The Noon Lady of Towitta (2 page)

The scrub country on the plains which extended eastward to the River Murray was usually favoured with fair annual rains, but not in the last year, Priest noted. He knew some farmers were quite well-to-do, but this did not include the Schippans or their neighbours. The nearby hilly district leading down onto the plains had miles of dry-stone walling, but as the red dusty soil drifted with the wind it banked up alongside and covered them. Towitta was a meeting place of the winds that swooped to earth here from all points of the compass and licked up as much dust as they could carry. After camping in the district for a week, Priest would learn that a gritty red sand mixed with an impalpable powdered limestone continuously floated across the plain, or was borne high in the air by a gust of wind before gently settling on all below.

Towitta was on no map that Priest had, and he doubted that any Australian soul would have heard of it when the reports of the murder hit the newsstands. Most of the residents in the region, including Schippan, had settled there after crown land was divided into small farm blocks. Schippan had lived in the area for over twenty-five years and, like everyone else on the plains, was struggling to survive the present gruelling drought. Located more than a mile away from tiny Towitta, the Schippan farm was in the middle of nowhere with barely a blade of grass, bush or tree to break up the dreary flat landscape. Three miles away, on the western horizon, the Mount Lofty Ranges broke up the otherwise monotonous view.

When the mounted troops reached the farm, Constable Mowbray from Truro was standing by the gated entrance to the property. He was keeping all those with a ghoulish interest at bay, for already the news of the murder had spread far and wide. As they rode into the dusty farmyard Priest noticed two lads and a woman sitting in the shade on a long bench beside the thatched farmhouse. The woman sat staring ahead. Neatly dressed with a white pinafore, she had her hand on the head of one of the boys who lay with his head on her lap and was gently crying. The other, older boy looked sullen as he whittled purposefully at a mallee root with a large razor-sharp butcher's knife. They sat there waiting for who knows what.

Priest, in a horse and carriage, led the procession to the biggest barn. As they arrived the elder boy walked slowly over and asked, ‘Sir, can I look after the horses?'

‘I would be very much obliged, young man.'

The troopers climbed from carriages or sweating horses and headed for the water pump and troughs for a welcome drink and a cooling down. Priest noted that the smaller boy had dried his tears and had been summoned by his brother to help with the horses. Priest left the men and walked to the farmhouse where he was greeted by Constable Rumball and taken through the kitchen to an inner room.

‘Prepare yourself, sir. What you're gonna see isn't very pretty. Though I'm sure it's better than what it was, for Lambert, the local constable, and his mum have put the corpse, Bertha Schippan, on the bed.'

Priest was quick to reply, ‘Goodness, they shouldn't have done that before we arrived.'

‘Oh, I dunno, sir, it was probably the best thing as it's been over thirty-six hours now, and it's pretty shocking in the bedroom. I mean we haven't touched the blood or anything but we've had to cover her over with a sheet. You'll see why.'

Priest was shown into the tiny bedroom where the body of the young girl was laid out under a sheet on a double bed. Now he could see why she was moved and covered. Swarms of flies buzzed noisily about the stains and splatters of black congealed blood on the floor where Bertha had lain. Priest knew the funeral was well overdue for the temperature hovered around a hundred degrees in the shade and the peculiar smell of death was already fouling the air. He grabbed his laundered neckerchief and covered his nose as he learned that the local coroner and doctor had already done their examinations.

The brothers, Wilhelm and August Schippan, who Priest was told did the heavy manual work around the farm for their father, helped him in any way they could. It didn't take long for Priest to notice that they were somewhat slow and sluggish. When asked questions it took time for them to reply, and indeed they appeared reluctant to do so, whether out of shyness or lack of English Priest couldn't say at first. The older boy was simply quiet, but his brother was strangely afflicted. As Priest spent more time with them he realised both brothers had problems speaking English.

The troopers soon discovered they had similar problems with the locals who were mostly first- and second-generation German migrants. While they, like the brothers, were most anxious to give the police all the help they sought, it seemed that the presence of a German linguist or a German-speaking police officer other than Deckert would have hastened their enquiries. As it was, they were greatly handicapped because of the lack of understanding of English by some of the locals. It was like being in a foreign country.

When Priest visited witnesses he couldn't fail to notice the excitement provoked by the shocking crime. It caused a thrill of horror in the minds of the honest hard-working German settlers. Such a thrill, he thought, would have been shared just as much by Adelaide folk who were as eager to hear the latest news of tragedies and homicides. Visiting the hotel bars in the district at Sedan, Cambrai and Truro over the following days, he heard the case enthusiastically debated, with theories advanced and refuted and the many suspects, whoever they were, already hanged in the imagination. Rumours of all kind circulated. No one had seen so many police in the district before. Priest noticed that the younger women gazed with wonder at the sight of so many young bronzed troopers going about their important duties.

Miss Mary Schippan was not one of the women who viewed the men in this manner. She appeared uninterested in them but she recognised Priest from the time, more than two years earlier, when her friend, a servant, had died at the hands of an abortionist in Adelaide. Mary appeared emotionless as he questioned her, looking past him as though in a trance. She moved little and her voice showed no trace of the suffering she must have felt after her terrible ordeal. Maybe she was in shock.

Priest sent the troopers to assist in a systematic scouring of the countryside. Every house within miles was visited. Every stranger was seen and interrogated and every clump of mallee examined, with no result. As he remarked to one of the journalists, ‘If any man visited the Schippan house, as described by Miss Schippan, he has vanished completely into thin air as if he employed an airship to escape by.'

In the midst of the search, Mr and Mrs Schippan arrived home from Eden Valley. Priest went out to greet their buggy and tell them what had happened to their daughter.

‘Goot afternoon,' Mrs Schippan said, her voice tightly controlled. ‘Vee have driven here as fast as vee cout. Vee are very upset that something dreadful has happened to von of our daughters. Tell us please vhat has happened.'

Priest helped them down, their faces grave.

‘I am very sorry, Mister and Missus Schippan, but your youngest girl, Bertha, has been savagely attacked and murdered by an intruder. We are doing all we can to find the perpetrator of this barbaric crime. What I can say is that your other three children are safe, although distressed, as you can imagine. Mary has suffered a few cuts and bruises.'

On hearing this, the shocked Mrs Schippan hurried to Mary. Priest took Mr Schippan to the house and led him into the bedroom where his dead daughter lay. Carefully he drew back the sheet and asked him to identify Bertha.

‘This is Johanna, Mister Schippan?'

‘Ya, but vee call her Berta,' he replied quietly, and reached for his neckerchief.

‘Bertha, right. I'll cover her up now. The flies are pretty bad, I'm afraid.' They returned to the kitchen.

‘Mr Schippan, we have seen what we need to and now that you have identified Bertha she must be buried as soon as possible.'

‘Ya, I can see that, Mr Priest. There is an undertaker in Sedan.'

‘I have some notepaper here. Write a note to him and one of my men will ride there for you. Inform him that he must come early tomorrow morning with a coffin. My trooper will also make sure the clergyman you need will be at the graveside in Sedan for a ceremony later in the day. I am sure you want relatives to know too. I'll leave you to write all the letters you wish delivered. There's pen and ink in my writing box on the table. Write the notes you need and I'll send some of my men off to deliver them.'

Mathes Schippan looked distraught and Detective Priest placed a comforting hand on his arm and said quietly, ‘This is a terrible affair Mr Schippan but while I'm here my men and I will do all we can to lessen the burden you and your wife are suffering.' Applying a little extra pressure to Mathes Schippan's arm, Priest continued, ‘Now, Mr Schippan, you can see how much mess this brutal murder has made to your home but we are still looking for clues. I'm afraid no one is allowed beyond the kitchen until we have finished our search. We can't afford to miss any traces of whoever was in the house with Mary and Bertha. After the notes are written I want you and your sons – with help from my men – to construct an outside kitchen with a cooking and eating area. It has to be large enough for your family and all of us. Then you need to re-arrange your barns for your family to sleep in for a few nights.'

Priest noticed that Schippan's sons were soon helping their father to carry out these instructions. But there was no chatter between them. Rather the boys appeared scared of their father, flinching when he came near. Mrs Schippan sat with Mary on the bench in the little shade there was, and Priest heard raised voices followed by the sobbing and weeping of Mrs Schippan. Mary never lost her composure. When Mrs Schippan finished her relentless questioning and it was quiet between them Mary continued to sit calmly, staring out across the paddocks. Frequent outbursts followed, Mrs Schippan working herself into hysteria and sobbing while Mary remained composed.

Mulligan the coroner and Steele the doctor compared notes and at four o'clock they gathered in the large implement barn for a coroner's meeting. Mr Mulligan sat at the head of a table that had been brought from the kitchen and asked each of the senior staff about what had been found. Although it was obvious from the moment they first saw the corpse that they were dealing with a murder, the meeting was held to confirm that death resulted from multiple stab wounds inflicted by what appeared to be someone in a frenzy. The evidence indicated several attempts at slashing the throat with a knife, similar to the one found in the kitchen – or was it that one? It took little effort for the police to find half a dozen bloodstained butchering knives around the farmhouse and in the barns. And it was likely there were others still to be found.

Within an hour the meeting was closed and plans were made to have the official inquest six days later in the same barn. Priest groaned at the thought of being holed up in Towitta for the next few days. But important procedures had to be carried out, such as the hunt for clues by the Aboriginal tracker. He hadn't arrived yet and who knew what he might find. Priest pinned most of his hopes on these clues.

It had been quiet, hot and still when they arrived at the Schippan farmhouse. By the next day conditions had deteriorated dramatically. The wind started in the night and with it the real hardships began. A high wind blew all day, carrying with it clouds of red gritty dust. There was no relief from the blinding choking curse that stung the face and made everyone miserable and snappy. Priest reckoned that the wind was strong enough to bury an idle person in half an hour and blow away a foot of Towitta every day. He resorted to covering his nose and mouth with his neckerchief. The place was not far from how he imagined hell to be. At least he knew he could return to Adelaide, unlike the poor local farmers. He had been told the farmers were sentenced by restrictive land regulations to reside on the plains nine months in the year, an unfair form of persecution he believed. It was a mockery that the native meaning of ‘Towitta' was fresh water.

By the end of their second day in the district Priest felt he was coming to know the Schippan family. Even though he'd heard it said by many in the district that the family was held in the highest respect, looked upon as a model family and described as sober, industrious and affectionate, he wondered whether his leg was being pulled. There was plenty of evidence to think otherwise. He must face the question of what went on behind closed doors, as well as consider the acts of violence that Mathes Schippan had committed. Priest noticed that interactions between Mary, her brothers and Mrs Schippan appeared normal, almost affectionate. This was not the case when Mathes Schippan was involved. Any family dealings with him appeared difficult and strained. Although Priest never heard him raise his voice in anger, his family jumped to his commands. In fact, he never seemed to speak unless he was ordering someone. Priest began to wonder if Mathes Schippan had been involved in the murder, yet he had been more than twenty miles away when the murder took place, according to his testimony. But if Mathes Schippan hadn't done it, who else would do such a thing? And why was Mary not murdered instead – or as well as Bertha?

People were adamant that Mary was not a ‘flighty' girl. Rather, she was known to have a nervous disposition and an obsessive fear of the dark that meant she was indoors well before nightfall. Priest observed that she may have been quite pretty once, but she was overly thin. This thinness and the way her hair was styled made her look deceptively tall. Like many spinsters with long wavy hair, she wore it pinned up on her head offset by a crimped fringe. The drab dark-brown of her clothes set off her deathly pale skin with its sprinkling of freckles over her nose and enhanced the reddish streaks through her pale-brown hair. Her face was strained and pinched and Priest never once saw her smile or relax. In many ways Mary was a younger version of her mother. Even the slightest smile would have changed her countenance. But then she had little to smile about.