A House Divided

by Sulari Gentill

  Edna had modelled for many painters of varying talent. Very few wanted her to look at them. Most had her glance away, lowering her lids and casting her gaze as demure or dreamy. Sometimes it was because the artist didn’t have the confidence to paint her eyes, a notoriously difficult feature to capture. Others wanted to introduce an atmosphere of modesty to balance their unclad subject. Still others could simply not bear for the model to return their own scrutiny. This was not true of Rowland. No matter where he placed her arms or legs, he almost always had her look directly at him.

  For some reason, on this day, she asked him why he did so. “Rowly, do you have all your models look at you?”

  “Only the naked ones.” He sketched in her figure on the large canvas. In truth, he only used Edna for life work.

  “Why?”

  “Makes me feel important.”

  Edna wasn’t sure if he was joking, but she didn’t pursue it. She had been used by many artists whose reputations far exceeded that of Rowland Sinclair, but she liked the way he painted her.

  Milton sat in an armchair, getting his inspiration from the latest work of Conan Doyle while Lenin made a nuisance of himself by climbing up onto the chaise lounge with Edna, until he finally settled on the floor in front of her. Rowland toyed with the idea of including Lenin in the painting, but then the dog only had one ear.

  He worked in absolute silence for a while, concentrating on getting the foundations of the piece right. Then he allowed Edna to stretch out before returning her to the same position so he could continue. Milton and Edna chatted to each other, but both knew the artist well enough not to try to engage him in conversation while he worked.

  He let Edna go for a few hours in the middle of the day and worked on in her absence, relying on memory to create a likeness that was more than a mere image. Late in the afternoon, Edna took her place on the chaise again, and Rowland worked with what he could see once more. Clyde wandered in and out, as was his custom, often in search of colours. Rowland was always better stocked than he.

  They heard a car pull up, and a knock at the front door. “Don’t move,” Rowland warned Edna. “Mary will answer it.” He focussed on finessing the line of Edna’s brow, expecting the housekeeper’s tentative knock any moment. Mary Brown did not like being confronted with this aspect of his work. She would always knock and wait for him to come out.

  And so, when Wilfred Sinclair opened the door and strode into the room, they were all startled. He turned immediately on his heel and stood with his back to Edna. He took off his glasses. “For God’s sake, Rowly!”

  “Wil—what are you doing here?”

  Edna cleared her throat.

  “Oh, sorry, Ed,” said Rowland. “Go ahead and move.”

  Milton looked up from his book and tossed her a robe. Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands on a cloth. This was distinctly uncomfortable.

  As Edna slipped on the robe, she smiled at Rowland and spoke brightly to Wilfred. “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Miss Higgins.” Wilfred didn’t turn around.

  “What are you doing here, Wil?” Rowland asked again.

  “We need to speak,” Wilfred said curtly. “In the library.” He walked out before Rowland could say another word.

  “You’d better go.” Edna flinched as Wilfred slammed the library door. “I’ll take care of your brushes.”

  “Thanks, Ed… Sorry.”

  Rowland braced himself.

  Wilfred looked more than a little agitated. “Close the door,” he instructed.

  Rowland did so. He had mixed feelings about the library at the best of times. On this occasion it was more than just the walnut panelling and stained glass windows that were familiar. Though Mary Brown kept it spotless, the library was now almost completely unused. When Rowland was a child, however, his father would summon him into this room. If the summons alone did not warn the boy that Henry Sinclair was seriously displeased, it would become clear soon thereafter. Rowland didn’t remember the library fondly, but it amused him now that things had changed so little. “Are you going to hit me again?” he asked with the faintest smile.

  “Don’t be smart, Rowly,” Wilfred didn’t like being reminded of his loss of self-control.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  Wilfred pulled a folded copy of The World from inside his jacket and threw it onto the mahogany desk. “I was called up to bloody Sydney to explain this!”

  “Explain? To whom?”

  “To whom do you jolly well think?”

  “I have no bloody idea!”

  “What in God’s name are you doing with Campbell, Rowly? Your politics can’t have changed—obviously your lifestyle hasn’t.”

  Rowland sighed. “That was work, Wil,” he said, holding up his paint-stained hands. “It’s what I do.”

  “I don’t care what you call it—just tell me why you’ve suddenly joined the New Guard!”

  “I haven’t joined.”

  Wilfred pointed to the picture on the front page.

  “Since when do you read that rag?” Rowland asked. His brother would generally have regarded the sensationalist paper as beneath him.

  “I don’t,” Wilfred replied. “But our people keep an eye on Campbell. It just so happened that one of them thought he recognised you in the picture. And then I spoke to Maguire.”

  Rowland was mildly comforted. He was counting on the fact that anyone who might recognise him would have sympathies either with the Communists or Wilfred’s Old Guard, with neither likely to carry tales back to the New Guard.

  Rowland studied his brother silently for a moment as he tried to find a way out of the conversation. He didn’t see how he could do anything else, so he told Wilfred the truth.

  Wilfred sat in their father’s leather chair. His face was grim, incredulous, but he did not interrupt. When Rowland had finished, he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rowly, you’re a bloody fool! What possessed you?”

  Rowland found it hard to explain in a way that didn’t sound ridiculous. So he said nothing.

  “Do you have any idea what they’ll do if they realise you’re spying on them…if they find out who you really are?”

  “What am I supposed to do, Wil? Nobody else was interested in who killed Uncle Rowland—that idiot Bicuit is still convinced Mrs. Donelly did it, somehow.”

  Wilfred’s face softened just a little. “Look Rowly, I know you and the old man were close…but I think you’ve taken this miles too far.”

  “I’m just having a look around, Wil.” Rowland made his case as rationally as he could. “I could truthfully be painting Campbell for the simple reason that he is an interesting subject. As soon as I find something to tie his men to Uncle Rowland, I’ll leave the rest to the police.”

  “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Wilfred put his glasses back on. “Very well.” He picked up the newspaper and studied the photo. “I’ll square things with the chaps. Hinton can get a bit worked up where Campbell is concerned. Lord knows, we have our own people in the New Guard.” He shook his head as he spoke, acting against his own better judgement. “I’ll let it be known that my brother has gone abroad. It will confuse things a little, in case anyone else picks the photo.” He turned back to Rowland. “If they think you’re out of the country, they’ll be likely to dismiss the resemblance.”

  “Thanks, Wil.” Rowland was vaguely bewildered. He had expected a tirade; he wondered if he was missing something.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Rowly,” Wilfred said sternly. “I don’t approve of the company you keep, or the disgraceful way you choose to live your life, but I accept that Uncle Rowland was family. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that of all of us you h
ad some particular affection for the old reprobate. And if Campbell’s Boo Guard did have anything to do with the way he died, there will be hell to pay.”

  Rowland was relieved, but wasn’t sure why. Perhaps there was a security in his brother’s support, however grudging.

  Wilfred hefted his briefcase onto their father’s desk and unlatched it. “Look Rowly, there’s something else.” He took out a sheaf of documents and handed them across to his brother.

  To Rowland, they appeared to be deeds, legal documents.

  “It turns out that Uncle Rowland had an interest in some kind of nightclub. He was a silent partner…”

  “The 50–50 Club!” exclaimed Rowland, staring at the paperwork in disbelief. The nightspot was notorious. “The wily old bugger!”

  Wilfred looked over the top of his bifocals. “Needless to say, I want any connection to this foul establishment terminated.”

  “And you’re telling me because…?”

  “Because our blasted uncle left his interest in this dive to you, Rowly. Obviously, he thought you’d appreciate his less savoury pursuits.”

  A thought pierced Rowland’s preoccupation with Campbell and his men. “Wil…do you think this interest in the club could have something to do with…?”

  “His death? I hadn’t thought about it…” He scratched his head. “Maybe. It’s got to be far more likely than your crazy notions about the New Guard.”

  Rowland wasn’t so sure. “I’ll look into it.”

  “And while you’re at it, divest your interest. Sell it or give it away—I don’t care which. I don’t want the Sinclair name connected with such a place any longer, silent or not. I would have sent our solicitors to do it, but apparently these underworld types don’t do business according to the usual protocols. Frankly, I don’t want it known that Uncle Rowland was even a patron, let alone an owner… The old fool—he’s just as much trouble now as he was when he was alive!”

  Rowland thought that nothing would have pleased his uncle more. The elder Rowland Sinclair had aspired to scandal. Why then, he wondered, had his uncle kept his interest such a secret, even from him?

  Wilfred smiled slightly. “You know, Aubrey would have found this terribly funny.”

  Not for the first time, Rowland wished he’d had the chance to know Aubrey as Wilfred had.

  The head of the Sinclair family got up from the desk and checked his pocket watch. “I’d better go,” he said, straightening his tie. “I take it we understand each other?”

  “I think so.” Rowland shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I find anything…and I’ll do something about this.” He held up the deeds.

  Wilfred shook his head. “I’ll let you get back to…to…”

  Rowland grinned. “I was painting, Wil.” He could understand how debauched it would seem to his brother, but in Rowland’s world, painting from life was very ordinary.

  Wilfred put out his hand. “Why can’t you just drink too much like everybody else’s wayward brother?”

  Rowland laughed. It was the first warmth he’d heard from Wilfred for a long time. “I’ll make sure I’m totally under the table next time you see me.”

  “It would make your actions far easier to explain.” Wilfred snapped his briefcase latch closed, but he seemed more resigned than angry.

  Once Wilfred had left, Rowland returned to the drawing room. Edna, now dressed, had cleaned his brushes, and Milton had returned the furniture to its usual positions. They sat together on the couch, Edna with a cup of tea, Milton with a Scotch, laughing.

  “Not hard to guess what you two were talking about.” Rowland took the armchair.

  “Sorry, Rowly,” Edna said hastily. “Was he very cross?”

  Rowland smiled. “Don’t be sorry. It was pretty funny.”

  “What did he want?” Milton asked.

  “He’d seen the newspaper, of course, but then there was this…” Rowland handed him the sheaf of legal papers. “It came to me in Uncle Rowland’s estate.”

  Milton was wide-eyed as he shuffled through the papers. “My God!” he almost squealed. “Rowly, my boy, I knew you’d come good in the end. The 50–50 Club! You’re a bloody proprietor of the 50–50 Club! I could kiss you…”

  “Please don’t.”

  Edna snatched the documents out of Milton’s hands to look for herself. The club was an establishment of very dubious reputation—a sly grog den where prostitutes plied their trade, a house of assignation frequented by Sydney’s razor gangs and underworld. And now it belonged, in part, to Rowland Sinclair.

  “I’ve got to get rid of it…or at least my interest in it.”

  “But why?” Milton sounded like a thwarted child being deprived of his toys. “You can’t…”

  Without taking her eyes from the documents, Edna reached out and whacked him. “How exactly are you going to get rid of it, Rowly? Do you even know who your partners are?”

  “Doesn’t it say in there?” He waved toward the papers.

  “Not really,” she replied. “You seem to hold the deed to the premises, but there’s nothing I can see about any partnership.” She got up and moved over to sit on the arm of his chair. “Rowly, it’s been four months since your uncle died. Maybe you’re better off just forgetting about it… The 50–50 Club seems to be operating quite happily in your absence… And I don’t know that you want to risk upsetting these people.”

  “If it was just that, I probably would,” he said, keenly aware of the rose scent she wore. “But I’m starting to wonder if our theory about the New Guard is just a wild goose chase. It appears my uncle was involved with some very dangerous men.”

  Edna took a deep breath. “Rowly, you can’t go digging around the 50–50 Club the way you have the New Guard. Milt and I grew up with people like this. We’re not talking about polite disagreements. These men really hurt people.”

  “What happened to Uncle Rowland was more than a polite disagreement, Ed,” Rowland said quietly. “I’m not going challenge them. I’ll offer them the deeds in exchange for what they know about Uncle Rowland.”

  “You can’t just walk into a place like the 50–50 Club and ask to speak to the owner!”

  “Why not?”

  Milton interrupted them. “I know a bloke who knows some blokes. He could set up something.”

  “What? Who?”

  Milton looked at Edna. “Remember Reggie Jones?”

  “That idiot who used to shoot at the ceiling whenever he got excited?”

  “Yep. The doctor.”

  “He went to England, didn’t he?”

  “He came back…has a practice in Canterbury. Calls himself Stuart-Jones now. I caught up with him at the track. He runs a few dogs, among other things.”

  Rowland listened, intrigued by what was unspoken between Edna and Milton. “And this doctor knows people connected to the 50–50 Club?”

  “The Doc isn’t your conventional medical practitioner.” Milton chose his words carefully. “Most of his patients are girls in trouble, if you understand me, Rowly.”

  Rowland did. Polite company did not talk of such things, but it was a sad reality of the times.

  “That’s not why I knew him, Rowly.” Edna reached for his hand. “Milton introduced us, and he asked me to the theatre a couple of times.”

  It wouldn’t have occurred to Rowland that Edna might have sought Jones’s unhappy medical skills for herself. Even if it had, he would never have asked, but admittedly, he was relieved. He rubbed her arm.

  “I didn’t want you to think…”

  “I don’t.”

  “Anyway.” Milton ignored the exchange “The Doc knows people. I’ll sound him out—see if he can get us a meeting with whoever runs the show there.”

  “Why don’t you take care of it all, Milt?” Edna suggested. “Rowly doesn’t need to go—I don’t
trust Reggie Jones.”

  “I’m not a child, Ed.” Rowland’s voice was gentle, but it was firm. “I know what goes on at the 50–50. I don’t need to be protected from it.”

  “I think you probably do.” Milton smiled. “But I don’t think they’d deal with me. You’re the man with the deeds.” He placed his arm about the sculptress’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, old girl; I’ll look after him.”

  “How dangerous can it possibly be, Ed?” Rowland could see that Milton had not settled the disquiet in her eyes. “I’ll be giving them back the title to their damn club. And I’m not going to accuse anyone, just ask…just in case they know something.”

  Milton nodded. “I’ll call in on the Doc tomorrow and see what can be arranged. For the record, Rowly, I still think this is down to Campbell’s men, not these jokers.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “These blokes…if they wanted your uncle dead…they wouldn’t put on fancy dress to do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SYDNEY BY DAY

  SYDNEY, Thursday

  It is gratifying that Inspector MacKay, the new head of the detective force, believes he cannot merely suppress but must abolish the razor and other gangs. If he achieves results, he will win public plaudits.

  —The Argus, February 18, 1932

  * * *

  The 50–50 Club was essentially a large hall in a part of Sydney where the Depression had hit hard: Darlinghurst, just up from Kings Cross. Very little expense had been incurred in its décor, which consisted of a collection of tables of varying shapes, all draped in yellowing linen and circled with bentwood chairs. There was a grand piano in the corner, at which sat a pale young man who played without pause. The bar ran along one wall. And that was really the extent of the celebrated salon in which Rowland had inherited a share.