A House Divided

by Sulari Gentill

  “Not that old line again, Rowly.” Milton Isaacs leant in from his seat on the other side of Annie Besant. “Not every beautiful woman can be seduced with a portrait, mate.”

  Rowland ignored him but Annie chuckled. Milton and Annie Besant got on famously. Her past as a socialist agitator and reformist made her a hero to Milton, whose politics were definitely, and at times awkwardly, Left. She in turn was intrigued by the brash young man who called himself a poet and made no effort to hide the letters of the word ‘Red’ which disfigured his forehead. Being too old to wait upon niceties, she had asked him about it on their first introduction.

  “Are you particularly fond of the colour red, Mr. Isaacs?”

  “It is a perfectly acceptable colour, Mrs. Besant,” he had replied smoothly. “But it does not appear on my face with consent.”

  “Then why is it there?” she had persisted, peering at the faded but readable letters.

  “I came across some men who took exception to my political persuasion and who decided that I should wear it.”

  It was not entirely true. Milton left out that the right-wing vigilantes who had branded him with silver nitrate had done so thinking he was Rowland Sinclair. That was several months ago now—before they’d fled Sydney.

  Rowland sketched, listening vaguely as his friend gave Annie the benefit of his considerable charm. Annie Besant’s face was strong, her forehead broad, and the set of her mouth determined. She wore a fashion of her own creation, a kind of anglicised form of Indian dress, in white and blue. He drew her with definite lines, concentrating on capturing both the wisdom and hope in her face, as she spoke to Milton of international brotherhood. Her eyes were farseeing, as if her focus was on something in the distance. The Theosophical movement was now in decline, but at its height it had counted powerful men amongst its number. Prime ministers, men of letters. Indeed, it was rumoured that Australia’s new national capital had been designed by Burley Griffin as a monument to Theosophical symbolism. And all these men had been led by Annie Besant.

  “Rowly—” Clyde caught his attention from across the table. A fellow artist, Clyde Watson Jones had, like Edna and Milton, accompanied him from Sydney on a tour that had taken them to Egypt, the Continent, and England. In London, Rowland had attended to some of his family’s extensive business interests. It was of course Sinclair money that had paid all their passages and accommodated and attired them in a manner befitting. Rowland Sinclair was a wealthy man, but he chose his friends from among those who were not—not consciously, of course. It just so happened that the bohemian set of poets and artists to whom he naturally gravitated were not often from the elite and conservative circles into which he’d been born.

  “Hu reckons there’s a game of baccarat going in the Smoking Room tonight,” Clyde said hopefully. Originally from the country, his rugged, weather-beaten face presented a little out of place in the dinner-suited grandeur of the restaurant.

  Hubert Van Hook was the other man at their table. He had occupied himself that evening exchanging suggestive witticisms with the Hoffman sisters, who were cruising to celebrate their recently acquired status as widows. There were four Hoffmans, so their simultaneous bereavement seemed an alarming coincidence, but by all accounts it was a happy one. In his mid-thirties, Van Hook was a native of Chicago and one of the Theosophical movement’s inner circle, though he seemed to prefer his spirits in a glass. He had a fondness for cards and, consequently, was often in their company.

  “I’m in,” Rowland replied with a quick glance at Milton. Baccarat was a habit they had picked up on the Continent, where it was a most fashionable pastime. Milton looked towards Edna, who was speaking to Jiddu Krishnamurti of her work. The sculptress liked to go dancing in the evenings. As Rowland was still unable to do so, and Clyde loathed dancing, she relied on Milton to escort her…initially, at least.

  “I’m coming,” he announced, deciding that Orville Urquhart could take Edna onto the dance floor if she really had to go. Otherwise she could spend the evening counting chakras with the once World Prophet.

  “I demand that we be relocated, forthwith!”

  Rowland’s head snapped up towards the minor commotion at the next table.

  A heavy-set man of the cloth was remonstrating with the harried purser, who was doing his best to minimise the unfortunate scene.

  “It’s bad enough that his kind is allowed aboard, but I will not dine within arm’s reach—it is an affront…to me and the Church!”

  The purser tried valiantly in the awkward silence that followed to resolve the issue with the least amount of fuss and embarrassment. The bishop and his party were directed to an alternative table well on the other side of the dining room.

  Annie Besant was the first to speak. “Ignorant buffoon!”

  “Come now, Amma.” Jiddu Krishnamurti urged forgiveness. “The ignorant are more in need of understanding than those whose minds are open.”

  Annie Besant exhaled. “You are right of course, Jiddu.”

  Krishnamurti took the opportunity to expand and expound on his message of tolerance and love for one’s fellow man, regardless of whether it was reciprocated. Milton caught Rowland’s eye and grimaced. They all liked the Indian holy man, but he did have a tendency to go on. Annie Besant noticed Rowland’s fleeting smile and returned her hand to his knee.

  “Jiddu is a good man,” she said quietly. “In the end he was too good to fulfill his destiny.”

  Rowland turned towards her once again. He knew that Krishnamurti had been the Theosophical movement’s anointed world leader, thought to be a reincarnation of Christ. Discovered in India as a small boy, he had been raised by Annie Besant herself. And then, just a couple of years before he was expected to take the mantle of world teacher, he had repudiated the title and left the movement, though apparently his ties to its leaders were still strong.

  “Jiddu feels that the individual must come to enlightenment through his own realisation and not through the teachings of another. For this reason he walked away from the Society.” Annie sighed as she reflected. “Not everyone took it well.”

  Rowland nodded. Few religions would take the loss of their prophet well. “It must have been disappointing.”

  Annie patted his knee. “We had been preparing for so long, you see. Even in your Sydney, our Mr. Leadbeater had everything ready. But perhaps that is what Jiddu had to teach us…that we must go on ourselves.”

  Annie’s voice grew thin and faded. She gasped. The hand on Rowland’s knee clutched. He stiffened in response and regarded the matriarch with concern. The colour had drained from her face.

  “Are you unwell, Annie?”

  She said nothing for a moment, breathless, and then, “The veil was opened again…just briefly…so briefly. I caught a glimpse of what your life holds, dear boy.” She fortified herself from the wineglass before her.

  Rowland’s lips twitched. “Oh?”

  Annie Besant composed herself now. “You must be careful, Rowland. I see trouble ahead for you.”

  “What kind of trouble?” he asked, smiling now.

  Annie shrugged, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know. There is power in your presence but it is guarded.” She regarded him almost accusingly. “As I said earlier, you are difficult to read.”

  “Did you see any beautiful women?”

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You think I am a mad old lady getting carried away by my own fancies?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “But I rather like mad old ladies. It’s the young ones who often prove problematic.”

  Annie Besant followed his gaze to Edna who was explaining Cubism to Krishnamurti. “Miss Higgins is a very rare young woman, an irrepressible life force.”

  Rowland’s right brow rose. “Repressed, she is not,” he agreed.

  Annie chuckled. She patted his leg again and leant in to confide, “I have no do
ubt that there will be beautiful women in your future, dear boy.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Milton, who had been listening, laughed. “What do you see for me, Annie?” He offered her his palm.

  She slapped his hand away. “I am not some carnival Gypsy, young man!” But she wasn’t offended. She beckoned Rowland closer and whispered once again, “You be careful.”

  Reading Group Guide

  1. Consider how the Great Depression affected different communities. Who suffered? Did anyone benefit?

  2. Who are the “few right-thinking men”?

  3. Do you think Rowland truly loves with Edna, or is he only attracted to her because she won’t have him? Is she simply the first thing he’s ever been denied, or is there more to it?

  4. Discuss Rowland’s friends—which did you like best?

  5. Who is the hero of this story? Is it Rowland?

  6. If Rowland declared his feelings for Edna, would there be any consequences? Discuss them.

  7. What do you think of Herbert Poynton? Is he a traitor or a whistle-blower?

  8. Is Rowland’s disinterest in politics a result of his wealth? What did you make of it?

  9. Do you see any parallels between the politics of this story with today’s?

  10. How do you think Edna feels about Rowland? Is she denying her feelings, or does she not love him? Why do you think so?

  11. This story is full of twists and turns—was there a moment that surprised you the most? Why?

  12. Which way do you think Rowland would vote?

  A Conversation with the Author

  This is the first book in the series. What inspired you to create Rowland Sinclair?

  I’d decided to look at the events of the 1930s through the form of a mystery novel to consider the rising political tensions of the era not only in terms of what happened then, but also in terms of what we are repeating now. In order to do that, I needed the story to be told through the eyes of a protagonist who was of his or her time but who was also progressive enough to be relatable to, and trusted by, the contemporary reader. I wanted him to move freely in all strata of society but also to be a bit removed from that society, to be able to observe it with the objectivity of an outsider. But I was tired of the trope of the bitter, brooding detective who worked alone and spent his evenings with whisky and regret. I wanted to write about a different kind of man. One with a sense of humour and an eye for the absurd as well as a sense of justice.

  So from these requirements and preferences emerged Rowland Sinclair, the Oxford-educated youngest son of a wealthy, landed family, born to the conservative establishment but who is drawn to the egalitarian, Bohemian sets of Sydney; who is initially disinterested in politics until Fascist violence begins to impact directly on his life and those he loves. As an artist, Rowland is an excellent observer, he sees the world as compositions—foreground, background, focus, and perspective. He regards people not in terms of whether they are conventionally attractive, but by how interesting they would be to paint, where they fit into the picture. I surrounded him with louche but fiercely loyal friends because I didn’t want to write a superhero, but a man who was both flawed and idealistic, who could by virtue of his wealth be oblivious but was never indifferent, and who needed and valued his friends. I wanted to write a man I could challenge with the moral dilemmas of the time… in addition to a few murders.

  A House Divided explores some politically complex issues, namely people pushed to extreme action by desperate circumstances. What was it like writing this kind of conflict? Did you find yourself picking a side?

  I’ve always been interested in what makes people act or fail to act. Why does one person fall into step while another stands their ground? What makes one person turn their face away while another cries, “Look here! This is wrong.”

  There’s always a story behind every choice. When personal lives are woven into larger social movements and conflicts, then the stories behind each choice become more complex and the choosing is more often emotional than rational. Even complicated political issues involving vast societal upheaval are comprised of thousands of individual choices motivated by human emotions we all understand—love, hate, fear, hurt, grief, loyalty—on both sides. Indeed political leaders have long risen and fallen on their ability to harness the emotions of their people.

  I suppose that by interweaving the personal stories of Rowland and his compatriots into broader arcs of conflict, I try to understand those social and political movements through the eyes of a flawed but decent man who is beholden to nothing but his own moral code.

  I’m not sure I’ve picked a side—that implies too rational, intellectual, and cool a choice, and mine is as much about what I know in my heart is right, as what I know in my soul is wrong. And yes, I do find myself on a side. To be fair, however, I have the benefit of hindsight. I know where the political turmoil of the 1930s led; I know how it all turned out. Rationally or emotionally, it’s hard to not take a side.

  You’ve written a number of mysteries, but when you’re reading for pleasure, do you find yourself gravitating towards other genres?

  I read fairly eclectically. Biographies, historical novels, speculative fiction, a lot of non-fiction, and of course, mystery. What I most want from a book is to fall in love with characters, to care about them, to think about them after I’ve closed the book, and to have my outlook influenced by theirs. I’m not particularly fussy about whether those characters are trying to solve murders, save aristocrats from the guillotine, fight dragons, or simply survive in the modern world.

  Australian history is not a common topic in fiction. Why did you choose Sydney in 1931 as your setting?

  Writing is often conducted in glorious isolation. I spend a great deal of time in my own head, and whilst that’s fine for me, it can be difficult for my husband, who has to fight the people I’ve made up for my attention. A great part of the challenge in being a writer is making your imaginary world work with the real world in which you actually live. I knew I was never going to stop writing, but I had no plans of getting rid of Michael (my husband) either. I had to find some way to include that poor man—who, to be fair, had married a lawyer and then found himself, financially and otherwise, tied to someone who refused to do much else but write—in my magnificent obsession. And so I looked for an idea, a story to which my husband could relate, a way to bring him into my head so I wouldn’t have to come out as often.

  Michael’s an historian, and his particular area of expertise is the extreme political movements of Australia in the 1930s, and so, conveniently, it is this context in which the Rowland Sinclair Mysteries are set. By basing my work in this period, I rather cleverly ensured that I would always have an historical expert to check my work—Michael cares far too much about the genuine history of the time to let me play with it unsupervised! Of course, once I started digging into the 1930s, I became fascinated with the era in my own right, intrigued and not a little terrified by parallels to contemporary tensions and divisions.

  This book has a diverse, quirky set of characters—which one was your favorite to write?

  Milton is huge fun to write. I love his passion, his streetwise humour, his unrepentant sense of style. I’m often laughing to myself as I write him. Even so, I think my favourite character to write might be Wilfred Sinclair. He’s so different to Rowland, so stern and contained that when he and Rowland do have a rare moment of fraternal connection, it glows on the page, and I’m just observing two brothers struggling to find common ground.

  What does your writing process look like?

  I’m not sure you could call it a process. I am what Australians call a “pantser,” in that I write by the seat of my pants with no plot of any sort. I begin with a situation, throw Rowland Sinclair into it, and see what happens. I rarely have any idea of who exactly will die, let alone who did it. I do have a vague idea of the major histo
rical events of that particular year, but I tend to research as I go rather than before I start.

  So I suppose my process looks like a woman in pyjamas sitting in bed, writing directly into a laptop while the television blares in the background. As I said I’m not sure you could call it a process, but it does seem to work. To me, it feels very much like I simply follow Rowland around the 1930s, watching, eavesdropping, and writing down what I see and overhear.

  Historical mystery is one of the most iconic and popular genres for readers—what do you hope you bring to the genre?

  I try to write stories that are exciting and gripping, and characters that live in the reader’s mind and heart, but it’s also important to me that my books are about something more than the murder at their centre. Increasingly, I am alarmed by the similarities I see between the events of the 1930s and those of today. It seems the world is intent on repeating history. I hope that my readers will see that as much as I am setting my books in the past, I am writing about now. I hope my work will, through the 1930s, bring a little insight into this decade, that it will remind people that we have been here before and it didn’t end well.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to raise a child…and to write a novel. Certainly there were many people who contributed to both this book and the maintenance of its author’s sanity. It is a debt I wish to humbly acknowledge here.

  My father, who did not once question my decision to spurn an ostensibly respectable career in order to write stories; who read all my manuscripts and approached my newfound passion with all the support and enthusiasm that he gave my schemes as a child. This, despite my past teenage proclivity to grandiose disasters… Who can forget my ill-fated forays into the world of stuffed toy manufacture, T-shirt design, and, of course, film production?