The New Shoe. Arthur W. Upfield
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he said. “I don’t know. Could have been more’n one in it. ’Tain’t much use us talking about it. We only goes round in circles. Putting the dead man in that locker don’t make no sense to me, and I allus say that what don’t make sense ain’t worth worrying about. Let them worry what’s paid to. Murder always will out some time or another. And then there’s a load of sorrow slid into innocent hearts, and the sun don’t shine no more.”
The white wood shavings continued to spill over to the floor and lay atop shavings of red wood, and Bony picked up a red shaving to compare the grain with that of the white wood. Into the peaceful silence, which seemed more of the mind than of this quiet corner of the world, crept the noise of a motor. The noise outraged the silence, and was swiftly slain. They heard men’s voices and there appeared the wood carters.
“Good day-ee, Ed!” exclaimed Moss Way.
“How do!” supplemented the younger, Dick Lake, nodding perkily to Bony. “You gonna buy a box for yourself?”
“You produce an idea,” replied Bony, smilingly, and the younger man nodded towards the adjacent room, saying:
“The one in there’s a beaut. Seen ’er?”
“Mr Rawlings has seen the casket,” interrupted old Penwarden, faintly stern. “What d’you two want?”
“Nuthin’,” answered Lake, his face widened by his smile. “Thought maybe you might want sum’t. Mrs Penwarden said she wanted firewood, an’ we’re going out tomorrer for a load of the best.”
The old man set down his plane and produced a clay pipe. Dick Lake picked up a shaving and chewed it. The impression Bony received was that those present were to debate in solemn conclave the subject of firewood.
“Don’t want ironbark,” said Penwarden. “Too hot. Burns out the stove and the fireplaces. Where you going?”
“Over t’other side of Sweet Fairy Ann,” replied Moss. “Fred Ayling’s camped down by Watson’s Creek. Sent in word that he’s cut a hundred tons of mixed ... chiefly box.”
“Oh! And how much of a load you aim to get back with over Sweet Fairy Ann?” demanded the carpenter.
“We always take our full issue,” interposed Dick Lake. “Ten ton.”
“You won’t be bringing no ten tons over Sweet Fairy Ann.”
“Who says so?” asked Moss.
“I do,” replied Penwarden. “The track won’t take it. Your truck’ll slide down off it and end up in the river.”
“D’you think?” Dick Lake grinned at Bony. “I c’n drive that there truck to hell and back without scorchin’ her.”
“Twenty-two bullocks, a table-top wagon, and two men slid off that track in ’15,” said the old man. “And afore they all reached the river the slope of Sweet Fairy Ann broke loose and went down after ’em. You ain’t been over that track.”
“Twice,” asserted Dick Lake. “Since the last time, Fred Ayling’s shored her up a bit. She’ll take our loading all right.”
“What’ll you have ... pine or Oregon?” offered Penwarden.
“How much?” Moss drawled.
“Do the oregon for twelve pound apiece,” answered the old man.
“Watertight and all?” The blue eyes flashed.
“All my coffins is watertight. Better order now for one apiece ... if you will go for to try to bring a ten-ton load out over Sweet Fairy Ann.”
“We’ll bring ’er. How many tons you want?”
“The ten ... if you get ’em out.”
Lake got up from squatting on his heels.
“Okey doke,” he said, and then turned to Bony, adding: “Like a trip? See the country ... and some.”
“Be leaving at seven sharp in the morning, and get home about five,” supplemented Way.
The good cheer accompanying the invitation captured Bony. Old Penwarden stood with a match burning to the pipe halted before his mouth. Bony nodded acceptance. The two men moved towards the door, and the shorter said:
“Pick you up at the pub sharp at seven. Bring your lunch, but no beer.”
“Why no beer?” Bony queried.
“You’ll see ... tomorrer.”
To Bony, Penwarden said between puffs at his pipe:
“Do you one in Victorian blackwood, Mr Rawlings, sir. Twenty-five pounds, and guaranteed to fit you like a feather mattress.”
Chapter Seven
Rebounding Influences
A full week, and the little gained wasn’t worth writing to Superintendent Bolt.
Bony had explored the locality both on foot and in Bolt’s car. Regularly before each meal he had appeared in the bar and had drunk too much beer. Forced by his pay and responsibilities to keep a tight rein on his generosity, he met with no necessity to squander money, as these people were too sturdily independent. There were some, like Lake and Moss Way, who accepted him: others were more reserved chiefly, he guessed, because they wouldn’t risk being drawn to the spending level of the pastoralist.
The Washfolds he found reticent about themselves and unhesitant to talk of others, but as they had been here only three years, they were in the same category as himself.
Behind this life at the hotel was another which was an influence on the general community rather than of it. Strangely enough old Edward Penwarden appeared to be the representative of the inner life, this ever-present influence behind the community at Split Point.
By inference rather than reference did Bony learn from the old man of this section of the community. It would seem that it had withdrawn itself before the march of intruders who had bought land and built holiday homes, had withdrawn itself into its own country behind the Inlet.
There were the Wessexes, Eli and his wife, their son who had gone to America after the war, and their daughter who had suffered mental illness following the death of her lover. There were Tom Owen and his wife, a childless pair, and Fred Lake and his wife who had borne fourteen children.
There were two other families who, also, had been here for generations. And as far as Bony knew these people seldom called at the hotel for a chat and a drink.
Excepting Dick Lake.
He was an ordinary, easy-going Australian to whom life is a game to be played always with a smile no matter what the jolts. You meet this type in the Interior, and it is these men who have brought all the honour to the country’s arms in war. Nothing daunts them, nothing makes them wince, and within them are forces which only extraordinary circumstances ever bring into action.
The incident of what appeared to be an attempt at suicide seemed to have no bearing on the murder at the Lighthouse. Bony was still not certain that the girl had intended suicide. He had memorized her footprints made with low-heeled shoes, and although he had not again come across them, he had seen again the prints made by the man who had knocked her out and dragged her from the cliff. That man was Dick Lake.
At that scene, or shortly after, was the man Tom Owen, who had denied seeing either the girl or Lake, and later had joined Bony on the dark road and pressed for information, at the same time urging the attractions of Lorne as against those of Split Point.
From conversations with Penwarden, there was no doubt that the girl was Mary Wessex, and that that afternoon was not the first time she had evaded her watchful mother. It was understandable that Lake would hurry her home, and that Owen would deny having seen her, for Bony, the witness, was an intruder from whom must be kept family skeletons.
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