A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Now in her early thirties, Jemima’s Boston lilt was much less pronounced. The years had, if anything, made her more attractive. Dressed in the latest tailored style, she was clearly not playing tennis.

  “And look at you,” she said gazing at Rowland. “Still devastatingly handsome. Those eyes!” She traced her hand along his jawline. “That’s changed… you’re shaving now I gather.”

  Rowland laughed. He introduced Clyde and Milton. “Miss Fairweather and I are old friends.”

  “Friends?” she gasped, clutching her hand to her chest. “Mr. Sinclair was madly in love with me! It was all terribly innocent of course… he was so frightfully shy.”

  Rowland felt a familiar bewilderment. Jemima had always been something of a whirlwind, sweeping the world helplessly before her. She chatted to Clyde and Milton for a while, making outrageous claims about her past with Rowland Sinclair, daring him to react. He did not. In the end she granted him a private audience and dragged him away to the fernery to ensure he took advantage of it.

  Clyde and Milton watched them go, unsure if Rowland needed help. They were not in the practice of defending him from beautiful women, but Jemima Fairweather was unusually forthright.

  Jemima laughed as she led him away. “Your chums are worried I’m going to take advantage of you.”

  “I’m sure that’s the last thing they’re worried about.” Rowland stood back to look at her. “It’s grand to see you, again, Jemima. What are you doing here?”

  “Maggie Brook and I are old friends. She invited me. Personally, I abhor tennis but she promised me there’d be other entertainments.”

  “And Miss Brook is…”

  “Mrs. Brook. Tommy Ley’s mistress.” Jemima smiled. “She and Tommy are perfect for each other but of course they’re trying to keep a low profile while they’re here… on account of Lewie.”

  “Lewie?”

  “Tommy’s wife.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “Of course she does. But there’s such a thing as discretion. Tommy is rather keen to gain preselection and stand for parliament again.”

  “What about Mrs. Brook’s husband? Does he know too?”

  “He’s dead. Tommy was his lawyer.” Jemima seized Rowland’s hands in hers. “I’m positively sick of talking about Tommy and Maggie. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  Rowland glanced over his shoulder at the court. “The match has started. Shouldn’t we watch?”

  Jemima’s eyes softened. “There’s that shy boy I knew.”

  “It’s not that…” Rowland left it. “What do you want to know?”

  She asked him about what he’d been doing since last they’d met, where he’d been, and who he’d loved. Rowland ignored the last question and answered the others as truthfully as he could remember.

  “Grandmama mentioned someone had finally shot him,” Jemima said when he told her his father had died just a month after they’d parted last. “I wanted to come back and celebrate with you but Grandmama wouldn’t hear of me leaving school.”

  At this Rowland smiled slightly. He’d always found Jemima Fairweather’s refusal to censor herself admirably honest. She’d known about Henry Sinclair’s disciplinary violence, witnessed it to some extent. She did not pretend to be sorry for Rowland’s loss or expect him to be either.

  In turn she told him about a failed marriage when she was just twenty-two—“It’s Mrs. Roche now, I’m afraid”—and her subsequent travels through Europe. “The Continent is a most delightful place to play, don’t you think?”

  “What brings you back to Australia, Mrs. Roche?”

  “Grandmama’s estate. Tommy’s sorting it all out for me.”

  Rowland expressed his condolences. He’d not heard that old Mrs. Fairweather had died, but then, admittedly, it had been some months since he’d last been in Yass and he and Wilfred had not spoken a great deal in that time. The thought reminded him of the current antipathy between him and his brother.

  Jemima shook her head. “Grandmama’s not dead, Rowly. But she is getting on. The Fairweathers like to be organised.”

  “Oh. Pleased to hear it.”

  “Poor Grandmama,” Jemima said. “I’m the old dear’s greatest regret, you know. They sent me to live with her so she could turn me into a respectable young lady, and all I managed to do was corrupt Yass’s favourite son.”

  “I was never that.”

  She smoothed his lapel and toyed with the knot in his tie. “I’m assuming you married, Rowly?”

  “No.”

  “Good show!” She punched him on the shoulder. “Not that it would have mattered to me. I’m not that superficial.” She pulled on his tie and kissed him deeply. He wasn’t as surprised this time. “Tell you what, Rowly, it’s about time we became lovers. What do you say?”

  “I—”

  She laughed. “I wondered if I could still make you blush.”

  “Good Lord, you’re still incorrigible.”

  “It’s why we were so in love. Do you remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “You asked me to marry you.”

  “Jemima, I was fourteen.”

  “Nearly fifteen. Are you going back on it then? How very ungentlemanly!”

  Rowland smiled. He remembered being besotted with Jemima Fairweather. She had been a loud, unexpected blast of fresh air with a strangely alluring American accent. It had probably helped that his father could not have been more appalled.

  “Sinclair!” Thomas Ley strode over with a bevy of his male guests. “I say, old chap, is that amorphous yellow lump in the driveway your vehicle?”

  Rowland regarded his host coldly. “If you mean the Chrysler Airflow, then yes.”

  “Well I never!” Ley beamed. “Can you really bounce a brick off the windscreen?”

  “I haven’t actually tried—”

  The gentlemen with Ley spoke up. “What model is that… the eight cylinder?”

  “Never seen anything like it!”

  “I don’t suppose we could peek under the bonnet?”

  “Hood.” Clyde had left the tennis to join the group of men. “American cars have hoods, not bonnets.”

  “Well, what say we have a look-see under that hood?”

  “Would you mind, Sinclair?” Ley asked. “Not sure when any of us will see an automobile like yours again.”

  “Shouldn’t we be watching the tennis?”

  Jemima rolled her eyes.

  “They’re pretty evenly matched… we have time to duck out,” Ley assured him. “How does she run, Sinclair?”

  “Pretty smoothly, actually.”

  “That’d be the shock absorbers,” Clyde offered.

  There were further questions, progressively more eager. It seemed the gentlemen had become bored with tennis. Now that Rowland knew Edna was safe, his enthusiasm for the Airflow returned. And so, most of the final tennis match was viewed by a somewhat diminished audience as the men gathered about Rowland Sinclair’s new motorcar exclaiming at her design and engine capacity and marvelling enviously at the custom installation of a radio set and heater in the thoroughly modern dash.

  They rejoined the tennis party in just enough time to see the final game, applauding and cheering with compensatory gusto.

  “Your Miss Higgins is certainly in fine form.” Jemima Fairweather found him again. “Is she your girl?”

  “No.”

  “That’s fortunate. She’s clearly mad about Bertie Middleton.”

  Rowland’s brow rose.

  “And you can see that Bertie’s devoted to her.”

  Rowland moved his gaze to Middleton. The writer’s eye was rarely on the ball. The match was being won by Edna alone. “I expect he is.”

  Jemima studied Rowland thoughtfully. “Oh, my poor darling boy.”

  He smiled. “What are you talking about Jemima?”

  She took his hand and, beckoning him to lower his head, whispered in his ear. “I’ve decided that you and I are going to in
dulge in a passionate and scandalous affair.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes. It’ll do us both good. We can start tonight.”

  Rowland’s face was unreadable. “You can’t shock me, Jemima.”

  “I’m sure I could.” Her hand rested inside his jacket on the buttons of his waistcoat.

  Rowland laughed. “Sadly we’re not staying. We must get on as soon as the tournament concludes.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve already imposed on the hospitality of Mr. Ley. None of us was actually invited.”

  “Poppycock. Tommy promised me that I should not be bored. You’ll be helping him keep his word.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be bored.”

  “I tell you I will.” Jemima frowned.

  Rowland reached into his pocket and extracted a calling card. “Will you be in Australia long?”

  She took it from him. “I’ve just decided to extend my stay.”

  “Then there’ll be plenty of time for us to catch up properly.”

  She pouted. “I’m really most put out that you are not more enthusiastic!”

  “On the contrary,” Rowland said. “I couldn’t be more delighted to see you.” Jemima had changed little from the wild sixteen-year-old girl who’d scandalised the pastoral society of his hometown at a time when the flappers were products of the sinful city and still largely unknown in rural Yass. Both the memory and the presence of her now called a wry smile to his lips. “Will you come to Sydney?”

  She sighed. “Yes, if only to save you from—”

  A resounding cheer and applause interrupted her. Miss Edna Higgins and Mr. Bertram Middleton were triumphant. An awards ceremony of sorts followed with Ley making speeches and Mrs. Maggie Brook presenting bouquets and boxes of chocolates to the winners.

  “I’ll just change and fetch my luggage,” Edna said as her friends offered their congratulations. “I won’t be long.”

  Middleton protested. “Eddie, you can’t leave before the victory party! Come on, Sinclair, tell her you’ll stay to toast the greatest mixed-doubles team since Daphne Akhurst and Gentleman Jack Crawford!”

  “Would you like to stay?” Rowland asked Edna quietly.

  “No, she wouldn’t,” Milton said flatly.

  Rowland glanced at the poet, surprised. Clearly Milton wished to go.

  Edna laughed. “You haven’t forgotten we were supposed to be at the Hansens’ in Yackandandah yesterday?”

  Rowland had forgotten.

  “They must think us all terribly rude and inconsiderate.” Edna grimaced.

  “Yes. We should at least make an appearance,” said Milton.

  Edna turned to Middleton. “I’m sorry, Bertie, but we really must get on.”

  “When will I see you again?” The man sounded desperate. Embarrassed, Milton, Clyde and Rowland all turned away. The eventual realisation by Edna’s suitors that she was not theirs was often awkward for all concerned. The sculptress did not deceive the men she loved from time to time. But they invariably refused to believe that, as much as she liked the company of men, Edna Higgins was not interested in belonging to one. It seemed that Middleton was, on that matter, being particularly obtuse.

  “I’ll visit you in Canberra,” Edna promised. She pressed a silver chalice into his hands—the Ley Cup. “You keep this to remember me.”

  “I’ll keep it close to my heart until I see you next, my darling.”

  “That sounds uncomfortable.” Edna kissed his cheek. “I’m sure the mantelpiece will be a much better place for it.”

  6

  ALBURY CRIME

  Victim’s Identity

  VITAL TO POLICE SUCCESS

  Detectives who are investigating the murder of the woman whose battered and charred body was found under a culvert off Howlong-road near Albury are facing one of the most difficult problems in police history. They believe, however, that once the woman’s identity is established they will make rapid progress.

  INQUIRIES AT ALBURY

  Detective-sergeant Allmond and Detective McDermott have been tireless in their investigations at Albury. They visited Culcairn Show yesterday and made inquiries from showmen and others about young women who travel about the country with troupes for a livelihood. They learnt nothing of value.

  AMENDED DESCRIPTION

  The police have issued an amended description of the murdered woman and of the clothing and towel found wrapped round the body. She is described as having been between 20 and 30 years of age, 5ft 2in or 5ft 3in in height, of slim to medium build, with blue-grey eyes, plucked eyebrows, and light brown hair, which was darker near the roots and may have been peroxided or bleached. Her fingernails were manicured to a point and bore traces of red tinting. Two teeth in the right lower jaw were missing, and the tooth farthest back in the right lower jaw had been filled with gold.

  Sydney Morning Herald, 6 September 1934

  They didn’t speak of the unidentified body, or the police investigation or the message that wasn’t left. Neither did they talk of Bertram Middleton or the tennis party at Myrtleford. Edna, as yet, knew nothing of the murdered girl. Instead they praised Rowland’s new motorcar—its speed, its handling, the smoothness of its ride— and discussed the Kisch Reception Committee and the part they would play in Egon Kisch’s visit to Australia.

  “It’s a long way to Fremantle from Sydney, Rowly. Are you sure Doris is up to it?” Edna opened the glove box and peered inside.

  Doris, more formally known as the Rule Britannia, was Rowland’s prized Gipsy Moth.

  “I’m certain she isn’t. I’m not taking Doris. I’ll get hold of a twin-engine plane.”

  “You’re going to buy another aeroplane?”

  “I don’t think it’ll come to that. I’ll borrow one if I can.”

  Having satisfied her curiosity about the glove box, Edna fiddled with the knobs on the radio.

  “A little to the left and you might find a signal,” Rowland said. “Do you like her?”

  Edna ran her hands along the dash. “Yes, I do. She suits you.”

  Rowland handed the car keys to Clyde when they arrived at the Albury police station. “Why don’t you all have a drink somewhere—I don’t think this will take long. I’ll have Delaney drop me back at the Albury Hotel when I’m done.”

  Clyde nodded. He knew Rowland was trying to keep Edna apart from this. As far as the sculptress knew, Rowland was filling in paperwork to verify that she was no longer missing.

  Delaney met Rowland on the threshold of the station and waved to Edna as the Airflow pulled away.

  “Thank you for coming, Rowly. In addition to everything, I can apologise in person. You must think me an incompetent fool.”

  “It was an easy mistake to make, Col. Ed was missing.”

  “Still, I’m sorry I didn’t take you at your word when you said it wasn’t Miss Higgins. I feel like a heel asking for your help after what I put you through.”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  Delaney introduced him to Detective Sergeant Allmond who had been despatched from Sydney to take charge of the case. They took him back to the Albury Hospital morgue where the unidentified corpse had been preserved. This time Rowland was more prepared for the state of the body. Steeling himself, he inspected the blackened and damaged face, looking closely for bone structure and definition among the distorted features: the distance between the eyes, the bridge of the nose, anything that might reveal what she once looked like. He made brief notes and sketched the unusual shape of her ears.

  It took him less than an hour to complete a preliminary pencil sketch of her face and another of her profile. He handed the drawings to Allmond.

  The detective sergeant frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Not at all—it’s just my best guess.”

  “She’s not very pretty.”

  “Not everybody is.”

  “The newspapers are reporting that she was a beauty.”

  “Does it matter if she isn’t
?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  They found the Hansens of Yackandandah and their guests out by the dam, settled on deckchairs with sketchbooks or standing before field easels. A sturdy young woman with blonde hair in braids sang without accompaniment, and a linen-draped table was laid with an extravagant supper under gauze against the insects. The crowd was theirs, artists and writers and actors.

  Hector and Mabel Hansen had, in Sydney, always been just a canvas away from complete destitution. This disposition had seen them living at Woodlands from time to time. They’d revelled in their poverty, convinced that it added a certain clarity to their work and a hunger to their love. Regrettably for those things, Mabel had come into an unexpected inheritance, which included the homestead in Yackandandah. They’d moved, started a family, and settled into the more conventional existence they’d once derided. Once a year, in a kind of homage to the lives they once lived, the couple invited their old circle to Yackandandah, to paint and drink and entertain one another in whatever way they saw fit.

  The party from Woodlands House was welcomed like the return of family, with warmth and laughter, questions and teasing.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Lazarus Sinclair!” Hector Hansen called as he walked over to greet them.

  Rowland laughed. It had been widely reported in the popular press that Rowland Sinclair of Woodlands House, Woollahra, had been killed in the spectacular speedway crash that had destroyed the yellow Mercedes. His housekeeper had been mortified by the well-meaning wreaths sent to the house in condolence.

  “The critics have been unkind to you.” Hector spoke quietly as he shook Rowland’s hand.

  “Yes.” Rowland’s most recent exhibition had ended in violence and been widely derided as an exercise in anti-German propaganda by radical elements.

  “You did a brave thing, my friend. Sacrificing one’s life is one thing but one’s life’s work, completely another.”