“Good to know!” The actor straightened his bowtie as he strode away.
Rowland had been watching Flynn and Edna dancing for a few minutes when Clyde joined him. “I wouldn’t worry about Flynn,” Clyde said, handing Rowland a glass of champagne. “He’s too much of a show pony.”
“Ed’s not averse to show ponies,” Rowland murmured recalling the actors and artists with whom Edna had been enamoured in the past.
Clyde shook his head. “You can’t be a star with Ed on your arm, mate. It’s like trying to shine next to the sun. Flynn’s not going to like that.”
Rowland looked back at the dance floor. Clyde had a point—the eye was drawn to Edna. She was mesmerising, and unsuited to men who wanted the spotlight for themselves.
Clyde’s presence was wordlessly sympathetic. Once he would have tried to dissuade Rowland’s devotion, to reason with him, for they all knew that Edna’s loves were intense and joyful and frivolous. They came and went. And the sculptress cared too much about Rowland Sinclair to love him, to risk his heart. Unfortunately, Rowland cared too much to do anything else. Both Clyde and Milton had decided some time ago to let it be, and to simply hope that whatever happened, it wouldn’t all end in disaster.
Still, Clyde almost cheered when Rowland left him to cut in.
The morning light was still soft and new when Rowland emerged from the stables with a mewling kitten in each hand. The tiny creatures had somehow scrambled under the bonnet of the Mercedes and fallen asleep on the warmth of the engine block. Luckily, Clyde was now constantly fine-tuning the engine in preparation for the race, and they were discovered.
Rowland stopped, startled to see Rosaleen Norton on his lawn. She was wrapped around a statue of Pan, her gaze focussed intently on the figure’s horned face. He had not forgotten that he’d invited her; it was just her current position, and the hour, that were odd. Rowland doubted the statue had ever been so ardently admired—certainly not at seven in the morning.
He cleared his throat loudly. “Good morning, Miss Norton.”
“Hello, Mr. Sinclair.” The reporter reluctantly released the statue. “He’s beautiful, don’t you think? Is he a Lindsay?”
“No, but Miss Higgins did study with Lindsay for a time,” he replied, impressed that she could recognise the influence. While similar in its mythological inspiration, Edna’s work was more avantgarde than Norman Lindsay’s, the lines of her Pan with its swirling horns owed more to the Art Deco movement than the Nouveau.
“I’ve always admired him.”
“Norman’s an extraordinary artist.”
“Yes, I suppose he is,” she said. Her dark eyes glistened. “But I was talking about Pan. There’s an ancient, knowing power about him that makes one think of dancing naked in the moonlight.”
“I can’t say that’s occurred to me,” Rowland replied quite honestly.
“What are their names… your companions?” Rosaleen stepped forward to take the kittens from him. She dropped on to the lawn crooning and purring and rubbing her face against the creatures.
“They haven’t been here long enough to be named…” The journalist obviously wasn’t listening, so preoccupied was she with the kittens. “I’ll just fetch my jacket and we might go up to the house,” he said, unrolling his shirtsleeves. He left her on the lawn with the cats and ducked back into the stables to retrieve his jacket.
“What took you so long?” Clyde asked, raising his head from the engine. They’d been working on the Mercedes since first light.
“Miss Norton—White’s replacement—is here.”
“Poor White,” Clyde said, shaking his head. “He’s probably not even cold. It seems indecent.”
Rowland slipped on his jacket. “I shouldn’t be long. She seems much more interested in Ed’s statues and the blessed kittens than the race. With any luck, she’ll write about them and leave me in peace.”
Rosaleen Norton walked with him to the house, skipping occasionally and bubbling with enthusiasm about the array of wanton sculptures that adorned the grounds. He had intended to speak with her in the conservatory as he had done with White, but she asked to see his studio the moment they stepped into the house.
“Don’t we need to talk about the Red Cross race?” Rowland asked.
“I’ll have Crispy’s notes for that,” she said waving away his suggestion.
“I was given to understand that Mr. White’s notebook wasn’t found with his body.”
“Really? How do you know?” Rosaleen’s upswept brows sharpened into an acute V.
“The police mentioned—”
“Of course! The police. It’s fascinating, don’t you think? How he was killed and where. I must say I find it all quite lusciously exciting.”
“Did you know Crispin White very well?” Rowland asked, disconcerted by the young woman’s guileless admission.
“Oh, not particularly. I’m more an artist than a writer. He seemed nice enough but I did think he was boring… Not anymore, naturally. I would never have expected he had connections at Magdalene’s.”
“The waxworks?”
“Yes, I used it as inspiration for a story once. There’s a coven that meets there you know.”
“A coven?” Rowland smiled. “As in witches?”
Rosaleen nodded emphatically. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. I’ve met some of them. They are not people to be laughed at.”
“Have you mentioned this coven to the police?” Rowland asked trying to distract himself from the ludicrousness of the notion.
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“To help determine who killed Crispin White.”
“Well that’s obvious.” Rosaleen shrugged. “Crispy must have been after a story. He violated the secrets of the coven and he was punished by dark forces summoned to take vengeance.”
“Summoned by whom?”
“The coven, of course. They protect their magic as vehemently as any church.”
“You’re suggesting a ghost cut White’s throat?” Rowland said slowly.
Rosaleen looked at him as if he were a particularly stupid man. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“I see.” Rowland was a little confused now.
“It might have been the track, I suppose,” Rosaleen said thoughtfully.
Rowland gave up pretending to follow. “I’m sorry… you might have to explain.”
“The speedway is cursed. It’s only killed drivers before, but perhaps Crispy got caught in the curse.”
Rowland recalled that White had said something about the track being cursed. He was no more convinced of its veracity. His scepticism must have shown, for Rosaleen seemed annoyed.
“I’d like to see your studio now,” she huffed, pulling out a notebook and a pencil from her pocket.
Rowland wasn’t sure he wanted the reporter in his studio but there was no way he could politely refuse. He took her into what had, in his father’s time, been the opulent drawing room of the Sinclairs’ Sydney residence. The room afforded views of the grounds through generous bay windows. It was the light in this part of the house that had moved Rowland to select it as his workspace. The room faced northeast. It caught the first clean light of morning and remained well lit throughout the day. There were large studio easels in each of the bays and another behind the couch. They were all splattered with paint, the largest almost entirely red—the result of an accident with dilute vermillion. A wing-backed armchair faced the wall on which was hung a daunting full-length portrait of Rowland’s late father, Henry Sinclair.
They found Milton ensconced there with a novel.
“Rowly, did you—oh hello.” Milton stood as he noticed Rosaleen.
Rowland introduced the poet.
“I should leave you alone so you can talk,” Milton said, preparing to depart.
“No,” Rowland said hastily. “You carry on. Miss Norton is interviewing me for the paper. We won’t be speaking in confidence.”
Rosaleen Norton’s atte
ntion was, however, elsewhere. She rummaged carefully through the canvasses stacked against the wall with an eye that was appraising. “Do you always paint from life, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Wherever possible. Sometimes, by necessity, I work from sketches or memory.”
“But those sketches and memories are of actual things?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But don’t you think it’s far more interesting to paint those things that other people can’t see?”
“Like what?”
“Like whom,” she said sweetly.
Did You Know That— TRAVELLERS RETURN
AMONG those at Warwick Farm on Saturday were Major and Mrs. George Cossington Smythe. The Cossington Smythes are just back from a trip to China, and are settling into a new home in Point Piper. Their son has been packed off to Tudor House.
The Australian Women’s Weekly, 1934
____________________________________
Milton was telling Edna and Clyde about the interview when Rowland joined them in the billiards room after seeing Rosaleen off. The poet had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the conversation between Rowland and the reporter, occasionally lowering his book to grin, but refraining from any input.
“She told Rowly he should paint spirits?” Edna’s legs swung as she perched on the edge of the billiards table.
Clyde poked her with a cue. “Get off, Ed, you’re interfering with my shot.”
“She was of the opinion that your spirit would be far more interesting than your body,” Milton said as he watched Clyde take his turn.
Edna shrugged. “I do wonder what my spirit looks like.”
“Fangs. You would definitely have fangs,” Milton replied.
“A decent portrait is always more than visible features, I suppose,” Rowland offered in a gallant attempt to be fair.
Milton snorted. “That’s not what she meant Rowly and you know it!”
“I don’t suppose Miss Norton’s a Theosophist?” Clyde asked.
“Doubt it.” Rowland slipped off his jacket and took a cue. “She’s just a girl—couldn’t be much more than eighteen. I suspect she simply says the most shocking thing that comes to mind.”
“Young people these days.” Milton shook his head.
“Did you talk about the car, Rowly?” Clyde asked.
“No. She says she has White’s notes.”
“But his notebook wasn’t with the body.”
“Perhaps it was discovered at his lodgings,” Rowland said, frowning. He paused for a moment. “Miss Norton seems to believe that he was working on a story about a coven at Magdalene’s Waxworks. She thinks that might explain why White was there.”
“A coven? That’s ridiculous!” Edna said. “Are you sure she wasn’t joking, Rowly?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“If White were at Magdalene’s researching a story, why didn’t he take his notebook?” Milton said, leaning his cue against the table.
“My thinking exactly,” Rowland agreed.
“He was pretty sloshed when you drove him home, Milt,” Clyde pointed out. “Perhaps he just forgot.”
“And yet he was sober enough to get into a locked building to follow a news story,” Rowland murmured.
“Perhaps you should mention this to Detective Delaney,” Edna suggested.
Clyde agreed. “We need to feed Delaney everything we can, so he doesn’t feel the need to look too closely at Milt.”
“You do know I didn’t kill him, don’t you?” Milton said irately.
“Of course I do,” Clyde replied. “But that might not be enough to keep you out of prison. They arrested Rowly last year despite his impeccable connections. Your connections, old mate, are not impeccable and you have a habit of falling out with the authorities.”
Rowland had to concur on that count. Milton’s politics and his nature had seen him arrested on a number of occasions— misdemeanours, as far as Rowland knew, aside from the time the poet had assaulted a police officer so he could accompany Rowland to gaol. That police officer had been Colin Delaney. Rowland suspected that the detective was avoiding looking at Milton, but he would have to do so if no other candidate presented. “I’ll telephone Delaney,” he promised, though he wished he could do so with more than a young girl’s claim that there were witches at the end of the garden.
Milton changed the subject. “When are you trying out the speedway, Rowly?”
“Joan Richmond’s arranged for our team to practise laps at Maroubra tomorrow,” Rowland replied. He was looking forward to testing the Mercedes on the bowl. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. “I’m taking Ernie out today. Would you all care to join us?”
Ernest Sinclair, Rowland’s nephew, was seven years old. He had that year started at Tudor House near Moss Vale, where his father and uncles had attended before him. Like most boarders, Ernest would go home to the Sinclair estate in Yass at the end of each term, but rarely a weekend went by where he didn’t see his uncle. Ernest would catch the train up to Sydney or Rowland would collect him from the school to take him on some outing or other. Often the other residents of Woodlands House would come along, and together they would give Ernest a time that made him the envy of his school chums.
“Rosie’s parents are in town,” Clyde said miserably. “She wants me to come to dinner at her cousin’s house so I can spend some time with her father.”
Rosalina Martinelli had once found gainful employment as Rowland’s model; a job for which she proved temperamentally unsuited. Now she was Clyde’s sweetheart; a role that suited her much more and which she was determined to convert into something more permanent.
“I thought her father didn’t like you…” Edna began. They’d all heard Clyde’s accounts of the man he swore was a retired Fascisti.
“The man loathes me,” Clyde groaned. “But Rosie’s convinced he’ll get used to me.”
“Well, you don’t want that.” Milton’s warning was in earnest. “Once Martinelli gives you his blessing, it’s all over, mate.”
“Luckily, he hates the very idea of me.” Clyde’s mood lifted a little. “He’ll never let Rosie marry someone like me.”
“Perhaps you should ask for her hand before he changes his mind,” Milton suggested.
Rowland offered no advice, he had none to give. His friend’s love life had become inexplicably complex of late. It was not that Clyde wasn’t devoted to Rosalina, but that he was not in a position to get married. Certainly not as an artist. And he was not ready to not be an artist, even for Rosalina. Rowland could have helped, would gladly have helped, if Clyde would allow him. But for reasons that were probably more than simple pride, Clyde would not hear of it.
Milton was less circumspect than Rowland. “Be sure to tell them you’re not hungry.”
“What?” Clyde demanded wearily.
Milton leaned in and outlined a plan. “At dinner, claim you’re not hungry. Pick at a couple of things, but eat nothing. And screw up your face a lot.” He nodded confidently. “Then her mother will hate you as well. My granny cried once because I wouldn’t have a second helping. They take it very personally.”
“I don’t want to make Rosie’s mother cry.”
“It’s self-defence, comrade, just in case the old man has a change of heart.”
Clyde called the poet an idiot.
“Poor darling,” Edna said, rubbing Clyde’s arm. “I’m afraid I have another engagement as well, Rowly.”
“Where are you off to?” Milton asked.
“I’m not really sure. Errol’s collecting me.”
“Flynn?” Clyde said. “You’re stepping out with Flynn?”
“Well, yes?”
“You realise he’s on Rowly’s team?” Clyde threw his arms in the air. “If we lose because you break the poor blighter’s heart, Ed…”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t be absurd. I don’t care about the race!”
They were still arguing when Milton
and Rowland rose to leave.
Ernest Sinclair was ready when his uncle’s flamboyant motorcar pulled up. Half a dozen boys waiting to be collected for weekend visits stood in an orderly line at the designated collection point, just outside Central Station, after catching the train from Moss Vale. Ernest paused only to have his name signed off by an older boy before running to the yellow Mercedes.
Rowland stepped out and shook Ernest’s hand. “How are you, Ernie?”
“I’m very well, thank you, Uncle Rowly. Oh hallo, Mr. Isaacs.” Ernest peered in through the window. “Aren’t you getting out of the car?”
“Should I?”
“Nobody can see you in there, Mr. Isaacs.”
Slowly, Milton alighted, glancing questioningly at Rowland who was equally bewildered. The poet shook hands with Ernest and then they all climbed back into the car and set off.
“Righto, Ernie, why did Mr. Isaacs need to get out of the car?” Rowland asked when it became clear that Ernest was not about to volunteer the information.
“Digby Cossington Smythe’s never seen a real Communist up close. He gave me two shillings.”
Rowland smiled.
“I believe you’d best give me one of those shillings, Ernie,” Milton said looking back at the boy. “Since it seems that I am the means of production!”
Ernest fished a coin out of his pocket.
“I’m not sure you ought to be taking your classmate’s pocket money, Ernie,” Rowland said, trying to sound stern.
“I’d call it an equitable redistribution of wealth!” Milton laughed, handing back the shilling. “Keep it, Ernie mate, but you remember you made your first shilling off the back of a worker!”
Ernest nodded solemnly, committing the poet’s words to memory. “Where are we going, Uncle Rowly?”
“I thought perhaps we might catch the ferry across to Manly.”
“Can we go to the Fun Pier?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Ernest beamed. “That’s so very kind of you, Uncle Rowly!”
They left the Mercedes at Circular Quay and boarded the ferry to Manly, standing on the deck and taking in the glorious blue of the harbour on a clear day. Ernest pointed out landmarks and described them with potted histories as if Rowland and Milton were first-time visitors to the city. He told them of the day the Sydney Harbour Bridge had been opened, forgetting entirely that he’d seen it all from Rowland’s shoulders. Being a Saturday, the ferry was full with weekend trippers to the state’s premier seaside venue. The sea air seemed festive, a cheerful anticipation of sand and sunshine.
Give the Devil His Due Page 5
