Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “I haven’t anything pressing to attend to, and long runs are good practice.”

  “Oh yes, the race.” Wilfred put his hand on Ernest’s shoulder. “Chin up, Ernie. I’ll come and get you Friday evening for the whole weekend.”

  “But…” The boy’s lower lip trembled as he tried valiantly not to cry.

  Wilfred took his son’s hand. “I must say, I’m looking forward to hearing all the new Latin words you will have learned by then. Still, we’ll have to be careful that Ewan isn’t jealous that you are allowed to go to school with other boys, while he has to stay here with his strict old nanny!”

  “Is she very strict?” Ewan asked quietly.

  “Dreadfully. Your Uncle Rowly’s positively terrified of her.”

  “What about you, Daddy?”

  “I’m like you, Ernie. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  Ernest nodded gravely.

  “Maybe you ought to escape before Nanny gets back from the kitchen, but run and say goodbye to your mother first. I’ll stay with your uncle in case Ewan’s nanny gets back early.”

  Ernest giggled now and set out to find his mother. He paused at the door. “Can we pick up Mr. Isaacs on the way, Uncle Rowly?”

  Rowland smiled. It appeared Ernest was turning Milton into quite a lucrative sideshow. “If he’s at home, we’ll ask,” he promised.

  “I’ll call at Woodlands tomorrow morning to see Mother,” Wilfred said as he lit a cigarette. “Is there anything for which you might need to prepare me?”

  “Prepare you? No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Very well,” Wilfred’s voice was dubious. He had agreed to allow Elisabeth Sinclair to live with his brother in a moment of weakness and was yet to be convinced that it would not end in disaster. “We do need to speak about this latest trouble in which you’ve managed to become embroiled, but that can wait till tomorrow.”

  “Bloody oath, Wil!” Rowland murmured indignantly. “Someone shot at me, not the other way around!”

  “I do occasionally wonder, Rowly, what it is about you that makes so many people want to do so.”

  Milton was more than willing to accompany Rowland and his nephew on the long drive to Tudor House. He paused to collect a red neck scarf and a beret, on to which he had pinned a Communist star badge.

  “What are you doing?” Rowland demanded as the poet added a hammer and sickle pin to his lapel.

  “Looking the part,” Milton said. “Gotta give the people value for money.”

  Ernest nodded solemnly. “Can you say something Communist, Mr. Isaacs? Digby Cossington Smythe said he’d give me an extra shilling and his pudding on Wednesday, if I could get you to say something Communist.”

  Milton stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “How about… Come the revolution, the worker shall rise up and crush the capitalist—”

  “Steady on, Milt,” Rowland said alarmed. “You’ll get us killed!”

  “They’re seven-year-olds.”

  “I was talking about Wil.”

  “Oh. I suppose you’re right. I could just sing The Red Flag. Would that do, Ernie?”

  “Yes please, Mr. Isaacs!”

  And so Ernest Sinclair was delivered back to Tudor House by his uncle and an increasingly conspicuous Communist who was belting out the people’s song. The housemaster came out to glare at Milton, but the egg-shaped boy whom Rowland assumed was Digby seemed adequately impressed.

  Rowland checked the time. The run back to Woodlands from Moss Vale would take at least a couple of hours. They’d get back to Sydney well after dark but before eight o’clock. The reporters who had followed him for days seeking comment, seemed finally to have given up.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Milton asked.

  “I thought I might finally drop in on this chap, Bocquet, who claims White’s tiepin was stolen from him. He lives in Lindfield.”

  “Haven’t the police talked to him already?”

  “Yes, but I get the impression that it was a very cursory interview.”

  “Even so, why would he talk to you?”

  “Can only ask.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

  They spent the time in the car talking about the mystery of White’s death, the race, the shooting and the latest machinations of the New Guard. Milton was predisposed to blame Eric Campbell for everything including the murder of Crispin White. “For all we know, Rowly, the Fascist Legion took issue with White. You remember what they did to me… to you.”

  “I’m not sure the Fascist Legion still exists, Milt, and White wasn’t a Communist as far as I know.”

  “You weren’t a Communist either, they still belted you half to death. And whatever he called himself in recent years, White was Jewish.”

  Rowland’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. There was that. But the New Guard had not to date followed its European cousins into anti-Semitism—at least not publicly.

  Milton pressed on. “How do we know that White wasn’t writing a story on Campbell? You know how Campbell feels about the press these days. Anyway the New Guard still might be behind the shot fired at your studio window.”

  “They might,” Rowland conceded. “Though why they’d suddenly want me dead badly enough to do something about it, I don’t know.”

  “What do you reckon about this book of Campbell’s?”

  Rowland frowned. “I expect it depends upon whether Campbell’s Centre Party is successful at the election. If it is, then the book may become a manifesto of some sort. The fact that Campbell seems to be following the Adolf Hitler School of Dictatorship is more concerning than his bloody book.”

  Milton swore his agreement. “How long do you think it’ll be before he takes on Hitler’s other tactics?” he asked.

  “Against Jews? He hasn’t yet, as far as I’m aware.”

  “But you believe he may?”

  “He might if he gets desperate. Or he may decide to vilify the Chinese, or the Irish or some other scapegoat.” Rowland shook his head as he thought of Norman Lindsay. “God help me, I’m no longer sure Australians would just laugh at him.”

  Milton glanced at his friend. He’d always believed Rowland Sinclair naïve—doggedly romantic, conditioned by a privileged upbringing to expect the best from the world. That Rowland was coming to doubt his fellow man was probably inevitable but alarming, nevertheless. “So, we’ll have to stop him.”

  “How exactly?”

  “Relax, Rowly. I’m not suggesting we shoot him. Not yet anyway.”

  Rowland smiled. “What then?”

  “We let the establishment destroy him.” Milton stroked the dark hair on his chin. “The Old Guard sent us to Germany to make sure Campbell didn’t make friends with the Nazis. How about we let them finish the colonel’s ambitions of becoming Australia’s Führer?”

  “You’re suggesting we should do nothing?” Rowland said uneasily.

  “No. I’m saying we should make your brother’s lot aware of how dangerous Campbell is. He only got as powerful as he did because the establishment found him useful against Lang. They need to know he’s more of a threat to democracy than the Labor Party or the Communists will ever be.”

  “I don’t know, Milt.”

  “Look, Rowly, I’ve had a read of Campbell’s manifesto.”

  “You bought his book?” Rowland asked surprised.

  “God no. Let’s say I borrowed it. I’ll throw it back at him when I see him next. Anyway, I can see what he’s doing. He’s appealing to the middle classes, the petite bourgeoisie. Those who haven’t been born to the establishment, but who are privileged enough to feel that they are on merit somehow better than the working stiff. The more the Left rails against Campbell, the more they’ll flock to his side. The establishment are tolerating him because they hope in the end to bring his minions across to them, because they are convinced New Guardsmen could be moderated and tamed to become loyal Old Guardsmen in time. They expect they can bring Campbell to heel the way they brought Hardy
to heel.”

  Senator Charles Hardy had once been the leader of the Riverina Movement, and a self-avowed Fascist. He had roused the rural masses against Communists and Jack Lang, inciting mobs to reach for the tar and feathers. Cromwell of the Riverina, as Hardy had been known, was as revolutionary and charismatic as Eric Campbell. But the Old Guard had won him over with a senate ticket, and the men of the Riverina Movement had been quietly absorbed into the armies of the establishment. Rowland knew all this, but he had not before considered the strategy behind it. He was reminded that Milton Isaacs’ understanding of politics far exceeded his, and that as frivolous as his friend often seemed, Milton’s intellect and insight were rarely surpassed.

  “I reckon,” Milton continued, “that Campbell would still love to be welcomed back into the bosom of the landed gentry.”

  “You’re saying we should—”

  “I’m saying that your brother and his mates could best neutralise the bastard by throwing him a bone.”

  “I don’t know, Milt, there’s a lot of bad blood there.”

  “I’m not suggesting they do it because they like him.”

  Rowland could see the sense in Milton’s words. “I’ll speak to Wilfred,” he said. His brother was a political player. Perhaps Wilfred would be able to put aside his personal feelings to ensure Campbell didn’t wreak any more havoc than he already had.

  “It’s worth a try,” Milton said. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll just tell Hartley that Campbell killed Crispin White.”

  BENEFIT IN MODERATION

  “Most wives know that a smoker lets off his temper on his pipe, rather than on his family—having no hope of the last word, he resolves to vigorous puffing and blowing of smoke,” said a well-known Brisbane doctor. He considered there was room for further scientific investigation, and no scientific obstacle to the new theory, as cabled from London, that nicotine stimulates the adrenal glands, which help to regulate the amount of sugar circulating in the blood. It was a rational explanation of why a cigarette relieved fatigue and irritability, which were associated with a low level of sugar in the blood. He smoked so much himself that he had taken it for granted that the effect was that of a sedative on the nervous system. There was much yet to be learned about the glands, and the new theory might have a valuable medicinal incidence. In excess, tobacco first stimulated then paralysed the motor nerves, and the secreting nerves of the glands. In moderation—and that might mean for a healthy man a good deal—smoking was of benefit in relieving exhaustion, calming excited nerves, aiding digestion, and increasing the pleasure of life. Sherlock Holmes smoked extensively in solving his problems. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, his creator, was a medical man, in direct touch with scientific thought and practice.

  The Braidwood Review and District Advocate, 1934

  ____________________________________

  The Bocquet residence was typical of the architecturally pleasing houses of middle-class Lindfield. Not a mansion by any means, but the tidy, well-maintained dwelling of the comfortably well-off with double street frontage and a tennis court. Rowland recalled that Rosaleen Norton, too, lived in Lindfield. It intrigued him that the strange young reporter came from what seemed to be such a picture of suburban respectability. Perhaps Lindfield was not as conventional as it appeared at first glance.

  Milton checked the address against the one that Delaney had scrawled. “This is it.” He spotted a movement of the curtains. “Someone’s home.”

  A swarthy solid gentleman answered their knock, with a folded newspaper under one arm and a briar pipe in the other.

  Rowland introduced both himself and Milton. “I know this is a frightful imposition, Mr. Bocquet, but I hoped we might talk to you about your stolen tiepin.”

  “My tiepin?” Bocquet said incredulously. “You want to talk about my tiepin!”

  “Yes, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Can you tell me why you’re so interested in my tiepin, Mr… Sinclair, was it?”

  “Yes. Crispin White was a good friend of mine,” Rowland said, exaggerating the case. “As you’re probably aware, your tiepin was found on his body. The fact is, Mr. Bocquet, I can’t imagine that Crispin was a thief—I certainly don’t want him to die as one. I had hoped that by talking to you I might be able to work out how he came to have your property… to clear his name, as it were.”

  Milton nodded in agreement, impressed by the smooth manner in which Rowland justified their interference.

  Bocquet seemed moved by Rowland’s claim. “Would that every man had such loyal friends!” he said, inviting them in. He directed them in to a cosy drawing room, insisting they take the armchairs and offering them drinks and seats. Rowland accepted tea and Bocquet called for his wife who had been hovering with some intent in the hallway.

  The gentlemen stood as she came into the room. Mrs. Bocquet was a good deal younger than her husband, blonde and plump and dimpled. Rowland apologised for imposing unannounced. She made a point to explain that they were temporarily without staff before excusing herself to make tea. She spoke with an accent more refined than her husband’s and, to Rowland, seemed quite embarrassed by the fact that she to do for herself.

  “Can you tell us when you first noticed your tiepin was missing, Mr. Bocquet?” Milton opened the questions.

  “A couple of weeks ago, but it may have been missing for a good while, to be honest. I don’t wear it very often… it’s a trifle loud,” he said, his gaze lingering on Milton’s beret and gold cravat. The poet had fortunately divested himself of the scarf and Communist paraphernalia he had worn to satisfy Digby Cossington Smythe.

  “I see. Well, when did you wear it last?”

  “About a month ago. I took Beryl out for a meal. It was our anniversary, you see, and she likes me to wear the tiepin seeing as she gave it to me. We got a table at Romano’s. Beryl was the most beautiful dame in the room, you know. A man can’t help but be proud.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t lose the tiepin that evening, Mr. Bocquet?”

  Bocquet hesitated. “I thought I’d put it back in my cufflinks drawer, like I always do… that’s why I thought we’d been burgled.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “Well frankly, I thought it was the girl who comes in to help Beryl with the housework. Things had been going missing for a time— money mainly. I thought the police might get her to confess.”

  “And did she?”

  “No, but they never do, do they, that type? You try to give them the benefit of the doubt and you get robbed for your trouble.”

  Mrs. Bocquet entered the room with a laden tray.

  “Thank you, pet.” Les Bocquet said, rushing to help her. She swatted him away.

  “You’ll only drop them, Les. Remember the Wedgwood!”

  “She’s right, I’m all thumbs. Broke the Wedgwood,” Les explained. He stood back as his wife poured and handed out cups of tea.

  “Frances swears she’s innocent,” she said. “Maybe Les did lose it after all. We let her go, of course.”

  “We couldn’t really keep her on after dobbing her in to the police,” Les protested, puffing industriously on his pipe. “Beryl’s too tenderhearted. Makes her vulnerable to people taking advantage.” He sighed. “But maybe I did just lose it. Perhaps your friend White simply found it. That’d explain it if you say he’s not the kind of man to thieve it.”

  Rowland directed his question to the lady of the house. “Do you think Frances would have stolen from you, Mrs. Bocquet?”

  She glanced at her husband before answering. “I suppose she might,” she said folding her arms. “We didn’t trust her. She was a busy body… always poking through my things.”

  “And you’re sure Crispin White’s never been here?” Milton asked.

  “No.” On this point Beryl was definite. “Never. Not once.”

  They stayed to finish their tea, though those minutes yielded nothing more by way of information. Rowland left his card as they thanked the Bocquets fo
r their hospitality and took their leave. The couple stood together on the porch, Les waving congenially until the Mercedes had pulled out of their driveway.

  “So what did you think of that?” Milton asked.

  “He’s friendly enough. But I feel jolly sorry for Frances.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  “I presume the police have already spoken to her,” Rowland mused.

  “If the maid did take the pin perhaps she was White’s mystery woman. He wouldn’t be the first man to fall in love with the help.”

  “She wasn’t his help,” Rowland murmured.

  “No, that’s true. If she was sacked for a tiepin she stole to give White, she’d probably be very angry if he jilted her.”

  “That’s true… if she knew him at all. We’re guessing at much of this. We don’t even know for certain that White had a lover.”

  Milton groaned, frustrated. “We should speak with Frances.”

  Wilfred Sinclair rubbed his chin as he perused the watercolours spread out on the long dining table. Studies of flowers, and paintings of the garden, executed with a discernibly increasing degree of proficiency and confidence.

  “Aubrey found me some brushes and paper, and Mr. Watson Jones has been ever so helpful,” Elisabeth said, laughing nervously. She pointed to a painting of yellow roses in a vase. The flowers were delicately rendered, a gentle explosion of colour against the crazed porcelain of the vase. “The shading is wrong in this one, I fear.”

  “They’re tremendous, Mother,” Wilfred said quietly. “Quite marvellous. I wasn’t aware you painted.”

  “Oh, I don’t really… not since I was a girl. But I have been enjoying it.”

  “That pleases me greatly. Will you allow me to drag you away from your easel to take luncheon at Roburvale? Kate and the children would love to see you.”

  “Children? What children, Wilfred darling?”

  A pause cut with fear. “My children, my boys.”

  “Oh yes, of course. What was I thinking!”

  Wilfred smiled. “Why don’t you get ready while I have a word with Rowly,” he said, refusing to pander to his mother’s delusion by calling his brother anything else.