Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “You want me to publicise the sale price, but the purchaser, he is to be anonymous?”

  “That’s correct.”

  The gallery proprietor played with the edges of his moustache as he considered the proposition. “I’ll want to sell your next work,” he countered.

  “That can be arranged, Mr. Frasier. In fact, I’ll need a gallery for an exhibition I’m planning. I believe this fine establishment will do nicely.”

  Frasier beamed. “I think we can do business, Mr. Sinclair.”

  And so the transaction was done. Rowland and Clyde removed Psyche by the Styx from the wall themselves and carried it out to the back seat of the Mercedes. Rowland negotiated a date for his exhibition, in late April, some weeks after the race.

  “Right then,” Rowland said as they turned the Mercedes back towards Woodlands House. “Miss Martinelli’s modesty is saved!”

  Clyde shook his head. He looked unwell. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph; Rowly, you paid three hundred bloody pounds for it. How the hell am I going to burn it now?”

  Rowland laughed. “Consider it an investment.”

  “In what?”

  “What do you suppose is going to happen to the asking price of my work when it gets around that Frasier just sold a piece for three hundred pounds?”

  “Mate, that would comfort me if I didn’t know for a fact that you’ve never cared what people pay for your work. You give most of it away, for pity’s sake.”

  “The rumour of this sale won’t hurt the exhibition, Clyde.”

  “But three hundred pounds, Rowly.”

  “I don’t particularly mind being fleeced by Randolph Frasier, to be honest,” Rowland confessed. “He knows full well that I can afford it. He would never have charged you that for a painting.”

  “That makes it worse! How the devil did you get involved with such a crook?”

  “The usual way. Milt introduced us.” Rowland could see that the sum involved was causing his friend considerable distress, so he tried to explain. “Frasier has, for the last twenty years, brought the homeless and the destitute into his gallery with the promise of a meal and a couple of shillings. All he asks in return is that they look at what’s on the walls. He’s determined that art has some kind of redemptive, transformative effect, and that it ought to be for everyone. He hands out pencils and chalk and drawing paper to street children. In order to do that, he takes advantage of people like me. Milt would call it an equitable redistribution of wealth. On the whole it seems fair.”

  “You’re saying he’s some kind of artistic Robin Hood?”

  “Except that his victims are usually complicit, I suppose.”

  “I can’t burn it now.”

  “It is still the same painting, Clyde.”

  Clyde’s face dropped into his hands. “I know. What was I thinking? I can’t burn it. It would make me as bad as the Nazis.”

  “You’re not burning it to stifle ideas and oppress minds, Clyde. You’re doing it for Miss Martinelli.”

  Clyde clenched fistfuls of his thinning hair. “I can’t—not even for Rosie. I love her but I won’t be turned into a vandal… I won’t.”

  “What say you just give her the painting, then,” Rowland suggested. “She can do with it what she wants.”

  “But what if she—”

  “Look, Clyde, it’s not my only or last painting, or even my best work.” It was not a convenient depreciation. While Rowland had in the end been happy with Psyche by the Styx, they all knew that there was no one he painted quite like he painted Edna Higgins. There was a certain elusive quality to his work when she was his model which elevated it into the realm of greatness. Critics and commentators saw it as a subtle variation in technique, or a change of palette, or light; Clyde and Milton could see that it was because the artist was in love with his model.

  The argument continued back and forth for most of the journey back to Woodlands, but by the time they drove through the wroughtiron gates, Rowland had persuaded Clyde to gift the painting to Rosalina.

  “How’d he go?” Milton addressed the question to Clyde, who’d accompanied Rowland to the gallery primarily to see for himself that Rowland’s driving had not been affected by the accident.

  “He was fine. We’ll just have to see how he does on the actual track.” Clyde set down the painting, facing it against the wall.

  “Randolph sold it back to you then?” Milton asked.

  “Yes, and he’s agreed to host my exhibition there,” Rowland said before Clyde could bemoan the cost of the exercise yet again.

  “Splendid!” Edna said. “We’ll have to start thinking about invitations, framing, that sort of thing. How many paintings have you finished, Rowly?”

  Rowland frowned. “Not enough. All this blessed racing nonsense… I’ll be pushing it to have enough pieces by the middle of April.”

  “I had a thought about that,” the sculptress said, going to the shelves on which were stacked his old notebooks. She rummaged through to find the sketchbooks he’d used in Germany. “We could take this apart, frame the sketches you made in Munich. There’s a wonderful sense of immediacy about them. I expect they’ll work as their own collection of sorts.”

  Rowland took the notebook from her and flicked through the pages. There were at least twenty sketches of Brownshirts, rallies, citizens going about their business past vandalised shops on which the word “Jude” had been scrawled. There were occasional notes in the margins made to remind himself of what exactly was happening. Some of the sketches had been made the day after, so he would not lose the image of what went before. “Yes,” he said quietly. “This might work.”

  Rowland moved to the bookshelf and found a second notebook. He’d used it in London after they’d escaped Munich… once he found himself able to draw again. The sketches had been made with his left hand as his right arm had been broken. Rowland was ambidextrous— if anything, the use of his left hand made his line work more fluid if a little less detailed. The drawings in the second book were starker than those in the first. He’d been drawing to exorcise images of torture and violence from his head.

  “Yes, these will shock the caviar out of them,” Milton murmured looking over his shoulder.

  Clyde agreed. “They’ll make an interesting retrospective.”

  The four of them spent some time planning how the exhibition would be hung, descriptive plaques, publicity. It was decided that Clyde’s landscapes would hang in the corridors leaving the main exhibit room for Rowland’s more confronting work.

  “Let’s lull them with pretty pictures until they’re in the heart of the exhibition,” Clyde said.

  “Perhaps we could construct a display of the books they burned at the Königplatz,” Edna said, excited now.

  Rowland nodded. It was an excellent idea. “I’ve a list of the books the Nazis banned somewhere.”

  They discussed lighting and grouping and bit by bit the exhibition was built.

  “We’ll have to make sure no one gets wind of what exactly you’re planning to exhibit,” Milton warned.

  Edna agreed. “We might have to stop letting every man and his dog into your studio.”

  “Speaking of which, where’s Len?” Rowland asked, looking around for his greyhound.

  “He’s in the kitchen with Ed’s kittens,” Milton said clearly unimpressed. “I fear he’s had some kind of breakdown… Seems to think he’s a cat.”

  Rowland was determined to return to his easel that evening, but Edna would not have it. “Don’t be an idiot Rowly. You were involved in a serious car accident this morning! Go to bed!”

  Rowland resisted. After the horror and mayhem of the day he felt a need to paint, simply to clear his mind. “I’m not sure I’d get much sleep tonight, Ed,” he said, as he faced off against the painting of the book burning.

  “I wonder why this image in particular is giving you so much trouble,” Edna mused, studying the canvas as she stopped beside him.

  “Perhaps I’m afraid someth
ing will burst out of the canvas and eat me.” Rowland laughed as he placed an arm around Edna.

  The sculptress sighed. “As much as I suspect Rosaleen Norton is a little mad, her story did give me the creeps.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Of course not.” She broke away from him and grabbed the slim volume of poetry Milton had left on the sideboard before curling up in the wing-backed armchair. “You paint. I’m just going to read for a bit.”

  Rowland smiled. “I’m perfectly safe, Ed.”

  “I’ll stay anyway… keep a weather eye on the back of your canvas.”

  Weather eye?” Rowland winced. “You’re spending too much time with Flynn.”

  Edna laughed. “It’s rather like a having a shipboard romance on solid ground. But he is handsome and very charming.”

  Rowland retreated behind his easel where it would be less difficult to feign indifference. He painted till late. Edna kept him company, though she fell asleep, at which point Rowland was distracted by the exquisite shadow of the sculptress’ lashes on the curve of her cheek. He began painting her sleeping figure onto a clean canvas.

  FROM FASCIST BLACKSHIRTS “PROUD OF RECORD”

  LONDON, June 12

  The Black shirts offer no apology, declared Sir Edward Moseley, at a Fascist meeting in Shrewsbury, regarding the allegations of brutality by eye-witnesses attending the British Fascists meeting at Olympia. Moseley declares that the allegations are evidently of corrupt alliance and are the frame up of a case against the new movement, threatening them with political destruction. Moseley adds: “We are proud of our record in restoring free speech in the face of red terror.” He continued: “I challenge half a dozen Cabinet Ministers who attacked me to debate with me on a public platform instead of running about carefully picketing our meetings and lying about Fascism.”

  Albany Advertiser, 1934

  ____________________________________

  By morning there was a bevy of reporters at the gates of Woodlands House. The daily papers carried lurid accounts of the accident. Both The Sun and Smith’s Weekly made much of the involvement of Rowland Sinclair and his German car in the accident.

  The Honourable Charlotte Linklater, youngest daughter of Lord Chancy, champion horsewoman and game hunter, spoke to the Herald, and although she refrained from accusing Rowland Sinclair directly, she did address the aggressive driving which she felt caused her brother’s death.

  “Hold on,” Milton said, looking closely at the article. “The Honourable Charles Linklater was a Blackshirt.”

  “It doesn’t say that!” Clyde muttered, taking the paper from the poet. Milton pointed. “Miss Linklater says she’s received a telegram from Oswald Mosley, who was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of his old friend and compatriot.”

  “Well, the papers might have to decide whether Rowly’s a Nazi or a Communist if they want to accuse him of something,” Clyde muttered. He was wearing his best suit—one of those purchased on Rowland Sinclair’s account before they last went abroad masquerading as well-to-do art dealers. Psyche by the Styx had been carefully wrapped in brown paper.

  “Where is Rowly?” Edna asked, pouring tea. Rowland was usually the first of them to come down to breakfast.

  “He took Lenin for a walk to get him away from your cats,” Milton replied.

  “Rowly doesn’t mind the kittens,” Edna declared, poking the poet.

  “He’s concerned that Len has started to purr,” Milton replied.

  Clyde looked at his watch. The anxiety was plain on his weathered face. “I’d better go get this over with.”

  “Are you taking Rowly’s car?”

  “Struth, no, I’ve booked a taxi. I don’t want to announce my arrival until it’s necessary, and the Mercedes is not a subtle automobile.”

  “Would you like some company, mate?” Milton offered. “Considering what happened last time, you might need a second.”

  Clyde shook his head. “I’m just going to leave the painting and a note with her landlady.”

  “Enclose the receipt or they might fear it’s stolen,” Milton advised.

  Clyde nodded glumly.

  Edna embraced him. “Poor darling, Clyde. I’m so sorry it worked out this way.”

  Clyde sighed. “It’s probably for the best. Rosie seemed quite impressed with this Antonio chap.”

  “Did she indeed?” Edna’s words were terse. As much as the sculptress’ own loves were fleeting she had never promised anyone anything else. She could not bear the thought of Clyde alone and heartbroken as he called on Rosalina this one last time. “I’m going with you,” she said.

  “Ed, I don’t—”

  “I’m coming.” Edna put down her tea and began looking for her bag and gloves. “Milt, would you tell Errol when he calls that I’ve stepped out with Clyde for a moment and won’t be able to go sailing with him today?” She paused and turned back to the poet. “You should go if he still wants company.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, I rather think you and Errol would rub along beautifully.”

  “I can’t swim, remember.”

  “That won’t matter unless he’s a particularly bad sailor which I’m sure he isn’t,” she said sweetly.

  Milton groaned. “Go,” he said. “I’ll keep Errol occupied.”

  Woodlands House was almost empty when Rowland and Lenin returned. Mary Brown was visiting family in Burwood, leaving Bessie, as the most senior downstairs maid, to attend to the running of the house in her absence.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge collected Mrs. Sinclair for luncheon and matinée, sir,” she said, when Rowland enquired after his mother.

  “Thank you, Bessie.” Rowland removed his jacket and loosened his tie. His Aunt Mildred, Mrs. Bainbridge, was his father’s sister. Rowland had always thought her an old dragon, but she was fond of his mother and had been kind since Elisabeth Sinclair had moved back to Sydney.

  Lenin followed Bessie back to the kitchen in search of his kittens, and Rowland proceeded into his studio, shutting the door behind him before discarding his jacket on the couch.

  His easel held a completed painting of Edna asleep in the armchair, curled up like a child with her head pillowed by her hands. Her lashes were dark against the natural rose of her cheek. He stared at it for a while and then removed the painting, replacing it with the canvas he should have been working on the night before.

  The sun had risen high enough that the light in the bay window was neither direct nor harsh. Rowland set out his palette and began. The painting was finally finding a rhythm with each brushstroke inviting the next, making sense with the next. He painted Röhm as a portly grinning figure, strutting proudly as his men burned books and declared ideas enemies of the state. Somehow the banality of the image was more chilling than any traditional monster. In the background, the silhouettes of Brownshirts going about their thuggish work as men cowered on the ground.

  Engrossed in the detail of Röhm’s bloated, scarred face, Rowland teased out the shadows cast by the firelight. He needed a finer brush and he turned away to find one.

  An explosion of glass.

  A solitary bullet shattered a pane of the bay window and pierced the canvas from behind. A second earlier, the shot might have proved fatal. As it was, Rowland felt the breeze it created as he dropped to the floor. He waited, his heart pounding, his ears ringing.

  The door to the studio moved.

  “No!” Rowland shouted, still expecting a second shot. “Don’t come in!”

  He crept away from the window, and sat pressed against the wall. Still nothing. Carefully he stood and peered out the window. The grounds were, as far as he could tell, empty.

  A knocking at the studio door. “Mr. Sinclair, are you all right sir?”

  “I’m fine, Bessie, but don’t come in. I’ll come out.”

  Rowland moved to the door doing his level best to stay out of any line of sight from the garden. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the entrance hall
.

  Bessie gaped at him, a pudgy hand clasped over what Rowland presumed was an open mouth. “What happened, sir?”

  “I’m afraid someone’s fired a shot through the studio window.”

  “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, oh my Lord,” the maid chanted, turning in an erratic circle while Rowland tried to calm her.

  “I’m sure he’s gone now, Bessie.”

  “How do you know, sir? Perhaps he was trying to get into the house.” She stared at the studio door. “Lord, he might just walk through the broken window.”

  “Do you have Mary Brown’s keys?” Rowland asked.

  She pulled a large ring of keys from the chatelaine around her waist. Rowland found the key to his studio quickly and locked the door.

  “There,” he told the distressed maid. “I might just telephone the police now.”

  Rowland made the call with Bessie hovering anxiously beside him.

  “Come into the library and I’ll pour you a medicinal brandy, Bessie,” Rowland said as he re-cradled the receiver. The maid looked as though she could do with a stiff drink.

  Bessie shook her head so hard that her cap came loose. “There’re windows in the library, Mr. Sinclair, and he could still be out there.”

  “Oh… I see.” Rowland tried to recall a part of the house not made vulnerable by windows. “Why don’t you stay here for just a moment?” he suggested. “I’ll duck into the library and bring you a glass of brandy.”

  “What if you get shot and killed, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “You have the keys, Bessie. Go upstairs and lock yourself in somewhere. The police will be here soon.”

  Bessie nodded, sniffling tearfully.

  “Is there anybody else in the house?” Rowland asked.

  The maid shook her head. “No, sir, we all usually have a half day off today. I’m only here because Miss Brown wanted to visit her sister.”

  “Good, I won’t be a moment.” Rowland walked into the library and grabbed the decanter of brandy and two tumblers from the silver tray on the mantel.

  When the police knocked on the front door, Rowland and the maid were seated on one of the lower steps of the grand staircase which swept up from the tiled foyer. Lenin had padded out of the kitchen to investigate briefly and then returned to his kittens.