The Fun Pier itself was a crush of families and sweethearts strolling arm in arm.
“Keep your eyes peeled for pickpockets,” Milton warned as he glanced sideways at a band of youths moving through the crowd. Rowland grabbed Ernest’s hand and kept him close. They rode the Ferris wheel first, and then watched as Ernest took a turn on the carousel. They split up to race through the mirror maze, accepting the tin medals awarded at completion with gravitas and acceptance speeches. Once they’d been through every exhibit and entertainment at least twice, they left the Fun Pier for the Shark Aquarium next door. That done, the party of three found a table at Burt’s Milk Bar which stretched across the wharf frontage.
“May I have a milkshake, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest asked, having seen the American fad drink advertised on sandwich boards outside the milk bar.
“If it’s not a cocktail,” Rowland said, signalling a waitress. She assured him there was nothing stronger than flavouring in a milkshake and recommended the Girvana Sling for him and Milton. Apparently it was a specialty of the house.
“So what part of the Fun Pier did you like best, Ernie?” Milton asked as they enjoyed their respective beverages.
“The Ferris wheel, I suppose. The mirror maze was smashing too!” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The wax museum was appalling, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t that bad, surely,” Rowland protested, defending the handful of wax fairytale characters out of some vague inexplicable sense that it would be impolite not to do so.
“It was pretty poor,” Milton confirmed.
“The statues weren’t frightening at all, and nothing looked real,” Ernest complained.
“I do believe Madame Tussaud’s has made your standards a little high,” Rowland said wryly. He had taken Ernest to the iconic waxworks when they were in London the previous year. Expecting Tussaud’s at Manly Beach was probably optimistic.
The boy’s deep blue eyes brightened on mention of the London wax museum. “Remember the werewolf? He was my favourite!”
“I thought you were frightened?”
“I’m seven years old now, Uncle Rowly,” Ernest replied fiercely. “You’ll find I’ve grown up quite a lot. And I do like being scared.”
“It’s a shame Magdalene’s is closed,” Milton sighed. “Plenty of ghouls and monsters there. Guaranteed to frighten even men of Ernie’s advanced years.”
“Is it closed?” Rowland asked, forgetting about his nephew for a moment.
“I expect so… after White.”
Rowland frowned. “That was a couple of days ago. They probably wouldn’t close down the entire waxworks.”
“We could drop in on the way home.”
Rowland winced. “I can’t take Ernie to—”
“Oh yes you can!” Ernest interjected. “I’m seven!”
Milton pulled on the goatee he was currently sporting. “We could just drive past and have a gander. Ernie won’t be out of our sights.”
“I don’t know.” Rowland hesitated. “It seems a little macabre.”
“It’s a House of Horrors, Rowly. It’s supposed to be macabre.”
“Please Uncle Rowly. Please, please, please!”
Rowland made a valiant attempt to resist Ernest’s pleas despite his own curiosity about the scene of White’s grisly end. Eventually, however, he was defeated by the fact that his nephew and the poet joined forces to make the case for Magdalene’s.
“Very well, if it’s open we might stop in for a bit,” Rowland conceded. Ernest was, after all, completely unaware of the murder, so there was no danger that he would be unduly disturbed, and anything they could learn about Magdalene’s could well prove useful.
They finished their drinks and a plate of chipped potatoes before catching the next ferry back to Circular Quay. From there it was barely ten minutes’ drive to Kings Cross and Magdalene’s House of the Macabre. The waxworks was open and, indeed, busy.
They parked the Mercedes and joined the queue at the door which spilled out onto Macleay Street.
“Eternity.” Ernest read out the word inscribed in chalk on the concrete as they waited for the line to move. “It’s spelled wrong.”
Rowland looked. Eternity had indeed been spelled with a “u” in place of the second “e”.
“What’s it mean, Uncle Rowly?”
“I’m not sure,” Rowland admitted. He’d seen the word chalked in the same copperplate hand, with the same spelling mistake, a couple of times on pavements in the city. He’d never given it a great deal of thought.
The elderly cashier who took their money and passed out tickets from a narrow booth window at the hall’s entrance was, to Rowland’s mind, ideally suited to employment in an establishment like Magdalene’s. Her face was more crumpled than wrinkled, her hair a wild mane of frizzled grey. She wore a patch over one eye and glared at them with the other while she puffed on a chipped black pipe. Rowland noticed that Ernest’s eyes had widened already.
They shuffled into the first exhibit room, which had been designed to resemble a crypt. Some of the sarcophagi were open to reveal wax corpses inside. One contained a mummy. Ghouls and vampires inhabited the shadows. On closer examination, Rowland could see that the statues consigned to the gloomy corners were damaged or unfinished in some way. Count Dracula was little more than a vampire scarecrow with a wax head. The cobwebs, while fitting, were real. Still, Ernest seemed impressed.
The second hall housed a fearsome collection of historical figures: Genghis Khan, Napoleon Bonaparte, unnamed Vikings and a caveman. Skeletons hung from wires in the internal courtyard. Rowland stopped, surprised, as they happened upon a young woman sobbing inconsolably as she perched on the edge of a rocking chair.
Rowland offered her his handkerchief, which she took though she didn’t stop crying.
“She’s an exhibit, Rowly,” Milton whispered as he hoisted Ernest onto his shoulders, so the boy could get a closer look at the tusked boar’s head mounted above the door.
“Oh, I see.” Rowland laughed, but did not attempt to retrieve his handkerchief. Instead, he observed the other visitors to Magdalene’s. Several families, as one would expect, quite a few young courting couples as well as a surprising number of single men. Nobody who looked like they might belong to a coven. The attendants, however, all looked like they dabbled in black magic, but he presumed that was a requirement of employment. A narrow stairwell leading to the second floor was cordoned off. Intrigued, Rowland peered up in the hope of catching a glimpse of what was up there.
“I’m sorry, sir, the second floor is not open to the public.” The young woman who had accepted his handkerchief tapped him on the shoulder. It seemed she had been relieved by another girl in a similar white dress, who wailed in her stead while she partook of a cigarette.
“Oh, pardon me.” Rowland smiled contritely as he removed his hat. “I don’t suppose that’s where that poor chap was killed?”
“No, the second floor is always private. The gent passed over in the Greek Room.” She pointed towards a closed door. “It’s all cleaned up now, but Mr. Magdalene thought we oughta close it to the public for a week outa respect.”
“Quite properly. But it is a shame. I’ve always had an utter fascination for Greek mythology. I expect it’s an impressive exhibit.”
“Oh, it isn’t that great. A couple of men in sheets, a woman with snakes in her hair and the devil.”
“The devil? Really? I’m pretty sure he wasn’t Greek.”
“Well he’s always been there. Cloven hooves, evil little horns…”
Rowland nodded. “That’s probably meant to be Pan. It’d make a little more sense in a Greek exhibit.”
The young woman in white laughed. “This is a House of Horrors. I wouldn’t be expecting much in the way of rhyme and reason!”
“I suppose not.” Rowland glanced back up the staircase. “Why is the second floor closed off? Is it a residence?”
The young woman shrugged. “Staff ain’t allowed up t
here neither. Mr. Magdalene uses it for his meetings. Why are you so interested, Mr…?”
“Sinclair.” Rowland introduced himself. She giggled at the formality of his manners, told him her name was Daisy Forster, and promised she would return his handkerchief once she’d laundered it. Her mother took in laundry, she said, so it would be no bother. By the time Daisy finished talking, she appeared to have forgotten whatever suspicions she might have held about his interest.
“I wonder who’d meet in a House of Horrors,” Rowland mused aloud.
“The Magdalenes are a little odd,” Daisy confided. “I do this circus act for my wages, but the Magdalenes, they like this sort of thing. Their friends too.”
“What friends?”
“The men who come to their meetings… skulking upstairs in their capes and masks.” She shuddered. “Still, they’re not mean or nasty to work for. Just strange.” She took one final long drag of her cigarette and then crushed it under her heel. “I’d best get back, Emily sounds a little hoarse.”
Included among the passengers on the Orsova, which reached Brisbane last week from London, were a number of Italian Immigrants who are about to seek their fortunes in Queensland. Some of the menfolk, however, were not making the trip for the first time. They had been settled in the North before, and had amassed sufficient money to visit their homeland and marry, and they have brought their brides back with them.
Daily Mercury, 1934
____________________________________
“Easy, Rowly,” Milton cautioned. Rowland hadn’t said anything, but his fury was plain. Ernest silently took his uncle’s hand.
Quite heroically, Rowland managed not to curse.
“What happened to your car, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest whispered.
“Some… scoundrel’s slashed the tyres, mate,” Rowland replied, editing out his more profane sentiments.
“Who?”
Rowland glanced at Milton. This was not the first time the Mercedes had attracted unwelcome attention, though it had been some time since anyone had attacked the car herself. He was annoyed with himself for having become complacent about where he parked the automobile. “It’s only the tyres,” he sighed. “They’re replaceable.” He shook his head. “We had better see about getting her home.” Rowland left Milton and Ernest with the Mercedes and went back into the waxworks in the hope of using their telephone.
The old woman with the patch and pipe was initially reluctant, but she was eventually persuaded by the gentleman’s willingness to pay compensation. The ticketing booth was so small she had to step out in order for him to use the wall-mounted telephone. Rowland rang through to Woodlands House, looking curiously around the inside of the booth while he waited for connection. All manner of objects had been pinned to the walls: the usual pamphlets and notes as well as medallions and a large poster on which columns of numbers had been written within the triangles of a pentagram. A large jar of dead spiders sat on a shelf and a dagger lay on a pile of opened envelopes.
When Woodlands House came on the line, he spoke to Johnston, the chauffeur, explaining what had happened and asking him to arrange for a lorry to collect the Mercedes.
“I’ll be out to fetch you directly, sir,” Johnston declared when Rowland told him of his intention to call a motor taxi.
Rowland conceded. He did not want to offend the old chauffeur, and he was aware that Johnston felt slighted by the fact that the current master of Woodlands generally preferred to drive himself.
And so it was in one of the family’s Rolls Royces that Ernest Sinclair was driven back to Tudor House. There were no tears, just a fleeting sadness as they said a manly goodbye. The first time Rowland had returned his nephew after a weekend outing, Ernest had only been at school a couple of weeks. He’d sobbed bitterly and pleaded with Rowland to take him home.
Despite the protests of the housemaster, Rowland had taken Ernest back to Woodlands and, determined to rescue the boy, telephoned his brother in Yass. Wilfred had told him not to be an idiot. “Of course he’d rather live with you and have every whim indulged, Rowly. He’s seven years old. If you’re going to take him out on weekends, you’re going to have to learn to deal with this sort of thing.”
Even so, Wilfred had come up to Sydney the following week, to check that Ernest was settling in at boarding school.
Over the weekends that had followed, both Ernest and Rowland had become accustomed to the parting, so that now it was conducted with a simple and dignified handshake.
When the Rolls Royce finally pulled into the stables behind the house, the Mercedes had been returned and was jacked up on blocks.
Clyde popped up from under the bonnet. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.
“Someone slashed the tyres,” Rowland murmured as he greeted Lenin who had woken from his slumber in a shaft of fading sunlight when he heard his master’s voice.
“Well, I can see that! Bloody oath Rowly, did you park her next to the Cenotaph?”
“Can we get another set of tyres before tomorrow?” Rowland asked, a little surprised. Clyde was the most even-tempered of them. He occasionally found cause to call Milton the odd name, but that was probably understandable.
“I got in some extra tyres and wheels because of the race, but I didn’t expect to have to use them already,” Clyde growled, kicking one of the ruined tyres.
Rowland remembered then that Clyde should have been dining with Rosalina Martinelli’s family. “I say, what are you still doing here, Clyde?”
“What did you do?” Milton said, glancing over his shoulder to see that Johnston had discreetly retired.
Clyde swore. They let him do that for a while and they asked again. “What happened, mate?”
“The Martinellis didn’t just come to Sydney to see Rosie. They were meeting a ship.” He shook his head and groaned. “They’ve brought some bloke over from Italy.”
“So?”
“They brought him over so he could marry Rosie.”
“That’s medieval!” Milton scoffed. “Rosalina won’t agree to that!”
“I’m afraid that’s not how her family works.” Clyde slammed down the bonnet. Rowland winced, as much for his car as for Clyde. “I’m such a bloody fool. I had my chance and I blew it!” He turned away, his shoulders slumped.
Milton climbed into the Rolls Royce and opened the walnut cabinet fitted into the back of the front seat. He grabbed a half-sized bottle of sherry, another of gin, and three crystal tumblers. With no regard for the duco, he poured drinks on the Rolls Royce’s bonnet.
“Clyde,” Rowland said gently, “she hasn’t married him yet, mate.”
“Rowly, you don’t understand Rosie. She wouldn’t do that to her parents.”
“She wanted to marry you, remember?”
Milton handed Clyde a drink. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Why?”
“We’ll put new tyres on the car and go get her. You can marry her tomorrow, before the other bloke’s had time to unpack.”
Clyde laughed bitterly. “You want me to abduct her?”
“You say abduct, I say rescue.”
“Whatever you want to do, Clyde,” Rowland said calmly, “we’ll help you. Are you sure Rosie won’t defy her parents? She was my model once… I’m sure her parents wouldn’t have approved of that either.”
Clyde rubbed his face. “You’re right. Maybe I’m underestimating Rosie.”
“Perhaps if you talk to her?” Rowland suggested. “Before you abduct her, at least.”
Clyde nodded.
“We could take the Rolls if you’d like to go now.”
“No.” Clyde picked up a tyre lever. “We’ll fix your vehicle while I try to work out what I’m going to say.”
Rowland and Milton removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. With Clyde directing the process, they replaced the Mercedes’ wheels with the four already prepared for the race. Clyde refitted the tyres on the four they took off. “Just don’t get a flat tomorrow,�
�� he warned Rowland. “I can’t put any of these on until they’re balanced and weighted.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to say, comrade?” Milton asked.
Clyde shrugged. “Thought I might beg.”
Milton nodded. “Nothing as attractive as a desperate man.”
Rowland swatted the poet. Poor Clyde was not in the mood for jest. “It might be an idea to get cleaned up first,” he said.
Clyde looked down at his grease-covered hands. “Yes, I suppose I should.” He sounded quite forlorn.
“Chin up, old mate.” Milton gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Rowly and I will be there. You’ll seem eminently marriageable by contrast.”
Rowland was the first to come downstairs after showering. Milton had always taken greater time and care with his personal presentation and, on this occasion, perhaps Clyde was doing so too. Rowland, however, maintained an indifference to his appearance, possibly born of the knowledge that his suits were impeccably tailored and generally the best that money could buy.
He spoke to Mary Brown, requesting the housekeeper arrange for a posy of flowers to be sourced from the gardens, before ducking into his mother’s part of the house. Elisabeth Sinclair had spent most of the day with her sister-in-law, Rowland’s Aunt Mildred. They’d taken luncheon at the Queen’s Club and then played euchre for the afternoon.
“We might be quite late home, Mother, if you’d like to join us for supper?”
“No, no, Aubrey darling. I’m rather tired this evening. I don’t have the same vitality now that I’m fifty.” She shook her head. “We all get older, I suppose.”
Rowland smiled faintly. His mother was sixty-five. It was one of the facts she’d forgotten. The consequence was that she behaved as if she were fifty, taking up the pastimes and amusements and vigour she’d had back then, which he did not consider a bad thing. To be honest, Rowland had been as surprised as anybody when Elisabeth Sinclair had resettled so well to life at Woodlands. Indeed, she seemed a lot less perturbed by the unconventional manner in which he ran his house than Wilfred had always been—for now at least—and Rowland was not a man to borrow trouble from tomorrow.
Give the Devil His Due Page 6
