Sand on the Gumshoe: a century of Australian crime writing

‘I cannot! The evidence is too strong against him!’

‘You know that he is innocent, Mr Vincent.’

‘I do not! I believe that he murdered my wife.’

‘You believe that he murdered your wife,’ she reiterated, coming a step nearer and holding out the green- stone idol-’do you believe that he dropped this in the study when his hand struck the fatal blow?’

‘I don’t know!’ he said, cooly glancing at the idol. ‘I never saw it before.’

‘Think again, Mr Vincent – think again. Who was it that went to the Alhambra at eight o’clock with Dr Monson and met there the captain of a New Zealand steamer with whom he was acquainted?’

‘It was I,’ said Vincent defiantly, ‘and what of that?’

‘This!’ she said in a loud voice. ‘This captain gave you the green-stone idol at the Alhambra, and you placed it in your breastpocket. Shortly afterwards you followed to Brixton the man whose death you had plotted. You repaired to your house, killed your unhappy wife who received you in all innocence, took the balance of the money, hacked the desk, and then dropped by accident this idol which convicts you of the crime.’

During this speech she advanced step by step towards the wretched man, who, pale and anguished, retreated before her fury. He came right to my hiding-place, and almost fell into my arms. I had heard enough to convince me of his guilt, and the next moment I was struggling with him.

‘It is a lie! a lie!’ he said hoarsely, trying to escape.

‘It is true!’ said I, pinning him down. ‘From my soul I believe you to be guilty.’

During the fight his pocket-book fell on the floor and the papers therein were scattered. Miss Ford picked up one spotted with blood.

‘The proof!’ she said, holding it before us. ‘The proof that Julian spoke the truth. There is the letter written by you which authorized your unhappy wife to give him one hundred pounds.’

Vincent saw that all was against him and gave in without further struggles, like the craven he was.

‘Fate is too strong for me,’ he said, when I snapped the handcuffs on his wrists. ‘I admit the crime. It was for love of you that I did it. I hated my wife who was a drag on me, and I hated Roy who loved you. In one sweep I thought to rid myself of both. His application for that money put the chance into my hand. I went to Brixton, I found that my wife had given the money as directed, and then I killed her with the foil snatched from the wall. I smashed the desk and overturned the chair, to favour the idea of the robbery, and then I left the house. Driving to a higher station than Brixton, I caught a train and was speedily back at the Alhambra. Monson never suspected my absence, thinking I was in a different corner of the house. I had thus an alibi ready. Had it not been for that letter, which I was fool enough to keep, and that infernal idol that dropped out of my pocket, I should have hanged Roy and married you. As it turns out, the idol has betrayed me. And now, sir,’ he added, turning to me, ‘you had better take me to gaol.’

I did so there and then. After the legal formalities were gone through, Julian Roy was released and ultimately married Miss Ford. Vincent was hanged, as well deserved to be, for so cowardly a crime. My reward was the green-stone god, which I keep as a memento of a very curious case. Some weeks later Miss Ford told me the way in which she had laid the trap.

‘When you revealed your suspicions about the idol,’ she said, ‘I was convinced that Vincent had something to do with the crime. You mentioned Dr Monson as having been with him at the Alhambra. He is one of the doctors at the hospital in which I am employed. I asked him about the idol and showed it to him. He remembered it being given to Vincent by the captain of the Kaitangata. The curious look of the thing had impressed itself on his memory. On hearing this I went to the docks and I saw the captain. He recognized the idol and remembered giving it to Vincent. From what you told me I guessed the way in which the plot had been carried out, so I spoke to Vincent as you heard. Most of it was guesswork, and only when I saw that letter was I absolutely sure of his guilt. It was due to the green-stone god.’

So I think, but to Chance also. But for the accident of the idol dropping out of Vincent’s pocket, Roy would have been hanged for a crime of which he was innocent. Therefore do I say that in nine cases out of ten Chance does more to clinch a case than all the dexterity of the man in charge.

EARNEST FAVENC

Favenc used his wide experience of the outback to colour both his journalism and adventure fiction. While publishing both poetry and non-fiction accounts of his expeditions in Queensland and Western Australia he is best remembered for his fiction.

My Only Murder is a fine example of Favenc’s exemplary style. His prose is only slightly tainted by the Victorian partiality for the turgid. He also managed to write with considerable wit, a rare quality for its time. This story which lampoons the essential differences between the romaticised mateship of the bush and the social constraints of urban society, is without doubt one of the best short crime pieces of the late nineteenth century.

My Only Murder

It was simply a choice between killing a man, and outraging all the finer sensibilities of my nature. Had I not done the deed I should have had to appear in another man’s eyes as a coldblooded, selfish ingrate. I swear to you that it was to spare the feelings of both of us that I took upon myself the terrible responsibility of slaying a fellow- creature.

Do I regret the deed? Not at all.

Twelve years ago, I was just coming to the end of my term of partnership in a North Queensland station, and well pleased I was to get out of it, for pastoral property was falling rapidly. My two partners were not so happy over the matter. The rate at which they were buying me out had, under our agreement, been fixed some time previously, and as prices had since steadily fallen, they had to pay me more than the market value. But, then, had stations gone up, as was anticipated by them when the rate was agreed upon, I should have been forced to accept less than the market value, so it was just the fortune of war.

I had to be up on the station by a fixed date, the wet season had arrived, and there was not a day to spare. If I did not attend on the date specified for delivery, it might form a pretext for the other side to repudiate their bad bargain. The rain came down steadily, and I knew that my work was cut out to reach the place in time. Once across the Banderoar river, I was safe, but when I arrived on the bank it was a swim, and fast rising. There was too much at stake to hesitate; crocodiles or not, I must cross. My horse could swim well, I knew, and so could I. It was growing late, so, without more ado, I undressed, strapped my clothes on the saddle, unbuckled the reins, crossed the stirrup-leathers in front, and started.

As soon as old Hielandman (my horse) was out of his depth and swimming straight, I slipped off and swam alongside him. We were nearly two-thirds of the way across when suddenly Hielandman struck against a submerged snag. The shock and the strong current made me foul him, and ere I could get clear he had clipped me on the head with his fore-foot. I don’t remember much about what happened immediately afterwards, only it seemed mighty hard to drown just as I was about to retire with a small competency and get married. Then I felt cold, and oh! so sick, and, after an interval, I found myself ashore with a great singing in my ears and a taste in my mouth as though I had swallowed all the flood-water in North Queensland.

I had been pulled out by one of a party of men camped on the bank I was making for. He had bravely jumped in without waiting to undress, and after being nearly drowned himself, had dragged me ashore. He was standing by the fire wringing out his wet clothes, and, with the glow of new-born life within me, I thought he was the most glorious fellow I had ever seen.

‘By Jove, old man!’ he said to me cheerily, ‘if I had waited to take my trousers off you would have been feeding the crocodiles now.’

I did not doubt it, and I told him how deeply grateful I felt, and how I could never thank him sufficiently. To die