“I’m not going alone.”
Wilfred motioned toward Milton and Clyde and they, too, were released. “We don’t want them here, anyway. Now go, all of you.”
Rowland nodded. He grabbed Edna’s hand and Wilfred walked with them to the car. The crowd stood back, their certainty in their cause undermined by the presence of Wilfred Sinclair. Wilfred waited until the engine kicked over before he leant toward Rowland and whispered, “You wait for me at the Gunning Cemetery. Now, for God’s sake, go!”
Rowland said nothing…Wilfred was beginning to scare him.
Gunning was a small, unremarkable settlement, more a hub for the surrounding farms than a centre in its own right. The main street was deserted when they drove in, a couple of carts and an Oldsmobile parked by the post office. Rowland wondered whether all the good men of Gunning had gone to hear Charles Hardy speaking in Yass. They stopped only to refuel the Mercedes, and then drove out to the cemetery, parking under the shade of a large plane tree.
“Are you sure you want to wait, Rowly?” Clyde was worried. “We could just head straight home to Sydney. Wilfred looked pretty wild.”
“I’m not afraid of Wil,” Rowland rubbed the dust off the mascot of his car with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Perhaps you should be.”
“Bugger Wil! Bugger him and his flaming lynch mob!” Milton shouted, taking off his once-cream jacket, now caked in fine Murrumbidgee mud.
“Don’t be stupid, Milt,” Edna snapped. “If it wasn’t for Wilfred, they might have shot the three of you. Why can’t you just learn to keep your mouth shut?”
“Last I heard we lived in a democracy.” Milton snarled back at her. “No one expects Campbell or his Fascist cronies to keep their mouths shut, so why should we?”
“Because you might have got Rowly and Clyde killed. Don’t you care about that?”
Before Milton could argue further, Wilfred’s black Rolls-Royce pulled up, and he stepped out. Rowland could see McWilliamson and Maguire still inside the car.
Wilfred tipped his hat to Edna. “Miss Higgins.”
“Mr. Sinclair.” Edna looked at him openly, sincerely. “Thank you.”
He nodded slightly. “Unnecessary. Rowly come with me.” He turned and walked into the cemetery. Rowland followed.
Wilfred took them far enough to afford some level of privacy and then he turned on his brother, delivering a furious tirade as they stood among the headstones of Gunning’s deceased. “You would do bloody well to remember that if the Communists get their way, we will lose everything and your arty hangers-on won’t have any Woodlands House or Sinclair fortune to sponge on. You’ve always been irresponsible, Rowly—spoiled. Everything’s been handed to you, and yet you will do nothing to hold on to it. You don’t know the meaning of sacrifice. In your selfish headlong pursuit of your own pleasure, you’re determined to undo what has been achieved by better men!”
Wilfred stepped closer, his voice shaking with unmitigated anger. “What the blazes do I have to do to get through to you?”
Rowland had taken Wilfred’s dressing down in stony silence; but by now his own fury had grown to match his brother’s. “Go to hell, Wil. If you want to play tin soldiers, carry on, but don’t expect me to sit calmly by.”
Wilfred hit him, hard, and Rowland fell back against a headstone, too surprised to react.
Wilfred, too, seemed startled by his own action, and then embarrassed. He was not a man normally given to impulse, whatever the provocation. He offered Rowland his hand and helped him to his feet.
“Rowly,” he said, “you’re my brother, but I have responsibilities to more than just you. I can’t do what I need to if you’re running around making me look like a fool.”
Rowland wiped the blood from his lip. “Milt’s a mate, Wil. You didn’t really expect me to just leave him, did you?”
Wilfred took off his bifocals and polished them with a handkerchief. “I suppose not.” He looked up. “You’ll have to go now. You can’t come back here—for a long time, I imagine—though I don’t suppose that will distress you greatly. It will be hard on Mother, though.”
That reproach stung. “Look, maybe I could…”
Wilfred shook his head. “Just get in that…motorcar and go back to Sydney. I’ll sort things out here. If I can.” He met Rowland’s eye. “Stay out of this, Rowly. Do you hear me? If you can’t stand with me, at least don’t stand against me. I wouldn’t want to have to shoot you.”
Rowland hoped his brother was joking, but there was no smile in Wilfred’s words.
“I’ll have your things put on the train,” Wilfred continued as they began to walk back to the cars.
Rowland nodded. “Thank you, Wil.”
Wilfred sighed. “You can thank me by staying out of trouble.” They returned to the plane tree and, with no further farewell, Wilfred’s Rolls soon pulled away.
Rowland sat under the tree and rubbed his face. Edna stooped down, and inspected the cut on his lip. Impulsively, she kissed the top of his head. “Don’t let Wilfred worry you, Rowly,” she said. “He’ll get over it.”
She left him to resume her squabbling with Milton.
Clyde sat down and snorted impatiently toward Edna and the poet. He and Rowland had often sat through the heated arguments between the two. Milton and Edna had known each other since they were children, and they bickered like brother and sister.
“Not the best day, Rowly.”
“I don’t know. Milt finally got a haircut.”
Clyde laughed. “I guess it was worth it then.” He got up. “Come on, mate, we better check the car to make sure we’re good for the trip back.” Rowland stood and opened the bonnet. Clyde busied himself checking oil and water. Among his long list of past occupations, Clyde Watson Jones had worked at a motor mechanic’s garage. He knew what he was doing, and Rowland was happy to leave him to it. Instead he leant against the grill watching Edna and Milton. Clyde looked up and caught the direction of Rowland’s gaze. He regarded him sympathetically. The Sinclairs had more money than God, yet the poor bastard was still in love with Edna. Clyde shook his head. They’d all been in love with Edna at some point, but loving her was like looking at the sun—it would send you blind in the end.
He closed the bonnet and stood next to Rowland. “You know, Rowly, Ed’s never going to be a Kate.”
Rowland smiled. He was well aware that both Milton and Clyde knew of the torch he carried for the sculptress. “And why would I want her to turn into my brother’s wife?”
Clyde shrugged. “You know what I mean, Rowly.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. He was not defensive. There was no point. “Ed’s fine just as she is.”
Chapter Seventeen
New Guard
Sent to Fire Front
Fire Fighters Annoyed
SYDNEY, Friday
A contingent of the New Guard left for Cuan Downs, where the bushfire is raging on a front of 50 miles.
A meeting of the unemployed and local bushfire volunteers called by the Mayor last night carried a resolution: “We view with disgust and contempt the action of the New Guard in sending a contingent to Cobar well after locals were good enough to give their labour to the small men on the land to put out bush fires.”
The Sydney Morning Herald,
January 15, 1932
Rowland slammed the heavy oak door of Woodlands House shut. He pulled off his jacket, tossing it fiercely at the coat stand in the tiled vestibule. He missed, but did not stop to retrieve it from the floor, storming instead into the main drawing room as he loosened his tie.
Milton looked up from behind a hand of cards. “Oh, it’s you, Rowly…with all the banging I thought it must have been Ed.”
Rowland stood at Milton’s shoulder, and said to Clyde, “He’s bluffing. He hasn’t got a thing.”
Milto
n grinned and twisted round to wink at Rowland, undermining any trust Clyde may have had in the surly revelation. As they continued to play their hand, Rowland dropped himself into an armchair.
“Rightyo, Rowly.” Clyde dealt him into the next hand. “What’s wrong?”
Rowland pulled himself up and moved over to the card table. “That man—Biscuit without the ‘s’—he’s a damned idiot!”
Rowland had spent the morning trying to get some movement on the investigation of his uncle’s murder. Inspector Bicuit had scoffed off Rowland’s speculation about the “dark ghosts.”
“The blithering fool is still convinced that Mrs. Donelly somehow masterminded murder to get hold of some valuable knickknack or other—he’s going harass the poor old thing into her grave!”
“Want a drink?” Clive rose and went to the sideboard.
Rowland shook his head.
“Scotch.” Milton checked Clyde’s cards as soon as the painter had turned to pour.
Rowland carried on fuming. “The worst thing is that by the time the inspector realises what a colossal fool he is, it will be too late to find out who really killed my uncle! It’s probably too late already.”
“You told him Paddy was sure his attackers were New Guard, didn’t you?” asked Clyde.
“He said the paranoid ramblings of a known Communist had to be viewed with suspicion.” Rowland threw down a card in disgust. “Warned me not to associate with such elements…Condescending bloody pratt!”
“So, what are we going to do?” Milton asked expectantly.
“Us?” Clyde looked up. “What the hell can we do?”
“Well, if Bicuit won’t uncover the culprit,” Milton replied, “we’ll have to.”
“Don’t be daft!”
“This won’t be the first crime solved by informed amateurs.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” muttered Clyde.
“We need to look more closely into the New Guard,” Milton went on, his cards temporarily forgotten.
“Rowly, tell the man he’s an idiot.”
Rowland looked carefully at Milton, but said nothing.
“Oh, my God!” Clyde groaned. “Not you, too!”
“I’m not saying he’s not an idiot,” Rowland said slowly. “Obviously he is…but if we could find something to get Bicuit interested…”
Clyde dropped his forehead onto the table and moaned.
Milton raised a finger. “I am stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.”
“Coincidentally, so was Robert Browning,” Rowland noted.
“We need to get close to the New Guard.” The poet didn’t drop his finger.
“So why don’t you join?” Clyde scowled.
“Not a bad idea,” Milton stood to grab a newspaper from the sideboard. “But I’ve got a better one.” He opened the paper, found the page he sought, and dropped it onto the table.
Rowland picked up the paper and held it so Clyde could see it too. “What are we supposed to be looking at, Milt?”
“The article on Buckmaster.”
“Buckmaster?” Both Rowland and Clyde were perplexed. They skimmed the article: Ernest Buckmaster, the Victorian artist, was painting Sir William Irvine for the Archibald Prize. According to the article, Sir William was “honoured and thrilled” to be asked to sit for an artist of such reputation.
“Still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Clyde said flatly.
Milton sighed. “Stay with me, fellas.” He sat back at the card table. “We’re trying to show our friend without the ‘s’ that there’s a connection between Mrs. Donelly’s dark ghosts and the New Guard, right?”
Rowland nodded. Clyde refused to give the poet any sort of encouragement.
“We know from what Paddy tells us that the New Guard has some kind of special unit that dresses up and assaults Communists.”—Clyde remained unmoved, but Rowland was listening—“One has to assume they adopt this crazy getup because anonymity is so important to them that they are willing to look ridiculous…so finding out who exactly they are, might be difficult…even from the inside.”
“Are you ever going to get to the point?” Clyde’s fingers drummed an irritated rhythm on the table.
“My point is,” Milton replied, “that to find out more about these blokes in black sheets and hoods, we need to get close to men a little further up the ranks.”
Now Rowland was getting a little impatient. “So, precisely what has Buckmaster and the Archibald Prize got to do with that?”
“Nothing to do with Buckmaster.” Milton smirked. “But everything to do with the Archibald. To find out what the New Guard’s up to—and why they killed your uncle—you go straight to Eric Campbell, the commander-in-chief.” He pushed the paper back toward Rowland. “Get him to sit for you…for an Archibald portrait.”
Rowland whistled and rocked back in his chair as he considered Milton’s proposition. Maybe the poet was right. Rowland had painted enough portraits to know that the artist often found himself cast as the sitter’s friend, confidante, and confessor by virtue of his attention and his brush.
Clyde spoke first. “Assuming that Campbell even knows what happened to Rowly’s uncle, don’t you reckon he might be a bit suspicious if a second Rowland bloody Sinclair waltzes up and offers to paint his portrait?”
Milton shrugged. “Just use another name…he’s never met you, has he?”
Rowland shook his head.
“Use Clyde’s name,” Milton suggested. “Then you could have Lady McKenzie as a referee. Or maybe her dog.”
“You’re not seriously considering it, Rowly? Are you?” Clyde was anxious.
“Campbell does seem eager to get his picture in the paper,” Rowland said tentatively. “He probably wouldn’t mind having his portrait painted as a distinguished Australian.”
“That’s my boy!” Milton slapped him on the back.
“Rowly, these people are dangerous,” Clyde warned. “We’ve seen what they or their ilk can do…”
“What could happen?” Milton brushed off the concern. “It’s not as if Rowly can’t paint…The New Guard’s a bit paranoid, but who’s going to doubt a fresh-faced, up-and-coming artist?”
“The arts community hasn’t exactly embraced the right wing,” Clyde persisted. “Campbell will be suspicious.”
“Which is exactly why Rowly will be all the more appealing in his three-piece suits. Campbell won’t believe his fascist luck!”
Clyde turned to Rowland who had been conspicuously silent. Rowland shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”
Milton hooted in triumph.
“Come on, Clyde,” Rowland tried to talk him round. “Campbell could be interesting to paint.”
“Interesting? He’ll be bloody brilliant!” said Milton . “How many chances do you get to paint the crackpot head of an extremist political movement…in this country, anyway?”
“Actually, there seem to be a few around,” Rowland admitted ruefully, thinking back to the meeting at Oaklea and to Charles Hardy.
“Look Clyde, if I can get the name of even one of the cowards responsible,” his body tensed as his mind moved to how his uncle had died, “Bicuit will have to act.”
Clyde sighed. “What if I go instead of you?”
“Thank you, old boy, but no.” Rowland smiled. “I know this is a ludicrous plan, and I’m not going to drag you into it.”
“Even in one of Rowly’s suits, you’d look a bit like a bushie,” Milton looked critically at Clyde’s weathered face and his calloused hands.
“I don’t have to call myself Clyde Watson Jones,” Rowland added. “Any name will do.”
Milton disagreed. “Clyde’s been hung in a couple of galleries…If anyone checks, they’ll find that Watson Jones is indeed the name of a local artist. Campbell isn’t the kind of bloke to let himself b
e painted by a total unknown.”
“But anyone who knows Clyde will know that I’m not him.”
“And which of Clyde’s mates is going to be mixing with the New Guard, exactly? The better question is whether any of their snooty upper-class members will recognise Rowland Sinclair?”
Rowland shrugged. “If they do, it won’t matter what I’m calling myself, I suppose.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I could risk it…I’m just going to paint Campbell, not contest his leadership.”
“Use my name, Rowly. It’s the least I owe you.” Clyde said finally. “You know, we can’t be sure that the New Guard had anything to do with what happened to your uncle.”
“At the moment, it’s all we’ve got to go on…I’ve got to find out, one way or another.”
“So, how are you going to go about this?” Clyde resigned himself to what he considered an absurd plan.
“I’ll need to borrow that letter of recommendation Lady McKenzie wrote, and any others you may have. I’ll fabricate a few more, and then I’ll just present myself at his offices.”
“What do you mean ‘fabricate a few more’?”
“I’ll draft some letters from satisfied clients of appropriate social standing.”
“That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? What if Campbell runs into the actual person?”
“Well, somewhat conveniently, the well-heeled have a tendency to take long tours of the continent, even in these times,” Rowland replied. “I’ll just forge the names of people I know to be abroad.”
Clyde raised his eyes to the ceiling. “No wonder you Sinclairs are so bloody wealthy; you’re common criminals.”
“Hardly common,” Rowland stood to search for a pen and stationery. He found what he was looking for and handed them to Milton. “Right, Milt, let’s see you actually write something for once.”
“That’s deeply offensive, Rowly,” Milton replied. “I’m a poet, a sculptor of words…not your flaming secretary.” Even so, he proceeded to write effusive acclamations of the talent and professionalism of the artist Clyde Watson Jones using a variety of scripts, and signed with the names that Rowland supplied.
A Few Right Thinking Men Page 14
