A House Divided—an Introduction
by Rhys Bowen
I was so pleased to be asked to write a few words to introduce Sulari’s first book in the series starring man-about-town Rowland Sinclair, because I find her books refreshingly different. We are used to gentlemen detectives, following in the footsteps of Lord Peter Wimsey, but it is a surprise and delight to find they were also operating in Australia. We tend to think of Australia as rugged Outback, so it was interesting to me to find the same sort of society as the motherland: polo matches, balls, horse racing, and a debonair sleuth who defies his upbringing to mingle with Bohemians.
I have always been fascinated by the 1930s: that period of relative calm between two great wars that historians have dubbed “The Long Weekend.” It was a period of great contrasts: of haves and have nots. While Bertie Wooster was drinking champagne from a slipper, other men were lining up for soup or bread, desperate to find any kind of work to feed their families. In the political arena, it was a time of extremes: communism vying with fascism for control of Europe. Dictators replacing democracy.
I suppose I was first attracted to the time because my mother had been growing up then. My aunts were young women. I heard their stories. I saw photos of them in those rather daring backless gowns. It seemed so glamorous to a girl in post-war Britain where everything was gray and depressing. So it was fun to write about a minor royal, mingling with the Prince of Wales’s set, but aware of the social changes taking place. I can’t foreshadow. She doesn’t know that Hitler will become a supreme dictator, that Europe will once again plunge into war.
Now it seems the thirties are all the more relevant because our own political situation seems to be mirroring that of the pre-war years: the rise of extremism. The polarization of society. The vast gulf between haves and have-nots. And what makes A House Divided so particularly relevant at the moment is that the story features the fear of communism and the rise of the ultra-right. Australia is mirroring the situation in Europe as landowners are willing to go to extremes to maintain the status quo. Sound familiar? You have to read it for yourself.
Subsequent books in the series take the reader on a series of adventures ranging from motor racing to a sea voyage and a time in London. A reviewer has described them as a “romp,” but I think they are meatier than that, with serious undertones of social commentary that will ring true today.
Also by Sulari Gentill
The Rowland Sinclair Mysteries
A House Divided
Murder in the Wind
High Country Murder
Our Man in Munich
A Very British Murder
A Murder Unmentioned
Give the Devil His Due
A Dangerous Language
The Hero Trilogy
Chasing Odysseus
Trying War
The Blood of Wolves
Standalone Novel
After She Wrote Him
Copyright © 2016, 2020 by Sulari Gentill
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover images © Tetiana Lazunova/Getty Images
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Originally published as A Few Right Thinking Men in 2016 by Poisoned Pen Press.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Gentill, Sulari, author.
Title: A house divided / Sulari Gentill.
Other titles: Few right thinking men
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2020] | Series: A
Rowland Sinclair mystery | “Originally published in 2016 as A Few Right
Thinking Men by Poisoned Pen Press”--Title page verso.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020014559 (print)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9619.4.G46 F49 2020 (print) | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014559
Contents
Front Cover
A House Divided—an Introduction
Title Page
Copyright
Crime Wave
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Excerpt from Murder in the Wind
Prologue
Chapter One
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To all the right-thinking men I have known,
and the libertines who keep them in line.
CRIME WAVE
Brutal Murder
SYDNEY, Thursday
Late last night, police attended a shocking murder scene at one of Sydney’s foremost suburbs.
The deceased gentleman, Mr. Rowland Sinclair, died in his own home, after or during a brutal attack by unknown assailants. Authorities were alerted by his housekeeper who discovered his bludgeoned body. The victim was from one of the State’s pre-eminent families: the Sinclairs of Oaklea near Yass.
It is a sign of the times that the lawlessness that has taken hold of Sydney’s streets has invaded the homes of even the most well-to-do. Violent crime, on the rise since the Great War, has been further exacerbated by the current political tensions, as well as the ever-mounting numbers of unemployed. Burglaries and robberies from the person, often with firearms and violence, are now daily events, with the meanest classes of thefts reported from all quarters. Last evening was no exception.
According to police sources, Mr. Sin
clair’s attackers were merciless. The investigation is continuing, though Superintendent MacKay was not available for comment.
Superintendent MacKay has come to prominence for his efforts to suppress the Razor Gangs waging their murderous warfare in Sydney’s streets and terrorising honest citizens.
Colonel Eric Campbell, the Commander of the New Guard, attributes the current crime wave to Communist elements conspiring to destabilise the State. Last night, he again offered the assistance of his men to the State Police Force.
Colonel Michael Bruxner, of the newly formed United Country Party, and a friend of the Sinclair family, paid tribute to Mr. Sinclair before calling upon Premier Lang to urgently address the rampant crime facing the citizens of Sydney. “People can no longer feel safe in their homes,” he said.
—The Sydney Morning Herald, December 11, 1931
* * *
Chapter One
Five days earlier
It wasn’t right. He leaned to the left, squinting, but no change of perspective improved it. Swearing at the canvas was also unlikely to help, but he tried that anyway. A reasonable man would have walked away long ago.
It was ridiculous to be working in the evening, by the light of an electric bulb. He knew that. Of course, the colours would be wrong. It seemed some destructive urge compelled him to render it completely irredeemable, rather than to leave it simply unsatisfactory. Still, he continued, hoping that by some accident he would find the precise combination of pigment and stroke to resurrect the landscape. Under the broad bright sky of morning, the painting had shown such promise.
He stood back and cursed again. It was no use. He had finessed it beyond redemption. He could not even bring himself to sign the lifeless work. Not that the signature of Rowland Sinclair was of any great consequence in the world of art. Perhaps in time.
Rowland gazed out the window as he cleaned his brushes. The grounds of Woodlands House were immaculate and traditional. The distant front hedge was made just visible by a streetlamp, which added its radiance to the muted light of the moon. Somewhere beyond that hedge stretched the fairways of the golf-links, and further in that direction, the great harbour of Sydney. It was hard to believe that so many struggled and despaired under the weight of the Great Depression; the leafy streets of Woollahra seemed beyond the reach of the economic crisis.
Rowland wiped his hands on his waistcoat. Not so many months ago, it had been a quality item of gentleman’s attire. Now, it was stained with paint and smelled of turpentine. Rowland preferred it that way. He looked again at the painting with which he had battled all day and which, in the end, had defeated him.
“Hmmm, that’s rather awful—embarrassing really.” The voice was Edna’s. She peered over his shoulder and spoke with all her customary bluntness.
He smiled. “Yes, I should have stopped when it was merely bad.”
Edna laughed and slid into the tall wingback armchair where she often posed for Rowland. She pulled off her hat and gloves, tossing them carelessly onto the side table as she shook out her dark copper tresses. “I sold L’escalier today.”
“That’s smashing,” Rowland said, impressed. L’escalier was one of Edna’s larger pieces—difficult to sell in the financial restraint of the times. “Who bought it?”
“Some academic friend of Papa’s… I had to discount it a little.”
Rowland saw the flicker in her eyes. “I wouldn’t fret about that, Ed. Most of us aren’t selling anything at all these days.” He groaned as he looked back at his landscape. “Obviously, the buying public recognises true talent.”
Edna dismissed the last. Rowland Sinclair was by no means untalented, but painters were susceptible to self-doubt. Edna created art in clay and bronze. Her mother had been a French artist of some acclaim in her own country. Before she died, she imbued in her daughter a determination, a belief in her own artistic destiny, and a certain European disregard for the social expectations of conservative Sydney, whose elite still clung to the Empire.
“I don’t know why you spend so much time trying to paint trees,” she said, as Rowland pushed his easel into a corner. “You’re not very good at it…and you capture people so beautifully.”
“Trees don’t complain quite so much.” Taking to the chair beside her, he took opened his notebook and began to sketch her face, glancing up occasionally with intense blue eyes that observed every contour and movement, each nuance of expression. She ignored it, accustomed to being the subject of his scribbling.
“Rowly, do you remember Archie Greenwood?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. He was at Ashton’s when you first started there.”
“If you say so.” Rowland remained focussed on his notebook.
The Ashton Art School was where he had first encountered Edna. It had been the twenties, a time of thrilling optimism, a time when crashing markets had been unthinkable. Rowland had been barely twenty-three and not long returned from Oxford.
“You must remember Archie—he had that dreadful lisp, but talked all the time anyway. Considered himself the next Picasso.”
Rowland looked at her blankly. In truth, he hadn’t noticed much at Ashton’s after Edna, and he had noticed her immediately—how could he not? She was enchanting. Her face was mesmerising, as open as a child’s, yet full of passion and an unshakable sense of self. Her hair was that glorious fiery shade featured time and again in the works of the great masters. A spirited, laughing muse, she had captivated and mystified him. Still, their association had not started well.
“Come on, Rowly,” Edna insisted. “Archie used to paint those appalling pictures of erotic fruit.”
“Oh, him! He had an interesting way with bananas.” Archie Greenwood and his lewd still lifes came back to him.
To his recollection, the Ashton school overflowed with odd characters; and yet, it was Rowland Sinclair whom Edna had seemed to find ridiculous, somehow trivial. She had often left him feeling so. Admittedly, he had not been typical of the students there.
“I saw Archie today.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Oh, Rowly.” Edna wrapped her arms around a cushion and hugged it under her chin. “He was picking up cigarette butts from the platform. I think he may be sleeping at Happy Valley.” She shuddered. The unemployed camp out at La Perouse was a desperate, violent place—the refuge of those without any other choice.
Rowland stilled his pencil. “He wouldn’t come with you?” He assumed Edna would have tried to bring Greenwood back to Woodlands House. The Woollahra mansion, the Sydney residence of the Sinclairs, had for some time hosted a succession of artists, writers, and poets. Some stayed a short time, others longer. Some came to live and work in an atmosphere of creativity; others because they had nowhere else. Edna had been there two years.
She stood, frowning as she thought of the broken man who had once dreamt of artistic triumph. “He would barely talk to me. He was so embarrassed.”
“Greenwood knows how to find us?”
Edna nodded. “I gave him my card.”
“Do you know how to find him?”
“No, I ran into him by chance.”
“Not much we can do, Ed. He knows his own mind, and a man has his pride, if nothing else.”
Edna leant against the back of the armchair, which Rowland’s late father had imported from London. “Not just men. I wonder when things will get better.”
Rowland glanced up. The life-sized portrait of Henry Sinclair glared down at them from the wall behind Edna, as if he disapproved of her being anywhere remotely near his chair, or his son. For that moment, Rowland’s choices were silhouetted against his background. His father had presided over a rural fiefdom—vast pastoral holdings near Yass, in the west. His sons were born into a world of extraordinary privilege and conservative tradition. The Sinclair boys had been raised as gentlemen: New South Welshmen,
but British, nonetheless.
And yet, Rowland had been drawn to Edna’s world. She had been raised among the city’s intelligentsia, in salons rich in thought and debate. Through her father, a professor of philosophy at the University of Sydney, she had developed a sympathy for the ideas of the left and, with it, a suspicion of the almost incomprehensible wealth of those in the great houses of Woollahra.
Despite her initial misgivings, Edna had come to like Rowland Sinclair. He had surprised her with his willingness to absorb the ways of her world, her politics, her friends, and her causes. She knew that he was in love with her—on some level at least—but he had never asked that his feelings be reciprocated. Indeed, he called her “Ed,” as if she were one of his mates. Edna liked that. To her, their relationship was clear; they were the best of friends—they would storm the world together with their art and their ideas.
She had introduced him into her circles—artists and intellectuals who fraternised across the class lines that segregated polite society from the rest. In time, Rowland was accepted among them, forgiven for the absurd opulence of his background.
Rowland looked over as the housekeeper entered the room. Mary Brown had been in his family’s employ since before he was born. She managed the day-to-day running of Woodlands House, supervising the domestic staff, including the gardener and the chauffeur. A solid woman of formidable disposition, Mary sighed audibly as she surveyed the drawing room. She pulled a cloth from her apron and pointedly rubbed the drops of paint from the lacquered sideboard. She sighed again.
Rowland winked at Edna. Mary Brown had an entire language of sighs.
At one time, when Mary had still been the downstairs maid, the Sinclairs had spent much of the year in Woodlands House. Then in 1914, Britain declared war on Germany, and Australia fell enthusiastically into step. Rowland’s brothers joined up, eager to fight for the Empire’s cause. He was not yet ten when he waved them off on the troop ships bound for Egypt. Wilfred had been twenty-four, Aubrey just nineteen, and the three of them had been friends, despite the years between them.
Aubrey was killed in action a year later. Mrs. Sinclair deserted the whirl of Sydney society to mourn her son in the seclusion of their country property. She never returned. She had never been the same.
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