The detective sat down, sipped at his tea, and began the story. George Scott, he told them, had been furious when the court had freed Ludwig. He had accused Ludwig of damaging his reputation.
‘He came to my house!’ Mr Bruun interrupted. ‘He came and threatened to horsewhip my boy if he did not apologise! Imagine that! He expected my Ludwig to apologise to him!’
Mr Sly waited for Mr Bruun to calm down before he went on. ‘But the people of Mt Egerton trusted Ludwig more than they trusted Scott. He feared that the law would get onto him, so he left town.’
Mr Bruun snorted again. ‘Sailed to Fiji! Lived ze high life: parties, drink, travel!’
‘It’s true,’ Mr Sly nodded. ‘He spent up big. He spent more than he had, in fact; he paid with some forged cheques.’
‘And then,’ Ludwig cut in, ‘then he went to Sydney and sold 129 ounces of gold!’
Tommy and Martin gasped.
‘Now, I ask you: where did he get that gold?’ Mr Sly went on. ‘From robbing Ludwig’s bank, of course!’
‘Where is he now?’ Martin asked.
‘He was arrested for the false cheques and he spent 16 months behind bars.’
‘Some of it in the lunatic asylum,’ Ludwig muttered.
‘That is correct,’ Mr Sly said. ‘He pretended to be mad in order to escape jail. But he didn’t last long there; they could tell he was faking. The superintendent said that he was …’ Mr Sly pulled out a sheaf of paper from his pocket and placed a pair of glasses on his nose. Then, reading from the paper, he finished, ‘… said he was “an artful designing and unprincipled criminal ready to join in any scheme of fraud or ruffianly violence that had a chance of success.”’
‘Blimey,’ said Tommy.
‘But he hass still not paid for ze bank robbery!’ Mr Bruun cried.
‘I am gathering evidence,’ Mr Sly said, ‘to convict him.’
‘What about the gold?’ Tommy asked. ‘Isn’t that enough to convict him? How did he have gold to sell? It must have been the gold that he stole from the bank!’
Then Tommy remembered the red neckerchief. He pulled it out of his pocket. ‘And this neckerchief! Moonlite was wearing it on the night of the robbery!’
‘A neckerchief?’ the detective waved his hand. ‘That proves nothing.’
‘You could get it DNA tested,’ Tommy suggested excitedly.
He’d heard all about DNA testing on a science programme on the TV. DNA, he knew, was the stuff that made up your cells; it was the stuff that made you you. Everyone had different DNA. If scientists found some of Andrew George Scott’s DNA that had rubbed off on the neckerchief, they could prove it was his, and Ludwig had already told him that the robber wore a neckerchief exactly like this one, and …. But the men were staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Martin frowned and shook his head. Idiot, he seemed to be saying. No one had even heard of DNA back in 1872.
‘What is this DNA test?’ Mr Sly asked.
‘Nothing,’ Tommy said, blushing. ‘Never mind.’
Mr Sly shrugged, clearly deciding to ignore Tommy’s strange remark. He leaned in to look hard at Tommy. ‘We need more evidence,’ he said. ‘We haven’t found the gun.’
Tommy shoved the neckerchief back into his pocket. He thought hard.
‘Can you think of anything, Tommy?’ Martin urged. ‘What can you remember?’
Tommy closed his eyes and tried to remember the events of that night. The glint of the moonlight on the gun, the boots crunching on the gravel. The voices in the schoolroom, the light of the match, the note. Captain Moonlite rushing past him out the door, the gun in his hand, striding down the moonlit path … suddenly, Tommy sat up straight. He saw it again: the armed robber hurrying down the road in the path of the moonlight, then veering off and hunching over a big dark shape by the side of the road. A splash.
Tommy leapt to his feet. ‘The well!’ he cried. ‘Have you searched the well?’
‘The well!’ cried Ludwig. ‘Of course!’
Ludwig and his father jumped up and rushed to the door. The private detective held them back
We have to do this properly,’ he said. ‘Fetch the police.’
They marched as a group to the police station and roused Constable Monckton. The policeman was not very happy to see Tommy again.
‘You! ’ he said, screwing up his nose as if someone had just tipped up a garbage bin at his feet. Then he squinted and looked Tommy up and down. ‘You’ve cleaned yourself up, boy,’ he said at last.
‘Never mind zat,’ Mr Bruun snapped. ‘Come, ve must search ze vell!’
They hurried out into the street together: Ludwig and his father, Mr Sly, Constable Monckton, Tommy and Martin. Tommy hopped from foot to foot in his eagerness.
‘This way!’ he cried, trotting off, with the others closely behind. The well was not far away, and they arrived in minutes.
‘Here!’ said Tommy, ‘Hurry!’
The policeman huffed. ‘All right, all right, boy,’ he said. He leaned over and peered into the well. Then he stood up again and turned to Tommy.
‘It’s a shallow well,’ he said. ‘Down you go, then.’
Tommy gulped. ‘Me? You want me to go down there?’
Tommy gazed into the well. It was dark and stale-smelling. He looked at the little group. They gazed back at him: the Constable’s face stern, Ludwig’s sad and pale, Mr Bruun’s hopeful, and Martin’s terrified. Ludwig was too frail to go down the well and Mr Bruun was too old. Martin was too frightened, and the policeman … well, he was too bossy. It had to be Tommy.
Tommy took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here goes.’
Constable Monckton gave him a leg up and Tommy climbed onto the brim of the well. The policeman handed him a lamp and Tommy grasped its handle. Monckton struck a match and held it to the wick. The wick flared and Monckton lowered the glass around it.
‘I’ll tie the lamp to your belt,’ he said.
