Sarah Peterkin paused dramatically for a moment on the threshold of the high dark cupboard. She had not played leading lady in melodramatic tragedy on the boards of third-rate provincial theatres for nothing. Unexpected entrances into rooms where strangers were wrangling over dead bodies were in fact her forte, and had earned her the title of ‘the divine Sarah’ from more than one ingenious admirer.
The pause reached its artistic climax, and Sarah spoke again.
‘I’ll be stepping down,’ she said.
The Inspector extended a somewhat grimy hand, and Sarah descended into the room.
‘It was mighty stuffy in there,’ she said, ‘and I’ll take a drink.’
Certainly the divine Sarah was in no hurry. She moved leisurely over to the bar and Raynham poured her out a glass of the maligned whiskey. Whether the fact that Raynham had not offered the Doctor any led to that gentleman’s disparaging remark about it, or whether the divine Sarah’s taste was less educated than his is doubtful; it is, however, perfectly certain that she drank it with gusto. It is also certain that she said a couple of words to Raynham as he qualified it for her, that a smile of intelligence crossed his usually unilluminated face, and that he nodded to her.
The Doctor threw a rug over the half-naked body, and waited patiently for the divine Sarah to finish her refection. That lady wiped her mouth with an exceedingly tidy lace-edged handkerchief, and turned to the company.
‘Who stands treat?’ she remarked.
The Doctor and Inspector made a show of feeling in their pockets, but Raynham interrupted.
‘The loss is the bank’s,’ he said.
Sarah crossed the room and seated herself on the end of the bench where the corpse lay. The others felt that she was mistress of the situation, and waited for her to develop it.
‘Seems to me,’ she said, denuding herself, figuratively speaking, of the burden, ‘that we’d just better have a talk over this matter. If this gentleman’ – indicating the Inspector – ‘would assume the part of High Jury, the witnesses – which is chiefly me – will lay the case before him. The Judge—’
The Doctor was considered a humorist of the first water by the higher circles in Black Rock Creek, and he decided to make a joke.
‘Our unknown friend here will be the judge,’ said he, pointing to the corpse.
Sarah did not laugh, but gave him a look out of the third act of ‘La Tosca.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Ned shall be the judge.’
There was a pause, and Sarah shifted her seat slightly and looked straight at the Doctor.
‘The Honourable Edward Peterkin has taken his seat,’ she remarked. ‘The trial will now be commencing.’
For the second time that evening a gleam of intelligence shot across Raynham’s face, but, ashamed of exhibiting such weakness, he instantly repressed it.
Sarah, who seemed to be doubling the parts of witness and judge, in the indisposition of the latter, turned and addressed, the jury, who was sitting cross-legged on a two-legged stool, and balancing it with much accuracy.
‘I’m the wife of the judge’s brother,’ she said, ‘and my name is the Honourable Sarah Peterkin, usually known as Sally. He married me last July; and as times were bad I remained behind in Dunkeld followin’ the histrionic profession, and he went up to Broken Hill. He an’ his brother – the Honourable Edward Peterkin, whom the jury sees his lordship before him – had a claim together. There was another woman up there, and I guess Ralph, that’s my husband, felt lonesome without me, so he took up with her, which proceedin’ was in bad taste.’
The Doctor here interpolated a remark.
‘Dam’ bad taste,’ he said.
‘You’ve not seen the other woman,’ remarked Sarah, ‘so not knowin’ you can’t say. Then Ralph and Ned between them got hold of Black Jack.’
‘Who was Black Jack?’ demanded the jury.
‘Black Jack was a big diamond, comin’ from up country, being white by nature. Ned and Ralph quarrelled over Black Jack, and what between Black Jack and the other woman, there was, you may say, bad blood between them, as Ned said Ralph was a married man, an’ ought to know better, whereas he was untrammelled, an’ was lookin’ out for a wife himself. An’ so they parted, Ned having got hold of Black Jack by fair means or foul – knowin’ Ned well, I should say foul – and Ralph followed him down to Dunkeld, swearin’ and ragin’ round. Then he lost sight of him, an’ here Ned lies. An’ the question before the jury is who killed Ned, and where’s Black Jack? I’ve been in that black bathing machine in the corner an hour or more, and kin form a guess or two about it. An’ now the other witnesses will say what they know. Also there was a belt of dibs round Ned’s waist. That’s a matter of less importance, there bein’ only a hundred or so of them, and Black Jack was worth fifty of these belts. Black Jack, I may say, was on Ned when he was brought into this house.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the jury.
‘’Cause I saw it.’
The humorous Doctor found it hard to break himself of a habit which had become inveterate.
‘Them as sees believes,’ he remarked, jocosely.
The divine Sarah favoured him with another look.
‘Give your evidence,’ she said, ‘an’ don’t scatter inspersions over others. Wait till the jury an’ the judge has had an opportunity of scatterin’ inspersions over your remarks.’
The Doctor spat thoughtfully on the floor.
‘I was coming up from Jenkins’ claim this evening,’ he said, ‘and was told there was a man lyin’ here deadly sick. I saw him, and sent Raynham to my house with a prescription, while I went to see another case over the creek. I came back here, with the jury, and found the corpse lying dead. Raynham had already returned and was alone in the house.’
Sarah looked impartially at all the witnesses in turn.
‘You forget the lady in the cupboard,’ she said.
The Doctor disregarded the interruption, and went on.
‘I have since learned there was a lady in the cupboard,’ he said. ‘The corpse had a belt on when I left the house, and the belt was missing when I came back. The lady assures me also that he had a diamond on him when he was brought here, and that also is missing now. And that,’ he remarked gaily, ‘closes the case for the prosecution.’
‘For the defence,’ said the divine Sarah.
‘How do you make out that?’ asked the last witness.
Sarah stood up.
‘You’ve given your defence very well,’ she said, ‘but it’s a little incomplete in detail. The third witness, Mr Raynham, will now give his evidence, which no doubt will supply some little deficiencies in yours, an’ I shall have the pleasure of collaboratin’ him.’
‘Corroborate,’ suggested the jury, tentatively.
‘Corroborate or collaborate, it’s all one,’ said Sarah.
But before Mr Raynham had time to get on his feet the door opened, and the divine Sarah emitted a sound which partook of the nature of a gurgle, a scream, and a gasp, and which if she had produced it on the stage would have made her ingenious admirers think her even diviner than ever.