Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  “Oi!” A shout from behind them.

  “Harry!” Edna responded as she recognised the first of the two burly men now charging the affray. Harcourt Garden would help them.

  With the odds now almost equal, the guardsmen pulled back and the confrontation turned into a heated skirmish of words, and even that was curbed in profanity by the presence of Edna.

  After a sufficiency of threats had been duly exchanged, the guardsmen departed, telling themselves and each other that they had put the fear of God into Rowland Sinclair.

  Harcourt Garden slapped Rowland on the back and introduced him to his companion, Paul Bremner, a solid swarthy Union man with a Communist badge pinned to his flat cap. “This is the bloke who tried to shoot that Fascist bastard Eric Campbell a couple of years ago… before old Jock got worked over by the bloody Boo Guard!” he told Bremner proudly. Harcourt’s father, Jock Garden, was a founder of the Communist Party of Australia and a vocal proponent of the Left. He’d been brutally ambushed outside his own home by a group of hooded vigilantes whose connection to Campbell and the New Guard was widely known, if never proved.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone,” Rowland corrected the record as he shook hands with Harcourt Garden’s mate.

  “We’ve given you points for trying,” Garden said, slinging his arm around Rowland’s shoulders.

  “What happened? Did ya miss?” Bremner asked, grinning.

  “No. I got shot,” Rowland said wearily.

  Edna looked at him in horror. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up again!”

  Rowland smiled. Edna hated being reminded that she’d shot him. “I should buy you gentlemen a drink, I suspect,” he said, judiciously changing the subject.

  The task of so thanking their saviours was, however, complicated by Edna whose presence, and refusal to sit by herself in the ladies’ bar, precluded a simple stop at the nearest pub. It was Bremner who suggested the wine bar not far from Trades Hall. The décor was on the sparse side of rudimentary, but the venue was full. Men and women gathered about the small round tables in conspiratorial groups. Whether or not they were actually conspiring was hard to tell—they could well have been discussing the cricket—but in the smoke filled haze of the Communist haunt it was not hard to imagine that the odd plot was being hatched. Rowland Sinclair’s party shared a bottle of McWilliams red while they talked of Campbell’s political aspirations. Garden and Bremner were inclined to dismiss them as a joke. Rowland, less so. He told Garden of the persecution of trade unionists and dissidents they had seen in Germany, of Dachau and the men forced into hiding. Garden ranted his outrage, Bremner smouldered quietly. And so the morning was passed.

  It was nearly noon before Rowland and Edna stood to depart under a chorus of protests and entreaties that they stay for one more drink.

  Rowland purchased another bottle for Garden and Bremner to enjoy in their absence.

  Bremner raised his glass in thanks. “You watch yourself, Sinclair. The Boo Guard is looking for an enemy. With Premier Lang gone they may just decide that you’ll do in a pinch.”

  The black police vehicle was parked conspicuously in the driveway.

  Edna sighed. “What do you suppose Milt’s done now?”

  “It’s probably Delaney,” Rowland replied hopefully. He and the detective had helped each other in the past and Delaney occasionally dropped by for a drink.

  But it was not Delaney. Detectives Gilbey and Angel had just arrived and were on hand to meet Rowland at his door.

  Mary Brown’s lips were pursed tightly as Rowland greeted the policemen and introduced Edna. “I’m so glad you’re back, Master Rowly—Mr. Sinclair has telephoned thrice this morning!” the housekeeper exclaimed, determinedly dealing first with what she believed the more important matter.

  “Wil…?” Rowland stood aside for the detectives to enter. Mary Brown had allowed Wilfred the title of Mr. Sinclair when their father had passed—to her mind there could only ever be one. “If you’d step this way, gentlemen. Thank you, Mary. I’ll telephone Wil shortly.”

  Gilbey and Angel declined refreshments, scrutinising the drawing room as they took the seats Rowland offered. Tubes of pigment, brushes, palettes and various items of artistic paraphernalia sat atop French polished sideboards. The light, coming through the large bay windows by which Rowland’s easels were positioned, was softened by the generous canopies of the jacaranda trees outside. Even so, the view of Woodlands’ manicured lawns was not obscured. Rowland’s latest work sat on the largest easel… a dark, moody piece of a naked nymph asleep on a forest floor—a strangely elevated perspective like that of a voyeuristic god. Rowland had begun the painting leaning precariously over the balustrade of the staircase with Edna posed below, on the floor of the hall.

  “And how may I be of assistance, gentlemen?” Rowland asked, sitting beside Edna on the settee.

  “We’d like you to assist with some enquiries, Mr. Sinclair.” Detective Angel cleared his throat and glanced at Edna.

  Gilbey studied the sculptress. “The matter is somewhat sensitive, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps Miss Higgins should—”

  “Please go ahead, detectives,” Rowland said, mildly curious now.

  Angel nodded curtly and proceeded. “What can you tell us about the evening your father, the late Henry Sinclair, was murdered, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Edna stiffened. She looked to Rowland for some sign that there was a mistake. Henry Sinclair had died of a heart attack, or old age or something equally unremarkable.

  For a moment, Rowland didn’t say anything. Then, “That was thirteen years ago, detectives.”

  “Are you saying you don’t remember the night your father was killed?” Gilbey asked.

  “I’m wondering why, after all this time, you are questioning me about that night?”

  “There’s been a development.”

  “What development?”

  “Your father’s gun has been found. We believe it was the weapon that killed him.”

  “I see.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask where it was found, Mr. Sinclair?” Angel studied him too sharply.

  Rowland answered calmly, coldly. “I assume you’re going to tell me.”

  Gilbey and Angel exchanged a glance. “At the bottom of the dam closest to the main house at Oaklea.”

  Rowland sat back slowly. “When? When was it found?”

  “Early yesterday. They’re draining the dam for some landscaping works apparently.”

  Rowland paused and then he nodded at each of the policemen. “Thank you for letting me know, gentlemen.”

  “Regrettably, Mr. Sinclair, we did not come to inform you, but to ask you about what you remember from that night. A question you’ve not answered as yet.”

  “I was fifteen at the time, detective. I believe I was in bed when Father died. I’m not sure I remember anything at all.”

  “That seems unlikely if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”

  “It may indeed seem unlikely to you, sir, but it is so.”

  “Why were you in Yass, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey took out a notebook. “Your father was killed during the school term. You were at Kings were you not?”

  Rowland’s face hardened perceptibly. “I’d been sent down.”

  “You were expelled?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Rowland rolled his eyes. “I’d started a poker club among the boarders—I was fifteen.”

  “Are you saying you’ve reformed, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Not at all, detective, but I am more discreet.”

  Gilbey looked archly at Edna. He stood and, stepping over to the easel, inspected the painting. “Is this your work, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked scrutinising the naked nymph so closely that his nose collected some still wet oil paint on its tip.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting subject. Do you often paint dead bodies?”

  Rowland’s brow rose.

  Edna left the settee to join the detective. “T
hat’s Shakespeare’s Miranda, Detective Gilbey,” she whispered. “From A Midsummer Night’s Dream—she’s asleep. Rowly’s been painting a series inspired by literary heroines… only Ophelia is dead.”

  “Of course,” Gilbey said brusquely. “I am myself very familiar with the works of William Shakespeare. This is quite an interesting, may I say, lustful depiction, both poignant and shocking in its dedication to the intimacies of the female form.”

  Rowland blinked. Apparently the detective was also an art critic.

  Angel stared at his colleague, clearly appalled.

  Gilbey stood back from the painting and moved his attention instead to the portrait of Henry Sinclair. “Is this—”

  “Yes,” Rowland replied.

  Gilbey nodded slowly, though he did not seem inclined to examine that painting in the same depth.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Sinclair, you don’t seem particularly excited by the discovery of your father’s gun,” Angel quite decidedly directed the conversation away from the artwork.

  “Excited?” Rowland made no attempt to hide his scorn. “The burglar who killed my father has had thirteen years to make his escape!”

  “Why do you believe a burglar killed your father, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey asked sharply.

  “There were some valuables taken from the house… I can’t remember what exactly they were.”

  Gilbey wrote in his notebook.

  “Is there something more, detective?” Rowland asked suspiciously.

  “Several items of silverware and an antique carriage clock were found with the gun.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  Gilbey raised his hand. “It’s understandable that a killer would seek to rid himself of the murder weapon, but why would he discard the fruits of his burglary?”

  “Perhaps he panicked.”

  “Perhaps he never had any interest in the silver.”

  “What are you saying, detective?”

  “Do you have any idea, Mr. Sinclair, who might have wanted your father dead?”

  The pause was so slight that only Edna noticed it.

  “I really wasn’t privy to my father’s affairs.” He shrugged. “But I have it on good authority that he was a paragon of virtue and respectability.”

  Gilbey studied Rowland, his eyes piercing beneath a furrowed brow.

  Rowland exhaled impatiently. “If there’s nothing further, detectives…”

  “Not for now, Mr. Sinclair,” Angel said, closing his notebook as he stood. Gilbey followed suit.

  Rowland waited as Mary Brown showed the policemen to the door, stepping into the hallway as soon as he heard the door close. Wordlessly he picked up the telephone receiver to book a call through to Oaklea.

  4

  TREE PLANTING

  At a lecture on trees given before the Trained Gardeners Association (Old Burnley Students), Miss Edna Walling, the well-known garden designer, said:

  “It may seem rather obvious to say that tree-planting in the suburbs is usually a very different matter to tree-planting in the country, but it is not until you are faced with a few acres instead of the accustomed suburban block that the important part trees play in developing large acreages of the country is recognised.

  “Even when the supply of labour for the maintenance of an extensive garden scheme is available, nothing will produce a richer or more dignified effect than wood land or a little forest.”

  The Australasian, 1933

  Edna sat curled in the winged-back armchair pondering the police visit. Rowland’s telephone conversation with Wilfred had been brief, and then he’d disappeared. It was all somewhat unusual.

  Clyde and Milton returned first, a little merry after a party meeting which had apparently been conducted in a public bar. Edna duly informed them of the police visit to Woodlands. Like her, neither man had been aware that Rowland’s father had died in circumstances that were anything other than ordinary.

  “So he was shot?” Milton asked. “In his own home?”

  “Apparently.” Edna looked out of the window hoping to see Rowland. “Rowly was fifteen.”

  “And now the police have surmised that he was shot with his own gun?”

  “That’s what I gathered.”

  “What did Rowly say?”

  “Not a great deal.”

  Clyde looked up, surprised. “If it were my old dad, I wouldn’t rest till…” He scratched his head. “Perhaps it’s just the shock.”

  Milton pondered the portrait of Henry Sinclair. “Where is Rowly, Ed?”

  “I don’t know, he just vanished,” she replied, unable to keep the worry out of her voice. It was not like Rowland.

  “He can’t have gone far,” Clyde observed. “His car’s still in the drive.”

  Edna nodded. The engine of Rowland’s flamboyant yellow Mercedes was in any case so loud she would have heard it.

  “Rowly’s a grown man,” Milton said, pouring himself a drink from one of the well-stocked decanters which graced the sideboard. “And we, dear friends, are not his keepers.”

  It was nearly dark by the time Rowland finally returned. Lenin was with him. The greyhound padded wearily into the drawing room and collapsed onto the rug, glaring resentfully at his master before closing his eyes.

  Rowland’s houseguests descended from different parts of the mansion where they had been carrying on in an attempt to appear unconcerned about his absence.

  “Where have you been?” Edna blurted. “We were beginning to worry… oh my Lord, what have you done to Lenin?”

  Rowland glanced at his dog, splayed gracelessly on the Axminster, his tongue lolling out of his head in a manner that looked more like death than slumber. He smiled. “I took Len for a walk,” he said, removing his jacket and hanging it on the edge of an easel. “We might have gone a bit further than he’s used to.”

  “Forget about the flaming dog,” Clyde muttered. “You all right, Rowly?”

  “Ed’s told you then?” Rowland loosened his tie. “Yes, I’m well. I just needed to clear my head. I haven’t really thought about all that in a while.”

  “Did Wilfred—” Edna began as Milton poured Rowland a drink.

  “Find the gun?” Rowland finished. “No, apparently it was some gardener that Arthur retained.”

  Arthur Sinclair was Rowland’s cousin, a solicitor who had stepped in to keep an eye on the property and old Mrs. Sinclair when both Wilfred and Rowland had been abroad. Apparently he had not yet left.

  Edna took Rowland’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Rowly… this must be horrible for you.”

  Rowland squeezed her hand warmly, before releasing it to take the drink that Milton held out to him. “It’s fine, Ed. I’m just annoyed that all this is being dredged up for nothing.”

  “For nothing?” Edna said alarmed he could be so indifferent to such a staggering tragedy.

  Rowland sighed. “It was thirteen years ago, Ed. There were no witnesses. Whoever shot Father is long gone, regardless of what gun he used.” He sat down, swirling his glass distractedly. “Wil wants me to return home to Yass straight away.”

  “Because of this investigation?”

  “Possibly… either that or my sister-in-law has unearthed another old school chum she feels I should marry.”

  Edna’s brow furrowed slightly. “Oh dear, you don’t suppose Kate will be cross about Lucy, do you?”

  “How could she possibly be cross?” Rowland said innocently. “It’s Colonel Bennett who put an end to it all.”

  “So are you going?” Clyde asked.

  Rowland grimaced. There were a few parties he’d planned to attend before retreating to the more sober celebrations at the family estate. Still… “Yes,” he said.

  His friends did not try to persuade him otherwise. As much as Rowland appeared to dismiss it, the reinvestigation of Henry Sinclair’s murder had clearly shaken him.

  “Did the police find out anything at all when your father was first killed, Rowly?” Edna asked. />
  “Ed!” Clyde scowled at the sculptress. “For pity’s sake…”

  “It’s all right, Clyde. It’s a fair question.” Rowland put down his glass. “But to be honest, I don’t know. I boarded a boat to England the day after my father’s funeral.”

  “The day after? Where the hell were you going in such a hurry?” Milton blurted.

  Clyde swatted Milton. “You’re as bad as Ed,” he muttered, appalled by the poet’s lack of sensitivity.

  “I suppose it would seem rather odd,” Rowland conceded. He tried to explain. “Wil sent me to school in London. I expect he was trying to protect me from all the fuss.”

  Edna stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes fierce and disapproving. Rowland continued, aware that the sculptress had always thought Wilfred’s actions, in this respect, cruel. “Wil had a lot to contend with… the investigation, the property, Father’s affairs, not to mention my mother—he wasn’t trying to be unkind.”

  “You were a boy who’d just lost his father,” Edna replied, unmoved by his defence. “He sent you away to grieve with strangers.”

  “It wasn’t that simple, Ed.”

  Edna paused and then let well enough alone. She had no wish to make the situation more difficult with her outrage on his behalf. “When are you going to Yass, Rowly?” she asked.

  “I can fly to Oaklea tomorrow.”

  “That soon?”

  Rowland smiled. “Did you have plans for me?”

  “Of course!” she said perching on the upholstered arm of his chair. She sighed. “I’ll have to make do with Milt, I suppose.”

  “You should be so lucky,” Milton muttered indignantly. “You will find that I am very much in demand these days. I may well be busy.”

  Rowland glanced at Edna regretfully. He had promised to escort the sculptress to the Christmas Ball to be held at the Domain. Not that she would have any trouble replacing him, whether or not Milton was busy—which he somehow doubted.

  “I am sorry, Ed,” he said.

  Edna’s face softened. “Oh darling, you have no reason to be. You will be all right, won’t you, Rowly?”

  “Yes, I will… I am.” He slung back the remnants of his drink and smiled at the sculptress. “This is just one of those things, Ed. Wil will probably have cleared it up before I’ve landed at Oaklea.”