“Couldn’t the police do this, Rowly?”
“Probably,” he replied. “But I need to get my paint box.”
He pulled into the driveway at Boongala and the guards posted at the gate waved them through, recognising Rowland as the Colonel’s artist.
The house was quiet.
“Rowly, it’s nearly midnight—they’ll be asleep.”
“Campbell will have been out celebrating De Groot’s efforts on the bridge. If he’s in bed, it won’t have been for long—and, honestly, I don’t care.”
Edna hurried after him as he stalked to the front door and knocked loudly. The housekeeper answered.
“Mr. Watson Jones!” she said, surprised, tying her dressing gown around her waist. “Was Colonel Campbell expecting you this late?”
“I’m afraid not, but I must see him on a matter of some urgency.”
“I’m afraid he and Mrs. Campbell are not back yet, sir.” Rowland’s face did not show his disappointment. He was starting to calm down a little now, to think more clearly. He was still angry, but it was becoming a more thoughtful anger. “I’ve left some equipment in the studio,” he said smiling sweetly, as if it was perfectly normal to bang down a man’s door at midnight to collect some paints as if your life depended on it. “I might just retrieve it while I’m here.”
The housekeeper seemed happy to admit them. The young artist was trusted by the Colonel, and she was anxious to return to bed.
“We’ll let ourselves out,” Rowland assured her. “I’m sorry to have got you up.”
The housekeeper let them make their own way to the studio. Rowland found his belongings were exactly as he had left them. He opened the paint box and rummaged under the tubes of paint. The revolver was still there. Double-checking that the safety catch was still on, he returned it to the paint box and closed the lid.
Edna was staring at him. “Rowly, we didn’t come here to get that, did we?”
He looked up. “No…God, no! I’m not planning to use it, Ed. I remembered it the other day, that’s all, and I didn’t want to leave it here. Who knows what these lunatics could do with Wil’s gun. It could get him in all sorts of trouble.”
They heard voices outside the room. Perhaps Campbell had returned. Rowland stuck his head out and looked down the corridor. The housekeeper was again at the front door, not with Campbell, but with Henry Alcott and several other men who Rowland had not seen before. She gestured back toward the studio and Alcott looked his way.
Rowland pulled his head back and moved quickly. He pushed Edna behind the couch. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound! Don’t let them know you’re here. I’ll be all right.”
Edna nodded, frightened. She could already hear the heavy footfalls in the corridor. The door flung open. Flanked by four others, Henry Alcott walked in. Rowland stood his ground. “Hello, Henry.”
“If it isn’t the elusive Rowland Sinclair.”
“Have you been looking for me?”
The scarred right side of Alcott’s face twitched. “So Dynon was right…we do have a spy in our midst. Reporting to your filthy Communist mates—you’re a disgrace to your brother’s memory, Sinclair.”
“Go to hell, Henry! Aubrey loved Uncle Rowland. If he knew what you’ve done…”
“How was I to know those idiots would get the wrong Rowland Sinclair?” Alcott’s eyes bulged as he stepped toward his best friend’s brother. At that moment, Rowland understood that Alcott’s mind was no longer right. “They were only meant to teach you a lesson, Sinclair, to get you to walk the right line…Don’t you see…? I had to turn you around…for Aubrey. But it’s too late for all that now. Turning up to a Red rally at the Domain’s one thing, but now…now you’re a damn spy for them!”
One of the men behind Alcott quietly sidled up to the fireplace and took a fire iron. Rowland cursed himself for not thinking to take the weapon first. “This is Campbell’s home, Henry,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.
“We’ll clean up the mess.” Alcott shook his head slowly, suddenly tearful. “Good Lord, you look like Aubrey—you could have been Aubrey.” He motioned, and two men leapt forward and seized Rowland by the arms.
Alcott hit him first. In rage, Rowland struggled but couldn’t wrest out of their grip. Then the beating began in earnest. The fire iron struck hard against his ribs, winding him, but mostly it was Alcott’s bare fists and his fury, a fury that was about so much more than Rowland Sinclair.
Edna crawled out from behind the couch. Alcott and his men did not seem to notice her, but Rowland did. He insulted Campbell, King George, and every right-wing bastion he could think of, desperate to keep their ire and their attention on him. He hoped she would run for the door.
Instead, Edna opened his paint box, fumbled for the gun he had placed back in there, and unwrapped it. “Stop!” She held the weapon in shaking hands, crying already. “Leave him alone!”
His breath heaving, Alcott stopped. “You brought a girl with you?” he sneered. “My, you are getting cocky, Sinclair.”
Edna pointed the gun above her to fire a warning shot, as she had seen done in the cinema. It clicked uselessly. Alcott laughed and sent his fist flying into Rowland’s stomach again.
Dismayed, Edna remembered the safety. She had seen Rowland flick it. She pushed it the other way. They were ignoring her. Rowland was barely fighting back now. They were going kill him—she was sure of it. With both hands, she held the gun in front of her and pulled the trigger. The sound seemed to stop her heart for a moment, and the gun kicked her back. Hysterical and terrified, she fired again with no idea where the bullets were going.
The Guardsmen were swearing as they scrambled for the door. Edna fired again. Though her ears were ringing from the blasts, she could hear glass breaking, and then sirens.
“Ed, stop!” Rowland gasped from the floor. He tried, but couldn’t get up to reassure her, to stop her. A dark spreading stain on the patterned Axminster grew inexorably outwards. “Ed!”
Edna heard him. She looked down to where he had dropped. She saw the blood and realised she’d shot him. The gun became red hot in her hand. She dropped it, screaming.
Chapter Thirty-six
New Guard Plots
SYDNEY, Sunday
Mr. Eric Campbell, in a statement today, denied that Fascist tactics formed part of the New Guard policy. He declared there was no such thing as a Fascist Legion in the New Guard and to talk of black hoods was arrant nonsense.
Mr. Campbell said that the evidence in the assault case yesterday showed that a number of decent and thoroughly loyal New Guardsmen had set out on their own account to do a job they considered in the public interest, and if the public approval which rent the air outside the courthouse were any criterion, they did so thoroughly.
The Daily Telegraph, March 21, 1932
“Rowly?”
He heard Wilfred’s voice through a dense fog of pain. He struggled to sit up.
“Take it easy, old boy.”
Rowland ignored him. Things would become clearer if he was upright. He groaned as he became aware of his body, and the damage done to it.
“Be careful.” Wilfred moved pillows behind Rowly’s back. “They cracked a few ribs…you’re going to be tender for quite a while.”
A doctor came in. He examined the dressing on the bullet wound to Rowland’s right thigh, and prodded his rib cage in a way that left him gasping and weak. Then he consulted with Wilfred about his brother’s injuries. Rowland didn’t care—he just wanted the man to go. Eventually the physician did leave and Rowland was able to demand answers of Wilfred.
“Did the police…?”
“They’ve arrested Alcott—they want to speak to you as soon as you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it.”
“Just hold on a minute, Rowly, they’ll get to you. This is such a flaming
mess!”
“What time is it?” Rowland asked, still trying to put his head in order.
“Three in the afternoon.”
Rowland was surprised so much time had passed. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”
“They had to take the bullet out, Rowly. I couldn’t really go in and wake you for breakfast.”
“Oh.” Rowland looked down at his leg. It was heavy, on fire, and heavy. He moved it tentatively. He stopped pretty quickly.
“You’re lucky…handguns make relatively small holes,” Wilfred informed him.
Rowland told him where to go. Wilfred smiled.
“Where’s Ed…? And Clyde…?”
“They wouldn’t let anyone but family in until you woke up.”
“I’m awake now.” Rowland winced, almost wishing he wasn’t. He noticed Wilfred looked older than he remembered him.
“Mr. Watson Jones—the real one—is just outside.”
Wilfred opened the door and called for Clyde, who’d been pacing outside in the hospital corridor. “Rowly, thank God…”
Rowland smiled, or at least tried to. “Apparently, it’s not a big hole. How’s Milt? Did Ed tell you what happened?”
Clyde glanced at Wilfred. Wilfred shook his head.
“What?” Rowland noticed the exchange. “What the hell’s happened?”
Clyde walked to his bedside. He didn’t look at Wilfred. “They’ve arrested Ed. Milt’s at the station seeing what he can do.”
Rowland pulled himself up a little more, using Clyde’s shoulder to steady himself. He spun his head round to Wilfred. “You let them arrest her!”
“For the love of God, Rowly…she shot you! I know you think you’re in love with this girl, but she shot you!”
“It was an accident—she was trying to help me!”
“That’s not what she said!”
“Rowly,” Clyde interrupted. “Ed was hysterical, spattered with blood…she thought she’d killed you. She confessed to anyone who’d listen.” Rowland fell back on the pillows.
“Ed’s in gaol, and she thinks I’m dead?”
“Yes.”
“And Milt went to help her with ‘Red’ branded across his forehead!”
“He wore a hat…Now that I know you’re all right…well, not dead, anyway, I’ll go down and see what I can do.”
“No, wait.” Rowland turned back to Wilfred. “Wil, you go down there, please? I don’t care what you have to do. Engage every bloody barrister in Australia if you have to, but get her out!”
Wilfred looked at his brother as if he’d lost his mind. “No, Rowly—she shot you!”
“Alcott might have killed me if she hadn’t,” Rowland said coldly.
“Clyde…” He put his hand on Clyde’s shoulder again and began to pull himself up, cursing under his breath as he moved his leg.
“What the devil are you doing?” Wilfred stepped toward him in alarm.
“I’m going to get Ed out of prison myself if you won’t…Where are my blasted clothes?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Rowly. Lie down.”
“I’m not going to leave her there—it was a bloody accident!”
“Dammit, Rowly,” Wilfred brought his fist down on the metal frame of the bed in frustration. “Very well, I’ll go!”
“Bring her back here, so I know she’s all right,” Rowland said.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I just want to see her. Go…please…now.”
Wilfred called his brother a few choice names, but he went. Once he’d gone, Rowland allowed himself to fall painfully back onto the bed.
“Thank God for that,” he breathed. “Wil can be the most stubborn bastard…”
Clyde poured him a glass of water and helped him drink. “Don’t be so hard on him, Rowly,” he said. “He’s all right—any idiot can see you’d never make it out of that bed, and he went anyway.”
“Wil was there…at Boongala?” Rowland frowned as he tried to piece muddled memories together. “You were, too?”
“I telephoned him just after you left,” Clyde admitted. “He came straight over. We weren’t sure who you were going to attack first, so we went to Alcott’s house in Potts Point.”
“I wasn’t going to attack anyone.” Even as he said it, Rowland wasn’t sure it was the truth.
“That wasn’t clear when you left,” Clyde replied. “Anyway, Wilfred spoke to Alcott’s father who told him Alcott had gone to see Campbell. Your brother made some calls, and all sorts of people, including the police, met us at Campbell’s. Good thing the bridge was open, or we’d never have got there.”
“So, you were both there.”
“We didn’t get there first. God, Rowly, it was like a war zone. The police said you’d been shot, Edna was screaming she’d killed you. There was a moment when we really did think you were dead. It was bleak. You should go easy on Wilfred.”
Rowland raised his brows. “He hasn’t signed you up to the Old Guard, has he?”
“Don’t tempt me to thump you while you’re in hospital. It wouldn’t look good.”
“Why did they arrest Ed? I wasn’t dead—surely they could see that?”
“You were in a bad way when we arrived. Alcott and his friends weren’t saying anything and Ed was the only one talking, or should I say, screaming, and all she was saying was ‘I shot him…I shot him.’ You can see why they don’t send women to war.”
Rowland sighed. “Well, I can tell them now. Given the belting I was getting, if she hadn’t started shooting I may have ended up like Uncle Rowland…Ed just doesn’t know how to hold a gun straight. It’s a bleeding miracle she didn’t manage to shoot herself as well.” He smiled. “I wonder if Wil knows she shot me with his gun…you didn’t think to take my paint box did you?”
“The police have it.”
“Oh, good. I wouldn’t want to have to ask Campbell for it now.”
It was several hours before Wilfred returned, with both Edna and Milton. Apparently Milton had been so determined in his attempts to have Edna released, that they’d arrested him too. Wilfred was, however, better than his word and delivered them both.
Edna was in tears the second she entered the hospital room. She had convinced herself that Rowland was dead, that she had killed him, and nothing Wilfred had said in journey from the police station could reach her in her grief.
“Steady on, Ed,” Rowland murmured as she threw herself at him, apologising through gulping sobs.
Milton reached past her and squeezed his shoulder. “Wasn’t your best idea, Rowly.” The bruises on Milton’s face had darkened, as had the letters of the word on his forehead.
“I don’t know…I did find Alcott.”
Wilfred stood to leave. “I’d better get back,” he said. “Kate will be frantic by now, and I still have some people to see. I’ll bring her, and Ernie, to see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Wil.”
Wilfred clasped his brother’s hand, and Rowland could sense by the weakened grip that he was tired. Rowland met his eye and said again, “Thank you, Wil.”
Wilfred nodded. “Try to get some sleep, Rowly,” he said looking meaningfully at his friends. “The police will want to speak to you tomorrow. I’ve posted some men at the hospital, just in case.”
“So,” Clyde sighed, as Wilfred shut the door behind him, “all this because you and your uncle have the same name.”
“Had.” Rowland’s voice was dulled with sadness.
“I don’t get it,” Clyde shook his head. “You’re not even a Communist. What the hell did you do that was so offensive?”
“It’s that class traitor thing,” Milton, rubbed his forehead. “The right-wingers despise all Communists, but when it’s one of their own, a man who should know better…well, they really see red.”
Clyde nudged Rowland. “You really need to pick your friends more carefully, mate.”
“You mustn’t dwell on it, Rowly.” Edna pushed the hair back from his forehead, as she had often known him to do himself. She could see through his flippancy to know he was struggling with the idea that his uncle had died because of him. “It wasn’t your fault. It was that dreadful man, Alcott.”
“It’s a shame you managed to shoot everything but him.” Rowland managed a smile. “Still, at least they’ve arrested him now. With any luck, Campbell’s whole bloody house of cards, minus the queens, will fall down around him.”
Milton looked nervously at Clyde.
Rowland saw. “What?”
Neither responded.
“For God’s sake, I haven’t got a bloody heart condition—what’s happened?”
“Alcott and his mates are claiming they thought you were a burglar, that they were just trying to restrain you, when Ed started shooting. Campbell’s backing them up.”
Rowland cursed, groaned, and cursed again. “Does Wil know about this?”
Milton nodded; he almost smiled. “You Sinclairs have bloody fearsome tempers—if Wilfred does half of what he’s threatened, I think Alcott might think he’d be safer in gaol.”
Clyde tried to give him some hope. “Look, Rowly, the police haven’t talked to you yet. That may change things.” He stood. “We should let you get some rest now, or Wilfred will have us. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.” As much as Clyde loathed leaving just after giving his friend the news that this might all have been for nothing, Rowland was clearly exhausted, and Edna and Milton weren’t looking too flash either.
Milton took a small pewter flask from inside his jacket and slipped it under Rowland’s pillow. “Chin up, comrade,” he said. “We’ll get the bastards eventually. We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting of those that they would throttle; They needn’t say the fault is ours if blood should stain the wattle.”
A Few Right Thinking Men Page 30
