“No, I made that up. He’s married though.” Milton picked up his hand and considered the cards.
“Oh… that’s a problem.”
“Why?”
“You can’t send his widow a bag containing photographs of other women. That’d be cruel.”
Milton’s brow furrowed. “I’ll speak to Comrade Howells. He knew Kelly.”
“Perhaps these women were the reason Kelly was keen to get out of here,” Rowland mused. “Juggling three would be awkward and quite possibly dangerous.”
“We don’t know that all three were current,” Clyde noted. “But I do see what you mean.”
“How was your evening, Ed? Did you have a good time with the Ainslie tennis set?”
“It was lovely,” Edna replied. “Mr. Ley took us on a private tour of Parliament House.”
“Ley?”
“Yes, he and Mrs. Brook are in Canberra to meet with old political colleagues apparently. And so is Mrs. Roche. She’s a little put out that you haven’t been to see her yet.”
“I would have said it’s rather fortunate I haven’t, since it appears she’s no longer in Yass,” Rowland replied.
“She said she’ll have to come here since you’re so determined to be coy.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“I’m sure we can manage to entertain her.”
“Actually, I can’t. I’m playing croquet this afternoon.” Edna smiled. “The Canberra Croquet Club plays on the lawns right here. Maggie Brook is a member… she’s invited me to play.”
Milton snorted. “Wait till she realises you cheat!”
“I don’t cheat!”
“You always cheat!”
“Because the three of you gang up on me!”
“How exactly did Ley give you a private tour of Parliament House? He’s not a parliamentarian anymore,” Clyde asked before the exchange escalated.
“It was pretty late—there was no one else there except the cleaners, and a couple of clerks. Mr. Ley seems to know how to get in.”
“He broke in?”
“Of course not! One of the clerks let us in—Mr. Ley knew him,” Edna said. “Nobody inside seemed surprised. It’s not a bank, after all.”
Rowland might have asked more about the clandestine tour if Edna had not decided then that she should change her attire for the afternoon’s sport.
“Is there such a thing as a croquet outfit?” Clyde asked as the sculptress dashed out.
Rowland shrugged. On the occasions they’d played croquet on the lawns of Woodlands there’d been no dress code. They had swung mallets in whatever they happened to be wearing at the time the fancy to play took them. On moonlit nights they’d played in pyjamas and dressing gowns, much to the horror of Mary Brown. But the Canberra Croquet Club would possibly have more exacting standards.
When the reception desk rang to inform him that a Miss Jemima Roche was waiting in the hotel foyer, Rowland was alone. Milton had decided to return to Queanbeyan to show Marjorie Curtis the photographs they’d found in Kelly’s carpetbag, as well as Rowland’s sketches of the men they’d encountered at the Royal.
“If any of them are locals, she may recognise them.”
“Do you think it’s safe?” Clyde had been uneasy.
“I won’t go into the Royal.”
“I’m not worried about those jokers—I meant Marjorie’s parlour.”
“For an artist, you’re very easily unsettled by the unconventional, Clyde old mate.”
In the end Clyde had decided to accompany Milton in case the poet needed an ally against either thugs or dolls. Rowland suspected the excursion had been concocted to allow him to be alone with Jemima Roche. He wasn’t quite sure if he was grateful.
Jemima was seated on one of the reception’s chesterfields, her legs crossed, her head bent over the leaves of a letter. Rowland paused to take in the elegance of her. She looked up and smiled as he approached.
“Hello, my darling.”
“Mrs. Roche.”
“Oh do stop that… you can call me Jemima or my love—nothing else will do.” She took his hand and pulled him down beside her. “Do you know what I’m reading?”
“No idea.”
“Your letters, from that summer. Do you want to see?”
Rowland flinched. Jemima Roche seemed determined to torture him with his youthful indiscretions. “No, I don’t.”
“Don’t be silly, Rowly… you were so sweet. I found them among the things I had at Grandmama’s. I’m not going to let you forget.”
“It appears. How is your Grandmama?”
“A little frail, but as sharp as ever. She caught me up on all the district gossip. She says you’re far more scandalous these days than I ever was.”
“I see.”
Jemima leant towards him and whispered, “Apparently some of the local pastoralists call you ‘Red Rowly’.”
Rowland started to laugh.
“That’s better,” she said. “You always did have a lovely laugh.” Jemima stood and held out her hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s such a splendid day—I’m taking you on a picnic.”
Jemima led him out to a sky blue Riley and waited while he opened the driver’s side door for her. He climbed into the passenger seat and allowed her to take him where she would. Jemima had selected a lone willow tree by a pool where the Cotter and Paddys Rivers met, beneath which to spread out a picnic blanket. Under her direction, Rowland took a large, generously stocked basket from the back seat and they settled to share sandwiches, chocolate cake and bottles of ginger beer. The day was cool despite the sunshine and the sky was cloudy but not threateningly so. Filtered through the new green of recently unfurled leaves, the light under the canopy of the willow was soft.
They reminisced about picnics they’d had back in Yass. Jemima read from Rowland’s letters until he grabbed them from her, swearing to destroy the excruciatingly sentimental adolescent missives.
“Don’t you dare! They’re mine!”
“A man’s got to defend his dignity, Jem.”
“Rowly!”
He sighed, handing them back. “Very well, go ahead.”
Jemima pressed the letters to her breast. “They remind me of that lovely, magical summer. Long before I met Oswald and everything went so terribly wrong.” She told him then of her marriage to Oswald Roche. “He was very suitable you know. Father liked him a great deal. But it turned out he was more like your father than mine.”
Rowland tensed. His father had been brutal. Jemima knew that. Could that be what she meant? “Jem—”
“I don’t want to spoil this spectacular day talking about Oswald,” she said abruptly. She pushed him down so that he was lying back on the blanket, and stretched out next to him. They watched the clouds as they had years ago. “Grandmama tells me you were arrested last year.”
“Yes. I was.”
“Why?”
“The police thought I’d shot my father.”
“All those years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. Some people should be dead!”
Rowland said nothing.
“If I needed help, you’d want to help me, wouldn’t you, Rowly?”
He rose onto one elbow and looked at her. “You’re not going to ask me to kill someone, are you, Jem?”
13
PERSONAL
VICE-REGAL
Her Excellency Lady Isaacs, accompanied by Miss Helen Hughes, was present at the Canberra Croquet Club on Saturday afternoon, and presented the prizes won during the croquet season.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 3 July 1933
Milton Isaacs watched Marjorie Curtis’ face carefully as she shuffled through the photographs that had been stowed in James Kelly’s carpetbag. The poet was alone with the lady in her doll-lined parlour, Clyde having elected to stay
with the car.
“We thought we probably should let Jim’s lady friends know that he’s passed away,” Milton said. “Do you by any chance recognise any of them, Miss Curtis?”
“This here is May Dwyer; and that’s Sally Burton. I’m afraid I don’t know the other woman. Perhaps she goes to the Catholic church.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“These ladies,” Marjorie handed him two of the photographs, “are devout members of the congregation at St. Clements every Sunday. The other one I don’t know. As I said, she might be a Roman.”
“Do you know why Mr. Kelly had their photographs?” Milton asked tentatively.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Isaacs. Let me assure you, I run a respectable establishment. No visitors after four o’clock and never in the bedrooms.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply anything improper.”
Marjorie made a funny little cooing noise. “Of course you didn’t—you’re too much a gentleman.” She smiled, trying to compensate for her earlier shortness. “I can tell you this, Mr. Isaacs, May Dwyer and Sally Burton are both of them married.”
Jemima Roche laughed. “You’re far too tall to be an assassin, Rowly. You’d be spotted straight away.” She pushed herself up and kissed him gently, enjoying his bewilderment. “I just wanted to know if you still cared what happened to me.”
“Of course I do, Jem. Are you in some kind of trouble? With what do you need my help?”
Her face grew grave. She fingered his tie absently.
“I’m not sure I can go on this way…”
Startled he sat up and put his arm around her shoulders. “Jem…?”
She gripped his lapel and looked up into his eyes. “I’m so desperately bored!”
He groaned, falling back as she laughed.
She pinned him down, and pressed against him. “Boredom is very serious. Grandmama has me trapped drinking tea with the withered old crones from the Red Cross. If it wasn’t for Tommy and Maggie taking me out occasionally…”
“You could always leave, Jem. You’re not a child anymore.”
She frowned. “I need to be remembered in Grandmama’s will and she wants to have constant company in her twilight years.”
“I see.”
“Do you not like girls anymore, Rowly?”
He choked. “What?”
“Well here I am, by all accounts a beautiful woman, and I’m throwing myself at you. Most men would have ravished me by now; you haven’t even loosened your tie.”
“For the love of God, Jem, we’re in a public space.”
Jemima smiled impishly. “There’s that shy boy again. I have missed him.”
Rowland kissed her this time. He wasn’t sure if it was to shut her up or to prove himself, or because he wanted to. Even after all these years, her lips were familiar, they yielded easily to his.
When he pulled away, she drew him back. “There’s no one here but you and me, Rowly.” She attended to his tie herself, and then the buttons of his shirt. “Oh my,” she said tracing the scar on his chest with her hand. “You’ll have to tell me the story of this someday… but not now.”
“Jem…”
Silencing him with another kiss, she slipped out of her dress, removing her chemise and undergarments with a similar seductive expertise. And Rowland was mesmerised. Caution fell away.
Her body had changed, become more curved, though he’d never really known it in quite this way before. Even as he made love to her, Rowland wasn’t sure if he was falling in love with Jemima Roche again, or just falling. She’d always had that effect. Always been able to hold him in thrall.
Edna lined up her shot. She was losing rather badly but that didn’t bother her. It was only Milton to whom she could not bear to lose. Her shot went awry once more.
“Oh dear!” Maggie Brook shook her head. “Never mind, Eddie old girl. Sometimes it just takes a while to get your eye in, and sometimes the blasted ball won’t co-operate regardless!”
Edna stood back on the pretext of watching and learning from Maggie Brook’s excellent technique. She was distracted. Rowland had left with Jemima Roche a couple of hours before. Edna had waved from the croquet lawn but he’d been too focused on Jemima to see. The sculptress wasn’t sure if she really liked Mrs. Roche. There was something about the woman that made her uneasy.
Perplexed by her own reaction, Edna did wonder if she was jealous. She knew she had no right to be. Rowland Sinclair was her best friend, a spirit so kindred she couldn’t bear to lose him, and for that she had made the decision long ago that she would not allow herself to fall in love with him, that she would not permit him to love her. It was too dangerous. It was not that she didn’t think she could love Rowland enough, but that she feared she’d love him too much… at the expense of everything else, including her art.
Edna was determined to only love men she could put aside when there was work to be done. Rowland Sinclair was not that kind of man. So, instead, she occupied herself with the likes of Bertie Middleton who expected nothing more than a passing passion.
But to want Rowland to do the same was being unfair. He was not like her—he’d always been something of a romantic. Edna wondered if she should leave, to ensure that Mrs. Roche did not get the wrong idea. Still, she wanted instinctively to protect Rowland from Jemima… perhaps it was more than simple jealousy.
Maggie Brook had been very kind and attentive. She’d introduced Edna to the club members as “an artist of considerable renown” feigning shock that they didn’t know her work and implying that their cultural educations were lacking. She didn’t mention Thomas Ley at all in the polite social exchanges, presumably because he still had a wife. Despite her current circumstances, there was a confident decorum about the former politician’s mistress.
She did enquire of Edna about Rowland and the Sinclairs in general. Edna assumed the interest was pursuant to Thomas Ley’s ambitions to re-enter parliament. Wilfred Sinclair was influential in conservative politics.
“We must see if we can invite him to supper while we’re all in town,” Maggie said when Edna mentioned that Wilfred was in Canberra. “Do you know where he’s staying?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Perhaps Rowly—”
“Oh don’t give it another thought.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Tommy will be able to find out… he still has all manner of connections in Canberra.”
Edna glanced around quickly to make sure their conversation was private before she said, “If you don’t mind my asking, why did Mr. Ley ever leave politics? He seems to miss the cut and thrust of it so very much.”
Maggie sighed. “Stanley Bruce,” she said angrily. “Tommy wasn’t from the right sort of circles. He’s from very humble beginnings. Mr. Bruce made it clear he was no longer welcome and Bruce was the prime minister of the day.”
“Oh, I do see. That’s terrible.”
Maggie hooked her arm through Edna’s. “Come on, old bean, let’s finish this game. And then I believe some liquid refreshments are in order. I’ve told Tommy to fetch Mr. Middleton and pick us up.”
“I’m not sure I should. Rowly wanted to—”
“Oh I don’t expect Mr. Sinclair will get away from Jemima so quickly. They were very much in love once. He proposed to her you know.”
“Really?” Edna was startled both by the fact and her own dismay.
“She turned him down, but I expect she’s sorry she did. They are very suited, don’t you think—both from good pastoral families. I’m sure Mr. Wilfred Sinclair will be delighted with the match.”
Edna doubted that Wilfred would approve of a divorcee however illustrious her family, but on that she did not comment. “Are you saying Mrs. Roche wants to marry Rowly?”
“Oh my giddy aunt, I’ve let the cat out of the bag, haven’t I? Jemima will be vexed with me. You won’t say anything will you, dear? I confess I’m an insatiable romantic… and they do make such a handsome couple.”
It was dark by
the time Rowland returned to the Hotel Canberra. He went directly to the studio in search of his holy trinity: canvas, paint and solitude. Events had taken a rather unexpected turn. Rowland thought most clearly with a brush in his hand and he certainly needed to think now. He was not unhappy—far from it. He had no desire to be a monk and Jemima Roche was beautiful and spirited; she had been his first love and his confidant. She seemed to want nothing more from him beyond the affair she had told him they would have from the first. Perhaps it was her bloody-mindedness on that count that unsettled him. Rowland had met women with similar motivations before, but rarely had they had such a sense of purpose. It was not so much that Jemima knew him well, but that she was willing to use whatever she knew. Jemima Roche seemed to observe few boundaries.
“Rowly, you’re back!” Clyde and Milton walked through the door.
Milton grinned. “What did you and Mrs. Roche get up to?”
“A picnic,” Rowland replied.
“How very civilised.”
Rowland said nothing. He wasn’t sure if civilised was the right word.
“Would you care for a drink?” Clyde asked.
“I would rather. Where’s Ed?”
“She and Middleton made up a foursome with Ley and Mrs. Brook.”
“How’d you go with Miss Curtis?”
“Ask Milt.” Clyde handed Rowland a glass of gin. “I stayed with the car and listened to the radio well out of the reach of those flaming dolls.”
“You’re a bloody coward.” Milton took the photographs out of his pocket, as well as the folded sketch of the men from the Royal. “Miss Curtis recognised two of the photographs. May Dwyer and Sally Burton—both married. Clyde and I found out where they lived and called on them. Both deny any knowledge of Jim Kelly—they didn’t even recognise the name.”
“It makes sense they would deny it, I suppose.”
“Yes, perhaps… but you know, Rowly, I think I believed them.”
“And the sketches?”
“Miss Curtis didn’t know them but, blowed if there wasn’t a picture of this bloke,” he pointed to one of the faces, “on May Dwyer’s mantle.”
“Husband?”
“Maybe.”
“So doesn’t that make it more likely that May Dwyer was involved with Kelly? It would explain why Mr. Dwyer was so angry.”
A Dangerous Language Page 12
