you fifty yards in a hundred right now.”
“You could give me ninety yards in a hundred right now, Padre, but I am not taking them. No, not this morning, or even tomorrow morning. I have hada guts full of sprinting quite recently. By the way, is ‘guts’ a swear word?”
“No. Possibly a little more forceful than elegant. Get to work again on that stove.”
A few minutes later the tea was made and set before the padre, who remained in bed, and who noted with interest that his visitor drank two cups of the scalding-hot beverage in quick succession.
“Ah!”sighed Bony. “That’s better. Now for a smoke and then my little problem. You ever smoked?”
“Never.”
“Don’t ever. Smoking costs a lot of money-when your eldest son is loafing about a university and also smokes. I’d give a fiver to any of your numerous funds if only I could see the Rev. James smoking a clay pipe.”
“Is he still occupying your mind?”
“Now and then,” admitted Bony, draining his third cup of tea and pouring himself the fourth. “He is my current problem. You will remember that, when we spent the evening with the sergeant and his wife, I referred Mr Llewellyn James to you. As the subject appeared a little distasteful to you, I didn’t press it, but I am going to now in order to avoid what might be a bad mistake.”
“Oh! Enlighten me further. If you want help, professionally, you will get it.”
“Thanks. Well, now. Doubtless you areau fait with the series of crimes committed recently in this district. I am here to find the sting-ray, and the sting-ray is one of approximately twenty-eight men living in this district.”
“And you think that friend James is the sting-ray?”
“I am as uncertain about him as I am about a dozen others,” Bony answered. “I have to work on the assumption that all men are guilty until proved to be innocent… the reversal of British justice. Among the killers I have brought to book there is, at date, not one minister of religion. Still, one never knows what the future will bring to my gallery. Parsons have committed murders, you know. Tell me all you know of our friend’s history.”
Lawton-Stanley regarded the strong face of the half-caste whom he knew was his mental equal. Beyond the canvas walls of his “home” the roosters were crowing and the magpies were chortling. The wind irritated the canvas curtain, shutting off the truck’s cabin. It was becoming light outside.
“It’s going to be rather difficult,” said the evangelist, “and I think that I would decline to discuss James with a lesser man than you. Even you, I fear, may not understand my difficulty!”
Bony smiled, saying:
“I shall understand. I am the most understanding man in all your wide circle of friends.”
“I agree with you that that is probable. Well, here goes. Eight years back, James and his wife and I were in the same theological college, Mrs James then intending to become a church deaconess. Let me think, now, about ages. I would be twenty-seven, James was twenty-four, and Lucy Meredith would then be twenty-three.
“Here is a fact which is distasteful to me to talk about to a layman. The majority of men who enter a theological college with the ambition of becoming ordained are men having in their hearts a love for the work in which they want to engage. But there is a minority who enter college and seek ordination because they desire a respectable, secure, and, they think, an easy life’s work. They have no more aptitude for the work than I have for your work. James belonged to the minority in our college.
“His father is a minister, and a fine one, too. The son is one of those fortunate beings able to ‘swot’ well, but he seemed always too tired to ‘swot’ enough to pass his examinations with distinction. I don’t think anyone really liked him.”
“Did he then have that nasal whine?” Bony inquired.
“He adopted it during his second year. Our principal frowned upon that kind of thing, but James persisted. As I have said, no one really liked him-that is, none of the men. A real Christian will speak straight out from his heart, not down through his adenoids.
“James made no friendships, and of course, in a place like that, no enemies. And then during our fourth year that extraordinary attraction of opposites became manifested.
“Lucy Meredith was, and still is, one of the loveliest women, spiritually, who ever lived.” The speaker paused and sighed. “I am unable to talk to you, Bony, as I could if you were not such a wretched pagan.”
Bony smiled, saying softly:
“A pagan can recognize, and appreciate, a lovely personality in a woman. I’ve seen in Mrs James all that you have. Proceed, please.”
“I have thought it probable that Lucy Meredith first became attracted to James because of his self-sought isolation. The fellow has a brain and he might have played upon her unbounded sympathy. Anyhow, she married him. They were married the day following the passing-out ceremony, and there was not a joyful heart among those who were present.”
“And he was appointed to a church?”
“Yes, to a church in a Melbourne suburb. They were married so that he could accept the call.”
“Ah! A round peg in a square hole, eh?” remarked Bony. “When he was at that church, his first, did his wife prepare all his service?”
“No, I think not. Towards the end of his ministry there, I understand that she prepared his sermons because the elders expressed dissatisfaction. Anyway, the appointment was terminated, and after a period of comparative idleness he accepted the call to this church in Merino.”
“When the wife prepared all the service, eh?”
“That is so,” agreed Lawton-Stanley sadly.
“What was his health like… at college?”
“He complained often about his heart.”
“What was the medical verdict about that, do you know?”
“I never heard that he consulted a doctor.”
“Any vices?”
“If he had he kept them mighty secret.” Lawton-Stanley was about to say something further but desisted. Bony waited. Then he prompted his host, and the bush evangelist said: “James is just naturally a vampire man.”
“Oh, indeed! Interesting! Does he crawl out of his coffin after sundown to…?”
“You know what I mean, Bony. You know as well as I do that there are men and women, and they are not rare, either, who exist on the spiritual strength of others. That type invariably marries the gentle, forbearing, and retiring partner. They maintain the domination. The victims become so dominated that they dare not even try to flutter to maintain independence of soul. The dominant partner is invariably an invalid whose aches and pains are all that matters in the home. They must ever come first. They must be waited on hand and foot. They must be served by submissive victims. ReadTheBarretts of Wimpole Street.”
“I have done so, but I know your vampire people without having read that book. Lots of men have been hanged and imprisoned for life for having murdered their vampire wives. Quite decent and respectable men, too. I am glad, Padre, that we agree that James is just a vampire man. That is a good name, too, although there is another which would the better fit Mr Llewellyn James. I won’t use it… in your presence. Did you know his family?”
“Yes,” admitted Lawton-Stanley.
“Any insanity?”
“Yes. The mother’s brother was a certified lunatic.”
Bony rubbed his hands, saying:
“Ah… hum! You know, I always have had the idea that the murderer in these parts is not quite normal.”
“Is any murderer normal?”
“Normal!”Bony echoed. “Of course they are normal. They are just as normal as the petty thief. It is only now and then that one comes across the abnormal. In this case of mine there is a strong suspicion of abnormality, resting on the cunning with which the crimes have been committed and the apparent absence of motive.”
“Why do you suspect James?” asked Lawton-Stanley.
“I didn’t say that I suspected him.”
“No. But you do. Come, tell your old pal.”
Bony smiled.
“None of yourvampiring with me, now,” he implored. “Promise not to tell?”
“Certainly.”
“Cross your fingers and promise properly,” Bony commanded, and chuckled when the evangelist gravely obeyed. “You don’t look like Rose Marie, Padre, but that is her definition of a promise, signed, sealed, and delivered. I understand from Mrs James, and others, that the parson suffers from a weak heart, so that he has to be careful not to exert himself. Under no circumstances may he chop a little wood or do a little digging in the garden. He also suffers from a debilitated brain, to the extent that he cannot concentrate sufficiently to prepare a sermon. But, Padre, he can ride a horse at such a pace as to drench it with perspiration and to wind it, and he can concentrate sufficiently to read light literature, such asA Flirt in Florence. Ever read that novel?”
“I never read any novels.”
“Oh, come now! You mustn’t be sowowserish, Padre! A nice tale of juicy doings in Florence would so improve your mind. No, James doesn’t square with life. You don’t like James, and I’m blessed if I do either. But we must not permit our prejudices to cloud our judgment. Now I’ll be off. There is a lot of work in front of me. I’ll leave the cups and things to you. Never forget that you crossed your fingers. Thank you so much for the tea.”
“You haven’t told me yet why you suspect the fellow,” objected Lawton-Stanley.
“Oh, I have,” Bony countered smilingly. “See you again shortly. And look here-if you could persuade Mr Llewellyn James to take a little morning exercise with the gloves, please, Padre, please plant a good ’un on his nose for me.”
Full daylight greeted the detective when he emerged from the evangelist’s truck, his expression of lightness changed to one of stern concentration. It was still too early for even the early risers to be about the street.
On leaving the truck, he walked along the sidewalk towards the police station, and, as was his habit, his eyes mechanically registered the prints of human feet upon the ground. The street at this end was not swept clean by the shop people and the sand lay fairly thick.
He was not positively sure of the fact, but the ground all round the truck was covered with the faint remnants of so many tracks as to lead him to believe that the bush evangelist had held a service the previous evening. The truck was parked several yards westward of the garage, and when Bony came into the wind shelter provided by the garage he found the tracks on the sidewalk much clearer. He recognized the tracks of young Jason going in and out, and he recalled that that young man was to supply the evangelist with additional electric power. Passing along the street were the tracks made by Mrs Marshall and Rose Marie, who at a later hour were followed by Constable Gleeson. They were a few of the tracks he recognized. Then, when he drew opposite the gate giving entry to Mr Jason’s private residence he saw that Mr Jason himself had stepped off the roadway and had crossed all the other tracks to reach his house. Adjacent to the police station fence the wind had smoothed away all impressions made upon the ground the previous night.
On passing the police station, Bony crossed the street and slowly walked back to the hotel, rounded that building to reach the back of it, and then skirted the rear of the hotel, another building, the rear of Mr Fanning’s shop and house, and so reached the butcher’s stables within the yard.
The two horses came trotting towards him, whinnying a request for chaff, and he went through the wire fence and made friends with them, murmuring in a language which they appeared to understand. He gave especial attention to the horse with the white blaze on its forehead, and noted the imprint on the ground made by each of its hoofs.
Approximately in the centre of the yard stood the ramshackle stables, and after him entered the horses, looking for breakfast. He found chaff in an inner compartment and fed a little of it to them. And then he examined two saddles placed on pegs driven into a roof support.
The saddle carried by the horse owned by James was easily marked by the colour of the hairs upon its felt saddlecloth. The stirrup irons were crossed over the saddle, which could have been done when the saddle was placed on its peg. But likely enough the hooded man, who last had used that saddle, had ridden without using the stirrups, for into them he could not thrust his hessian-covered feet. That would account for his poor riding when attempting to shoot Bony, which had given the detective hope that he could be outwitted, as, in fact, he had been.
On leaving the stables. Bony walked to the gate in the yard fence. This gate was opposite the wooden door in the corrugated iron fence at the rear of the butcher’s premises. Here the tracks made by the parson’s horse when led into the enclosure an hour or two previously were almost obliterated by the wind. The depressions were more than half filled in, and there was no possibility of the wind having spared those extremely faint depressions left by hessian-covered human feet.
He crossed the sandy ground to the door in the butcher’s rear fence, where in this shelter he saw the tracks of boots made by a man entering those premises. They were still fairly clear-cut, but the man who made them had not come from the horse yard but from the rear yard of the hotel.
On either side of the butcher’s premises was a vacant allotment, unfenced and eaten bare of vegetation by the town goats. They were merely bare, sandy patches of ground open wide to the wind that by now would have smoothed out any tracks made by human footwear.
Bony returned to the horse-yard gate and there leaned against one of the posts whilst rolling a cigarette. Assuming that it had been the parson who had visited the mill at Sandy Flat and had ridden back at top speed to get away from his tracker, as well as to reach his home before the day broke, he would be anxious to reach the hard roadway of the street, where he could walk without leaving tracks after removing the hessian from his feet. To accomplish this, he needs must cross from the horse-yard gate to one of those empty allotments, cross that to the sidewalk, and cross the sidewalk to reach the macadamized road.
Still assuming that it was James, the parson would cross the allotment on the east side of the butcher’s premises, which would be the side nearest the parsonage. Bony endeavoured to project himself into the mind of the Rev. Llewellyn James.
On leaving the gate, he crossed to the allotment eastward of Mr Fanning’s house and shop. He passed over the length of that allotment, and so came to the sidewalk bordering the road. The surface of the sidewalk here was covered with a thin layer of sand.
Opposite the centre of the allotment frontage grew one of the street-bordering pepper-trees. It was a fine specimen which would certainly give a black shadow on a moonlit night. There, beneath this leafy tree, seated on the curb, the hooded man might well have removed the hessian from about his feet, and then have gone on to his home in day shoes, or even with his feet bare.
The rising sun was gilding the summit of the Walls of China when Bony came to lean against that pepper-tree, as though he had done little else all his life but lean against something. The wind had smoothed all tracks from the thin covering of sand upon the sidewalk. It had piled into little mounds in the dry gutter sand which had been carried across the road, and here and there in the gutter were little piles of the dead needle-pointed leaves of many pepper-trees.
Two such piles of leaves were notso symmetrical as those created by the wind. They were flattened and spread out. Bony went down on hands and knees to bring his eyes closer to those two piles of leaves separated by about ten inches of fine sand. With a twig he teased the massed leaves farther apart and found three strands of jute fibres. He found more. Two yards farther down the gutter he found a strip of hessian measuring approximately one inch in width and ten inches in length.
He sat on the curb with this strip of hessian stretched between the forefinger and thumb of each hand. The sun was now peeping above the Walls of China, and its rays came along the street, striking upon his hands and the hessian strip held taut.
The material was not clean. There was in it a stiffening substance, and therewas on its surface and within the folds of the edges many brown hairs. Bony sniffed at the material. He smelled the sweat of a horse. The brown hairs were similar to those of the horse owned by the Rev. James.
So there, where those two small wind-created heaps of dead leaves had been depressed, was where the hooded man had sat with his heels resting upon them whilst he removed the hessian from his feet. He had then stood up and walked along the macadamized roadway, leaving in the moonlit night that strip of hessian, sweat-stiffened and impregnated with the hairs of the animal he had ridden.
Rising to his feet, he walked slowly down the street at the edge of the sidewalk. His eagle gaze scrutinized the surface of the sidewalk on his right and the gutter on his left. He found nothing. He went on past the entrance to the parsonage, past the entrance to the parsonage garage, on and past the church. He retraced his steps. For a moment he halted at the driveway, and for another he loitered outside the parsonage gate. Beyond that gate he saw the imprints of tennis shoes on the sheltered path. Between the gate and the roadway the sidewalk was blown clear of sand, and its hard surface registered no imprints. The tennis shoes had been worn by the minister, and the imprints might have been one hour or ten hours old.
The wind’s velocity was increasing with the rising of the sun, as Bony sauntered back up the street. A town dog came out of a gate to wrinkle its nose at him in friendly fashion, and to it Bony said:
“We don’t mind how hard the wind blows. It has done all it could to frustrate me. Now you had better go home again, because I am going to call on Sergeant Marshall.”