Bony’s Greatest Triumph
“AND THEN YOU put Eldred in one of the coffins kept under your bed, and buried him in the forest beyond the road,” Bony said as stating facts.
“In my coffin,” whispered Eli.
“And Owen replaced the casket by having Penwarden make one ostensibly for Mrs Owen.”
“That was so.”
Mrs Wessex glanced at the clock on the mantel, and stood. Saying nothing, she left the room. Old Eli’s head drooped and his lean chin almost rested on his chest. In Bony sprang the urge for physical action that the depression on his mind might be relieved, but he remained quiescent. He was conscious of being trapped. He sought to identify the trap and found it. It was Napoleon Bonaparte, a detective inspector, a tiger-cat that once on the trail never gives up, the personification of Victor Hugo’s implacable trailer of men, Javert. It was the man who had never yet failed to finalize an investigation. That was the trap which closed about Bony, husband and proud father, the man of courage sufficient to conquer all those disabilities imposed by his ancestry, the man whose infinite patience was equalled by limitless sympathy.
Without thought for etiquette, he rolled and lit a cigarette. Sounds were emphasized… the hissing of afirelog, the clock, the movement of Mrs Wessex in another part of the house. Then there occurred that which gave him one of the greatest shocks of his career. Mrs Wessex came in with afternoon tea on a large tray. The one anchor to which she could cling in this time of catastrophe.
He placed a small table for her, and she poured the tea. As she had done that other afternoon when he was there, so did she raise the cup to her husband’slips. Not one of them spoke until the woman had pushed the little table away and again sat between the two men.
“When Dick came that evening,” she said, tonelessly as before, “I told him what I’d done. He went out and I told Alfie to go for Mr Owen. The three of them put Eldred in father’s coffin and carried it out to Mr Owen’s utility. I went with them. Mrs Owen stayed to look after Mary and Father.
“We tried to keep it all from Mary, but it wasn’t any use. She followed me to the truck and we drove across the road and into the forest to the place where the children used to play. That was Dick’s idea. Mary and I stood together while the men dug the grave. They were very careful to bring away all the earth displaced by the coffin and smooth away all traces.
“I never went back. Mary did. I used to watch her, but she was very good. We have tried, Father and I, to forget that time and remember only the years before Eldred went to the war.”
Her voice trailed away, to be captured by the ticking clock, the hissing logs. When Bony began the move to leave his chair, she said:
“I am ready to go with you, Inspector Bonaparte. I’ve packed a change of clothes.”
With a swift rush and a cry like an agonized animal, the woman left her chair and fell upon her knees beside her husband. His hands went up to rest upon her head, the edges of the palms expressing what the locked and helpless fingers could not.
Bony crossed to the wall telephone. He asked Exchange for the Owens’ number. When a woman answered the call, he asked for Tom Owen.
“I am speaking from the Wessex homestead,” he said to Owen. “Would you and Mrs Owen come over immediately? Mr and Mrs Wessex are in desperate need.”
“Leave at once,”came the prompt assent.
They arrived within fifteen minutes, to find Bony waiting on the veranda. The woman was concerned: the man grim.
“They are in the sitting room,” Bony told Mrs Owen. To her husband, he said: “I have something to say before you go in.” He paused, to permit Mrs Owen to leave them, before explaining who he was and giving a swift outline of his investigation. “That, Mr Owen, is the complete tragedy, is it not?”
The man’s grey eyes suddenly narrowed, and he nodded.
“That’s about all of it”
“Now listen carefully. A man was done to death. He was a dope smuggler, among other things. The man who killed him was as bad. The world is well rid of both. The man who was the murderer’s accomplice is also dead. Don’t interrupt… Lake was Eldred’s accomplice. The shadow of that crime has fallen on seven people, one of the seven being you. Another is old Penwarden.
“You know that Penwarden is aware only of part of the whole, that he does not know that Eldred came home, and all that followed. What Penwarden doesn’t know, he must never know, but he must bear the responsibility for the advice he gave Dick Lake.
“Rightly or wrongly, I find I cannot censure Mrs Wessex for what I myself would have done and, rightly or wrongly, I cannot censure you for what you did for them in their extremity. It is for you to guard the secret of the dell in the forest, and to control the minds, and thus the tongues, of those who share the secret with you. It is for me to continue the hunt for the murderer of Thomas Baker to Ballarat and beyond. Clear?”
Tom Owen tried to speak, gave it up, and nodded.
“Go in and comfort them,” Bony said, and went down the veranda steps to pat the waiting Stug and walk slowly to the road.
Ed Penwarden was putting on his coat to go home when Bony entered the workshop, and his anxiety was not lessened when Bony swung shut the door and locked it.
“We have, Mr Penwarden, a bone to pick,” announced Bony, slowly and coldly. “Make yourself easy. Tell me, why did you telephone to Fred Ayling, at the Wessex homestead, after I left you this morning?”
“Fred Ayling wasn’t in it. Mr Rawlings, sir.” The old man sat stiffly upright on his packing case and looked steadily upwards at Bony, who had drawn himself up on the bench. “You must believe that. He wasn’t here when murder was done.”
“Then why tell him I was on my way to question him?”
“I did no such thing. All I told him was that you’d found out about the murder and my part in telling Dick and Eldred what to do about it. I didn’t know you were going along. I never saw you pass. All I said was for him to clear off back, to his camp.”
“Which he did,” Bony said, and contemplated the creaseless face, the blue eyes and the long white hair.
“Let him be, Mr Rawlings, sir. He was allus a good lad, and he were terrible upset about Dick Lake. As Dick would say: ‘I can take it.’ Maybe in the eyes of the law I did wrong, but I’m not sorry. I wasn’tthinkin ’ for Eldred, exceptin ’ he got well away from Split Point and his father and sainted mother, and from Dick Lake and all of us. You arrest me, and leave Fred out of it.”
“What about your wife?”
“The old woman! Oh, she’ll bide quiet till I come back.” Bony said:
“You may be away for ten years. Much too long for you to be away from Mrs Penwarden. Like me, you are not normally a fool. Don’t be a fool again, even although a fool is sometimes wise. I think it likely that my superiors will overlook you in their determination to catch up with Eldred Wessex. We will hope that he has left the country, or that he went to sea and was drowned. My work here is finalized. I found out who the dead man in the Lighthouse was, and who killed him. It is for the Victorian police to find Eldred Wessex. Aided by science and wonderful organization, I am confident that they will find him, perhaps in Adelaide, perhaps in London… anyway, far distant from Split Point.”
He slipped off the bench and Penwarden stood, saying:
“It would be grand, Mr Rawlings, sir, if Eldred did get himself drowned, or something happenedso’s his folk would never know what he did here.”
“I agree,” Bony said. “Now I must be off. I’ll accompany you as far as your house. Don’t worry about yourself, for it’s unlikely you will be bothered by the police. Do we understand each other?”
Anobbly hand gripped Bony’s forearm. A gleam of happiness sprang into the blue eyes, and Penwarden said, earnestly:
“Seems like we’ve allus understood each other, Mr Rawlings, sir.”
They passed outside and Bony waited for the old man to lock up his workshop. Without haste, they walked towards the ancient’s neat little house, the one upright and lithe, the other slightly stooped yet still sturdy on his feet.
“You’ll not go back onacceptin ’ of the coffin, I hope,” said the coffin maker.
“Certainly not. I’ll write giving my home address and nearest railway station… after you have written me what you think of the bloodwood logs. Police Headquarters, Brisbane, will always find me. And when I come again to Melbourne, I’ll try to run down for a little gassing.”
They shook hands. Bonysmiled, his old beaming smile. Penwarden gave his deep-throated chuckle and they stopped outside his garden gate.
“Remember to take a shaving or two from the neck rest,” Bony said. “I showed you just where the rest is a trifle uncomfortable.”
He walked on, and Mr Penwarden tarried at the gate to watch him until he reached the main road.