Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Edna led him towards an elderly moustachioed gentleman who stood by the mantel, smoking a cigar and observing the room with a single monocled eye. The other was glass—a fact made obvious by contrast with the constant movement of its partner. Sir James Joynton Smith was the founder of Smith’s Weekly, Wilfred’s newspaper of choice. Whilst Joynton Smith loved his paper, the conservatively patriotic perspective of the publication had more to do with the man who now stood stiffly by his side.

  “Sinclair!” Joynton Smith boomed. “You know Robert?”

  “Mr. Packer—pleased you could make it.” Rowland extended his hand.

  Robert Packer shook it, but cautiously. He was ostensibly retired now but had been largely responsible for the success of Smiths Weekly in the twenties. He looked about him much as Rowland envisaged Wilfred would—with a kind of well-mannered horror. Rowland couldn’t remember inviting Robert Packer.

  “I insisted Robert come along,” Joynton Smith said, his good eye twinkling. “Knew he’d enjoy your crowd.”

  Rowland smiled. The newspaperman was a notorious practical joker—he probably thought it would be funny to bring Packer to one of Rowland Sinclair’s parties. “I hope you’re right, James.”

  “You’re with Dangar Gedye aren’t you, Sinclair?” Packer asked. “I hear the board is at odds over this Lister franchise.”

  “You’re well informed,” Rowland replied, startled.

  “Nothing wrong with a boardroom stoush, my boy,” Joynton Smith said, slapping Rowland on the back. “What I’d give for something so simple at the Royal South Sydney.”

  Rowland looked at him curiously. Joynton Smith was the president of the Royal South Sydney Hospital Board, among others. “Problems?”

  The old newspaperman sighed. “Bloody doctors are running riot.”

  “I had dinner with Charles Hardy last week,” Packer interrupted. “Your name came up, Sinclair.”

  “The senator dined with my brother and his wife a couple of weeks ago,” Rowland responded evenly. “I happened to be there.”

  “Indeed.” Packer’s tone was non-committal but his eyes were sharp, assessing.

  “Rowly, there you are!” Milton put an arm about his shoulder. “You’ve got to circulate, old mate…”

  Rowland introduced the poet, who had elected to enhance his dinner suit with a red brocade waistcoat and a boutonnière of Cootamundra Wattle.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I must steal Rowly away.” He pulled Rowland aside and whispered. “Humphrey hasn’t come down yet.”

  “Right.” Rowland straightened his shoulders. “I’d better go and get him.” He wondered if Abercrombie was pouting over the Dangars matter or just so terrified by the sight of Communists that he had chosen to remain in his room.

  Rowland ran up the staircase leaving Milton to play host in his absence. Abercrombie’s room was on the third floor. Receiving no response to his knock, Rowland pushed the door open.

  “Humphrey, it’s just me…” The room was empty.

  He made a quick search, even pausing to check under the bed. It seemed a ridiculous place to search for a grown man, but he vaguely remembered that Abercrombie had often hidden under beds and in cupboards when they were boys. He had been an odd child. And he seemed to have grown into an odd man.

  The search yielded nothing.

  36

  MESS JACKET GAINING ON “TAILS”

  For formal evening wear, the die-hards still retain their fond preference for the black dinner jacket or complete tails, but with those who prefer coolness with their formality, the white mess jacket has gained tremendous popularity. These jackets have about them a dash of their original Indian flavour when worn with the cummerbund, a bold sash of black silk about the waist. Two or more pert black buttons relieve the glossy white of the jacket. Such dress is correct on every occasion warranting tails or dinner jacket.

  The Courier Mail, 1934

  Initially, Rowland searched for Abercrombie, but in amongst greeting guests, the odd conversation and being dragged occasionally onto the dance floor by both old flames and potential ones, the quest became impossible. Despite Milton’s fears, there was no real trouble that evening. At one point Jock Garden had taken exception to something Robert Packer had said, but Rowland had been on hand to keep things civil. On the whole the opposing extremities of Rowland Sinclair’s social world seemed to regard each other as curiosities more than sworn enemies. As the night wore on, they may even have guardedly shared a drink.

  Rowland was in the grounds watching the fireworks display, when Edna found him. She pulled him down and spoke directly into his ear so he could catch her words over the noise. “Rowly, Wilfred’s here.”

  “Who?” he asked, sure he had misheard over the whirring squeal of a Catherine Wheel.

  “Wilfred… your brother, Wilfred.”

  “Oh.” He allowed her to lead him away from the noise a little. “Where is he?”

  “He’s waiting for you in the library.”

  Rowland straightened. “I’d better go and see him then.”

  Edna grabbed his sleeve. “Rowly, he’s really angry.”

  Rowland put an arm around the sculptress. “I’m not afraid of Wil, Ed. It’ll be fine.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you stay here. There’s no reason we should both miss this party… You haven’t seen Humphrey, have you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Edna wasn’t interested in Humphrey Abercrombie at that time. “Wilfred’s really angry, Rowly. I’ve never seen him so…”

  “What did he say to you?” Rowland asked, frowning now. “Was he…”

  “No… nothing like that… he was perfectly civil to me, but he looked like he wanted to kill you.”

  Rowland laughed. “He looks like that a lot, Ed. Don’t worry. Stay here… keep an eye out for Humphrey and I’ll deal with Wil.”

  The door was shut when Rowland reached the library. The party immediately outside it was getting a little uninhibited. A couple of shapely young ladies were performing some kind of cabaret in the drawing room, accompanied by Joynton Smith on a concertina. Robert Packer seemed to have left.

  Rowland watched regretfully for a few moments. He wondered how much of the party he would miss while Wilfred made his feelings on this matter, and probably a couple of others, clear. Inhaling deeply, he walked in, closing the door behind him.

  The library, largely unused since his father’s time, was the room Rowland liked least in his home. It had been from this room that Henry Sinclair had controlled his empire and his sons. It was to this room that Rowland had been summoned as a child when his father was displeased. Its solid traditional furniture, dark colours and stately style all spoke of power—but that power had never been his. Just briefly, it occurred to Rowland that Wilfred always chose the library in which to bring him into line.

  Wilfred sat in their father’s chair, smoking. Rowland saw now what had so concerned Edna. His brother’s face was pale with an intense simmering fury. Still, Wilfred had been this angry with him before. He couldn’t quite remember when, but he was sure he had been.

  “Hello Wil,” Rowland said steadily.

  “What the hell is this, Rowly?”

  “A party.” Rowland stood his ground.

  Wilfred crushed his cigarette into the ashtray beside him. He stood up and advanced so quickly that Rowland stepped back reflexively. Wilfred poked him in the chest. “Damn it Rowly, are you trying to get yourself hanged?”

  “I didn’t know having a party was a capital offence.”

  Wilfred exploded, pushing Rowland back against the wall. “Do you have any idea who’s in your house? What the hell are you trying to prove?”

  “Proof?” Rowland retorted. “Since when did you need proof? I don’t remember you asking Hardy or Middlemiss for proof.”

  For a moment Wilfred held his gaze. “What happened at Oaklea was unfortunate… but I’m starting to think that Hardy has a point.”

  Row
land stared at him.

  Wilfred snorted. “You need not look so bloody wounded. Why would you invite every flaming Communist in Sydney to Woodlands if that wasn’t exactly what you wanted me to think?”

  The door to the library was pushed open and Edna walked in. She ignored the tension in the room. “Rowly, there you are! Detective Delaney was looking for you.”

  Wilfred stepped back in disgust. “I expect all your parties end with the police being called.”

  “Delaney’s a guest,” Rowland said coldly, hoping that the detective was in fact trying to find him for social reasons, and not because he needed to arrest someone.

  Wilfred glanced darkly at Edna. “Would you excuse us, Miss Higgins. We’re not quite finished.”

  “Rowly…” Edna looked uncertainly at Rowland.

  Rowland kept his eyes on his brother. “Wil and I will be done in just a minute, Ed. Let Colin know I won’t be long.”

  Edna hesitated, but in the end she left them alone again.

  Rowland sat down. “Just say what you came to say, Wil, and let me get back to my guests.”

  Wilfred sat opposite him. He opened his mouth to begin and then he stopped. He shook his head.

  Rowland waited.

  Wilfred stood and left the room.

  Rowland flinched as the door slammed. He sat in the silence for a minute. Then he rubbed his face, and groaned. This latest war had gotten out of hand. “Wil, wait!”

  Rowland started after his brother, but the hallway outside the library was crowded with people who wanted to chat, to slap his back and thank him for his hospitality. Consequently, it took him several minutes to reach the front door. As politely as possible, he fought his way free of guests, hoping that Wilfred’s car had not yet pulled away. In truth, Rowland wasn’t sure what olive branch he could offer, or even if he really wanted to offer one. He was still cut by Wilfred’s mistrust… but he didn’t want to leave it like this.

  The evening air outside was significantly cooler than within. The driveway was teeming with people and vehicles. Partygoers climbed in and out of cars both coming and going. Rowland looked for Wilfred.

  A black Rolls Royce started up several feet away. Rowland recognised it. An older model, it had been originally purchased by his father. It was garaged at Woodlands, maintained and driven by Johnston, but Wilfred used it and the chauffeur whenever he was in the city.

  Rowland sprinted to reach it before it pulled out, flinging open the back door and jumping in.

  “Wil…” He stopped, falling back with the momentum as the Rolls accelerated out of the driveway. Wilfred’s security men waved them through the gates without a second glance—they were watching for those trying to enter Woodlands, not those trying to leave.

  “Humphrey!” Rowland stared at the Englishman, bewildered. Wilfred sat stiffly between them. “What the hell…?”

  “Keep your head on, old boy,” Abercrombie said. Then he spoke to the chauffeur. “You know where to go.”

  Rowland noticed the chauffeur now. “Michaels? Where’s Johnston?”

  Michaels ignored Rowland and continued to drive.

  Rowland turned to Abercrombie and Wilfred, confused, and a little annoyed. “Stop the car. What’s going on? Wil?”

  Wilfred didn’t move. He spoke calmly. “He’s got a gun, Rowly.”

  Humphrey Abercrombie dusted the lapel of his jacket with his free hand, and he shifted the revolver into view. “Problem with white, you know,” he muttered. “Shows every speck of dirt.”

  Rowland gasped, outraged. “What are you doing?” He reached out to seize the gun from the Englishman’s grasp.

  Abercrombie reacted quickly, placing the muzzle of the weapon against Wilfred’s temple. “No further, Rowly. Shooting Wilfred here would make rather a mess.” He eyed Rowland coldly. “Just sit back, there’s a good man. There’s no reason for this to get uncivilised.”

  Rowland sat slowly back in the seat, stunned. He wondered if Abercrombie had suffered some kind of mental breakdown.

  “What are you doing?” He was careful to keep the anger from his voice.

  Abercrombie smiled. His entire manner was unrecognisable.

  Wilfred’s face was tense, his eyes furious.

  “I’m kidnapping you, you idiot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the buffoons I hired can’t seem to manage it.”

  “They were working for you? Why would you want to kidnap me? Surely you don’t need…”

  “The money?” Abercrombie laughed. “No, Rowly, I don’t.”

  “Then what the hell do you want with me and Wil?”

  Abercrombie regarded him contemptuously. “I don’t really want anything from either of you, I’m afraid.”

  Rowland swore, barely controlling the urge to swing at Abercrombie. “Then what do you think you’re doing, you bloody fool?”

  “Rowland,” Wilfred said tightly, “you would do well to remember that your old chum has a gun pressed to my head.”

  Abercrombie laughed. “Well said.” He lowered the gun to Wilfred’s chest. “Your brother understands the situation, Rowly. Strikes me as a rather clever chap… he’s certainly showing me a great deal more respect than you ever did.”

  Rowland shook his head in disbelief.

  “Didn’t you think I noticed?” Abercrombie said quietly. He spoke to Wilfred. “Rowly was quite the champion, you know. Stepped in I don’t know how many times to save me from those well-bred thugs from all the best families, with whom I was incarcerated at Pembroke. I often wondered why.” The Englishman looked at Rowland now. “Let’s be honest, old boy, you didn’t have much time for me yourself.”

  Rowland didn’t respond. He felt a strange sense of guilt that he hadn’t tried harder to like Humphrey Abercrombie. It seemed clear the slight had sent the man completely over the edge. Still, it was too late now.

  “Of course, I did learn a lot at Pembroke,” Abercrombie continued. “I saw firsthand the kind of men the upper classes unleash on the working man—the exploitation of power, the cruelty, the complete indifference to the suffering they inflict. It was a valuable lesson.”

  Rowland rubbed his face in his hands. “What on earth are you talking about, Humphrey?” He glanced at Wilfred who was still pinned back by Abercrombie’s firearm. “Look, if this is over something I did fourteen ruddy years ago, why are you pointing a gun at Wil? Let him out and we’ll settle it between us.”

  Abercrombie snorted. “Good Lord man, I didn’t come halfway around to the world to address some schoolboy tiff.” He pointed at Rowland. “I remember you too well, old chap. You’d take a bullet before you’d let poor weak, helpless Humphrey Abercrombie hold you at gunpoint… but you’re not going to allow me to shoot your brother.”

  Rowland smiled. “You overestimate me, Humphrey. I’m in no hurry to be shot myself… you don’t need Wil.”

  “I think I’ll keep him anyway.”

  “So what is this about, Humphrey?”

  “For pity’s sake, Rowly,” Wilfred said through gritted teeth. “Mr. Abercrombie is a member of your beloved Communist Party. I presume that’s why you asked him to move into Woodlands with the rest of your unemployed Lenin-loving freeloaders.”

  Rowland shook his head. Wilfred felt the need to hold the Communists responsible for everything. “That’s ridiculous. Not that I’d care if Humphrey was a Communist, but Milt would know him if he was with the ACP—there’s not that many of them.”

  “Of course I’m not with your local Australian Communist Party,” Abercrombie scoffed. “There’re more Fascist spies in the ACP than there are party faithful. In fact, I’ve had a time of it avoiding those few members who have enough international connections to recognise me when they’re sober.”

  Rowland glanced out of the window—they were in a seedy part of the city now, driving through Oxford Street. A thought occurred to him. “How long have you been back in town, Humphrey?”

  Abercrombie shrugged. “I didn’t co
me back when you sent me home, if that’s what you mean. I returned from the mountains a few hours before you did.”

  “You killed Moran.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “We had an arrangement. He couldn’t keep up his end. He could identify me. A necessary precaution, I’m afraid.”

  “What arrangement?” Rowland asked, aware that both he and Wilfred could now also identify Abercrombie.

  “We both had reason to want you out of the way for a while, Rowly. I wouldn’t normally work with men like Moran.”

  “What reason?”

  “In my case the Lister franchise. We would like to see the vote defeated.”

  “Who’s we?”

  The Rolls Royce pulled up in front of a dilapidated terrace. Rowland thought they were in Surry Hills, though he couldn’t be sure. A decaying knee-high fence marked out the few square feet of bare dirt attached to the building. There were no streetlights but the moon cast enough light for Rowland to see the rotting weatherboards and broken windows. The adjoining terraces were in no better repair. Abercrombie ignored Rowland’s question. “Now gentlemen,” he warned. “I have a number of colleagues waiting in this salubrious residence. We are going to walk in. If either one of you does anything other than comply completely, I’m going to shoot. As I plan to have my gun pressed into Wilfred’s back, it’s unlikely I’ll miss. Do we understand each other?”

  Rowland glimpsed a movement of curtains. Abercrombie’s colleagues obviously knew they’d arrived. The Englishman directed them into the terrace with a friendly hand on Wilfred’s shoulder, and a gun in his ribs. Michaels walked up front with Rowland.

  The door was opened by a woman, small and hunched. A half-dozen men were smoking in the front room. Two wore suits, the others sat in shirtsleeves. At least some of the accents were European. They stood when Abercrombie and his prisoners entered the room, and voiced approval and congratulations.

  Abercrombie gave orders. Wilfred Sinclair was to be taken “upstairs” and secured. Three men pushed Wilfred up a narrow staircase, leaving Rowland with Abercrombie and the others. Abercrombie did not introduce his companions. He pulled out a chair at a small wooden table and motioned for Rowland to sit.