“The forward view is very poor—absent really,” Scott advised. “You’ll have to weave slightly to actually see where you’re going.”
“The port engine was seizing so we throttled it down,” Black told him. “The engines are easy to synchronise but if you happen to raise her tail too quickly on takeoff she’ll swing hard to the right.”
“Take her for a taxi if you get a chance,” Scott said. He glanced behind him. Two de Havilland D60 Moths were being readied to fly them back to Flemington for the official public reception. “Tom and I have to go make speeches.” He shook Rowland’s hand. “Good luck, old bean. Give me a call if you need me to take her through her paces with you. I’d be happy to lend a hand if I’m not too drunk.”
Melbourne was a city in multiple celebration. It was one hundred years old; the Great Air had been won; and soon they would welcome the Duke of Gloucester. Between them, Scott and Black and Prince Henry had pushed the as yet unidentified Pyjama Girl out of the headlines. Rowland returned to the hotel in Collins Street each evening in an excellent temper.
As Scott suggested, Rowland had taken the Grosvenor House out, familiarising himself with her peculiarities while taxiing about the Laverton aerodrome. The cockpit was snug for a man his height, but it was not an unreasonable discomfort. His infatuation with aircraft was now at a point that he probably would have flown her if the cockpit had been half the space.
He had settled in to spend that evening absorbing the Comet’s flight manual, when the telephone call from reception came through.
“There’s a Mrs. Jemima Roche to see you, sir. Shall I send her up?” The manager’s tone made it clear that sending unchaperoned ladies up to a single gentleman’s suite was not hotel policy.
Rowland hesitated. “No, I’ll come down. Thank you.” In all the excitement, he had forgotten that Jemima was in Melbourne. He paused only to pull on his jacket and rebutton his waistcoat before heading down to reception.
She met him on the landing between the first and second floors.
“Rowly!” Jemima threw herself into his arms. The feather boa draped across her shoulders slipped to the floor revealing the low cut of a beaded bodice. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for simply ages.” Rising onto the tips of her toes, she whispered into his ear, “That officious chap at the desk told me I wasn’t allowed to come up and surprise you.”
Rowland picked up the boa. “Hello, Jem. What are you doing here?”
“What kind of question is that?” She stood back and crossed her arms indignantly. “I tell you I’m simply dying of boredom and you sneak away to Melbourne without me!”
He smiled. “I believe you got here before me.”
“Well yes, technically,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Bertie Middleton telephoned me at Grandmama’s to inform me that you were planning to go to Melbourne, and Emily was going for the centenary celebrations, so I thought, why not!”
“How helpful of Middleton.”
“I can only assume your Miss Higgins mentioned your plans to him. And, of course, Bertie has his own reasons to throw me in your path.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, Bertie has a notion that if you were spoken for, then he would be allowed to speak for Miss Higgins.”
“I see.” Rowland suppressed a rise of ire at Middleton’s presumption, and at Middleton more generally.
“Bertie mentioned you assaulted him like a common hooligan.” Jemima ran her finger along his jawline. “Who knew you could be such a brute!”
At that moment Rowland would have quite liked to punch Middleton again.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Jemima seemed suddenly unsure of herself.
Rowland smiled, forgetting about Middleton. “Of course I am. I’m delighted. Just a little surprised.” He kissed her hand. “How did you know where I was staying?”
“Tommy Ley made some enquiries for me.”
Her mention of Ley reminded Rowland that he was yet to talk to Jemima about the former politician’s dubious past. “We should step out for supper, I think.”
Jemima’s eyes sparkled. “Shall we go dancing?”
“If you’d like.”
“I’ll wait while you change,” Jemima said pointedly. “You do have a dinner suit here, don’t you?”
Parer’s Crystal Café on Bourke Street had for decades enjoyed a reputation as one of Melbourne’s premier restaurants. The venue was lavishly and elegantly furnished in a distinctly European style. Gilt-framed mirrors, Spanish chandeliers and fountains all contributed to the hotel’s exotic style.
The maître d’ greeted Jemima Roche by name and with compliments. He took their coats to the cloakroom, before escorting them to a table draped with white linen and set with embossed silverware.
They ordered dinner and took a turn on the dance floor while they waited for the first course to arrive.
“Whatever possessed you to go to Canberra, Rowly?” Jemima asked as they stepped into a waltz. “It seems a strange, dull place to holiday.”
“I don’t know—it was quite interesting in the end.”
“Only because you found a corpse!”
Rowland’s brow rose.
“Tommy Ley told me,” she added when she saw the question in his eyes. “He says the police suspected Mr. Isaacs for a while… before someone tried to kill him too.”
“Mr. Ley is well informed,” he said. “But that’s not the reason I found Canberra agreeable.”
She smiled. “Well I am glad to hear that. I told you it would do us both good.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Do you think you could fall in love with me again, Rowly?”
Startled, Rowland said nothing for a moment. There was an underlying vulnerability in the question that Jemima rarely allowed anyone to see. “Do you want me to?”
“Not really.” She was coy confidence again. “I just like to know that you could.”
He laughed. “Yes, then, I could. In fact I might be.”
“Come on,” she led him off the dance floor. “I’m famished.”
Over an elegant supper they talked of the many things they’d missed when their lives moved apart. Jemima ordered champagne and insisted he drink the greater portion.
“A lady should not be more drunk than her gentleman,” she declared. “That would be positively common!”
In a mood to celebrate his procurement of the Comet, Rowland obliged. Jemima asked about the swastika-shaped scar she’d seen when he made love to her by the rockpool. He told her about Germany and London, of what had happened to him and how he’d escaped and how he’d changed. Tentatively he broached the subject of Thomas Ley’s dubious past. On that score, she would not hear him.
“Good Lord, Rowly, that’s just idle gossip. Tommy was a politician. According to rumour they’re all philandering drunkards.”
“True, but not often murderers.”
“Who told you this nonsense?”
“Jem—”
“You told me yourself that you’ve been suspected of murder too. Should I be worried you’ll stab me with your fish knife?”
“I just want you to be careful.”
“Thomas Ley has been nothing but kind to me!” she said fiercely. “And he’s an excellent solicitor!”
Despite himself, Rowland smiled slightly. He remembered Jemima as ferociously protective.
Jemima saw the smile; she guessed the memory in his eyes and her face softened. “You’re thinking about that day at the Crookwell polo match, aren’t you? When your father was being absolutely beastly to you.” She laughed. “The look on his face when I told him what an ogre he was! He stormed off in a terrible huff.”
Rowland winced. “Yes, you were—”
“Your knight in shining armour! Don’t you dare say I wasn’t!”
“No, I wouldn’t dare.” He studied her face. It was beautiful. There was a strength to the set of her jaw, a determination, but once or twice he’d seen a fleeting shadow of despera
tion cross it.
“Whatever happened to this chap you married, Jem? How did he die?”
She stared at him, her eyes widening, before they filled with hot tears. “Damn you, Rowly! Why would you bring that up?”
Startled, he handed her his handkerchief. “Jem, I’m sorry.”
“I loved him in the beginning, Rowly. I didn’t in the end… but that doesn’t make it easier.”
He grabbed her hand across the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…
I won’t ask you about him again.”
She took a deep breath and told him about the West Australian businessman she’d married, a man who’d squandered everything they’d owned and who turned out to be unkind and cruel.
Rowland tensed, remembering Jemima’s allusion that her husband had been more like his father than hers. He pressed her hand. “Dammit, Jem, I wish I’d been there to help.”
“You’re here now,” she said quietly.
Rowland locked the door behind him. The premier suite on an upper floor of the Windsor Hotel overlooked Spring Street. He and Jemima had walked from Parer’s after an evening that had extended into the early hours with champagne and dancing. Rowland had, of course, intended simply to see her safely to her hotel and return to the Federal, but by the time they’d arrived at her door, less noble impulses had won the day.
If Rowland had stopped to examine his involvement with Jemima Roche, it might have concerned him that his most passionate feelings about her were nostalgic. But he didn’t stop. He allowed her to lead him into the bedroom, and he accepted when she invited him into her bed.
Whether it was the champagne, their past, or just a present desire for one another, they were lovers that night. When finally, they lay spent in each other’s arms, Jemima laughed softly. “It’s fortunate you already have a reputation as a rake, Mr. Sinclair. I don’t want to be the woman that destroyed your good name.”
“Rest assured, Jem,” Rowland said drowsily, “my good name was destroyed long ago.”
Almost asleep, he did not notice the relief in her eyes.
In the morning they woke as friends, enjoying each other but without the awkwardness or the excitement of new discovery.
“I really should be on my way,” Rowland said, kissing her gently as he climbed out of bed. “I’m meeting Clyde’s train and I’d rather not do it in the same clothes I was wearing last night.”
“But you look so handsome in a dinner suit.”
“Clyde has less formal tastes.”
“Are you afraid he’ll tell Miss Higgins?”
Rowland laughed. “Not at all.”
Jemima clasped her arms around her knees as she watched him step into his trousers. “Why have you not made an honest woman of Miss Higgins, Rowly?”
Rowland continued dressing. “Ed isn’t interested in being made honest.”
“You know what I mean. Why on earth do you allow that girl to get about with Bertie? Declare yourself, Rowly! Demand that she have you!”
Rowland didn’t deny his feelings, as awkward as it was discussing them with the woman with whom he’d just spent the night. “That wouldn’t be the way to win Ed.”
Jemima sighed. “Stay and take breakfast with me. You must. Anything else would be bloody ungentlemanly!”
“That’s hardly language for a lady, Jem.” Rowland pulled on his shirt. He smiled. “Yes. Of course.”
Jemima reached over and kissed him. “Good, there’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ll have them send something up. What would you like?”
“Just coffee,” Rowland replied, preoccupied with finding his studs and tie.
She telephoned to order a Continental breakfast for herself and “a pot of coffee for Mr. Sinclair”.
If it had been anybody other than Jemima, Rowland might have wondered at the lack of discretion in the request. He got dressed while she languished naked on the bed, chatting nervously about this and that in a manner that piqued Rowland’s curiosity about what it was she really wanted to talk about. He asked her as much.
“There’s something I have to confess.”
“I would have thought it fairly clear that I’m not a priest, Jem.”
“Stop it. This is not funny.”
“Sorry, Jem, I am listening.”
“I can’t be serious when I’m naked. Pass me the dressing gown in the bathroom, will you?”
Rowland took the Chinese silk robe from the hook beside the bathtub. There was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be the girl with breakfast. Will you let her in, Rowly?”
Rowland tossed Jemima her robe and walked through the sitting room to collect the tray. An explosion of light blinded him as soon as he opened the door. As he blanched, the door was shoved hard against him and two men burst into the suite. Jemima screamed. More flashes. Rowland grabbed one of the intruders. The other ran at him, slamming him against the wall and kneeing him in the ribs for good measure; another flash and they were gone.
Rowland cursed moving immediately to check on Jemima as he tried to blink the dazzle out of his eyes. “Jem, are you all right?”
She pulled the robe more tightly closed. “Yes… they were taking photographs.”
Rowland stopped. “What? Why?”
“Well how the hell would I know, Rowly?”
“Yes… I’m sorry.” Rowland locked the door to the suite.
Jemima sat down on the bed, pale. “They were from the newspapers,” she whispered. “My God, Grandmama…”
Rowland slammed his fist against the wall as the full horror of the intrusion dawned. Publications like The Melbourne Truth specialised in exposing adulterers in flagrante, ruining people to titillate the masses. But neither he nor Jemima was married. “There must be some mix-up, Jem.”
Jemima swallowed. “Mix-up?”
Rowland tried to remain calm, though he was furious. “A bachelor and a widowed lady behaving unchastely is probably not scandalous enough to warrant this—”
“You’d better go now, Rowly.”
“Jem, I’m sorry. I had no idea who was outside the door.”
She shook her head, her hands trembled uncontrollably. “You’d best go now.”
Rowland didn’t question her anger, her panic. His reputation had long since been compromised, though not quite in this way… and in any case, he was a man. It would be Jemima Roche upon whom the public scorn would be heaped. “I’ll speak to Wil—get him to throw our solicitors at this…”
“No, don’t you dare!” Jemima stuttered. “I don’t want Wilfred to know… this is too awful. Just go, Rowly.”
“Jem… please.”
She turned her back on him. “I’ll talk to Tommy. Get out of here, Rowly, before you make it worse.”
“You know where to reach me…” he said, unsure now of what to do.
“Goodbye, Rowly.”
23
SHOCK FOR WIFE
Private Detective Was Old Friend
(From “Truth’s” Canberra Rep)
WHEN Mrs. Florence Merle Ginn was a friend of Henry Joseph Dykes, an inquiry agent, she little thought that later he would find her in Centennial Park in the arms of a man who was not her husband. But that this had occurred was disclosed at the hearing of the petition for divorce of William John Ginn from his wife, Justice Dethridge presiding, in the Queanbeyan Supreme Court last week. Leon Pezet, of Bondi, was named as co-respondent.
Ginn stated he was 28 and was married at Canberra on October 26, 1933, to Florence Merle Williams. After marriage they went to Cooma, but something occurred there that aroused his curiosity and a disagreement with his wife followed. She returned to Sydney and he employed Dykes to watch for developments.
Having received a letter he came to the city, and there one night with Dykes he saw Pezet and his wife leave a house in Anglesey Street, Bondi, and go to Centennial Park.
They followed and found his wife lying under a tree with Pezet. Dykes, giving evidence, said he knew Mrs. Ginn bef
ore her marriage. When he and the husband found her and Pezet under the tree, Mrs. Ginn said to Dykes, “I didn’t think you’d do a thing like this. I thought you were a friend of the family.” Dykes said he replied, “I didn’t think you would either, and I wouldn’t have believed it only I saw it with my own eyes.”
Justice Dethridge: I find the adultery proved and grant a decree nisi, returnable in one month on the assurance that respondent and co-respondent desire to marry as soon as possible.
Truth, 20 October 1935
“I appreciate the effort, Rowly, but now I feel decidedly underdressed.” Clyde shook his friend’s hand warmly as he met him on the platform. He noted the slightly dishevelled state of Rowland’s dinner suit. Another all-night victory party no doubt. “I expect you’ve been celebrating with Scott.”
“Not quite,” Rowland replied.
Clyde’s smile faded as he detected a note of despondency in Rowland’s voice. “What’s happened? Is there a problem with the Comet?”
“No. The Grosvenor House will be ready to go as soon as she’s serviced.”
“Then what?”
The whine and chug of trains approaching and departing the platform made any conversation challenging, and this was not something Rowland wished to discuss in a public place. He led Clyde out to the Airflow and recounted the events of the last day in the privacy of the vehicle’s cabin.
“I assume they were from the Truth. Unless I can do something to stop it, Jemima and I will be in the headlines tomorrow.”
Clyde groaned. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the flaming saints! Whenever I begin to think my love life is a disaster, you come along and show me that it could be a whole lot worse.”
Rowland dropped his head onto the steering wheel. “What am I going to do, Clyde? This will destroy Jem, humiliate her publicly. God, what was I thinking?”
Clyde pressed Rowland’s shoulder. There was not a lot one could say. This was one helluva dog’s breakfast. But there was a solution. So drastic that he felt like a heel even offering it. “You could, of course, marry her.”
“What?”
A Dangerous Language Page 20
