Creative Writing: The Royal By Peter Lumberg

The assailant plunged his knife deep into Peter Lumberg's throat, the blade penetrating almost to the heart and causing blood to spray onto surrounding foliage; a catastrophic wound, though not sufficiently catastrophic for the attacker who unleashed a frenzied assault, stabbing repeatedly into the face and neck, punching the knife so deep into the flesh it struck vertebrae. At the age of 67, Lumberg offered little resistance, no longer strong enough to fight off a determined foe. When he slumped to the ground, his assassin traded the pocket knife for a tomahawk and hacked into his head and neck, cleaving through the jawbone and severing the tongue. In a flash of blades, the old fellow died and his blood drained into the sand of the small bush clearing.

Apparently uninterested in the victim's immediate possessions, the killer stole nothing, not that Peter had much to steal; a few cooking utensils and basic foodstuff strewn around the camp - cans of sardines and peas, a tin of milk, rolled oats, salted beef and a loaf of bread lodged in the branches of a sprawling mango tree. The old man's makeshift tent housed little more than a bed

on the ground and tattered clothing. By far the most valuable item in the camp, his fob watch with its silver chain, lay on the bed beside a newspaper. But the killer never rummaged through the tent, never stole the watch, never pilfered food, and never scoured the dead man's pockets for money. Whatever he craved, he attained by the old man's death. With that accomplished, he left.

The body lay undisturbed throughout the night and into the morning until 10.30 am when a man strode purposefully into the clearing; a man dressed in a white uniform and helmet. Thomas Seaton, Inspector of Nuisances for the Municipality of Cairns, last visited the area a fortnight before prompted by a letter in the Cairns Argus newspaper. The anonymous correspondent implied the inspector's indifference to a local nuisance might soon provoke an accident, asserting that a putrid odour pervaded the locality - the smell so pungent - the stench so nauseous - it spooked horses. Evidently, some scoundrel poisoned a goat and abandoned the body to rot, inadvertently causing alarm to horses and besmirching the character of the Inspector. Seaton returned hoping to apprehend the goat murderer, but instead of a killer, found another body. Noticing wounds on the head and neck, he marched off to summon help.

At the nearby hotel, he recruited George Dunwoodie.

Officially named The Royal, only bumptious bureaucrats insisted on the pub's formal designation. Generally, patrons called it the Parramatta after a previous establishment which burnt down on the same site or Dunwoodie's, after George's mother, who recently bought it. Seaton - who called it the Royal - a man accustomed to wielding authority, wasted few words, "Put your hat on and come over. I think there's a man dead." Not bothering to elaborate, he led George back to where the mango tree rose above the surrounding bush and pinpointed the campsite. Even before they turned off the road onto a path through the undergrowth, George glimpsed the tent and beyond it, a swarming cloud of flies. "Don't touch the body, and don't let anyone near it till I bring the police," ordered the

inspector.

"That's old Peter," said George. Despite the body lying face down, George recognised Lumberg's matted grey hair, dishevelled clothing and felt hat, now at his feet, not on his head. On Sunday afternoon, Lumberg and two friends had a few drinks at the pub and Peter returned alone that night, drinking and chatting on the verandah with Mrs. Dunwoodie. He talked about setting up camp in the area over the weekend.

Intent on his mission, Seaton ignored the younger man. Accustomed as a municipal officer to issuing orders, he scorned the mundane chatter of regular townspeople. He left to alert the police.

Alone with the body, George investigated the crime scene. He noticed bootprints in the sand around the body, impressions of a man's boots with distinctly small heels. Whoever left those impressions walked away from the body and crossed the clearing in the direction of town. Assuming the prints might provide a clue to the identity of the perpetrator, George stayed back from them.

In town, Acting-Sergeant McGuire, ordinarily station desk sergeant, commanded the district in the absence of his two senior officers. His morning began with a reported homicide at Nelson, four hours ride away. It appeared a straightforward investigation, the local constable having custody of the body, the shooter and the revolver, while the statements of all the participants and witnesses concurred on the basic facts, or at least, all but one. The dead guy remained tight-lipped. McGuire persuaded the Government Medical Officer to travel to Nelson for the purpose of a post-mortem and arranged a buggy to transport him, aware the cantankerous Dr. Webster might fabricate a reason to refuse the assignment if compelled to find his own conveyance.

As McGuire strolled through town, James O'Shea's horse-drawn cab stopped alongside him, an exceptional circumstance. Usually, the police stopped O'Shea, a notorious drunk frequently guilty of ferrying passengers while under the influence of liquor. Even more surprising, O'Shea's passenger proved to be the Inspector of Nuisances, who occasionally prosecuted O'Shea on behalf of the council. Seaton alerted McGuire to his discovery of a body and the Acting-Sergeant joined him in the cab. The unlikely trio headed out of town, stopping to enlist Constable Murray.

On their way to the crime scene, they passed Mrs. Dunwoodie's splendid, if slightly shabby, establishment, the last licensed premise on the journey south, and one which, according to declarations in the newspaper advertising columns, offered "Beer on Tap and all the Leading Brands of Wines and Spirits in Stock". Of course, the two policemen and Seaton had only another hundred and fifty or so yards to journey, but today was a warm day, the fifth day of Spring. Nothing terribly urgent awaited their attention, only a body, a dead body, and therefore unlikely to go anywhere. After all, Seaton left young Dunwoodie to mind it. They stopped for a quick drink.

One hundred and fifty yards away, a gathering crowd of men, women and children convened roadside, as close as George Dunwoodie would allow them to the body, and, in hushed tones, conjectured on the cause of death.