Chapter Six
The Inquiry
“Now, Mr Thornton, after that very excellent lunch we will examine the men.” The khaki-breeched, blue-tunicked sergeant of the New South Wales Mounted Police paused with the squatter outside the office. Near by, in waiting, was a group of seven men, while on the barracks veranda stood Dugdale, Ralph, and a jackeroo named Edwin Black.
The sergeant was conducted to the office, where the two men seated themselves on the far side of the wide desk. The uniformed man filled his pipe, and, seeing that he did not intend to open his examination at once, Thornton took a cigarette, saying meanwhile:
“Thought you’d want to examine the scene of the murder first.”
“I might have done, had the rain not fallen last night and wiped out tracks,” the dapper, grey-moustached official rejoined. “As it is, we will start to get the story ship-shape, beginning with you.”
“With me!”
“With you.”
“What do I know about it?”
The sergeant smiled. “Don’t know yet. I’ll soon find out. What time did Dugdale tell you of his discovery?”
“At nineteen minutes to nine,” was the unhesitating answer.
“You are sure of the time?”
“Positive.”
“What sort of condition was Dugdale in?”
“He was drenched to the skin and, I think, a little upset.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. But was he out of breath? Were his clothes disarranged, torn?”
“No, to both questions.”
“Very good. Now, how many men do you employ here?”
“There are seven at present working about the homestead or riding the near paddocks.”
“Is this the list of their names?”
“Yes. Added to it are the inmates of the barracks and the name of my son.”
“Then I think we will first see Dugdale.”
“Call Dug, Mortimore, please,” the squatter said to his bookkeeper.
When the sub-overseer appeared the sergeant appraised him with a fixed stare, motioning with his hand to a vacant chair.
“I am told that you found the body of an aboriginal last night between the garden and the river,” he said in his most official manner. “You made the discovery on your return from a fishing expedition. Tell me just what happened from the moment you entered the boat to go fishing. Take your time, and miss nothing.”
When Dugdale paused at the end of his narrative, he was asked:
“Do you know the native?”
“No, I have never seen him before,” Dugdale replied quietly.
“You say that as you were nearing the bank on your return you heard a peculiar whining sound that ended in a sharp report. Why a peculiar sound?”
“Because never before had I heard such a sound, unless it reminded me of the whirr of ducks flying close overhead.”
“Ah! That’s something.” For a moment the interrogator gazed pensively out of the window. Then:
“After the sound, when you were ashore and mooring the boat, you heard someone gasp for breath. Was that gasping sound caused by a man being out of breath from struggling?”
“I think not,” the sub replied slowly. “It was like that of a man who had dived deep into water and, having been down some time, filled his lungs with air on reaching the surface.”
“And you saw no one?”
“It was dark.”
“I know that. But did the lightning reveal anyone?”
“No.”
“Sure?” suddenly barked the sergeant, for his penetrating eyes observed a slight flush about Dugdale’s cheekbones.
“Quite sure.”
“Very well. That will do for the present. Send Mr Ralph Thornton in, please.”
When Ralph entered the office the sergeant was writing on a slip of paper. Pushing it across to the squatter, he nodded affably to Ralph to be seated. On the slip of paper which Thornton read was the sentence:
“The lightning revealed someone to Dugdale.”
“How did you put in the evening last night, Mr Ralph?” the young man was asked in a much kinder spirit.
“I played cribbage with Black in the barracks after dinner.”
“What time did you start playing? Any idea?”
“A little after eight, I think. We played till ten o’clock.”
“That lets you out. Ask Mr Black to step in for a moment, please.”
Edwin Black corroborated Ralph’s statement, and in turn sent in Johnston, the carpenter. Johnston was not asked to be seated.
“Where were you, Johnston, between the hours of seven and nine o’clock last night?” asked the sergeant, resuming his official poise.
“In the men’s hut.”
“Doing what?”
“Reading a blood about a bloke wot arsenicked his three wives.”
“Oh! You mean you were reading a novel?”
“Something like that,” Johnston, tall, angular, and red-haired replied. “In my young days we called ’em ‘blood and thunders’. I remember—”
“Precisely. Who was in the hut with you at the time you were reading this blood?”
“Bob Smiles, Bert Simmonds, and Jack O’Grady.”
“That’s four of you. Where were the others—Clair, McIntosh, and Fred Blair?”
“How the devil do I know?”
“Now, now! Were those three absent between half past eight and nine o’clock?”
“Look here, Sergeant! I’ll answer any question about me,” murmured the carpenter, with studied calmness.
“All right, Johnston,” came the unruffled dismissal. “Send in Bob Smiles.”
Smiles, Simmonds, and O’Grady briefly corroborated Johnston’s replies, and at last William Clair came in. He wore a six-day growth of whiskers.
“I don’t know you, Clair. Where do you come from?” was the first question put to the gaunt man.
“Can’t say as I come from anywhere,” Clair replied in a hoarse voice.
“Got a sore throat?”
“I have,” Clair said calmly. “I wish you had it instead of me.”
“I don’t. Where is your home address?”
“I haven’t no address. I’ve been carrying my swag most of my life. The last place I worked on was Humpy-Humpy Station, out of Winton, Queensland, in nineteen-twenty.”
“Right. Now how did you spend last evening?”
“I was away down the river most of the time setting half a dozen dog-traps,” Clair replied.
“Must have got wet.”
“If