‘Enough.’ Russell interrupted before Caleb could respond. ‘We will attend to your concerns shortly, sir. Please be patient.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Where’s the driver?’

‘Out back in the kitchen,’ Brown said.

‘The doctor here has a couple of questions before we take statements,’ Russell said.

Caleb thanked him and addressed the passengers. ‘Did anyone see Dr Bowen when he arrived at the coach in Melbourne?’

‘I did,’ the lawyer said. ‘He bumped into me without apologising.’

‘Can you describe him?’

The lawyer blew out his moustache. ‘I thought the man was drunk.’

‘Why?’

‘He was staggering, slurring his speech—’

‘It took him three tries to even get into the coach,’ the young Italian man interjected. ‘He trod on Eva’s foot.’

‘Did he smell of alcohol?’ Caleb asked.

The passengers looked at each other.

‘Now you mention it,’ the lawyer said, ‘no, although I did see him drink some brandy at Buneep. His hand was …’ The lawyer held out a trembling hand. ‘I’ve seen drinkers before, doctor, and they can’t hide that.’

‘Anything to add?’ Caleb addressed the Englishman.

The Englishman leaned his chair back on two legs and looked at the ceiling. ‘Nothing to add. Except that I was the poor sod who woke up to find a dead man leaning against my shoulder.’ He brushed the shoulder of his jacket as if Bowen had been an annoying piece of lint. ‘You are wasting our time, doctor. You—sergeant. Let’s get on with the formalities, shall we? I, for one, have had quite enough of the hospitality of this inn.’ The chair came back to earth with a thump.

Maidment thanked everyone and assured them he would return to take formal statements shortly.

The party traipsed through the hostelry to the kitchen, where the ill-tempered Melbourne coachman confirmed that on his arrival at the point of departure in Collins Street, Bowen had been unsteady and slurring his speech. He had no luggage with him.

Maidment glanced at Caleb. ‘Did he have anything when he left Maiden’s Creek?’

Caleb nodded. ‘A small valise.’ He indicated the size with his hands.

‘Anything else about him?’

The coachman shook his head. ‘Didn’t disembark at Buneep. Barman sent out a brandy and water. That’s it, until the Italian woman screamed and I had to stop the coach on account of the fact the man was dead.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Such a carry-on I never did hear. Don’t know who was making the most noise, the woman or that bloody English cove.’

They thanked the coachman and turned to the constable.

‘Where is the doctor?’ Russell enquired.

‘In the stables,’ Brown said.

‘I think we have put off the moment long enough. Brown, lead on,’ Russell said.

They crossed the dusty, chicken-infested yard to the outhouses. Amos Burrell, seated on a fence railing, watching his two coach horses graze in the paddock beyond, raised a hand but made no move to join them.