“That might have something to do with how charming you are.” She paused, her voice became wistful. “My parents weren’t very happy, Rowly. At least my mother wasn’t, and it made her hate my father in the end, no matter how much he loved her.” She kissed his forehead. “I really couldn’t bear to hate you.”
“We could have a mad wanton affair instead, I suppose,” he murmured.
Her laugh was warm, entirely unoffended by the impropriety of the proposition. “If we did that, I’m afraid you’d finish up hating me.”
“I couldn’t,” he said with iron certainty. “Ed, I—”
“Do you think you can remember where your bedroom is?” Edna brought the conversation to a gentle end.
“I’m really not that pickled.”
“Well, you go up and sleep it off. I’d best throw blankets over Milt and Clyde.”
The report from Canberra that, with the gradual lifting of the economic depression and the release of more money, the use of illicit drugs in Australia is increasing is disturbing. In the trail of the drug seller has always stalked the criminal, and in both Sydney and Melbourne, the drug trade has been blamed for the outbreak of the gang warfare which, until scarcity of money restricted trade, was such an unsavoury feature of the daily lives of these cities.
Thus on top of the harm done to young men and young women who fall victims to the drug habit is piled a growth in criminality. The “razor gangs” which terrorised a central part of Sydney for so long came into being in this way, their original purpose being the holding up of drug pedlars for the purpose of demanding a share in the profits. Where the pedlar showed reluctance to pay up a razor slashed. It did not stop at that; feuds sprang up, “razor gangs” grew in size, and Sydney for a long time had its weekly razor victim, a victim who would not speak to the police, but relied on his pals to avenge him.
Examiner, 1934
____________________________________
Rowland woke early the next morning despite the previous evening’s consumption. He had a thumping headache and a vague memory that he’d asked Edna to marry him. He assumed she’d declined but he couldn’t quite recollect anything other than that she’d laughed.
A shower did little to alleviate the pounding in his head and he was reminded that it was not a sensible idea to allow Milton to set the pace when drinking. Unfortunately he and Clyde had been already compromised when the poet joined them, and so they had not been in any state to mount a cautionary resistance.
They had discussed Rosalina and Crispin White and Rosalina again… none of it had been particularly useful or coherent.
Milton sauntered into the breakfast room while Rowland was having toast and coffee. The poet was, in his custom, unconventionally but meticulously attired in a candy-striped jacket and crimson cravat. It was very bright for the hour and Rowland’s current disposition.
Milton grinned, sitting across from him. “And how are you on this fine morning, my friend?”
“Stop shouting,” Rowland muttered.
“I wasn’t shouting.”
Your clothes are.”
Milton sniggered, thoroughly unrepentant and annoyingly unaffected, though he had imbibed far more than had Rowland. “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.”
“Yes, Byron would know, I suppose. How’s Clyde pulled up?” Rowland asked.
“Still asleep on the couch. Someone very kindly brought us pillows and blankets last night.”
“That was Ed.”
“Of course. She’s a good egg.” Milton stood and helped himself from the warming trays on the sideboard. “Have you seen the papers?” he asked, pointing to the neat stack at the centre of the table.
“No, I haven’t had a chance to peruse them yet.” Rowland reached for The Sydney Morning Herald, which sat on the top of the pile. The Red Cross Charity Race was featured extensively on pages two and three—profiles of each of the racers, a social pages account of the opening event and a passing reference to the chequered histories of the Maroubra Speedway and the original Lucky Devil Cup.
Milton pulled out Smith’s Weekly and The Sun and passed them to Rowland. “You’re bound to find the coverage in these rags more interesting.”
Rowland winced. Clearly by “interesting” Milton did not mean reasoned and well researched. But then, that was not the reputation of either paper.
The Sun ran the headline, “Race on the Killer Track”. It carried pictures of all the racers. The image of Rowland was that taken just after he’d been asked to give the Nazi salute. He looked murderous. The caption read, “Rowland Sinclair Esq. of Woollahra, determined to eradicate the competition in his German automobile.”
Rowland groaned and moved on to Smith’s Weekly, choking on his coffee as he read its version of a racer profile. Smith’s had used a photograph quite artfully taken with the Mercedes’ mascot in the foreground, to which they had referred as the “Mercedes swastika”. The article carried details of Aubrey Sinclair’s death fighting in France during the Great War, and made a point to mention that Rowland had not served before quoting him as follows: “Aubrey, from what I remember, was not shot by a Mercedes. I think you’ll find the war is over.”
Rowland swore. “Bloody hell, that makes me sound like… What the devil are they doing?”
“Smith’s is the diggers’ bible, Rowly,” Milton reminded him.
Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. His headache was getting worse. “I knew they were going to cast me as the villain because of the car. I just didn’t think they’d bring Aubrey into it.”
“It’s bloody unsporting,” Milton agreed. “Who wrote it?”
“It doesn’t seem to have a by-line,” Rowland said on inspection.
The telephone rang in the hallway.
“That’ll be Wilfred,” Rowland said, knowing his brother read Smith’s. He glanced at his watch. “Milt, would you mind checking on Mother? I don’t want her to see this, if she hasn’t already.” Although his mother seemed to read all references to Rowland as “Aubrey”, he was unsure of what a direct mention of his brother’s death would mean for the fantasy to which she was so devoted.
Milton nodded. “I’ll speak to the nurses and make sure she only sees The Sydney Morning Herald.”
“She’s going to want to see what the other papers say about the race,” Rowland warned.
“Leave it to me, mate.”
Wilfred Sinclair was, not unexpectedly, furious with Smith’s Weekly’s coverage. While he had already telephoned Frank Marien to make his displeasure known, he did save a small measure of his ire for his brother’s errant car.
“If you didn’t insist on driving that bloody Fritz contraption people wouldn’t get the wrong idea!”
“What idea, Wil?” Rowland demanded. “It wasn’t so long ago that Smith’s bloody Weekly was branding me a Communist. The blithering idiots don’t seem to know the difference!”
“We’re coming up to Sydney next week.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not ten years old!”
“This isn’t about you, Rowly. The Royal Easter Show opens in a week, in case you’d forgotten.”
Rowland had forgotten but he was not about to admit it. Like most pastoralists and graziers, Wilfred Sinclair took the Royal Easter Show very seriously.
“Kate’s rather missing Ernie, so we thought we’d all come up for a couple of weeks. And naturally we’ll stay for your race.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We’ll stop at Roburvale,” Wilfred instructed. “It’ll save you having to reorganise Woodlands or your… houseguests.”
Roburvale had been the Woollahra home of Rowland’s late uncle and namesake. Although the old man had been gone for more than two years, the elderly staff had been retained and the mansion kept ready as a second Sydney residence for the family’s use. As Rowland and Wilfred Sinclair ran their houses very differently, the extravagance was proving fortuitous.
“I’ll speak to Mrs.
Donnelly,” Rowland promised, frowning. His uncle’s housekeeper was ancient and quite deaf. He hoped she was still able to cope with the demands of a young family.
“How is Mother coping with all this nonsense?” Wilfred asked.
“She’s perfectly well,” Rowland replied, hoping that was in fact the case. Wilfred was still very dubious about the idea of their mother living at Woodlands.
Wilfred sighed. “Very well. Try not to let this get out of hand, Rowly. There’s only so much I can do.”
Rowland paused at the door to Clyde’s studio. Edna sat on one of the plinths Clyde used for still life, talking softly while he sipped a cup of tea with his eyes closed. Rowland waited, not wanting to interrupt. As different as steady, country-born Clyde was from the free-spirited sculptress, Rowland knew that they had their own special relationship. It was Edna who had taught Clyde to dance, who teased him out of his more stuffy moods, and told him fiercely that “any girl would be proud to step out with him” on those occasions when he needed to hear it.
“Ed has ordered me to go upstairs and shower,” Clyde complained, when Rowland finally came in.
“That mightn’t be a bad idea,” Rowland replied. “It was a long night.”
“Yes.” Clyde was a little unsteady as he stood. “I’m not sure I’m sober yet.” He glanced around the converted sunroom. “Who made this mess?”
Rowland blinked. Aside from a clutter of empty bottles and tumblers, and the bedding Edna had brought in the night before, the room was in fairly good order. But Clyde was fastidious. His studio usually looked as though it had been organised by a middle-aged librarian, every brush in its place arranged by type and size, only one canvass in progress at a time. It bore a stark contrast to the manner in which Rowland worked.
“Go shower, mate,” Rowland said, collecting bottles. “Ed and I will have it cleaned up by the time you come back down.”
Clyde snorted, but he was eventually bullied into going. He didn’t mention Rosalina and neither did they.
“What’s this?” Edna asked, picking up a large envelope with Rowland’s name scrawled upon it as she gathered up the empty tumblers.
It was only then that Rowland remembered the crime scene photos that had been in his hand when he’d come upon Clyde’s disappointment.
“Colin wanted us to have a look at them?” Edna said when he told her what the envelope contained.
“I don’t know that he meant all of us—” Rowland started.
“Of course he did. He knows what you’re like.” She extracted the photographs and spread them on the bench Clyde used to stretch canvasses.
“Oh poor, poor Crispin,” Edna whispered as she studied the images.
The chamber in which Crispin White had died was windowless.
The walls were lined with wax figures all facing into the centre, so he appeared surrounded. The scene was strangely reminiscent of a gathering about a grave. The waxen statues included Spartan warriors, the Minotaur, Medusa, an out-of-place Egyptian and Pan. White’s eyes were open, his mouth parted in a final scream. A dark pool of blood formed a grim halo about his head and shoulders.
“Are you all right, Ed?” Rowland asked, taking her hand.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wish his eyes had been closed, Rowly. The last things he ever saw were monsters. It’s so very sad.”
Rowland nodded. Edna was probably correct, though he wasn’t sure the monster was wax. From the photograph of the body, it did seem likely that Crispin White had been facing his attacker. Other photographs clearly showed the blood splatter on the walls as well as the waxen figures.
“What’s that?” Edna pointed to lines in the plasterwork.
Rowland held the photograph to the light. “It’s just electrical cabling, I think.”
They were still poring over the images when Milton joined them. The poet carried several newspapers under his arm, which he dropped onto the settee.
Rowland told them both of his conversation with Delaney.
Milton cursed. “Miriam’s husband knows nothing about what happened,” he said. “If I tell this bloke Hartley the first thing he’ll do is pull her in to verify it.”
“You may not have a choice, Milt. This is a murder inquest.”
“Telling them is not going to exonerate me. It’ll make me look more guilty if anything.”
“I think Hartley might have guessed that, which is why he wants to interview you,” Rowland said. “We may just have to hurry up and find the perpetrator ourselves.”
“Yes, let’s do that.” Milton took the sheaf of photographs from Edna and leafed through them. “One helluva way to go…” He stopped and brought the photograph of the body closer to his eye. “Where’s his tiepin?”
“What tiepin?”
“He was wearing a tiepin when he came here—flash gaudy thing with a diamond. Shaped like a couple of gold horseshoes. I noticed it because it seemed so inconsistent with the complete lack of panache in his suit.”
The fashion of White’s suit aside, Rowland did now hazily recall a tiepin.
“It was a gift from a lover,” Edna said, quite definitely.
“He told you that?” Rowland asked, though he was not surprised. The sculptress was the kind of person in whom even strangers often found themselves confiding.
“No,” she said. “But look at him. His suit is plain, his tie is plain, his hat didn’t even have a feather in the band. A man like that would never buy a diamond tiepin, and he’d never wear it unless it was a special gift. The kind of gift a lover would give.”
“Exactly!” Milton agreed. “We already know that he wasn’t a gentleman. Perhaps he had a liaison with this woman at Magdalene’s… they fell out or she already hated him. She slashed his throat and, in a fit of spite, took back the tiepin!”
“A woman who carries a razor?” Rowland asked sceptically.
“Have you not met Tilly Devine or Kate Leigh?” Milton replied.
Rowland had, in fact, made the acquaintance of both women through no orchestration of his own. The reigning queens of Sydney’s criminal underworld, he expected they would indeed carry blades of some sort on their persons, as would, he supposed, many women who lived their kind of life. It was possible White was involved with a less than ladylike character, but it was rather a lot to conclude from a missing tiepin.
“I’ll mention it to Delaney. He might still have enough involvement in the case to establish if the tiepin is among White’s personal effects.”
“Why don’t you ask Miss Norton if Crispin was seeing anyone?” Edna suggested. “Or,” she added tentatively as a thought occurred, “if she were stepping out with him herself.”
Rowland glanced at the photographs again. Rosaleen Norton was only seventeen but some of her artwork revealed violent sensibilities. Perhaps they were more than artistic. His face darkened somewhat as his mind moved to the profile in Smith’s Weekly. “How did you find Mother?” he asked Milton.
“I can report that the Dowager Sinclair was in excellent spirits,” Milton replied. “Excited to finally see the coverage of the Red Cross invitational. She loved the picture of you in the Herald, though she thinks you might need a haircut. I read her the coverage in Smith’s Weekly and The Sun, personally.” He winked. “I don’t think their writers have ever been so eloquent. Poetic even! I took Smith’s and The Sun with me,” he added, nodding at the papers on the settee.
Rowland picked up the offending newspapers and handed them to Edna. Milton pointed out the articles.
“Hopefully this will blow over in a couple of days,” Rowland murmured without much in the way of optimism.
“It’s a good picture of you, albeit a little cross,” Edna said as she began reading. She gasped. “Why, this is ridiculous!” “I wonder who wrote the article, Rowly. Was it Miss Norton?” Milton asked.
“I expect so, though the quotes are cobbled from what I said to White.” He frowned. “I’m sure she said he hadn’t written anything up. Whe
n would he have had time?”
“Perhaps his notebook was found and duly returned to the paper,” Milton mused.
Rowland put the crime scene photographs back in their envelope. “I might just ask Miss Norton when I return her folio.”
FRANK GREEN ACQUITTED DEVINE’S TIEPIN Shooting Affray Recalled
SYDNEY, Monday
Charged at the Central Criminal Court to-day with having assaulted James Devine on June 16, 1931, and stolen a diamond tiepin while armed, Francis Donald Green, 28, a clerk, known as Frank Green, was found not guilty and discharged. Green failed to answer when the case was called on last year, and was arrested at Moore Park a few weeks ago.
The Senior Crown Prosecutor (Mr. McKean, K.C.) said that the case rested on the evidence of James Devine. There was no doubt that Green was present at the time of the robbery.
James Devine, a fruiterer, said he met Green at the Sir Walter Raleigh Hotel, and Green asked for money. He was driven to his home in Maroubra, and Green arrived later with a man and a woman. Green again asked for money and seized witness’s tiepin, at the same time pressing a revolver against him. Green then backed to the door, and the witness went to get a gun. Shots were exchanged, and the taxi driver, named Moffitt was shot dead.
Devine said he fired three shots at Green who told him that Moffitt had been hit. He denied having gone through Moffitt’s pockets that night.
Mr. MacMahon (for accused): I put it to you that you robbed that unfortunate man of his money the night he was dead?
Devine: I deny it. It is not my job to rob the dead.
GREEN DENIES CHARGE
Green denied having fired at Devine. He said he did not have a gun, and did not have his hands in Devine’s pockets. Devine invited him to attend a party at his home at Maroubra. When he got there he found Moffitt inside and also a man named Jordan. Some liquor was consumed and a fight began. He and Moffitt went out to the taxi, and were followed by Devine, who fired at them.
“We crouched in the bottom of the taxi and he fired again,” said accused. “I called out, ‘Turn it up, Jim; you have shot the driver.’ Devine replied. ‘—the driver, and you, too.’” Green said he ran away with Hourigan.
Give the Devil His Due Page 10
