Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  At this the sculptress smiled. “I sculpted Pan for the gardens because he’s the Greek god of the woodlands… as in Woodlands House. It was a play on words, not a religious homage!”

  “Really?” Rowland was genuinely surprised. “I thought you just liked Pan.”

  “I do,” Edna said. “But no more than you do. Pan’s curious, interesting to work with but—” She looked back at the drawings. “I expect Miss Norton admires him for other reasons.”

  “These works are quite explicit and violent for a nice girl from Lindfield, don’t you think?” Milton observed.

  Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps Lindfield is not quite as respectable as we’ve come to believe.”

  “What’s this, Rowly?” Edna asked, picking up the newspaper cutting from the table.

  “It’s some story Miss Norton wrote when she was fifteen. Apparently Smith’s Weekly published it earlier this year and employed her on its strength.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t read it yet.”

  Milton took the cutting from Edna. “We’d best hear it then,” he decided, clearing his throat as he prepared to read the piece aloud. “The Story of the Waxworks…”

  “Waxworks?” Rowland said, startled. The others, too, had not missed the coincidence.

  Rosaleen Norton’s tale was that of a young Sydney musician with a particular and maudlin passion for wax figures. Late one evening he happens upon a waxworks museum and pays the sixpence entry fee. The exhibits were not the usual kind—of celebrities and statesmen— but grotesques of the sort found in a House of Horrors. Among them, described in detail, a demonic satyr with “twisted horns and splayed goat’s feet”. With Rosaleen’s drawing fresh in their minds, the image was too easily conjured. The musician in her tale is locked in the museum overnight. The next morning, two policemen enter an abandoned house after hearing screams and manic laughter from within, and find the musician, his hair completely white, sitting pitifully in an empty room playing a discordant tune on a violin. He screeches, “Call it the ‘Dance of the Waxworks’” before falling dead at their feet.

  Nobody said anything for a few moments after Milton finished.

  Clyde broke the silence. “Well, that was creepy.”

  “Quite well written in spots, though,” Milton added. “Considering she was only fifteen.”

  “Disturbing parallels with how White died.” Clyde went to the sideboard and poured each of them a drink.

  “Miss Norton did say that the story might have been a premonition when I first met her,” Rowland offered uneasily.

  “You’re all being utterly silly!” Edna said. “Mr. White was not a musician and he did not go mysteriously insane before falling inexplicably dead. The only common thread is a waxworks and that could easily be a coincidence!”

  “Didn’t White die in the Greek Room, Rowly?” Milton asked. “Pan’s a Greek god—a satyr with twisted horns and splayed cloven hooves.”

  Rowland recalled his candid conversation with the girl employed to cry and wail at Magdalene’s. She’d said there was a devil in the Greek Room. He had to admit the coincidences were uncomfortably uncanny.

  “You don’t suppose Miss Norton is behind White’s murder, Rowly?” Milton suggested. “She did end up with his job.”

  “Did she want it, though?” Rowland mused. “She seems committed to becoming an artist rather than a journalist.”

  “She’s only seventeen!” Edna protested.

  Milton shook his head. “The murderers I know all started their apprenticeships young.”

  Edna rolled her eyes. “Just how many murderers do you know?” she challenged.

  Milton chose to ignore her.

  “Miss Norton does seem to find White’s death strangely exciting,” Rowland said quietly.

  Clyde scowled, clearly conflicted. His natural instinct was to warn his interfering companions to stay out of police investigations, but he also suspected that Milton’s involvement with White would become more problematic as time went on. “I wonder if Delaney has come across Miss Norton yet.”

  Rowland returned to his canvas, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared at the frustrated progress of his painting. He’d not advanced any further than a tonal underpainting of Ernst Röhm, and it was clear he was not going to finish it before the day’s end. “Perhaps we ought to invite Colin round for a social drink.”

  …Then the full horror of the position burst upon him. Locked in with those grinning monstrosities for the night. Commonsense strove to reassert itself. It must be a mistake of course. The old woman would, no doubt, come early in the morning, to let him out, and in the meantime—well, there were worse places to spend the night than in a warm room, and the waxworks were only life-sized toys, after all.

  Smith’s Weekly, 1934

  ____________________________________

  Colin Delaney perused Rosaleen Norton’s story carefully, grimacing and grunting every now and then. “She’s seventeen, you say?” He angled his head to one side as he considered the scenario. “It’s possible, I suppose. She told you Crispin White was working on a story at Magdalene’s?”

  Rowland nodded. “She’s adamant that a coven meets there—that its members unleashed some kind of demonic retribution upon White to protect their secrets.”

  “Sounds more like a Masonic Lodge than a coven, Rowly.”

  Rowland laughed. “We’d have disposed of the body more effectively.”

  “What else did Miss Norton tell you?” Delaney asked, chuckling.

  “That the Maroubra Speedway was cursed, and that she had premonitions.”

  “I don’t know, Rowly. She just sounds like your stock-standard nut.”

  “Maybe… probably.”

  “Why did she leave her folio with you anyway?”

  “An excellent question. I’m not entirely sure. She’s determined to be an artist. I suppose she’s seeking like minds.”

  “I’ll look into it, but I wouldn’t be too concerned. A lot of youngsters these days seem to be dabbling in the occult… Ouija boards… séance parties.” He lit a cigarette, sighing as he drew. “Some kind of fashionable rebellion, I expect. I have no doubt that Miss Norton will settle down and take up embroidery once she meets a nice respectable bloke.”

  “Why, Detective Delaney!” Edna came into the room having overheard the last. “Who would have thought you were such an old conservative!” She put her hands on her hips. “I do hope you don’t wish such a terrible fate on me!”

  Delaney stuttered, flustered.

  Rowland winced. “I’ve seen Ed embroider, Colin. It’s a blood sport when she does it.”

  Edna sighed. “Needlework is not for the fainthearted, Rowly.”

  “Are you going out?” Rowland asked as he noticed the sculptress’ gloves and bag.

  “Errol’s taking me to a tea dance in the city,” Edna replied, twirling to demonstrate the subtle flare of her skirt. “It’s been an age since I’ve been dancing in the afternoon! It feels quite decadent. Why don’t you come too, Rowly?”

  Rowland smiled, charmed as he always had been by Edna’s way of finding delight in the most inconsequential things. “It would be exceedingly impolite to cut in before the first dance, Ed.”

  “You don’t have to dance with me.”

  “Then what would be the point?” Edna rolled her eyes. “Very well, I’d best leave you gentlemen to it. It’s lovely to see you again, Detective Delaney.”

  “Likewise, Miss Higgins.”

  Rowland waited until Edna had gone before he asked Delaney about the crime scene—not because he thought the conversation would upset her but because he knew the detective might be reluctant to discuss any grisly details in the presence of a lady.

  “As you saw, his throat had been quite savagely slashed,” Delaney said. “The killer used a knife or a razor. Poor bastard would have bled to death very quickly.”

  “What else was in the room, Colin?”

&nb
sp; “No murder weapon, if that’s what you mean. We still haven’t found it.”

  “Where was he in relation to the wax figures?”

  “You’re not buying into all this black magic nonsense, are you?”

  “Not at all. I was just wondering if his throat was cut from behind while he was looking at a figure… whether he saw his assailant.”

  Delaney shook his head. “He’d fallen forward, away from the statues. His back would have been to them. An assailant would have had to go around White to get behind him.”

  “Unless he was hiding in the room when White came in, I suppose.”

  Delaney considered the idea, nodding slowly. “Look, Rowly, we’ll need to speak to Milton… officially.”

  “I see. He’s out, but if you were to call in—”

  “It won’t be me. Superintendent Mackay feels I’m too close to,”— Delaney adopted his superior’s manner and accent, “—‘Sinclair and his bloody band of criminal circus performers’.”

  “Who then?”

  “John Hartley. He’s just been promoted to detective.” Delaney’s concern was unmistakeable. “He lacks imagination, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Let’s just say he sees Mr. Isaacs as a likely candidate.”

  “Because he drove White home?”

  “That, among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “It has come to light that Mr. Isaacs was arrested some years ago for assaulting the deceased, and that the deceased moved away and changed his name soon after.” Delaney grimaced. “That, in addition to a witness who saw two men fighting by a yellow Mercedes automobile in Kings Cross, and the fact that Mr. Isaacs is known to the police and is being decidedly evasive.”

  Rowland groaned. “All those things have perfectly rational explanations, Colin.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s not my place to say, but I give you my word as a gentleman—”

  “We’re not living in the eighteenth century, Rowly!” the detective said laughing. “Look, I’m sure Milt has his reasons, but this doesn’t look good and Hartley will be less interested in his explanations.”

  Rowland cursed. “What if we find out who really killed White?”

  Delaney blew out his cheeks. “It would be entirely unprofessional of me to recommend you do anything of the kind. But if the identity of the real killer was revealed to you somehow, yes of course, it would help Mr. Isaacs.”

  “I see.”

  “Just watch yourself,” Delaney warned. He paused, his eyes brightened suddenly. “I seem to have retained a set of the crime scene photographs—must have forgotten to return them in the handover. I don’t suppose you’d care to see them, Rowly? Off the record, of course,” he added when Rowland looked at him quizzically. “You saw White last—you might notice something I’m… we’re missing.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rowland accepted, though he was not really sure he wanted to see images of the murdered reporter. Clearly Delaney was unhappy with the reassignment of the case to Hartley. Working together was possibly in both their interests.

  “Good, I was hoping you might say that.” Delaney reached into his inside breast pocket and took out a large envelope. He handed it to Rowland, glancing at his watch as he did so. “I must go. These are copies. Have a look at them and telephone me if you come up with anything.” He stood and shook Rowland’s hand. “I’ll call by tomorrow for the photographs. For God’s sake don’t lose them in the meantime or the commissioner will have me drawn and quartered.”

  Rowland took the photographs into the sunroom Clyde used as a studio.

  “Clyde… Oh, Miss Martinelli, I do beg your pardon.”

  Rosalina Martinelli stood in the centre of the room, clutching her handbag with gloved hands. Her shoulders were square and determined and there was something about the crisp pleat of her skirt, or perhaps her manner, that told Rowland she’d refused to sit down. While he’d sworn, for reasons other than the fact that she was Clyde’s sweetheart, that he would never again use Rosalina as a model, Rowland could not deny she was strikingly beautiful. She looked more composed than he’d ever seen her. Clyde looked horribly broken. “I’m so sorry… I’ll leave,” Rowland said into the grave silence of the moment.

  “No, Mr. Sinclair.” Rosalina’s voice trembled. “I am engaged to be married. It is no longer appropriate for me to be alone with Mr. Watson Jones. So stay. I’ll leave.” She turned back to Clyde. “Goodbye, Clyde. I wish you a good life.”

  With nothing more, she left.

  Rowland closed the door to the sunroom after her and waited. Clyde sat down, dropping his face into his hands. He did not lift his head for some time. Rowland said nothing, simply sitting down on the settee beside his friend.

  Eventually Clyde handed over the letter he’d written to Rosalina, scribed in pencil on leaves of Rowland’s notebook. “She returned it,” he said. “She’s marrying that bloke, Antonio. She wants to.”

  Rowland had never been particularly fond of Rosalina, but he was shocked that she could be so inconstant. For the past several months, she’d seemed utterly determined to become Mrs. Clyde Watson Jones.

  “Rosie doesn’t want to lose her family,” Clyde said wretchedly. “She says she sees now that she doesn’t want a life with me, that I’ll never give up ‘my ways’.”

  “Bloody hell, mate, I’m sorry.” Rowland could hear the hoarse agony in Clyde’s voice. He would have done anything to help.

  “Oh God, Rowly, what am I going to do? I didn’t realise… I would have, you know. I’d have given up everything… settled down, worked for her father. I just needed a little time. I thought I had time.”

  “We’ll change her mind, Clyde,” Rowland said despite his misgivings about what Rosalina had asked.

  “I suspect it’s hopeless. I’ve always known Rosie just wants to be married and settled. I had my chance.”

  Rowland gripped his friend’s shoulder. “What can I do, Clyde? Just say.”

  “The painting you did of Rosie, can you get it back?”

  Rowland had painted Rosalina Martinelli as Psyche weeping on the banks of the River Styx. The work had been acquired by a gallery.

  “You want a painting of Miss Martinelli?”

  “I want you to destroy it.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Rosalina always worried that someone would recognise her from that painting, that her modelling would come out and she’d be disgraced.”

  “I didn’t realise. You’ve never mentioned—”

  “Of course not. It’s a bloody good painting. I thought Rosie was being hysterical. I dismissed it, like I dismissed how much she wanted to be married.” Clyde pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “It’s the one thing I can do for her now.”

  “I’ll buy the painting back,” Rowland said.

  “What if the gallery won’t sell it?”

  “Then I’ll buy the gallery. Don’t worry, Clyde. I’ll get the painting back even if I have to steal it, and then you can destroy it in front of her if you like. I’m so sorry if my work is what—”

  “No, it isn’t your work, mate. This is my fault. I was trying to have everything, and now I’ve lost Rosie.”

  “I’m sorry, anyway.” Rowland paused, desperate to offer his friend some sort of solace. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, I would. In fact I’d like several.”

  “Rowly… Rowly…” Edna whispered, shaking him. He was aware of her rose scent before he opened his eyes.

  “Ed?” Clyde’s studio came into focus and then spun a little.

  “Shhh.” Edna looked over at Clyde and Milton who lolled unconscious in their armchairs. “What are you all doing out here?” she whispered.

  Rowland squinted at his watch. It was well past midnight. “We might have had a little too much to drink,” he said, rubbing his face.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll make
you a cup of coffee and then we can do something about these two.”

  Mary Brown and the rest of the staff had long since retired so they had the kitchen to themselves. Edna placed a glass of water on the table at which she seated Rowland. “Drink this while I make coffee. It’ll help with the hangover.”

  “I don’t have a hangover.”

  “Not yet. Whatever were you all celebrating?”

  “Not celebrating.” Rowland told her about Rosalina Martinelli’s visit.

  “She did what?” Edna was furious. She raged for a time about Rosalina’s disloyalty. “Poor darling Clyde,” she said, pouring the coffee she’d made while ranting. “He’s not like you and Milt and me, Rowly. Clyde believes in love and marriage.”

  “Don’t you believe in love, Ed?” Rowland asked, trying to pour milk into his coffee without spilling it. The task was proving strangely difficult.

  Edna’s eyes softened. She took the milk jug from his hand and poured it for him. “Yes, of course I do. But you know what I mean.”

  Rowland nodded. “Yes, I think so.” Clyde had always been the most orthodox of them. “How was your tea dance?”

  “Perfectly lovely,” she replied. “But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Clyde.”

  “Oh yes, Clyde. Did I tell you about Rosalina jilting him?”

  “Just how much did you drink?”

  “Quite a lot, I suppose.”

  “So there’s no point trying to talk to you tonight, I expect.”

  “Marry me, Ed. I’ll take you dancing every afternoon. Mornings, too, if you like.”

  She laughed. He laughed too because he loved the way she did, and he’d had too much to drink.

  “And what about Clyde?” she said.

  “We’ll adopt him. Milt too.”

  “Errol might be a bit surprised.”

  “We can give Flynn a very nice burial at sea.”

  Edna pressed his hand to her cheek. “You shouldn’t propose when you’re drunk, Rowly. It’s more dangerous than driving.” She pushed the hair out of his face.

  “Why don’t you want to get married, Ed? Almost every other girl I meet seems to be intent upon it.”