A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “It’s possible,” he allowed. “But it’s hard to imagine how one could unintentionally cut a man’s throat.”

  “Perhaps they intended only to rough Mr. Kelly up, to frighten him off,” Edna suggested. “But he resisted and in the process—”

  “Had he been robbed?” Clyde asked. “Perhaps we’re looking for a grand scheme in what was actually a simple slash and grab. I presume things are as tough here for some people as they are anywhere.”

  Milton shook his head. “He hadn’t been robbed. I saw his pocket watch when I was checking to see if he was alive. A thief would have taken it.”

  “And you heard nothing?” Rowland asked. “Before you found the body?”

  “No.” Milton stroked the hair on his chin. “I did think I heard something afterwards, when I found the body, but it might just have been that I was rattled. I thought I heard someone curse… but maybe it was me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I shouted. A guard, I’m not sure if he was private or some kind of police officer, came running from somewhere… I’m not sure where exactly.”

  “And he telephoned for help?”

  “Actually he arrested me.”

  Rowland put down his cup, surprised. Jones had mentioned nothing about Milton being a suspect let alone arrested. “How—”

  “The major and his cronies arrived, ascertained that I didn’t have a weapon and I wasn’t covered in enough blood to have committed the act. Apparently this chap who arrested me—Constable Smith, I think they called him—had overstepped his authority in any case.”

  “Did they find a weapon anywhere?”

  “No.”

  Rowland frowned. “Until we know what this is all about, Milt, perhaps you should—”

  “Sorry, Rowly,” Milton said firmly. “If someone killed Comrade Kelly over this, it’s even more important that I try and find out what the ruling class is up to.”

  Rowland hadn’t really expected Milton to respond otherwise. “Fair enough, but we need to watch your back.”

  “You could at least stop attracting attention to yourself,” Clyde muttered.

  “What do you mean by that?” Milton demanded.

  Clyde pointed to the beret. “You’re dressed like a French clown. If nothing else you’re embarrassing the Party.”

  Milton laughed good-naturedly. “Dost thou know who made thee… gave thee clothing of delight.”

  “Blake,” Rowland said. “I believe he was talking about a sheep.”

  “That figures,” Clyde said tersely.

  Edna intervened more diplomatically. “Perhaps you should try to look less memorable… more like Rowly… just while you’re sitting in the public gallery. Consider it a disguise.”

  “Less memorable?” Rowland said, affronted.

  Edna sighed. Navigating a route between three male egos was occasionally awkward. “You know what I mean.” She smiled at him and he forgave her everything.

  They walked by way of Parliament House on their way to the hotel, partly because it was the most direct route, and partly because they wanted to look again at the scene of the crime, hoping to ascertain where the assailant may have hidden, if indeed that was who Milton had heard cursing.

  To their consternation there was no police cordon. The cement stairs had been scrubbed clean of blood. There was no sign that James Kelly had died between the coats of arms of Britain and the Commonwealth. Public servants, Parliament House staff and the visiting public walked unknowingly on the place where Kelly had taken his last breath.

  “There might easily have been someone behind there,” Edna pointed out the low walls that defined a terraced walkway at the top of the steps. “He could have slipped away afterwards.”

  Rowland scanned the green fields around them. There were few buildings or trees to provide any sort of cover. Parliament House stood starkly in the middle of a planned landscape that was as yet nowhere.

  “He might have gone into the House,” Clyde suggested.

  “Wouldn’t it be locked?”

  “There’d be ways to get in,” Milton said confidently.

  They proceeded into Parliament House through to King’s Hall. Edna paused before the bronze statue of George V in cape and garters, considering it with a sculptor’s eye.

  “What do you think?” Rowland asked.

  “It’s not a bad piece,” Edna said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure it works in here though.”

  Rowland understood. George V seemed more lonely than regal in the middle of the grand space. Perhaps he should have been depicted with Queen Mary to keep him company, or at least sitting with a book. Alone, in full regalia, he seemed a little at a loose end. Rowland patted his majesty’s heeled court shoe sympathetically.

  To the monarch’s left was the green chamber of the House of Representatives, to his right the red Senate. Rowland cast his eyes across the art deco patterns and details echoed in the balustrades and windows, the classical allusions in the plaster work and light poles designed to suggest the Greco-Egyptian ruins. There was a glorious modern symmetry and simplicity about the building that appealed to him.

  They fell into a conversation about the lines and features of the building and the artworks within it. They were artists after all, and no matter what they found themselves in the middle of, that was how they looked upon the world.

  Distracted by Montford’s bas-reliefs on the pillars either side of the lonesome king, they didn’t notice the gentlemen who emerged from the Parliamentary Library.

  “Rowly?”

  Rowland turned.

  Two gentlemen of similar ilk: immaculate, conservative, bastions of the establishment, and comfortable in the halls of power.

  “Wil… Your Excellency…” Rowland’s eyes moved from his brother to Stanley Melbourne Bruce who stood beside him. Bruce had been Australia’s eighth prime minister and a minister in the previous Lyons government. Now he was officially Australia’s High Commissioner in Britain.

  Rowland and his companions had met the Bruces when they were in London the year before. Indeed, they had become particular favourites of Mrs. Ethel Bruce whom they remembered as an ally.

  Stanley Bruce and Wilfred Sinclair tipped their hats to Edna and stood in expectant silence for Rowland to explain himself.

  Rowland offered Bruce his hand. “Welcome back, Your Excellency. You may remember Miss Higgins, Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones.”

  “Indeed, I do.” Bruce shook hands with Clyde and Milton.

  “What brings you to the capital?” Rowland asked.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” Wilfred said curtly.

  “We have a friend who lives here, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said sweetly. “We thought we’d pay him a visit and take in the capital.”

  Wilfred looked around the hall. “Where is this friend of yours?”

  “Oh, he’s not here. I’m afraid we haven’t got round to visiting Bertie yet. We’ve been rather distracted by this marvellous building.”

  “Is Mrs. Bruce with you, Your Excellency?” Rowland asked, ignoring the scepticism in Wilfred’s gaze.

  “Ethel is at Oaklea with Kate,” Bruce replied. “This is rather an unofficial visit. She’s adamant that she’s seen quite enough of Canberra, and she does enjoy the company of the Sinclair children.”

  Rowland smiled. The Bruces had been the first couple to live in the Lodge, the official residence of the prime minister. He could imagine that Ethel Bruce found the nation’s capital a little dull.

  “Where are you staying, Rowly?” Wilfred demanded.

  “The Hotel Canberra.”

  “I presume you’ll be heading back to Sydney soon.”

  Rowland was saved from responding by the approach of another gentleman. Tall and long-limbed, he wore a black suit and small round spectacles. He strode rather than walked, with a rhythm that made his long gait almost a march.

  It was Bruce who greeted the newcomer. “Blackrod! Can we be of assistance?” Unfailin
gly civil, he took the time to introduce Robert Broinowski, the Usher of the Blackrod, despite the clear urgency of the civil servant’s approach.

  Broinowski glanced briefly at Rowland and his companions before speaking. “If I could have a private word, gentlemen.”

  It was then Rowland caught sight of Major Jones entering the hall with a number of officers in tow.

  “What’s going on?” Clyde whispered as Bruce and Wilfred stepped away to talk to the Usher of the Blackrod. Both men clearly alarmed by the information to which they were being made privy.

  Jones spotted Rowland and his companions. He nodded to Broinowski as he walked past to demand their business at Parliament House on that day.

  “No business, Major Jones,” Rowland said calmly. “We were just viewing the House.”

  The chief of police signalled one of his officers. “Would you wait here with Sergeant Cook, please?”

  “Why?”

  “I would like to speak to you, but there are some matters I must attend to first.”

  “Are you arresting us?” Milton demanded.

  “No, I’m simply requesting your co-operation.”

  “Yes, of course we’ll stay,” Edna cut Milton off.

  Sergeant Cook ushered his charges through to the Parliamentary Library so they could take seats while they waited. It was a welcome consideration as it was nearly two hours before Major Jones returned. Bruce and Wilfred entered with him and stood in the background, arms folded, and silent.

  Rowland rose to his feet. Clyde and Milton followed suit.

  “I ask you again,” Jones said slowly. “What are you doing in Parliament House today?”

  “We wanted to look again at the scene of last night’s crime,” Milton said defiantly. “Of course we were surprised to find no sign whatsoever that a man had been brutally killed on the steps of Parliament House!”

  “What did you expect, Mr. Isaacs? A memorial?”

  “We came into the House as tourists, Major Jones, that’s all,” Rowland said before Milton could explode.

  “Where in the House have you been?”

  “We didn’t get much further than King’s Hall. What’s going on, Major Jones? Has someone else been killed?”

  Jones’ eyes narrowed. “Are you expecting someone else to be killed, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Not at all. But I can’t imagine the chief of police would be taking such an interest if someone was stealing cutlery from the dining room.”

  “I understand the four of you were in the town of Albury earlier this month.”

  “Yes.” Rowland wondered uneasily where Jones was going with the question.

  “I believe you attended a tennis party at Willowview on the Howlong road.”

  Rowland could see Wilfred’s face darkening. “Yes, briefly,” he said watching his brother tense further.

  “What is this about, Major Jones?” Edna asked.

  Jones studied the four of them. “You will tell me if you intend to leave Canberra.”

  “Are you seriously telling us not to leave town?” Milton demanded hotly. “Of what exactly are you accusing us?”

  “I am simply making a request, Mr. Isaacs.”

  Wilfred could stay silent no longer. “My brother will be only too happy to let you know when he or his companions leave Canberra, Harold. I’ll see to it. You have my word.”

  “You’ll what?” Rowland turned, flaring at his brother’s presumption.

  Wilfred pulled Rowland aside. “You and I, dear brother, need to have a conversation. But now is not the time and this is certainly not the place!” He glanced at Milton. “I suggest you go back to your hotel before the chief decides to throw that long-haired Bolshevik in prison!”

  10

  CANBERRA

  IN ITS AUTUMN BEAUTY

  SEEN FROM MOUNT AINSLIE

  (By Our Scribe)

  Messrs. Stuart Williams (architect) and W.H. Pinkstone (Our Scribe) spent last week-end at Canberra, guests of Mr. and Mrs. Fred Parr, formerly of Cootamundra and Stockinbingal. (Mr. Parr was postmaster at Stockinbingal and is now assistant at Canberra; and at times acting postmaster there. It is a very fine office.) The run from Cootamundra to Canberra is a little over a hundred miles—66 to Yass direct, and 37 across from there, and can be comfortably cruised in from 3 ½ to 4 hours…

  …We arrived at 4 on Saturday afternoon. Tennis was being played here, there, and everywhere. ‘We’re tennis mad!’ was the reply to a query. There were 37 teams in competition that afternoon in connection with the association, in addition to private play. It appears that the Commission will build courts as fast as the clubs apply, at a rental of 6 per cent per annum on the outlay. It pays the authorities, and suits the clubs.

  Cootamundra Herald, 11 May 1934

  It took Rowland a couple of telephone calls to track down Colin Delaney. The detective had handed over the case of the Pyjama Girl to his colleagues, and returned to Sydney. Rowland found him eventually and was put through.

  Briefly, and without mention of Milton’s particular role, he told the detective of Jim Kelly’s murder and the strange activity at Parliament House.

  “Major Harold Jones?” Delaney asked when Rowland first mentioned the chief of police.

  “Yes—do you know him, Colin?”

  “Not personally, Rowly, but I do know he wears two hats. He’s not simply the Chief of Canberra Police but also Director of the Central Investigation Bureau.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Jones runs intelligence. For want of a better term, he’s Australia’s spy master.”

  Unseen by Delaney, Rowland grimaced. “I see.”

  “If he’s involved, you can jolly well bet it’s more than a simple murder for financial gain,” Delaney warned.

  “Kelly was a Communist. Would that be why Jones has become involved?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that would be enough. Communists aren’t unusual. Unless Kelly was involved in some plot to overthrow the government or he was spying for the Russians or something of the sort.” Delaney paused. “Clearly there’s something going on at Parliament House.”

  “Parliament hasn’t resumed sitting, Col.”

  “Perhaps it’s a security issue. Prince Henry is arriving in the country next month. The powers that be are a little prone to overreact at the moment.”

  “Thanks, Col, I’ll keep that in mind.” He asked about the progress of the Albury murder.

  “We’ve still no idea who the poor wretch is.” Delaney’s tone betrayed his frustration. “There are a few rumours about that the chap who found her is involved, but there’s nothing to support that. God knows, Rowly, if we were hanging people for finding bodies, you’d be long dead.”

  “There is no Communist plot!” Milton was adamant. “A plot against the Communists possibly. After all, it was one of us who was murdered.” He paced the sitting room agitated. “I swear, Rowly, Bluey hasn’t asked me to do anything illegal—the public gallery is called the public gallery for a reason.”

  Rowland recalled his conversation with Howells in Yackandandah. “Kelly wanted to be relieved. Howells said he’d been spooked. Do you know why?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Do you know where he was living? Would he have confided in anyone?”

  “He had a room in a boarding house over in Queanbeyan,” Milton said, naming the New South Wales town on the Australian Capital Territory’s border. “The peace officers have no jurisdiction there and from what I understand it’s easier to get a drink.”

  “Perhaps we should see if anyone at the boarding house knows why he was concerned for his safety.”

  Clyde looked up and regarded Rowland dubiously. “Because although the peace officers have no jurisdiction, you do?”

  “It might be useful to know why Kelly was worried, since Milton’s taking over from him,” Rowland replied.

  Milton sided with Rowland. “For all we know he had gambling debts or something else completely unconnec
ted with the Movement Against War and Fascism.”

  “I’d feel better if we knew no one was going to cut Milt’s throat.” Edna emerged from the suite’s bedroom in a long-sleeved navy sheath. Her hair was caught into a low knot at the nape of her neck around which she wore a locket set with seed pearls.

  Rowland forgot about Kelly and Jones. He knew he was staring, but Edna was accustomed to having that effect on men. She barely noticed now.

  “You look pretty, Ed.”

  “Why thank you, Rowly.” She smiled as though no one had ever told her that before. “Bertie wants me to go to dinner with him and some of his friends from the Ainslie Tennis Club.” She laughed. “I rather think the Ley Cup has gone to his head.”

  Rowland said nothing, consciously dragging his eyes away from the sculptress.

  “When do you want to go across to Queanbeyan?” Clyde asked. He was becoming resigned to the fact that they were going to involve themselves in the Kelly murder, no matter what he said.

  Rowland glanced back at Edna. “What time are you meeting Middleton, Ed?” The journalist did not own a motorcar and, considering that a man had been murdered barely a quarter mile away, Rowland was reluctant to allow the sculptress to catch a bus alone.

  “About six o’clock.”

  “We’ll drop you off and pop out to Queanbeyan from there.”

  Edna frowned. “I’m not sure I like the idea of you three going without me. You always manage to find trouble when you set off on your own.”

  Milton snorted. “We’ve never shot anyone.”

  Rowland flinched, anticipating the quarrel to come. Edna hated being reminded that she’d once shot him, which was probably why Milton took such delight in doing so. It had been an accident, of course, and, ironically, she’d probably saved his life by shooting him. But Edna was very sensitive about the subject.

  She responded as he expected, and Milton added fuel to the flame of her indignation because apparently it amused him to do so.

  It was possibly because of the raised voices that Rowland didn’t hear the first knock or the second. The third resembled pounding more than knocking. Rowland opened the door. He was surprised to see Wilfred only because it had not occurred to him that when his brother had said they needed to have a conversation, that he had meant so soon.