Death of a Swagman. Arthur W. Upfield

look around, Padre.”

      “Oh!”

      Mr James appeared to be happier about Robert Burns. The word “Padre” sounded well. He had been resolute in his attitude against serving with the armed forces, but he understood that the title was used by both the officers and the men.

      “Looking around!” he echoed. “For what?”

      “Nothing in particular, Padre,” Bony replied, gazing over the minister’s shoulder. “You see, the sergeant thought that, being half aboriginal, I might find tracks that were peculiar, sort of, the sergeant thinking at that time that the old man might have been killed.”

      “Ah ... yes ... certainly. And you are a tracker?”

      “Just ordinary, I suppose. I’m not much good at anything. ”

      “Perhaps not, Burns, but we must all try to make something of our lives.” Into the minister’s voice had crept a whine. “Keep to the straight and narrow path. I will not forget you. It may be possible to reclaim you, for I observe only a trace of degradation in your face. Good day to you.” Bony essayed his first smile.

      “Good dayee, Padre,” he responded. “I’ll think over what you have told me. As I read somewhere: no man ever becomes a saint in his sleep.”

      Mr James had proceeded towards the garage, but he turned sharply to look back with swift suspicion at the half-caste, who was dipping a paintbrush into the pot. He came to the verge of saying something, but checked himself.

      Bony began his work mechanically. His eyes were engaged with the footmarks left on the soft earthen sidewalk by the Rev. Llewellyn James.

      Chapter Seven

      A Scar on Nature’s Handiwork

      On the seventh day of his “imprisonment,” Bony suggested to Sergeant Marshall that they visit the hut at Sandy Flat in which the body of George Kendall had been found. The suggestion was readily accepted by the sergeant, who had been tied more than he liked to his desk.

      That Bony should wait seven days before indicating a desire to visit the scene of the crime he was in Merino to unravel was to Marshall peculiar, to say the least, but those seven days had not been spent merely in painting government property. There had been the prolonged study of large-scale maps of the district to imprint on Bony’s mind the situation and layout of every surrounding station property, every road and track, every water hole and well. There had been hours spent on Detective Sergeant Redman’s reports and on the statements he had gathered. And Bony had got to know nearly every man and many women who lived at Merino.

      It was a little before eleven o’clock on the morning of December fifth that they left Merino in the sergeant’s car, in the boot of which Mrs Marshall had herself placed a hamper and a tea billy. Once clear of the town, Bony said to the sergeant, who was wearing flannels and an open-necked shirt:

      “I am a great believer in intuition. For instance, intuition never fails to warn me when my eldest son is about to ask for financial accommodation.”

      “Doing well?” inquired Marshall, now hopeful that following a period of “closeness” Bony would be confidential.

      “Very well. I am, secretly, proud of him. For that reason, when intuition warns me that a loan is about to be requested, to avoid paining him by a refusal, I make excuses to rush away. What is your opinion of the Rev. Llewellyn James?”

      “Not much.”

      “Do you mean that the opinion is not much in length or of value, or that the opinion is not favourable?”

      “Even now I can’t tell whether you are serious or pulling my leg. I don’t like the Rev. Llewellyn James.”

      “Officially or privately?”

      “Privately, of course. Why be legal this morning?”

      “I am in the mood for exactitude,” Bony told him, although his voice indicated the opposite. “What is the general opinion of James held by the people?”

      The sergeant did not at once answer this question.

      “The best way to deal with the subject,” he began, “is to make a comparison with the previous parson. James has been here four years and a bit. He arrived eight months after the other man left. The previous man was very well liked. He was elderly and a really great man who inspired love as well as respect. You know what is wanted in a parson by bush folk. To get on well with bush people, a parson has to be a man’s man as well as a churchman. James may be a good churchman, but he’s not a man’s man.”

      “You do not seem confident that he is or is not a good churchman?” pressed Bony.

      “That’s so. I don’t go to church. My wife does, however, and she says that James is better than no minister at all, and also that what he lacks is compensated by his wife.”

      “Oh!” Bony made no other comment for a period. Then he said lazily: “You would not have had time to spare, as the statistician of every government department, to study criminology. That is a study thought unsuitable for real policemen, and so no time is allowed for it. I used once to compile data on the physical features of murderers and near-such, when it was proved how remarkably high is the percentage of killers having light blue eyes. James, you will recall, has light blue eyes.”

      “Eh!” exclaimed the startled sergeant.

      “Don’t let it worry you. Millions of people having light blue eyes go through life without committing a murder. We must not allow our natural reactions to Mr James to cloud our common sense. I mentioned the matter only for interest value. So that is the cemetery! Well! Well! It tells us its own history.”

      “What does it tell?”