A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “Maybe. But these were nice addresses, respectable, decent churchgoing ladies… hardly the type to consort with a godless Communist.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, Milt.”

  “Bluey Howells swears that Jim Kelly was devoted to his own wife,” Milton persisted.

  “So why then would he have the photographs?”

  Clyde turned the photographs over and pointed to the embossed studio mark. “They were all taken at the same place.”

  “Well that’s not surprising. How many studios could there possibly be in Queanbeyan?”

  “Sunshine Studios are not in Queanbeyan, Rowly, they’re in Canberra. Eastlake, to be precise.”

  “Is there a photographic studio in Queanbeyan?” Rowland held the photo up to the light to inspect the mark.

  “Two.”

  “That is a little bit of a coincidence, then.”

  Clyde peered around the easel to see what Rowland was working on. A sketch of Jemima Roche in dilute paint, a loose jumble of lines and yet the likeness was unmistakable. Clyde sensed something in the detail of the painting. There was a kind of intimacy in the line work. He knew Rowland well enough, had watched him work often enough, to tell when he was painting a lover.

  “Exactly where is Mr. Roche, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “I don’t know. From what Jemima says the marriage was over years ago.” Rowland sensed the disapproval in Clyde’s voice. He wasn’t particularly surprised. As much as Clyde accepted the unconventional morality of the artistic circle in which he now lived, he was still vaguely Catholic.

  Milton shook his head, grinning. “A divorcee… and here we were thinking you probably couldn’t shock Wilfred any further.”

  The mention of Wilfred reminded Rowland that his brother had intended to invite Jemima to dine at Oaklea. He couldn’t possibly know she was divorced. Which seemed a little odd… that kind of scandal was usually disseminated with singular efficiency via established lines of gossip.

  “Wilfred’s pretty good at keeping you out of the newspapers. Perhaps the Fairweathers have their own protector of skeletons.”

  Rowland smiled. It was, he thought, an apt title for a very necessary role.

  “Don’t you know this Roche chap?” Clyde asked. “I thought your lot always married each other.”

  “I can’t say I remember anyone called Roche,” Rowland replied, thinking. “But I’ve not moved in the right circles for a while.”

  “There is that at least,” Milton muttered.

  Clyde placed a canvas on the other easel, setting out his brushes and colours in pedantic order. His technique was as neat as Rowland’s was chaotic. Working in the same studio was something of a challenge. He positioned the easel as far as possible from Rowland’s so that his own work did not get splattered with the almost violent manner in which Rowland wielded his brush.

  Milton settled in the armchair between them with a tall glass of gin. “So what now?”

  “I have to duck back to Sydney for a couple of days.” Rowland grimaced. He didn’t like abandoning his friends when they still had no clue who killed James Kelly. But it was necessary.

  “Mrs. Roche?” Milton asked, grinning.

  Rowland smiled. “No. I have to see a man about a plane.”

  “Who?”

  “Chap called Edwards. He came in on the Monterey a couple of days ago to see his aeroplane win the MacRobertson Air Race.”

  “Gotta love a confident man. But why would he give his plane to you?”

  “From what I understand, the race has already cost him a fortune… even if his plane does win. My offer might go some way towards mitigating those expenses.”

  “How much is that going to cost?” Clyde groaned. “You volunteered to fly Egon to the congress, not to underwrite the entire exercise. Look, mate, we know you want to help but we also know you’re not a Communist.”

  Rowland laughed. “You might be in the minority. I have it on good authority that they call me Red Rowly.”

  Clyde stared at him. “Red Rowly? My old mum used to make that for pudding on Sundays.”

  “That’s a jam rolly,” Milton corrected. “A Red Rowly is just as sweet but a threat to democracy nonetheless.”

  There was an unmistakable gleam of excitement in Rowland’s eyes. “Edwards’ plane is the Grosvenor House, Clyde, a de Havilland Comet—there are only three in existence. To be honest, I’d pay a fair bit just to have a chance to fly her. Getting Egon back to Melbourne in good time is a bonus.”

  “What if she doesn’t get here on time or at all?” Clyde asked. His concerns were well grounded. The MacRobertson Air Race from London to Melbourne was the longest in the world. It was understood from the outset that many craft would never make it to the finish line.

  “In that case, I’ll take Doris.”

  “The Rule Britannia!” Clyde was alarmed enough to use the aircraft’s actual name. The Gipsy Moth was not fast. She would need at least twenty-four hours flying time between Fremantle and Melbourne.

  “It’s not ideal,” Rowland conceded. “But I can carry fuel in the passenger cockpit on the way over and we’ll have tailwinds on the way back. By my estimates, it’s still faster than the train.”

  “You’d better go see Edwards.” Clyde finally abandoned his disquiet about the cost of procuring the Comet. “Doris will be pushing it. No point killing Egon in the attempt to get him there on time.”

  14

  HERE TO SEE FINISH

  OWNER OF BRITISH PLANE EXPECTS TO WIN BIG AIR RACE

  AUCKLAND, Monday

  The hope that the machine he owns will win the Centenary air race was expressed today by Mr. A. O. Edwards, managing director of Grosvenor House, London, who is on his way to Melbourne. This machine is a specially designed De Havilland Comet, and will be piloted by C. W. Scott and Captain Campbell, two of the best pilots in England. It has a guaranteed speed of 200 m.p.h. and, according to Mr. Edwards, the pilots propose to take four hour shifts during the day with shorter shifts at night.

  Daily Examiner, 2 October 1934

  Colin Delaney waved from beneath the sandstone clock tower at the University of Sydney.

  “Good to see you, Rowly,” he said as he shook the artist’s hand. “Sick of Canberra already?”

  “I’m just back for a meeting—thank you for seeing me, Col.”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry I had to drag you out here. MacKay insisted I personally check the security with respect to this poor girl. They have her here, you know.” He took a cigarette from the case in his pocket and lit it. “People filing through to see the body like it’s some kind of sideshow. Though I must say they preserved her quite successfully, if you could ever call such a ghoulish thing successful.”

  “I take it you still don’t have any idea who she is?”

  “No. There have been all sorts of claims of course, from one of Tilley’s girls to the Tsar of Russia’s youngest daughter. Nothing that holds up under scrutiny.” The cigarette glowed red as he inhaled. “I’m rather glad it’s not my case anymore. Still… poor wretch.”

  They found a hotel near the university which provided both refreshment and a modicum of privacy. Rowland told Delaney what he knew about the murder of James Kelly.

  “So the murder weapon ended up on the prime minister’s desk.” The detective scratched his chin. “Blimey! Good thing the secretary caught it… I’m not sure old Joe Lyons’ heart could have taken it.” He took a sip of his beer, licking the froth off his upper lip contentedly. “Do they know from where it was sent?”

  “I gather not… of course, Major Jones isn’t necessarily bringing me into his confidence.”

  “Yes, I suppose he wouldn’t.”

  “As far as I know, it would have had to have come from within Parliament House or the Secretariat Building.”

  “But even if the killer worked in the Secretariat Building it seems silly to take it there only to send it back.” Delaney signalled for another round of drinks. “No, I sus
pect it was sent from within the House… someone who didn’t want it to be found on them.”

  “In which case, it must have been sent immediately after the murder itself.”

  “Makes sense.” Delaney tapped the coaster as he thought. “Who would be able to get into the House after hours?”

  “All manner of people, I believe. As Ed tells me, it’s not a bank.”

  “But still, it makes it unlikely that the killer was some disgruntled husband whose wife was playing up.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Look, Rowly, I’ll see if I can find out what the various Canberra forces are up to on this and why Jones is involved. Are you sure Kelly was not a spy of some sort?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Not sure, but I’ve been told he was simply there to keep an eye on the machinations of parliament from the public gallery.”

  “But the Federal Parliament doesn’t resume for a week or so.”

  “Part of me suspects that the Communists forgot about that when they sent him. They’re more passionate than organised.”

  Colin Delaney’s face became grave. “Don’t you believe it, Rowly, old mate. And you be careful what you get involved with. If someone’s decided to kill Communists, then I think your slate might just be marked.”

  Rowland Sinclair returned to Woodlands House after leaving Delaney. If Mary Brown was surprised to see him she gave no indication. It was, after all, her duty to ensure the house was ready whenever the family chose to be there.

  Lenin, however, was not nearly so composed. One of Edna’s rescued cats also seemed pleased to see Rowland… the others ignored him entirely.

  He went through his correspondence. Again, no invitations to submit. A letter and postcard from his mother written on board the SS Marella and posted from Fremantle. She wrote that she had been able to follow the developments surrounding the identity of the Pyjama Girl via the ship’s news service. What developments, Rowland wasn’t sure. Elisabeth Sinclair wondered if the mysterious body might belong to the upstairs maid at Oaklea who vanished into thin air the year before. Rowly laughed. Far from vanishing, the girl to whom his mother referred had left Wilfred’s employ to marry the local blacksmith. Elisabeth asked to be remembered to Mr. Isaacs. The letter was addressed to Aubrey Sinclair.

  Rowland ate dinner in his studio, in the company of Lenin and a ginger cat. He was struck with how quiet and virtually lifeless Woodlands House was in the absence of his friends. He had become accustomed to the noisy good humour and calamity of them, the philosophical arguments, the easy camaraderie.

  He had barely seen Edna in the day or two before he’d left. Between them, Middleton and Mrs. Brook seemed intent on monopolising her company. Rowland missed her.

  Lenin climbed onto the couch beside him and burrowed his long nose under his master’s arm. Rowland took out his notebook and began to sketch from memory: Marjorie Curtis and her dolls, Major Jones, Thomas Ley and Jemima. Inevitably though, he returned to drawing Edna Higgins.

  Rowland stood as Albert Octavius Edwards approached the table at which he’d been waiting. The London hotelier was solidly built and stylishly attired. His dark double-breasted suit was sharply and precisely creased; a blue silk pocket handkerchief matched his tie.

  “Mr. Edwards,” Rowland offered his hand. “How d’you do, sir?”

  “Very well, Mr. Sinclair. Very well indeed.” The Englishman’s handshake was firm.

  Edwards took a seat and cast an assessing eye over the table setting. He sniffed a little derisively before shaking out the napkin himself. “I can’t bear small napkins,” he said irritably. “A napkin should be Irish linen at least sixteen inches square. Anything else is the mark of a lesser establishment.”

  They ordered from a nervous waiter. Edwards critiqued the menu and the wine list before he selected. Rowland prudently ordered the same meal as his guest.

  “So, Mr. Sinclair,” Edwards said once the first course was served. “Why is it that my airman, Scott, owes you a good turn?”

  “I met Charles Scott in the boxing ring several years ago, Mr. Edwards. We’re old friends. He doesn’t owe me anything. On the contrary, I’m now indebted to him.”

  “Yes, you are.” Edwards held up his silverware to the light before using it to taste the soup. “Scott asked me to meet with you as a personal favour. What can I do for you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I understand that funding Grosvenor House has been a rather expensive exercise, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. Even if Scott and Black win, as I’m sure they will, the endeavour will be quite the loss-making venture. A stroke of publicity genius, but financially, very unsound.”

  “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Let’s have it then, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I find myself in need of a fast and proven plane for a few days in early November. I was hoping to buy yours.”

  “What?”

  “I assume you won’t need it after the race. I’d like to purchase it.”

  “Do you have any idea how much a de Havilland Comet would cost, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I do have an idea what you paid for it, Mr. Edwards.”

  “If Grosvenor House wins the MacRobertson she’ll be worth a great deal more.”

  “And if she doesn’t, a great deal less. I’m offering you a fair price regardless of the outcome.”

  Edwards picked up his glass and drank, taking a moment to consider both the quality of the wine and the proposition before him. “I must say, Sinclair, many men would find your audacity quite outrageous. I rather like it.”

  “So you’ll sell me the plane?”

  “Only if she doesn’t win.”

  “But—”

  “In the much more likely circumstance that she does win, I’ll lend her to you for an appropriate compensation.”

  Rowland stopped, surprised. It was a reasonable solution. And so they negotiated a price with the genteel civility one would expect of gentlemen.

  “Can you fly a plane, Mr. Sinclair? The Comet is not your standard pleasure craft.”

  “I’ve acquired my aviator’s licence. Kingsford Smith taught me to fly. And Charles tells me he’s willing to familiarise me with the instruments of the Grosvenor House after the victory party.”

  Edwards wiped his mouth with the offending napkin. “I suspect taking instruction from Mr. Scott after a victory party would not be conducive to the health of either yourself or my plane… and waiting for him to sober up may take a while. Best he show you as soon as he lands. Can you be at Flemington for the finish?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you’re not planning to do anything illegal with my Comet, are you?”

  “No, sir, nothing illegal.”

  “Then as our American cousins would say, Mr. Sinclair, we have a deal.”

  Milton Isaacs and Edna Higgins were shown into the office of the newly appointed Minister for Interior Affairs. The fact that he had an office was indicative of the Member for Wentworth’s senior position in the government. Most representatives had only their respective Party rooms in which to meet constituents.

  The Honourable Eric Harrison was not especially happy about the intrusion; he had a great deal to attend to without losing time having impromptu cups of tea with constituents on some kind of grand tour of the capital. Still, one did not snub the Sinclairs. He exhaled and put on his hustings face. It was a necessity of democracy.

  Milton felt a little underdressed for the meeting. On Clyde’s insistence he had donned one of Rowland’s suits—well cut, but entirely unremarkable, a strait jacket of conservative conventionalism. It was undeniably the uniform of admittance to the capitalist establishment, bespoke, expensively tailored from the finest British fabric. Still, it was almost unbearably dull.

  In truth, Milton had not expected his slightly duplicitous request for an audience with his local representative to be met. He had telephoned for an appointment more in jest than anything else. But as he was not
a man to waste an opportunity to advocate for social justice, he had prepared a list of concerns, and what amounted to a treatise on their solution for discussion with the Honourable Eric Harrison. Clyde and Edna had tossed a coin to see who would accompany him. The sculptress had lost.

  Silently, the poet sized up the politician. Once a stalwart of the short-lived All for Australia League, Harrison had been collected in a harvest of transitory right-wing parties which, along with a sprinkling of disaffected Labor men, made up the conservative United Australia Party. He bore the air of a man who knew his political star was on the rise and thought it not before time.

  Shown into the small office, they took the chairs to which they were directed.

  “Thank you kindly for taking the time to see us, Mr. Harrison,” Edna leant forward and placed her hand on his desk.

  “A pleasure, Miss… Higgins. Though I can’t imagine what an attractive young lady like yourself would find to interest her in politics.”

  “In politics, nothing, Mr. Harrison. In democracy, a great deal.”

  “I see.” Harrison cleared his throat and looked to Milton. “I understand you have some concerns, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Isaacs,” Milton corrected. “Elias Isaacs. Mr. Sinclair was called away unexpectedly. I’ve come in his stead.”

  “As his representative?”

  “Not at all. As his fellow constituent. Since you had put aside this time to meet with a constituent, I assumed it wouldn’t matter which constituent that was.” Milton’s smile was wide-eyed innocence itself.

  Harrison glared at him. “This is a little irregular but since you are here, what can I do for you, Mr… Isaacs, was it?”

  Milton nodded, taking a sheaf of papers from his inside breast pocket. “I have a number of concerns for the Commonwealth Government. First and foremost, I must most strenuously complain about the folly that was the Ottawa Agreement. Clearly, since our Imperial masters do not feel at contractual liberty to trade favourably with the Dominions, it was a farce from the first. What on earth did you people think you were doing signing us up to such a ridiculous folly?”

  Harrison’s mouth moved silently, stuttered, and finally blustered a somewhat coherent if feeble defence.