The Widows of Broome. Arthur W. Upfield
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Chapter Four
Medical Opinion
Bony slept soundly that first night at Broome, and he was reading the reports and statements gathered by the Perth detectives when he heard Mrs. Walters calling her children to breakfast. They came racing in from the compound, where they had been watching Abie breaking-in a horse; the boy’s eyes were alight with admiration for the aborigine, and the girl’s face glowing with admiration for the horse.
“Now eat your breakfast and don’t talk too much or you’ll be late for school,” Mrs. Walters told them. But they were anxious to tell Bony about the horse and the breaker, and he nodded encouragingly.
“How far away is the college?” he asked eventually.
Two miles, he was informed, the journey being done by the boy on his bicycle. The girl walked to her school, which was much nearer. She told Bony that she liked her school, and the boy said that his was not bad, as though he were a connoisseur of public schools.
“We’re having our Activities Day on Sat’day,” he announced with pleasure. He nodded acceptance of his mother’s correction of his pronunciation of the word Saturday, and hastily went on to tell more of Activities Day. “Will you come? Pop’ll be driving Mum and Nan, and there’ll be plenty of room in the car. Good afternoon tea on the lawn an’ all that. Old Bilge’s bound to do a bit of spruiking, but he isn’t too bad.”
Bony looked his doubt, and Nanette entered the lists.
“Yes, do go, Mr. Knapp. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Won’t he, Mum?”
“Mr. Knapp will be too busy, I expect,” replied Mrs. Walters, although the invitation was confirmed in her eyes.
“On Saturday, is it?” asked Bony. When assured that it was, he nodded, saying: “Since the forty-hour week came in and no one works on Saturday, why should I? Yes, I’ll be delighted to go. I assume there will be an exhibition of hand-crafts?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Knapp,” both children answered. “Stacks of all sorts of things. But the afternoon tea’s the best. It’s a beaut. You can eat as much as you want.”
Inspector Walters came in and sat down to breakfast. The boy and girl rose from the table and each removed their chair to back against the wall. Mrs. Walters smiled at them, and the inspector said:
“You get down to work, Keith. You’ve been slacking lately. And ride that bike on the road and not on the sidewalk ... or else.”
“All right, Pop. Say, Mr. Knapp’s gunner go to Activities Day on Sat’day.”
Mrs. Walters uttered the beginning of an exclamation. Her husband nodded his interest. Keith, who realised his error, reddened, and deflatedly left by the rear door, the girl taking the passage through to the front. Walters chuckled:
“Young feller is in for a surprise today,” he remarked. “I wrote a complaint to Old Bilge about Keith’s ‘gunners’ and ‘jists’. What the devil we are paying terrific fees for, I don’t know. Just as well the boy isn’t boarding and out of our reach for a term at a time.”
“I hope you weren’t too sharp with Mr. Rose,” said Mrs. Walters. “He has a very big job with all those boys, and he does take a tremendous interest in them.”
“Don’t worry, Esther, I was polite enough. I don’t expect the headmaster, or even the form masters, to be listening all the time for errors of pronunciation, but when it becomes a conspiracy to distort and torture the language, then they should know about it.” To Bony he said: “You gunner be ... Oh damn!”
They broke into laughter, and for Bony the day began well. He said he was going to be very busy, and might even ask for a portion of Sawtell’s valuable time. All the morning he spent studying the reports and statements compiled by the Broome police on the two murders, and checking them with those he had brought with him from Perth. After lunch, he began the compilation of his Case History, and at four-thirty he called on Dr. Mitchell, by appointment.
Dr. Mitchell was short, rotund, red of face and rapid in speech.
“Sit down, Inspector. If I can help in any way ... Ah, I must remember. Inspector Walters said you wish to be known as Mr. Knapp. A drink? Or will you wait a moment for tea?”
“You are very kind, Doctor. Tea, if it’s no bother.”
“None at all. It’s on the way. I’m delighted at meeting you. Heard of you from a pal of mine, Dr. Fleetwood. He was concerned in the case of that author feller being murdered with coffin dust. I took him up on the point. Don’t believe it can be done, but he says that Professor Ericson is sure it can, following his series of experiments. Now, I suppose, you want to talk about strangulation, eh?”
“That is the reason for my call on your time,” Bony gravely agreed. “I have studied your report, and I find there are one or two points concerning which I would like further information.”
“Righto! Go ahead.”
“Thank you. Perhaps question and answer will serve best. It is correct that death from strangulation may occur instantaneously?”
“It is. Sudden and violent compression of the wind-pipe often causes immediate insensibility and death. I am not certain, but I think it probable that those two women strangled here in Broome died without a struggle, such was the brutality with which they were slain.”
“Your report states that they were killed by the hands of the murderer, and not by a rope or string or anything of that kind. Would you say that the murderer’s hands were exceedingly powerful?”
“Without hesitation.”
“Another question, Doctor. You describe the precise injuries suffered by those women, and I am not concerned so much by that as by the answer to this question. Were the hands of the murderer short- or long-fingered? I admit your difficulty.”
Dr. Mitchell took thirty seconds.
“I cannot be definite,” he said. “I’m sorry. A guess any good?”
“It would help.”
“I might have been able to be sure about it had the question been asked before or immediately after the post-mortem. My guess is that the man’s hands are neither long- nor short-fingered, and that the palm is longer than average. Meaning that the measurement from finger-tips to the base of the palm is longer than average. Is that clear?”
“Quite. Now with reference to the man’s finger-nails. Can you tell me anything about them?”
“They were trimmed. I’d say they were well kept.”
“That is not your guess?”
“No. It is my opinion based on the areas of ecchymosis.”
The door was opened by a lubra who brought in a tea-tray. She wore a white cap and apron over a brown frock, silk stockings and flat-heeled shoes. She regarded Bony with momentarily startled large black eyes, set down the tray on a table at the doctor’s elbow and retired.
The doctor poured the tea, and Bony regarded his hands. They were sun-tanned, large and capable hands. He rose and walked to the door, opened it and re-closed it.
“Pardon my rudeness,” he murmured. “I thought the girl had left the door ajar, and I want our conversation to be confidential.”
“That’s all right,” the doctor breezily conceded. “That lubra can hardly understand a word of English. Take sugar?”
“Were there any marks on the shoulders of either victim?” Bony asked, sipping his tea.
“Yes. There were bruises on Mrs. Cotton’s shoulders. Why?”
“Well, d’you think they were killed when standing or when lying down?”
“Don’t know. Does it make any difference?”
Bony