“Really?” Edna regarded him curiously. “Why?”
Rowland shrugged. “Poor fellow was prone to cry easily if I recall.” He winced as he remembered. “Making Humphrey cry became a bit of sport, I’m afraid.”
“You didn’t…” Edna started.
“No, we Colonials didn’t have the easiest time either.”
“That’s disgraceful!”
“It was a boarding school, Ed—they tend to be savage.”
“And so you and Mr. Abercrombie were friends?”
Rowland grimaced. “I suppose.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Not long after I first arrived at Pembroke, I came across a bunch of lads tossing something into one of the school ponds.” Rowland shook his head. “I thought it was a dog. Of course I’ve always liked dogs and I was a bit of a hothead back then, so I picked out the biggest of them and belted him.”
Edna gasped putting her hand over her mouth in surprise. “And that was Mr Abercrombie?”
“Not quite… Humphrey was in the pond. It wasn’t a dog. There was a bit of fuss of course, and we were all hauled before the Headmaster. At some point I must have fished poor Humphrey out of the pond.”
“So you saved him?” Edna smiled.
“The pond was only three feet deep, Ed.”
“But you rescued him nonetheless.” Edna seemed determined to cast Rowland as a hero.
“Humphrey seemed to think so. Stuck to me like wallpaper paste after that—I couldn’t get rid of him. Always seemed to need rescuing. In fact, there were times I wanted to throw him back into that pond.”
“And now he’s joining us for lunch,” Milton said unhappily.
“Well, the poor chap seemed so disappointed we weren’t staying—it seemed the right thing to do.”
Milton snorted. “Yes, of course… courtesy.”
Edna beamed at Rowland. “What a gallant and noble way to begin an acquaintance.”
Rowland laughed. “I don’t know about gallant and noble, Ed—I really thought it was a dog. I haven’t seen old Humphrey in years and to tell you the truth I’d forgotten all about him. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“A spot of fly-fishing, apparently,” Clyde offered.
“Long way to come to fish,” Milton replied. “Don’t they have trout in England?”
“Yes, it is a trifle odd… Humphrey was never a particularly intrepid chap.”
The conversation was cut short at that moment by the arrival of its subject. Rowland made the introductions.
“Oh I say,” Abercrombie bumbled uncomfortably as he shook Milton’s hand.
He stared openly at the long-haired, flamboyantly dressed poet, his eyes lingering on the small Soviet badge on Milton’s velvet lapel. Milton held his gaze boldly, amused.
Rowland sighed. The conservative circles to which he still had admittance, and to whom his friends were occasionally introduced, invariably reacted in this way. Humphrey Abercrombie was just particularly inept at disguising his unease.
If the Englishman’s response to Milton was tense, Edna seemed to frighten him outright. Abercrombie was visibly unnerved. His chin dimpled and he stammered desperately.
Edna, whose sympathies had been elicited by the image of the unfortunate boy in the pond, attempted to soothe the situation.
“How lovely that you could join us, Mr. Abercrombie. Rowly mentioned you’ve only just arrived in New South Wales?”
Abercrombie glanced panicked at Rowland, who was becoming progressively more convinced that inviting the man to lunch had not been one of his better ideas.
“A couple of weeks ago… beastly trip,” Abercrombie mumbled as he realigned the cutlery before him on the table.
“What have you been doing with yourself, Humphrey?” Rowland asked. “I had expected to see you around the place at Oxford.” He hadn’t really. He hadn’t thought of Humphrey Abercrombie.
“I should say you didn’t! The Abercrombies are Cambridge men, have been since Adam was a boy.” The Englishman now launched into an expansive monologue detailing the links between his family and Cambridge. He seemed to overcome his discomfort and his speech became infused with force and fervour.
Rowland watched him with interest, as he was reminded of the schoolboy who had once been his annoying shadow. Abercrombie was taller, but otherwise had changed little in the years since they had last met. His mannerisms were still familiar—the exaggerated gesticulation, the overloud voice and compulsive straightening of cutlery that was not askew.
“And so, naturally,” Abercrombie concluded, “like my father and grandfather before me, I left Cambridge with a fine degree in the classics.”
Milton was clearly bored. “So what exactly does one do with a degree in the classics?”
Abercrombie looked at him with a kind of incredulous disdain. “My good man, the empire is run by classicists—there is not an arm of government or commerce in the realm that does not value a man trained in the classics.”
Milton’s mouth twitched.
“What brings you here, Humphrey?” Rowland asked before the poet could respond in a manner that he suspected would be less than polite.
Abercrombie’s face darkened. He blinked several times and moved the cutlery once more. “A passionate entanglement, I’m afraid.”
Rowland cleared his throat, wondering how he could change the subject. He didn’t really want to know about Abercrombie’s entanglements.
Edna broke the silence. “And you followed her all the way out here? Why, Mr. Abercrombie, what a romantic gesture.”
Abercrombie seemed startled, as though he had forgotten Edna was at the table, but he did respond to the sympathetic note in her voice.
“No, no… the Lady Wilberforce is in the midst of the London Season. The affair finished in disappointment, I’m afraid. It was perfectly ghastly to tell you the truth.”
“Oh, I am sorry. We all know what it is to be disappointed in affairs of the heart.”
Milton laughed out loud, Clyde snorted and even Rowland smiled. It was unlikely that Edna had ever been on the disappointed end of an affair.
Abercrombie, however, was comforted. It seemed he was keen to talk of his amorous misfortune and his earlier nervousness was forgotten. “I was, I must tell you, dear lady, completely heartsick. Lady Wilberforce trifled with my affections and callously cast me aside.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand why that brings you to the other side of the world,” Rowland said.
“Well, the whole business was publicly humiliating. The unhappy incident played havoc with my nerves.” Abercrombie pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. He stopped to adjust the cutlery. “I wasn’t sleeping or eating—lost interest in life entirely. The Abercrombies have always been sensitive, you see. Mama thought the change of climate would be good for the both of us and we could return after all this ridiculous fuss about the wedding had subsided.”
“Wedding?”
“Lady Wilberforce’s,” Abercrombie sniffed. “She’s accepted some abominable American.”
They paused while the waiter took their orders, a process slowed by Humphrey Abercrombie who made exacting enquiries about the ingredients of various dishes. It appeared the Englishman had several food allergies.
Now that he had broached the subject of Lady Wilberforce and her rejection of him, Abercrombie was intent on sharing every detail of the tragedy with his old friend, and the three others he had just met.
His introduction to Lady Wilberforce, her multiple virtues and excellent connections took them through the entree. His courtship of the young lady featured during the main course. Then dessert was a sombre episode, in which Abercrombie recounted how the Lady spurned his declarations, gently at first, and finally in a manner that he could no longer mistake as coy. Edna commiserated politely. The men met Abercrombie’s heartbroken unburdening with pained silence. Rowland recalled ruefully that the Englishman’s stiff upper lip had always
wobbled somewhat.
“So you came out to Australia,” Rowland said finally.
“My dear Rowly, I can only put oceans between me and the source of my anguish,” Abercrombie replied, his eyes moistening.
“Cheer up, old boy,” Milton said, leaning back in his chair. “Plenty of girls here.”
Abercrombie began to look nervous again. By now the table had been cleared so there was no cutlery to straighten. He ran his fingers on the table linen instead. “I daresay that’s the least of my problems right now.”
Again there was a momentary silence. Abercrombie regarded them all expectantly, impatient for someone to enquire further. Eventually Edna took pity on him and asked, “Is there something else the matter, Mr. Abercrombie?”
“I should say there is,” he replied. He looked about the room anxiously and rubbed the tablecloth more rapidly. He did not lower his voice, speaking instead in a high and hysterical tone. “There is someone trying to kill me.”
10
… all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
A.B. Paterson, The Man from Snowy River
Clyde coughed and Milton drained his glass, hastily.
Edna glanced around the dining room—whether she was scanning for potential assassins or just trying to avoid the eyes of those at her table, was unclear.
Rowland gazed calmly at Humphrey Abercrombie. “You don’t say… how terribly inconvenient.”
“I assure you, Rowly, I am deadly earnest!”
“Steady on,” Rowland calmed the Englishman. “Who is trying to kill you?”
“Well how should I know? If I knew who it was I’d simply have the fiend apprehended.”
“What makes you think your life is in danger?” Rowland asked instead.
“I’m being followed,” Abercrombie said hoarsely. “Ever since I arrived in the colony. And on Tuesday evening last a black saloon tried to run me down in the street.”
“Which street?”
“Macquarie—outside the Australian Club if you please.”
“In the centre of Sydney? You’re lucky it was just the one.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Rowland smiled. “Just that the traffic on Macquarie Street is fairly hair-raising at the best of times.”
“No,” Abercrombie insisted. “This automobile swerved in my direction. It was only the intervention of my man Michaels that saved me.”
“Your man?” Clyde asked.
“Yes, Michaels, my valet.”
“Oh… yes, of course.” Clyde glanced at Rowland. The fashion amongst the English upper classes of keeping personal manservants had never been embraced in Australia. Rowland had once said it was because Australian men—however well-heeled—did not require nursemaids.
“Why would someone want to kill you, Mr. Abercrombie?” Edna asked gently. She could see that the men thought Abercrombie ridiculous. She felt sorry for him.
“I’m sure I don’t know. It could be the Bolsheviks—the Abercrombies have always been the targets of political espionage.”
Milton laughed outright. “I hear Stalin has it in for classicists.”
“On several occasions since,” Abercrombie continued, “I have been aware of black automobiles.”
Rowland’s brow rose sceptically. The vast majority of Australian cars were black. He was beginning to wonder if the Englishman was suffering from some form of hysteria.
Abercrombie put his face in his hands. “I must say, Rowly, it’s a crying shame that you are being cast out of this establishment. It would be a comfort to have an ally when it seems there are enemies in every corner. Are you sure you won’t stay and…”
“I really do think I’d better accompany these chaps to Rules Point,” Rowland said quickly. “My overseer, Moran, is expecting me, and I do need to speak with him. We’ll be back here as soon as rooms become available.” He checked his watch. “You will have to excuse me. We’ll need to be getting away soon and I should telephone Wil and inform him of our change of plans. I might just leave you lot to look after Humphrey…” He looked pointedly at Milton as he stood.
When Rowland returned he was noticeably preoccupied. Edna looked at him enquiringly but she didn’t ask. It would keep until they managed to extricate themselves from Humphrey Abercrombie’s company, which was a task in itself. The Englishman had a very nervous disposition and he seemed to regard Rowland as some form of champion. Eventually he allowed them to leave for the car, which Wilson had had refuelled and brought round to the entrance.
Edna put her hand on Rowland’s arm as he held open the passenger door. “Rowly, what’s wrong? Did Wil say something?”
Rowland waited until she had seated herself. He leaned on the door. “Woodlands has been broken into,” he said.
“Bloody hell—when?” Milton asked, outraged. Although the Woollahra mansion belonged to the Sinclairs, Rowland’s houseguests had lived there long enough to be personally affronted by the violation.
“The evening before last… while we were at Kate’s dinner party, I suppose. Unfortunately, Wil didn’t receive word till yesterday.”
“Did they take anything?”
Rowland shook his head. “They scared the wits out of the staff and made a bit of a mess, but that’s about it. Wil’s sent Mary to stay with her sister for a while—apparently she was quite distraught.”
“They didn’t hurt her?” Edna said, horrified.
“No, just frightened her I think. It seems they were looking for me.”
“The goons from the Hydro Majestic!” Clyde slapped the tourer’s canopy.
“Possibly. They extracted from Mary that I’d gone home to Yass. Wil’s increased security at Oaklea, in case they turn up there.”
“Should we go home?” Edna looked at Rowland with concern.
Rowland shook his head. Wilfred had wanted him to return too. “They don’t know where I am. I figure I’m safer here than at Woodlands or Oaklea.” He slipped behind the steering wheel. “With any luck the police will have sorted it all out by the time we get back with Harry.”
“Do they have any idea what these blokes want?” Milton asked.
“Just me apparently—that’s all they told Mary in any case.”
“What do you think?”
Rowland smiled faintly. “I don’t know… I have a couple of enemies, but these blokes seem persistent. Most of the people I offend are not so committed.”
Edna frowned. “I don’t like this, Rowly.”
“It’s not ideal,” Rowland agreed as he gunned the engine. “But so far all they’ve managed to do is terrorise my housekeeper.”
The Rules Point Guesthouse overlooked Long Plain, the vast fertile plateau which had been divided into what had become known as snow leases—generous tracts of Crown land which were leased for summer and autumn grazing. The guesthouse was a rustic construction, with a high pitched roof of corrugated iron. A wide verandah surrounded the main wing, around which were clustered smaller structures including a well, stables and, of course, the amenities. Rowland glanced at the last dubiously. He’d become accustomed to plumbing.
A round yard had been erected close to the guesthouse, with a rough bush fence which straddled the trees. There were a few horses within the yard. Several stockmen perched on the fence, and followed the yellow Mercedes with slow, hat-shadowed eyes.
Rowland parked beside a pale-barked snow gum and they climbed out into the chilly day. Edna pulled her coat tighter. It was hard to believe it was just March.
“Winter comes early here, doesn’t it,” she said, shivering.
Clyde laughed. “This isn’t winter, Ed. This isn’t even cold for up here.”
They were welcomed warmly on the doorstep by a very la
rge, quite elderly woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Harris.
She bustled them in to the fireside. Despite Rowland’s concern that the establishment would prove to be on the rudimentary side of rustic, the guesthouse was neat and inviting. It was not opulent, or even stylish; more homey than fashionable. The easychairs were well-worn and draped with patchwork quilts and knitted blankets. The hearth had been scrubbed and the mantel was set with framed photographs and little china figurines.
“I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to share a room. We’re quite full with the Sports Day on Saturday.”
“The Sports Day?”
Mrs. Harris beamed, her round face creasing upwards. “Oh yes, it’s quite the occasion, my word! Folks come from all over to watch and take part in the events. There’s a dance afterwards… you’re really in for a treat, my word you are.”
She showed them to their rooms. Each boasted four beds, although Edna had a room to herself. Like the rest of the guesthouse the bedrooms were furnished simply in a manner that was more comfortable than impressive. There was a wardrobe on either side of the window, and a washstand in the corner with a large pitcher of water and towels. Each room had a door which opened onto the verandah. The bathrooms were, as Rowland had noted earlier, external.
“We light the fire under the water tank every afternoon so that there’s ample hot water for everyone, my word there is,” Mrs. Harris assured them. “Now would you care for a cup of tea? I’ve just baked a butter cake.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harris, but I’m meeting an associate in the bar this afternoon. We might just wait in there for him.”
Mrs. Harris looked at Edna. “All of you?”
“I might have that cup of tea, Mrs. Harris,” Edna said, smiling briefly at Rowland. There was no need to start out by upsetting their hostess.
And so they parted company. Edna disappeared with Mrs. Harris, chatting happily about the upcoming Sports Day and the other guests of Rules Point. The gentlemen retired to the bar to wait for Moran.
As it was, they didn’t have to wait all that long.
Miles Off Course Page 8
