He tried to calm them. Milton burst into the kitchen having heard the initial screams. On sight of him, their shrieks began anew. It took a couple of minutes to talk them out of hysteria and then finally Rowland was able to ask about the whereabouts of the Babbingtons.
“We don’t know,” the older woman sobbed. “We’ve been locked in that pantry all day. The Master and Mrs. Babbington aren’t due back from the mountains till tomorrow.”
Rowland glanced at Milton. Abercrombie had tricked them again. He’d be well away now.
“Are you able to phone the police?” Rowland asked the younger servant, who was the less distraught of the two.
“Yes, sir.”
He and Milton wasted no further time, running back to the drive and scrabbling in the shrubbery for the parts Clyde had thrown into them. They had just found the distributor cap and dizzy, when Clyde came wheezing up the driveway.
“Bloody hell, Clyde! What are you doing here?”
“He let me out just down the street,” Clyde gasped. “Ran back… a little out of breath…”
Rowland clapped him thankfully on the back.
Milton opened his arms wide. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms my beamish boy…”
Clyde took a step back.
Rowland shook his head. “Lewis Carroll.” He handed Clyde the parts they’d retrieved. “We’re glad to see you, mate… Now, would you put these back?”
“Why?”
“We need to go after Humphrey.”
“Are you mad—he’s got a gun.”
“He’s got my car.”
Clyde groaned. “Fair enough. I think he was heading towards the bridge.”
The Rolls was returned to working order quickly under Clyde’s expert hands. Rowland got behind the wheel and they set off in pursuit of Abercrombie, passing an approaching police vehicle as they drove out.
“Did he say anything when you were in the car, Clyde?”
“Quite a lot actually… daft blighter’s on some kind of personal crusade.” Clyde shook his head. “He sure had me fooled. I thought he was just another one of your poncy school chums, Rowly. Turns out he’s some kind of international insurgent. Must’ve taken some nerve to try to pull off this scheme of his.”
“Crazy bloody scheme though—destabilising the country’s economy to bolster membership.”
“I dunno,” Milton ventured thoughtfully. “The Depression has been good for party numbers. When people have jobs they have more to lose by speaking out… I can see his reasoning.”
“You don’t…?”
“Of course not. When the revolution comes here, it’ll be the ACP leading it—not some bored English Lord playing Bolshevik on his hols!”
Rowland smiled. “He’s not a Lord, you know… just Honourable.”
They were approaching the bridge. It was nearly midnight now and there was very little traffic. The yellow Mercedes stood out from some distance away, parked just outside the Milsons Point pedestrian access to the bridge.
Rowland pulled up, leaving the headlamps on. There was no movement from his motor car. Abercrombie had apparently abandoned her.
They all stepped out cautiously. Rowland could hear sirens approaching. Whether it was the police they had passed leaving Babbington’s house, or officers called to investigate the abandoned car on the bridge, he could not be sure. In any case he did not wait for them to arrive. Abercrombie had to be somewhere nearby.
They checked the Mercedes first. It had been parked and the headlamps turned off.
Clyde pointed to the stairs which led onto the bridge. “He must be on the footway.”
They started up the stairs. Like the road, it was virtually deserted except for the occasional soul who had decided to sleep there, huddled against a pylon, visible only as a pile of clothes in the shadows. They began to sprint, caught by a sudden feeling of urgency. Abercrombie had a decent lead timewise, but perhaps he had not expected they would follow so quickly. Once he crossed the bridge, who knew where he would go from there.
It was Clyde who first spotted the shoes, placed neatly by the rail, near a streetlight, the jacket folded beside it.
“Rowly, Milt!”
Rowland looked down at the shoes. They looked expensive, an English label embossed on the inner sole. For a moment he stared mutely.
“Damn it! He wouldn’t…” Rowland pulled himself up to lean out over the rail and looked down. The harbour was dark. The odd craft still traversed its waters but it was impossible to make out anything.
Milton grabbed Rowland’s shoulder as a sudden rise in the wind challenged his grip on the rail. “You can’t fish him out this time, Rowly.”
40
For selling Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a banned book by Mr. D. H. Lawrence, the English writer and painter, a bookseller at Cambridge, Massachusetts, was sent to prison for a month and fined £100. Copies of this book were ordered, by a London magistrate, to be destroyed last July.
The Mercury, 1930
Rowland rubbed a dilute solution of burnt umber over the surface of the canvas. The colours darkened and mellowed as he intended. The shadows about the river Styx, before which Psyche wept, deepened. He stood back and surveyed the result critically. Miss Martinelli was unarguably beautiful but he was glad she was gone. These finer finesses could be completed without a model and so he had been able to conclude their session early. Clyde was driving her home in the Mercedes. Rowland had done all that he could, all that could decently be asked of friendship. Now it was up to Clyde, and Rowland Sinclair could go back to painting in peace and quiet. Still, he had not forgotten Norman Lindsay’s part in all this.
“You’re ageing the painting?” Edna said, as she came into the room with a tray of tea and crumpets.
“Painting it aged me,” Rowland replied.
Milton snapped closed his book and saw fit to contribute his poetic insight. “An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick.”
“Yes… Yeats,” Rowland replied, without looking up from his work.
“Come and have some tea,” Edna smiled. “How did your board meeting go yesterday?”
“Slightly less tedious than usual, considering recent events.” Rowland pushed Lenin off the couch to take a seat beside Edna. “Without Babbington, the option on the Lister franchise was approved unanimously.” He shrugged. “I wonder who would have voted against it, if Babbington hadn’t been disgraced?”
“Was he a Communist then?” Edna asked.
“Hard to tell… certainly not a member of the ACP, but who knows. He has a degree in the classics too—perhaps plotting world domination is what they actually do.”
“I had always wondered,” Milton murmured, opening his book once again.
“Poor Humphrey,” Edna said quite sadly, as she curled her legs up onto the couch. “I can’t believe he… I really wish it might have ended differently.”
“It would have ended badly even if he hadn’t have jumped, Ed,” Milton reminded her. “He killed a man aside from everything else. He was facing the noose.”
“I know,” she sighed. “But I was just beginning to like him.”
Rowland didn’t say anything.
Lady Abercrombie had returned to Sydney and, in her grief, retained solicitors. She had identified the shoes and jacket as belonging to Humphrey Abercrombie, but it seemed she was more than willing to litigate against any postmortem allegation that her son was a Communist. The Harbour Police hadn’t yet recovered Humphrey Abercrombie’s body. And those of Abercrombie’s associates who had been caught were saying nothing. Rowland wondered if they might all be underestimating the man again.
Edna wriggled around till she was facing him. “Did you finish reading Aubrey’s manuscript?” she asked, obviously deciding the subject needed to be changed.
“Yes.”
“And? Did you like it.”
Rowland smiled. “Aubrey’s my brother, I’m predisposed to like it.”
“O
f course. What’s it about?”
Rowland laughed. “Have you read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
“Which version?” Milton asked.
“The banned one—there’s a copy in the library…”
Edna gasped. “Aubrey’s book… really?”
Rowland nodded solemnly. “Like Lawrence with a sense of humour.”
“Always thought Sons and Lovers could have used the odd punch line,” Milton muttered.
Edna giggled. “Who would have thought…? Aubrey was more like you than Wilfred.”
Almost unconsciously Rowland glanced at his father’s portrait. Henry Sinclair’s image seemed none too pleased with the idea.
“Sounds like Aubrey’s manuscript might be worth the pain of having to illustrate Sarah Brent’s monkey book in return,” Milton ventured, grinning.
“Oh, I’m not doing that.” Rowland folded his arms resolutely.
“Surely you didn’t refuse?” Edna asked, dismayed. “Sarah had her heart set on illustrations…”
“Not to worry, Ed. I’ve sorted it.”
41
VANDALISM IN GARDENS
… the following quotation from the monthly report of the Curator (Mr. E. W. Bick), to the City Council: “There has been considerable wilful damage caused by vandalism recently. Two automatic machines were forced open, and two locks forced, one of the latter being on the animal enclosure. Eight monkeys were liberated, and a great deal of trouble was caused in catching them. If the object was theft, it may be pointed out that any person removing an imported animal from the Botanic Gardens, a quarantine area, in addition to prosecution for theft, could be charged with a breach of the quarantine regulations, and would be liable to a heavy penalty.”
Brisbane Courier, 1933
Norman Lindsay stormed into the sunroom at Springwood. Rose Lindsay looked up, startled. She was used to her husband’s artistic temperament, but this mood was darker than most.
“Whatever is the matter, Norman? Has something upset you, dear?”
“That woman’s impossible!” he exploded. “My monkey doesn’t look intelligent enough according to her.” He threw down a folder of fine, detailed drawings, on which he had already spent countless hours. “Apparently the simian in question is bloody brilliant!”
“Now Norman, calm down… it can’t be that bad…”
“She wants me to start again. Suggests we hire a monkey so I can get a better understanding of the creatures!” The great artist put his head in his hands and pulled at his hair. “Where the hell am I supposed to get a bloody monkey?”
Rose Lindsay stroked his back sympathetically. “Why on earth did you commit to the project?”
“I was tricked!”
Rose laughed. “Oh come now, Norman, who would want to trick you into such a thing?”
“You know, Rose,” he said bitterly, “Rowland Sinclair is a complete and utter bastard!”
Epilogue
Humphrey Abercrombie’s body was never recovered. With none of his compatriots willing to say anything, no charges were ever laid against him, posthumously or otherwise.
Following the Reichstag fire of the 27 February 1933, the Nazis under the leadership of Adolf Hitler as Germany’s new chancellor, passed a decree which rescinded most German civil liberties, including habeas corpus. Jews, communists, socialists, anarchists and other political enemies of the Nazis throughout the Reich were imprisoned in the Dachau Concentration Camp. In March 1933, the Enabling Act was passed conferring dictatorial powers on Adolf Hitler. By July, Germany was officially a single-party state, with the founding of any new parties banned.
Charles Babbington denied any knowledge of Humphrey Abercrombie. The rumours did however ruin him. He was allowed to resign from the board of Dangar, Gedye and Company. Mr. and Mrs. Babbington left Australia permanently in 1935 to take up residence in London.
Dangar, Gedye and Company went on to flourish, due in no small part to its association with Lister, which through its pumps, engines and other plants, powered rural Australia.
The Rules Point Guesthouse was demolished in the 1960s. Until then it operated at various times as a guesthouse, pub and fishing lodge. There are still people in the High Country who remember the Rules Point Sports Days and dances.
August Eichorn continued to stage his snake handling shows and purvey his Snakebite and Blood Poisoning Cure for the entertainment and good health of the people of the Riverina and surrounding regions. So confident was he of the efficacy of his cure that he encouraged some of Australia’s most dangerous snakes, including tiger and brown snakes, to bite him, sometimes simultaneously. He eventually died in 1944 from blood poisoning.
The Cassidy brothers were finally apprehended in Victoria. To this day, the proceeds of the Eugowra Stage Coach robbery, otherwise known as Glover’s gold, have not been found.
In 1933 Endeavour Press published Bring the Monkey, a light novel by Miles Franklin, illustrated by Norman Lindsay.
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Acknowledgments
Miles off Course may have been a description rather than a title, if not for the following people who have kept me from becoming hopelessly lost in the literary wilderness. I am deeply and sincerely grateful.
My husband Michael, who can’t always see the road, but whose internal compass is pretty true. Who, in the beginning, drew me a map of the 1930s and let me go.
My boys, Edmund and Atticus, who never stay on the path, who wander off to find places that no-one else knows and who are fearless in their exploration of this world.
Leith Henry, my life-long friend, whom I call when I have no idea where I’m going. Whose support from the beginning has made me much braver than I might otherwise have been.
My father who will still drive out in the middle of the night to pick me up, if I find myself stranded.
My extraordinary sisters, Devini and Nilukshi, who long ago set the pace.
The Greens—John, Alison, Jenny and Martin—and the team at Pantera Press. I would need to write a hundred books to even start to acknowledge the support, the generosity, the faith and warmth of my publishers.
Sue Bulger, and Aunty Flo Grant who shared their language, their insight and their humour to help me breathe life into Harry Simpson, a Wiradgerie man. Mandaang guwu.
Michael Schulz, my friend and colleague, a German Irish Australian, and a gentleman.
Laurie Keenan, master of all trades, statesman and local hero, who despite how I may have used his name in this book, probably hasn’t shot anyone… yet anyway.
Rex O’Brien, Shamus O’Brien, and Petrina Walker, who patiently answered what must have seemed quite impertinent questions about what one actually does with cattle in the High Country.
My dear friends, the Kynastons, the Wainwrights, the Marshalls, the Henries, Wallace Fernandes, Alastair Blanshard, Dick Thompson, Rebecca Crandell, Angela Savage, Lesley Bouquet and Cheryl Bousfield, who are an infinitely rich source of advice, support and (perhaps inadvertently) material.
My colleagues at the Murr
umbidgee Catchment Management Authority who have tolerated a fiction writer in their midst without undue alarm.
My editor, Deonie Fiford, with whom it is a pleasure and a comfort to work, who doesn’t miss anything, who can see the way I wish to go and keeps me on that path.
Luke Causby who wraps my words in the perfect image and who takes author requests like “please insert a monkey” in his stride.
Desanka Vukelich, Graeme Jones, Karen Young and all the extraordinary professionals who bring their talents to the production of my books.
Harry Hill, John Merritt, Klaus Hueneke, Colin Hoard, John Winterbottom and all the local historians of the South West Slopes who have preserved a past which might otherwise have simply slipped from living memory. The people of Batlow, Adelong, Tumut and Tumbarumba who are my neighbours, my friends and, quite often, my inspiration.
And finally, the greater community of reviewers, bloggers, booksellers and especially readers who have made it possible for me to be writer. Thank you.
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WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT THE ROWLAND SINCLAIR SERIES
“... An elusive killer, a charming sleuth and a historical setting… glossy, original and appealingly Australia.”—WOMEN’S WEEKLY
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