Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  “I see.” Rowland was unsure if her words were praise or censure.

  “You must keep in touch, Sarah… Rowly, give Sarah your card,” Edna said warmly. “You must come and see us in Sydney. Now that we have had such an adventure together we must be friends.”

  “Yes, Edna, I believe we must. I will see you all before long I expect. Now that my book is finished, I too am aching for home.” Sarah Brent took Rowland’s card. “Indeed, I believe you may be able to help me with my book, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Me?” Rowland asked, startled. He was fairly sure Sarah Brent’s manuscript was beyond help. “I’m afraid I have none of Aubrey’s literary talent, Miss Brent.”

  “No, I didn’t expect you would, Mr. Sinclair,” Sarah replied smartly. “Mr. Jones mentioned that you were something of an artist. The book will require a dust jacket and I think the internal pages could be enhanced with some illustration.”

  “Illustration?”

  “Of the monkey, naturally. I have several ideas… You may need to procure a monkey. I’ll outline my expectations properly when we meet in Sydney.”

  “I really don’t think…”

  “Rowly!” Wilfred beckoned from the door. He looked grim.

  Rowland put down his drink, thankful for an excuse to leave the conversation.

  “What’s wrong, Wil?”

  “Rowly, these gentlemen are from the Commonwealth Police Force—Special Detectives Murphy and Webster. It seems Mr. Moran was found this morning.”

  “Splendid.” Rowland was pleased. Perhaps now they would find out what this was all about. “Have you had a chance to question him, gentlemen?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Sinclair,” the first policeman said curtly. “Mr. Moran is dead.”

  30

  BRITISH ITEMS

  LONDON

  In connection with the Communist propaganda scandal at the Oxford University, at a meeting of the Oxford Union Society, a motion of protest was introduced by the President of the University Labor Club against the extraction of a promise from two undergraduates and it was carried, by 216 to 92. Another motion was instantly submitted demanding a poll on the motion, which will be taken on Monday. One of the signatories to the petition was one of the undergraduates concerned in the promises.

  Townsville Daily Bulletin, 1926

  “Dead… how?”

  “It appears someone shot him,” Wilfred replied.

  “Mr. Moran’s corpse was discovered this morning, not far from Pocket’s Hut.” Detective Murphy’s eyes were piercing.

  “And the others?”

  Webster replied. “No sign of them, sir. It seems Mr. Moran was alone.”

  “Perhaps one of his own men turned on him,” Wilfred suggested.

  “Maybe…” Rowland frowned. “He was pushing them pretty hard.”

  “I believe you own a handgun, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We’d like to check it if we could.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Detective Murphy. Moran took it from me at O’Shea’s Hut. The next time I saw the gun was when Glover was loading it to shoot us.”

  “I see.” Murphy made a note.

  “Everybody up here seems to carry a gun,” Rowland added uneasily.

  Murphy smiled, a little too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why are the federal police interested in this, Detective?”

  “That’ll be all for now, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

  Rowland fumbled in his jacket to find a calling card. “You can reach me at…”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” Murphy interrupted. “We have quite the file on you… we know where to find you.”

  “Indeed.” Wilfred glowered. Rowland was unsure whether it was at him or the Commonwealth officers.

  In silence they watched the two men walk back out to a black Studebaker.

  “Your gun’s in the trunk of the Rolls,” Wilfred said, as the Studebaker pulled away.

  “Really? How’d it get there?”

  “Harry gave it to me just before we left Pocket’s. He picked it up after that chap Glover dropped it.”

  Rowland nodded. “Very tidy of him.” There was no reason to bring Harry Simpson to the attention of the federal police. He studied Wilfred for a moment. “You don’t know why the feds are interested in Moran, do you, Wil?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Wilfred removed his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “Perhaps he’s committed some crime in Canberra.”

  “Senator Hardy may know,” Rowland prompted cautiously. “He could find out at least.”

  “Perhaps.” Wilfred gave nothing away, but then he rarely did. “You’ve got enough to worry about without poking your nose into this, Rowly.”

  It was late afternoon when they reached the gates of Oaklea after stopping overnight in Gundagai where Wilfred had spent the morning attending to some sort of business. McNair was once again on hand to admit them, but Rowland noticed the presence of three other men in the shadows. Wilfred had certainly taken no chances. Perhaps his brother knew more than he was revealing. Frowning, Rowland wondered whether the Old Guard was gathering once again, as they had the previous year when revolution had seemed inevitable. Clearly this was about more than cattle stealing. The involvement of the Commonwealth Police was an intriguing development.

  “You’re quiet, Rowly,” Edna said, looking back at him from the front seat. Clyde had driven the Mercedes from Rules Point. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Not at all,” Rowland replied. “I was just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Just that I should talk to Delaney,” Rowland said thoughtfully. “Unofficially, I mean. He may be able to tell us why the feds are interested in Moran…” His voice trailed off and he turned, distracted by a manic barking as they pulled up to the house. “That sounds like Lenin,” he said, just before his ramshackle greyhound came into view.

  Clyde parked the Mercedes and Rowland stepped out, falling back against the motor car as Lenin jumped up to greet him. “Take it easy, Len. What on earth are you doing here?” The dog responded with wriggling paroxysms of joy. Rowland laughed. “Settle down, mate.”

  Wilfred climbed out of the Rolls, and was very similarly greeted by his son. He swung young Ernest up into his arms. “I brought your bloody dog back from Sydney with me,” he said.

  Rowland was surprised. Wilfred had never shown any particular fondness for the dog. Indeed Wilfred often used the hound as another example of Rowland’s propensity to befriend the ill-bred.

  “Why would you bring him here?” Rowland asked, noting a new scar just above the one where Lenin’s ear should have been.

  Wilfred put Ernest down. “Go and tell your mother that we’re back, there’s a good boy.”

  Ernest set off obediently, stopping only to shake his uncle’s hand and wave to the others who had by now alighted from the Mercedes. Once he was gone, Wilfred spoke again.

  “It seems your dog made a nuisance of himself when Woodlands was broken into… Bit one of the intruders. They hit him with the butt of a gun.”

  Edna gasped, dropping immediately to her knees to embrace the battered greyhound.

  Rowland’s face hardened as he too knelt to inspect Lenin’s head more carefully. Clyde and Milton clustered around the dog as well. Lenin whined happily, delighted by the attention.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rowland asked.

  “It’s a bloody dog, Rowly,” Wilfred said gruffly. “I was hardly going to send a telegram.”

  Rowland scratched Lenin’s single ear. “You’ve pulled up all right, haven’t you, old boy?”

  Edna grasped Lenin’s face and kissed his muzzle. “You’re a hero, aren’t you, Len?”

  Wilfred shook his head and cleared his throat impatiently.

  Kate Sinclair came down the wide stairs and Wilfred’s attention was drawn away by his wife. Ernest trailed after his mother. He pulled on Ro
wland’s sleeve. “Don’t worry, Uncle Rowly, I looked after… Lenin.” He whispered the dog’s name as if it was a profanity. Rowland supposed that in his brother’s house, it was.

  “I knew I could rely on you, Ernie.”

  Ernest nodded solemnly. He leaned over to whisper again in Rowland’s ear. “Daddy pats him when no one’s looking.”

  Rowland ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I thought as much, mate.” It was only then that he noticed the number of cars parked in the drive. Mostly Rolls Royces. A conservative collection of chrome and black.

  “Say Ernie, who’s here?”

  Kate broke in before her son could reply. “Oh my, whatever have you done to yourselves?” Her eyes widened with horror at the bedraggled state of them. “This is terrible. Do come inside… Wil, you didn’t tell me they’d been hurt. You shouldn’t be standing out here… what in heaven’s name happened up there?”

  Kate shepherded them into the drawing room, called for tea and fussed. Edna apologised profusely for the state in which she would be returning Kate’s riding habit.

  “Don’t be silly, darling,” Kate said. “I’m just glad you’re all right. What a frightful time you’ve had.”

  “Oh I’m fine,” Edna said, smiling at her hostess. “It was poor Milton who got hurt, and then Rowly…”

  For a time Rowland listened as his sister-in-law questioned Edna; concerned, kind and, as always, gracious. Tea was poured and plates of sandwiches and fruitcake were passed around. The nurse brought in Ewan Sinclair, who had just woken from his nap, and Ernest tried to teach his little brother to walk. He was not patient about it.

  “Isn’t your godson clever, Rowly?” Kate asked, as she watched her boys proudly.

  “A genius,” Rowland replied, as the child tried to stand once again.

  He glanced out of the large bay window at the motorcade parked just outside. “Have you guests, Kate?” He suddenly realised that both Wilfred and Maguire had disappeared shortly after their arrival.

  Kate nodded. “Senator Hardy and some other gentlemen. They’ve been waiting for Wil in the library.”

  “Hardy,’ Rowland said quietly.

  Kate smiled nervously and shrugged. Rowland didn’t press her any further. It was unlikely she knew why Hardy was there, and even if she did, he wouldn’t ask her to break her husband’s confidence. He let it go and drank his tea.

  It was nearly dark when Wilfred stepped into the drawing room. There was something in the set of his jaw that made Rowland wary.

  “I’m sorry, Katie, we’re not finished quite yet,” Wilfred said, as Kate spoke of dinner. “You might go in to dinner without us I think. Rowly and I will have something later.”

  “Rowly?” Milton asked, stiffening. “What does Hardy want with Rowly?”

  Wilfred ignored him. “Would you come with me, Rowly? I need a word.”

  Rowland put down his teacup, and stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He followed Wilfred towards the library. From the top of the long hallway, he could see that there was a man posted outside the door. It was all reminiscent of the meetings at Oaklea when the Old Guard was bracing for revolution. But surely that hysteria had now passed.

  “What’s going on, Wil?”

  Wilfred turned on him fiercely. Startled, Rowland backed up.

  “Just what have you been…”

  The library door opened suddenly.

  “I say, there you are.” Senator Charles Hardy stepped out. “We were wondering what was keeping you.”

  Wilfred turned stiffly. He moved away from Rowland. “Charles, you remember my brother, Rowland.”

  “Senator Hardy.” Rowland offered his hand.

  Hardy paused just a moment before he took it. “Rowland… Good Lord, man, you look like you’ve been in the wars.”

  “I seem to have become accident prone,” Rowland replied carefully.

  “Shall we step in here?” Hardy invited them into the library as if it were his own house.

  The library at Oaklea was a large masculine affair, oak-panelled and furnished with studded leather armchairs. The domain of the Sinclair men, Kate’s renovations had been minimal here. A grandfather clock metered the tension as they walked in, the haze of tobacco smoke a testament to cloistered hours of meeting. The door was closed behind them.

  Hardy introduced his colleagues. There were three: Middlemiss, who impressed Rowland as a peacock, vain, consciously posed in the leather armchair. David Drummond, the New South Wales Minister for Education sat on the Chesterfield settee. Some years ago he had made a futile attempt to enlist Rowland Sinclair in the junior farmers’ movement. Rowland had been careful to avoid him since then. The third gentleman Rowland knew well—Michael Bruxner, hero of the Great War, Leader of the New South Wales Country Party and the Deputy Premier. They all remained seated, their manner formal and stiff. Maguire stood sullenly by the fireplace. Rowland glanced uneasily at Wilfred, aware now that he was about to be interrogated.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, taking a seat though he had not been invited to do so. Rowland was not about to be bullied in his brother’s home.

  Wilfred took the chair beside him.

  Hardy was the first to speak. “I understand you’re on the Board of Dangar, Gedye and Company.”

  “I am.” Rowland watched as Middlemiss extracted a cigarette from a decorative gold case. His face was soft, almost pretty, his lips too red. He sucked on the cigarette and exhaled in flamboyant rings of smoke.

  “Capital organisation, Dangars,” Hardy said, pacing the room. Clearly he was running this meeting. “One of our very best firms. Important to the prosperity of the entire state.”

  “Just get on with it, Charles,” Wilfred said irritably.

  Hardy dropped a file onto the desk. “Do you know what this is, Rowland?”

  “How could I possibly know?” Rowland asked, annoyed by the senator’s theatrics.

  “This is just one of the files we have on Communist activity in New South Wales.” Hardy sat on the desk’s edge and looked down at him. “This particular file contains intelligence gathered on a Communist plot to undermine Dangar, Gedye and Company.”

  “Just how do the Communists propose to do that, according to your intelligence?”

  Hardy continued to stare at him. “We have reason to believe that the Reds have infiltrated the board.”

  Rowland laughed.

  “You find that funny, Mr. Sinclair?” Middlemiss asked sharply.

  “Yes.”

  “Rowly…” Wilfred cautioned.

  “Why do you find that funny, Mr. Sinclair?” Middlemiss leaned forward, dragging slowly on his cigarette.

  “I know the board quite well, Mr. Middlemiss. I doubt any one of them has the imagination to be a Communist spy.”

  “For God’s sake, Rowly!” Wilfred muttered.

  “You’re an artist, aren’t you, Rowland?” Hardy smiled affably. “I suppose it goes without saying that you have an admirable imagination.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” Rowland demanded.

  “Your brother mentioned that you were at Oxford. Is that right, Rowland?” Michael Bruxner, the Deputy Premier, spoke for the first time.

  “Yes.”

  Hardy opened his file. “The High Commissioner advises that Scotland Yard has been looking into Communist cells at the better English universities.”

  Drummond pulled at his tie. “Can we assume you saw a lot of this Communist activity in your time at Oxford, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I saw a lot of things at Oxford, Mr. Drummond,” Rowland said evenly. “Most of them were a good deal more alarming than the odd Communist.”

  “But you did know Communists at Oxford?”

  Rowland glared at him. “Yes.”

  “Your friends, Mr. Sinclair…” Middlemiss waved his cigarette at Rowland.

  “What about them?”

  “They are not the kind of people one would expect a man of your breeding to associ
ate with.”

  “What can I say… they’re willing to overlook my breeding.”

  Wilfred cleared his throat.

  “Rowly, this is a very serious matter,” Michael Bruxner warned. “Any man found to be conspiring with the Communists to cause strife in his own country would be guilty of treason.”

  Rowland stood, angry now. “This is ridiculous. Just what are you gentlemen accusing me of?”

  Middlemiss jumped instantly to his feet. “We’re not finished, Sinclair.” He grabbed Rowland’s arm to emphasise the point and drag him back.

  Rowland swore and recoiled as Middlemiss’ grasp closed tightly on his wound.

  Wilfred moved in. “Let him go, Freddie. I agreed to let you chaps talk to him, nothing more.”

  “Hell’s bells, Wil… how are you going to get him out of this? We’re talking about treason!”

  Wilfred placed himself between Rowland and Middlemiss. “Choose your words carefully, Freddie.”

  “I think we should all calm down, gentlemen,” Hardy asserted over the top.

  “I’ll say this once,” Rowland gasped, wondering if Middlemiss had broken the stitches Maguire had inserted at Pocket’s Hut. “I am not a Communist. Perhaps Stalin is fool enough to want a seat on the Board of Dangar, Gedye and Company, but he has not sent me to prepare the bloody way.”

  “But your friends,” Middlemiss insisted. He moved to the desk and flicked through the file. “Elias Isaacs… well known to the police, possibly a dangerous insurgent.”

  For a second Rowland was perplexed. “Elias?… God, you mean Milton… he’s a poet for pity’s sake—they’re all Communists.”

  Freddie Middlemiss shook his head. “Could it be you’re so bloody arrogant you don’t realise…?”

  Rowland was thinking seriously about hitting him.

  “Tell me,” Middlemiss asked. “Does Isaacs take a particular interest in your work on the board of Dangars? Does he love to hear the detail of your meetings, the cut and thrust of business?”

  Rowland stared at him, incredulous, convinced now that the man was an idiot. “I don’t talk to Milt about Dangars.”

  “And why is that?”