Miles Off Course
Page 1
A note from the publisher
Dear Reader,
In Miles Off Course Sulari Gentill brings together art, money, crime… murder, conspiracy, trespass and kidnapping in an extraordinary tale that continues in 1933.
Miles Off Course is the third book in the Rowland Sinclair Series. The first in the series, A Few Right Thinking Men, was shortlisted for the 2011 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book in our region.
She had me hooked from her very first page, and I couldn’t put the story down. Here’s what other people are saying:
“continues the sparkling crime series…” – THE AGE
“glossy, original and appealingly Australian” – Women’s Weekly
“. . .makes us think of Miss Marple or Inspector Poirot” – ABC Radio
If you haven’t picked up a Pantera Press book before, you should know that simply by enjoying our books, you’ll also be contributing to our unique approach: good books doing good thingsTM. We’re passionate about discovering the next generation of well-loved Australian authors, and nurturing their writing careers. We’ve also given our business a strong ‘profits for philanthropy’ foundation, focussed on literacy, quality writing, the joys of reading and fostering debate.
Let me mention one program we’re thrilled to support: Let’s Read. It’s already helping 100,000 pre-schoolers across Australia develop a love of books and the building blocks for learning how to read and write. We’re excited that Let’s Read now also operates in remote Indigenous communities in Far North Queensland, Cape York, and Torres Strait. Let’s Read was developed by the Centre for Community Child Health and is being implemented in partnership with The Smith Family.
Simply buying this book will help us support these kids. Thank you.
Want to do more? If you visit www.PanteraPress.com/Donate you can personally donate to help The Smith Family expand Let’s Read, find out more about this great program, and also more on the other programs Pantera Press supports.
Please enjoy Miles Off Course.
And for news about our other books, sample chapters, author interviews and much more, please visit our website: www.PanteraPress.com
Happy reading,
Alison Green
First published in 2012 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
www.PanteraPress.com
Text Copyright © Sulari Gentill, 2012
Sulari Gentill has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
Design and Typography Copyright © Pantera Press Pty Limited, 2012
PanteraPress, three-slashes colophon device, and good books doing good things are trademarks of Pantera Press Pty Limited
This book is copyright, and all rights are reserved.
We welcome your support of the author’s rights, so please only buy authorised editions.
This is a work of fiction, though it is based on some real events. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, firms, events or locales is coincidental.
Without the publisher’s prior written permission, and without limiting the rights reserved under copyright, none of this book may be scanned, reproduced, stored in, uploaded to or introduced into a retrieval or distribution system, including the internet, or transmitted, copied or made available in any form or by any means (including digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, sound or audio recording, and text-to-voice). This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent recipient.
Please send all permission queries to:
Pantera Press, P.O. Box 1989 Neutral Bay. NSW Australia 2089 or info@PanteraPress.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
ISBN 978-0-9870685-2-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-9219970-3-7
Cover and internal design: Luke Causby, Blue Cork
Front cover images: © Kirn Vintage Stock/Corbis [42-28578080] and © Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales [hood_03806]
Back cover image: © Sulari Gentill
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press
Author Photo by J.C. Henry, Lime Photography
Pantera Press policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
To those with the courage to stay on course, and those with the imagination to wander.
Contents
Prologue
1
2. KIDNAPPED
3. STUDY OF CIVILISED NATIVES
4. GREAT TOMB NOT TO BE BUILT
5. RIVERINA MOVEMENT
6. MR. LYONS
7. MINES AND METALS
8. BLACK COAT PROFESSIONS
9. THERMAL SPRINGS
10
11
12. OUR MOUNTAIN WONDERLAND
13. ELECTRIC LIGHTING AT YARRANGOBILLY CAVES
14. COUNCILS AND RABBITS
15. NIBBLING AT THE PARKS
16. ON THE TRAIL TO YARRANGOBILLY
17. ON THE LAND
18. Nothing else has its “TRIPLE HEALING” powers
19. THE BOGONG HIGH PLAINS
20. THE WOMAN’S WORLD
21. BURNS AND SCALDS
22. CATTLE BRANDS
23. THE NORTHERN GOLDFIELDS
24. SNAKEBITES
25. A FIRE-LIGHTING HINT
26. FIRST AID TO THE INJURED
27. STATION, FARM AND GARDEN
28. LISTER SHEEP-SHEARING MACHINERY
29. WOMAN’S WORLD
30. BRITISH ITEMS
31. HAND OF MOSCOW
32. JACK AND JOCK
33. IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY
34. DANGAR, GEDYE AND CO.
35. PUBLIC INQUIRY
36. MESS JACKET GAINING ON “TAILS”
37. UNDERWORLD RAID
38. CACHE OF LIQUOR FORFEITED
39. WORKERS BEWARE!
40
41. VANDALISM IN GARDENS
Epilogue
Prologue
WAVE OF ABDUCTIONS TERRORISES SYDNEY’S WEALTHY
The grisly discovery of the remains of the Lindbergh baby in May last year, some months after the child had been kidnapped from its nursery, caused shock and outrage in the United States and across the world.
There is not a person in the civilised world who cannot feel for the anguish of Colonel and Mrs. Lindbergh, nor be repulsed by the brutality of the act.
The abduction of rich men’s sons is not a new crime, and our part of the world is not immune from those who seek to extort money from the well-to-do with this sort of menace.
Sydney has in the past weeks fallen victim to a wave of suspected abductions.
In January, William Ainsworth of Ainsworth Textiles disappeared, as did Edward Carmichael of Carmichael and Sons Pty Ltd. Most recently Charles Wentworth—son of the industrialist, Sir Alfred Wentworth, and a prominent businessman in his own right—was seized in broad daylight by persons unknown.
Despite the best efforts of Superintendent Bill Mackay and his Criminal Investigation Bureau, not one of these gentlemen has been recovered. Police remain baffled and grave concerns are held for the lives of all three victims.
It is a stark reminder of the tyranny of the criminal that even the founding families of our fair city cannot feel safe in her stree
ts. One can only wonder which family will be next to have a son snatched away.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
1
“Norman Lindsay is a complete and utter bastard!”
Rowland Sinclair sat down and buried both hands in his dark hair as he vented his frustration. It had been a long day. He fell back and loosened his tie.
Milton Isaacs closed his book and rose from the comfort of his armchair to pour his friend a drink. He charged two glasses from the crystal decanters. The poet was nothing if not empathetic.
“What’s old Norman done now?”
Rowland took the sherry and drained it in a single swig. He felt a little better. Perhaps intoxication was the answer. “Rosalina Martinelli.”
“The model?”
Rowland simply groaned in reply, his temper exhausted by the trials of the day. The invitation to contribute a piece to the impending exhibition of classical figures at the Art Gallery of New South Wales had been an unexpected recognition of his work. A portrait artist, Rowland had acquired a quiet but growing reputation for his paintings of the female form. He was considered, by some, a protégé of Lindsay, though there were many who would say Sinclair had a lighter touch with oils, a greater finesse with the medium of paint. Rowland’s nudes were somehow different, his work moved those it did not offend. He was a young man, and so he painted women as a young man would—with a kind of wondrous excitement that came out in the stroke of his brush. There was, however, nothing wondrous or exciting about the last few hours.
“What’s the problem with Miss Martinelli?” Milton asked, refilling his glass. “She looked pretty enough to me.”
Rowland’s dark blue eyes flashed.
“Let’s just say there’s a reason why Lindsay was so damned happy to lend her to me… and it had nothing to do with being magnanimous. I swear I’m going to deck the old blighter when I see him next.”
Milton smiled, intrigued. Rowland was most definitely put out. What on earth was wrong with the girl? Outwardly, Rosalina Martinelli was a very attractive young woman: blonde and fair-skinned despite her Mediterranean heritage, with the kind of gentle rounded figure that Rowland preferred. Of course she’d been dressed when Milton had seen her leave. Perhaps there was some hideous deformity hidden beneath the modest dress. How unfortunate.
“All right,” he said. “Out with it. Is she missing a body part or does she have an extra one?”
Rowland choked on his sherry.
“God no… she’s beautiful. She just can’t model.”
“Come on, Rowly.” Milton sat down. “All she’s got to do is take her jolly clothes off.”
Rowland sighed. “No, she’s also got to keep still—something of which Miss Martinelli is apparently incapable.”
“Oh… fidgets, does she?” Milton looked more closely at Rowland. His hair was damp with perspiration, but the day was not that warm. “What on earth have you been doing, Rowly?”
“Miss Martinelli feels the cold,” Rowland replied tersely. “Insisted I have no fewer than two kerosene heaters going full bore as well as the fire.”
Milton laughed softly. He swirled his glass, apparently searching for inspiration in the movement of the amber liquid. “Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver, aloft her flowing hair like strings of flame did quiver.”
“Shelley.” Rowland was neither soothed nor impressed by the recitation.
Milton owed his reputation as a poet to his ability to quote the works of the great bards at will, and without acknowledgement. It was unlikely that he had ever penned a line of original verse. It had become a tradition of sorts for Rowland to make the attributions that Milton blithely omitted.
“I’ve just wasted the whole sodding day,” Rowland muttered.
“Chin up, old mate… there’ll be something worthwhile in all the preliminary sketches—you couldn’t have spent all your time stoking the fire.”
Rowland shook his head. “Aside from the fact that Miss Martinelli was constantly moving and complaining about the cold in English, and somewhat more stridently in Italian, the room was so hot that the paint dried too quickly. I’ll have to toss the entire canvas… there’s nothing worth salvaging.”
Milton was amused now. Rowland had studied languages at Oxford and had a reasonable understanding of spoken Italian, but Rosalina Martinelli had probably not known that. Still, Milton tried to be helpful. “Perhaps the studio is a touch draughty… why don’t you try painting her here?” He glanced about the sun-drenched sitting room of the Grand Majestic suite. It looked out upon the lawns and gardenesque grounds of the Hydro Majestic Hotel, Medlow Bath, in which they had taken up temporary residence for most of the summer. The suite was lavish and well lit, and the sitting room had a most agreeable outlook. Milton supposed that it would appeal to both Rowland and his model.
Rowland grunted. “I’m afraid Miss Martinelli is shy. She’ll only pose with the curtains drawn in case the gardeners should peer in.”
Milton chuckled. This was just getting better. “You could always let her go,” he suggested. It was the obvious solution, but he doubted Rowland would take it. His friend was incapacitatingly civil, and it was difficult to sack a person politely.
Rowland looked pained. “Every time I broach the subject, she wails like a banshee. Apparently, she needs the income.”
“So pay her.” The cost of a model would mean nothing to Rowland, whose family fortune was vast enough to support his natural and determined generosity.
“I tried.” Rowland’s mouth twitched. He was starting to see humour in his predicament. “She’s proud… refuses to take charity.”
“Well you can’t insult people, Rowly.” Milton grinned. The poet, of course, had no misgivings about being the beneficiary of Rowland Sinclair’s significant patronage. It was something they had both come to accept.
Rowland smiled now. He folded his hands behind his head and lay back in the couch. “I’m going to deck Lindsay.”
“What are you going to do about the exhibition?”
“Lord knows. I’ll have to paint her I suppose.” Rowland was resigned.
“You can’t use Ed?”
The young sculptress, Edna Higgins, had regularly modelled for Rowland in the past. His reputation owed much to the way he painted her.
Rowland shook his head. “She’s not well enough yet, Milt.”
Milton didn’t argue. Edna was almost completely recovered, but Rowland was particularly protective of her.
“Ed’s too thin at the moment anyway,” Rowland added. “It won’t paint well.”
The dose of strychnine, which had nearly killed the sculptress just a few weeks before, had lingered in its effect upon her appetite. She had lost weight. Rowland still thought her beautiful, but the current slimness of her figure did not suit the style or subject of the impending exhibition.
Their current sojourn at Medlow Bath had allowed Edna to receive treatment. The Hydro Majestic offered guests the most modern hydropathic therapies. Rowland remained sceptical about the value of the various baths, wraps and douches, but his Aunt Mildred had been insistent that it would help Edna recuperate. It seemed Mark Foy, who had built the sanatorium, had been a friend of Rowland’s father—apparently that settled the matter for Mildred, who revered her late brother. In the end Rowland had given in. It had been, at the very least, an opportunity to escape the worst of the Sydney summer.
“Where’s Clyde?” Milton asked, reopening his book.
“He went out this morning looking for trees to paint.” Rowland had never shared Clyde’s interest in landscapes—he had neither the patience nor the talent for trees.
Clyde Watson Jones had, like Milton and Edna, lived as a guest of Rowland Sinclair for a number of years. A fellow artist, he and Rowland shared a love of paint and canvas, though they had come to their craft by way of vastly different circumstances. All the years that Rowland had spent at Oxford, Clyde had survived on the wallaby, moving from town to town, getting what
work he could and sleeping wherever it was dry.
It was a quirk of fate, that while Rowland had been born into the most lofty social circles, he had little interest in the right sort of people. Indeed, the youngest son of the late pastoralist, Henry Sinclair, seemed determined to fraternise with scandal.
“Old Foy dropped off a few bottles of mineral water while you were working,” Milton informed him, thumbing through the text for his place.
“Good Lord… you didn’t try to drink it did you?”
Mark Foy was convinced that the mineral water he imported from Germany was some kind of miracle elixir and he encouraged all his guests to drink it regularly. He claimed the bitterness was proof of its medicinal potency. Rowland maintained that the water had been spoiled in transport.
“It’s all right if you mix it with scotch,” Milton advised. “Don’t want to offend the old boy. He wanted to talk to you about those drawings, by the way.”
Rowland sighed.
He’d been trying not to think about Mark Foy’s drawings. Rowland had made the promise in return for the suite. The three superlative suites of the therapeutic resort, with their valets and personal cooks, had all been previously booked. Mark Foy had used his influence to ensure the Grand Majestic fell suddenly vacant. But he had wanted something from Rowland in return.
“Who does he want you to draw?” Milton enquired, smiling. It was not the first time that some respectable gentleman had requested a picture of his mistress to secrete beneath the marital bed. If it was drawn rather than photographed it could apparently be considered art, should it ever be discovered. Rowland usually declined such requests on artistic rather than moral grounds. Unlike most artists, he had the economic freedom to choose his subjects.
“Not who—what.” Rowland shook his head. “Foy wants me to draw up plans for his tomb.”
“His what?”
“His tomb. He wants to make sure that when the time comes, he’s interred in a manner befitting.”
“Is he ill?”
“No, just eccentric.”
“What kind of tomb?”
“Well, Foy’s rather taken with the pyramids.”