A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “Mr. Watson Jones! What exactly are you doing here?” Meggit and Brown strode towards him.

  “Mr. Sinclair wondered if his assailants might have dropped something.” Clyde continued scanning the footpath. “He’s not in any condition to search himself, so I came in his stead.”

  “We’d thank both you and Mr. Sinclair to leave any investigation to the proper authorities.”

  “Well since you’re here, perhaps we could all look.”

  “What exactly is your relationship to Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Watson Jones?” Brown asked.

  “I’m his… motor mechanic.”

  “Not many men travel with their mechanics. It’s a little unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Mr. Sinclair is very attached to his automobile.”

  “I see. Did you and Mr. Sinclair have a falling out recently?”

  “Me and Rowly—no—of course not.”

  Brown read from his notebook. “The concierge saw Mr. Sinclair leave at precisely twenty past five this morning. He noticed the time because it was remarkably early to be seeing a guest up and about. According to him, Mr. Sinclair seemed distracted and in a hurry. Then he claims to have seen you leave the hotel no more than ten minutes later. You were, according to him, running. The concierge saw no one else.”

  Clyde took a step back. “Surely you don’t think…”

  “We’ve no evidence to substantiate the existence of the three men Mr. Sinclair claims attacked him. It would not be the first time that a disagreement between a gentleman and his… mechanic… became overheated.”

  “Surely Rowly might have thought to mention it, if I’d stabbed him.”

  “Perhaps he might have if we’d interviewed him without you present. Or perhaps he was genuinely trying to cover for his… mechanic.”

  Clyde was a little disturbed by the manner in which Brown seemed to pause before saying the word mechanic. “Mr. Sinclair and I sent for the police—that seems like a funny way to cover up a crime.”

  “Our records suggest that the concierge telephoned the station, sir.”

  “Why would I be here looking for evidence?” Clyde persisted in trying to make them see reason.

  “Perhaps you’re here making sure that there is no evidence.”

  Clyde’s temper flared. “This is flaming absurd!” He pointed at Meggit. “First you have some ridiculous notion about criminal hotel personnel and then you—” He turned his gaze to Brown “—decide to trump him with an even more ludicrous theory that I overpowered and stabbed my best friend because we argued!”

  “What exactly was the nature of this argument?” Brown asked, unperturbed by Clyde’s tirade.

  “There was no argument,” Clyde said wearily. “Now if you’re quite finished gentlemen… since you are both here, I’m a little concerned that Mr. Sinclair, in his impaired state, is alone in his hotel room with a mob of assassins on the loose!”

  The door into the suite was still locked. Clyde let himself in. He was aware that storming away from the officers as he had might have made him look guilty of something, but it was better than being guilty of assaulting an idiot policeman. At least they hadn’t arrested him.

  Rowland startled awake as he entered. “Clyde…”

  “You should be lying down, Rowly,” Clyde muttered as Rowland shifted painfully in the armchair. “And you should probably eat something too, replace the blood you lost. I might see if they have stout.”

  Rowland ignored his concern. “Did you find the knife?”

  “No, but I did run into Constables Meggit and Brown inspecting the scene as it were.”

  “Oh, did Meggit find his crooked concierge?”

  “No, their latest theory is that I stabbed you in some kind of tiff.”

  Rowland bolted upright, then fell back suppressing a curse. “What?” he said weakly.

  Clyde explained the constables’ thinking.

  Rowland laughed, regretting it as he did so. He winced. “You said you were my mechanic? Clyde old man, I’m afraid that sounds like some kind of appalling euphemism.”

  Now Clyde paled. “How’s your side?” he asked, desperate to get his mind off what exactly the constables might have assumed. “It hasn’t started bleeding again, has it?”

  “It hurts like the blazes, but whatever Featherstone did it seems to be holding.”

  “Well you look like death warmed up. And we need to get you well enough to fly the Comet in a week.”

  “I’m on the mend.”

  “Doesn’t look that way. Go lie down, Rowly. I’ll book a call through to Delaney and let him know the latest. Maybe Major Jones has made some progress. And then we’ll work out what we’re going to do.”

  True to his word, Clyde telephoned Central Police Station in Sydney and spoke with Colin Delaney who had returned from Canberra just the day before. Concerned, the detective advised them to come back to Sydney.

  “We can’t for a few days, Colin.”

  “Why not?”

  “You probably shouldn’t ask.”

  “What are you and Rowly up to, Clyde?”

  Clyde didn’t respond.

  Delaney cursed. “At least you’re with him rather than Milton. God knows what trouble he could get into with Isaacs.”

  Clyde booked another trunk call through to Woodlands House. When he was eventually connected, he told Edna everything—from Jemima Roche and her scheming to Thomas Ley, and finally the assault on Rowland.

  Edna was, as he expected, distressed by the news. “Are you sure Rowly is all right, Clyde? You know how he is…”

  “Dr. Featherstone is coming back this evening, Ed. If Rowly’s condition is any worse I’ll take him to the hospital whether he likes it or not.”

  “Is he taking it easy? How’s his colour? Is he in much pain?”

  “Steady on, Ed,” Clyde said calmly into her panic. “He’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.”

  Edna took a deep breath and then said quietly, “Were the photographs in the paper?”

  “The paper—Good Lord, we forgot all about that!”

  “Is he terribly sad, Clyde?”

  “About what?”

  “Mrs. Roche.”

  “Not terribly. This was just a bit of a fling, Ed.”

  “He asked her to marry him.”

  “Only because he had to.”

  “It’s not the first time. He’s proposed before.”

  “You know, Rowly… he probably thought it impolite not too.” Clyde sighed. “Look, Ed, I’m pretty sure it’s not his broken heart that’s causing him the most pain.”

  “Oh God, poor Rowly, just stay with him… please… just in case.”

  Clyde reassured her that he would. “How’s Milt?”

  “Much better. Leaping about on crutches. Mary’s spoiling him rotten.”

  “Mary?” Clyde was surprised. Mary Brown had always appeared to regard Milton as some thieving, drunken tramp whom Rowland had brought home as an exotic house pet.

  “I don’t understand it either,” Edna confessed. “Perhaps Mary feels sorry for him. She’s never been this nice to Rowly.”

  “Perhaps we should all throw ourselves in front of speeding cars.”

  The sculptress’ voice became thick and strained. “You will be careful won’t you, Clyde? They might have killed Rowly if you hadn’t arrived.”

  “We’ll be careful, Ed. I promise.”

  Clyde hung up. He stood tapping his fingers pensively against the receiver. Edna was rarely spooked. The very fact she was made him uneasy too. He debated with himself over the next call. Still unsure, he looked in on Rowland, relieved that his friend was finally asleep. Though he appeared to be resting normally, Rowland seemed pale. Clyde supposed being stabbed would do that.

  Clyde returned to the sitting room and picked up the telephone once more. He called through to Oaklea. Wilfred Sinclair was in a hurry, late for a meeting in Canberra, and he was surprised to receive a call from Clyde Watson Jones. While Wilfred’s opinion of
his brother’s Bolshevik unemployed friends had mellowed somewhat, he rarely engaged directly with any of them.

  “Mr. Watson Jones, what can I do for you?”

  Suddenly Clyde wasn’t sure where to begin. “I’m in Melbourne with Rowly, sir.”

  “Is this about the Truth debacle?” Wilfred asked irritably. “I was assured the article would not run.”

  “To be honest, sir, we haven’t seen the paper.”

  “What’s going on, Mr. Watson Jones? Where’s Rowly?”

  Clyde told him then what had happened that morning.

  “Why is my brother not in a hospital?” Wilfred roared.

  “The hotel doctor patched him up, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “He didn’t graze his knee—he was stabbed!”

  “Rowly’s certain he’ll be fine, sir. He doesn’t want to go to hospital.”

  “Oh for the love of God!” Wilfred said, exasperated. “I’m assuming, Mr. Watson Jones, that you are able to drive that hideous new automobile of his.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then put him in it and drive up to Yass. I’ll make sure he gets the medical care he needs.”

  “I’m afraid Rowly won’t do that, sir.”

  “Why not? The bloody air race is over!” Wilfred paused. “Why exactly is my brother in Melbourne?”

  By now Clyde heartily regretted his decision to telephone Wilfred. “He came for the air race, sir… and now I’m not sure he’s fit to travel.”

  “You said he wasn’t in danger.”

  “He’s not,” Clyde was getting flustered now. “The doctor’s prescribed bed rest and Rowly’s a bit tender… a long car trip might be too much.”

  Wilfred cursed. “Where is Rowly now?”

  “He’s sleeping—he lost a fair bit of blood.”

  “Instruct him to telephone me here at Oaklea as soon as he’s fit to do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you for informing me, Mr. Watson Jones. I’m genuinely comforted by the knowledge that he’s with you and not that long-haired buffoon!”

  When Rowland finally woke, Clyde insisted he eat. To this end, Clyde ordered Scotch broth and chocolate cake from the hotel kitchen. Rowland regarded the tray, amused. It seemed like an odd combination.

  “My old mum used to say that red meat was good for the blood,” Clyde explained.

  “But broth?”

  “Mum would make broth whenever we were poorly.”

  “I see.” Rowland didn’t really think he was unwell enough to warrant broth, but he knew better than to question the wisdom of Clyde’s mother. “And the cake?”

  “I like cake. I tested them both. I think they’re all right.”

  “For salt?” Rowland asked, confused.

  “For poison.”

  Rowland grinned. “Clyde—”

  “If someone in the hotel is involved in this, they could well decide that adding strychnine to your soup would finish the job.”

  “I’d better eat it then since you’ve risked life and limb to check it.”

  “How are you feeling, Rowly?” Clyde cut into the steak and kidney pie he’d ordered for himself.

  Rowland began with the cake. “A bit battered,” he admitted, “but not bad considering.” He pulled aside his shirt and looked down at the site of the wound. A penny-sized spot of blood had penetrated the gauze but it was not widening. “I don’t think it’s started bleeding again. I’ll be flying fit in a few days.”

  “I telephoned Wilfred,” Clyde said quickly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “I thought I should let him know about this morning. He’s your brother after all…”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’d like you to telephone him as soon as you’re able. He seems a little concerned about what you’re doing here.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “I’m not a bloody fool.”

  “Sorry—of course.” Rowland rubbed a hand through his hair. “If Wil suspects what we are doing, he’ll jolly well find a way to make sure we never take off.”

  “Does he know Egon is coming?”

  “Bruce does, so I expect he’s shared that information with Wil.”

  Clyde sighed. “Eat. You can deal with Wilfred later.”

  Rowland polished off the cake and then began on the broth. It was not as bad as he’d feared. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Truth today?”

  “Actually curiosity got the better of me and I sent one of the bellboys out for it after I spoke with Wilfred. I don’t know what your brother did, Rowly, but there’s nothing about you or Mrs. Roche—not yet anyway.”

  “Well that’s something, at least.”

  Anticipating a lecture demanding he go to hospital, Rowland waited until after Featherstone had visited that evening to telephone Wilfred. As the physician had expressed relief that he had not died, Rowland was able to report quite truthfully that the doctor was pleased with his condition, and slightly less truthfully that a hospital would be a laughable overreaction. He tried to keep the conversation light, telling Wilfred about Melbourne’s preparations for the Duke of Gloucester. “There’s a fortune to be made in bunting and flags, Wil. We should think about diversifying.”

  “Have the police any clue as to who stabbed you, Rowly?” Wilfred ignored his brother’s attempt to change the subject. He could in any case hear the strain in Rowland’s voice.

  Rowland told him about the attending constable’s theory of a gang of thugs connected to the hotel somehow, and, as an afterthought, the newfound suspicion of Clyde. Wilfred also thought that absurd. “That Isaacs fellow, perhaps—but not Mr. Watson Jones. Exactly which of your enemies do you think might have done this, Rowly?”

  “I do wonder about Thomas Ley.”

  “Why would he want to kill you?”

  “He was a little upset with me when we last parted.” Rowland recounted his most recent meeting with Ley, and the manner in which it ended. To his surprise, Wilfred did not chastise him for punching the erstwhile politician.

  “It’s possible,” he said instead. “From what I understand Thomas Ley is a particularly dangerous man to cross.”

  “It could also be the same mob who murdered Jim Kelly and ran Milt down,” Rowland ventured tentatively.

  “You keep telling me you’re not a Communist,” Wilfred said tersely.

  “Clearly the message is not getting out.”

  “For pity’s sake, Rowly…”

  “What can I tell you, Wil? Some people may well have decided my politics by the company I keep.”

  “There are more Communists in this country than I care to contemplate, Rowly. Why is it that you and your friends are the ones they want to kill?”

  “Kelly wasn’t a friend, but you do raise a good point,” Rowland said thoughtfully. “Who would want to kill Milt and me in particular? Perhaps looking at that might help us find them.”

  “Ethel mentioned you were buying another aeroplane.” Wilfred’s question was anything but casual.

  “That was just a whim, Wil. The excitement of the air race, you know… made me want a fast bird.”

  “So you didn’t buy an aircraft?”

  “No, of course not.” Somehow, even over the telephone line, Rowland felt his brother’s scrutiny. He wondered if Wilfred could tell he was leaving something unsaid.

  “I want you to recuperate at Oaklea. We’ll have to return to Melbourne for the dedication, but you’ll be able to convalesce here first.”

  Melbourne’s Shrine of Remembrance was to be dedicated by the Duke of Gloucester on Armistice Day. Wilfred would attend in various official capacities as well as that of a decorated veteran. The National Congress of the Movement Against War and Fascism had been intentionally scheduled for the same day, to urge the public to consider the cause against conflict when the generation the country had lost was at the forefront of people’s thoughts.

  “You will be attending the dedication.” Wilfred read into his brother�
��s silence.

  “Of course.” Rowland elected to respond as if Wilfred had asked a question.

  “Rowly, I hardly need to remind you that our brother fell in the Great War; that he died for this country. Whatever else you’re planning, you will be at the dedication. Do you understand me?”

  “Bloody hell, I’m not a child!” Rowland bit his lip against a sudden awareness of pain. He tried to resist the rise of blood which seemed to compromise his ability to deal with the constant sharp ache where the blade had pierced.

  “I won’t have you disrespect Aubrey’s memory!” Wilfred barked.

  Rowland spoke slowly. “Aubrey was my brother too, Wil. For God’s sake, I still miss him.” He stopped to catch his breath. “You don’t have to order me to attend the dedication! I’ll be there.”

  “Come back to Oaklea, Rowly. We’ll attend the dedication together. I’m sure Aubrey would have liked that.” Wilfred’s voice was conciliatory but wary.

  Rowland closed his eyes as he wondered what Aubrey would have thought of what he was doing. “I’m not sure I’m up to a long car trip, Wil.”

  “What are you up to, Rowly?”

  “Not a great deal… I’m under doctor’s orders to move as little as possible.”

  “Well, see that you do just that!”

  26

  CRAMP

  The best immediate remedy for cramp is friction with the hand or, better still, with the soap, chloroform, or opium liniment. Any disorder of the digestive organs ought, of course, to be attended to. Some persons find relief to the immediate attack of cramp by tying a band of some kind tightly round the limb, between the affected part and the body, while others are in the habit of standing upon some cold substance. The first process is perfectly safe, and may be tried; the second certainly is often effective, but is not devoid of danger. Active friction is quite the best temporary remedy.

  Warialda Standard and Northern Districts’ Advertiser, 26 February 1934