Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  Rowland banked left and assessed the landscape below the Rule Britannia. Someone had let a mob of merinos into the paddock in which he’d been told to land.

  “For pity’s sake!” There were too many to risk hoping the creatures had sense enough to get out of his path. The only remaining option was the cleared ground near the billabong, but that would mean a five-mile walk to the house.

  Cursing, he cut back the engine and began his descent into the wind.

  The fence-line was new. Not that Rowland would have, in any case, been familiar with the fence-lines of Oaklea but perhaps if the barbed wire had had time to rust he may have seen it before it was too late.

  He pulled hard on the joystick, in a desperate attempt to raise the plane’s nose. Rule Britannia pitched upwards but not enough to clear the fence. The wheels clipped the top wire and the fuselage shook as the undercarriage dragged along the barbs.

  The impact slowed the Gipsy Moth and forced her nose even higher. Rowland gunned the engine hoping a burst of speed would soften the landing. It may have done so, but the landing was hard regardless. The Moth bounced and careered precariously until Rowland managed to regain control and bring her to a stop just short of the water.

  Rowland heaved himself out of the fuselage, wincing as he moved the knee which had slammed against the underside of the dashboard when the plane had touched down. He ignored the damage to himself and inspected that sustained by his plane. One tyre had blown and the fabric of the fuselage near the tail was torn where it had been ripped on the barbs.

  Rowland limped over to check the fence. Incredibly it seemed perfectly intact despite its brief tussle with the Rule Britannia. He removed his cap and goggles, relieved. This was embarrassing enough without having to tell Wilfred that he’d destroyed the fence as well.

  Returning to the Gipsy Moth, Rowland retrieved the Gladstone bag he’d stowed in the passenger compartment. Clyde would drop off his trunk and the Mercedes in a couple of days, before catching the train on to Kunama, near Batlow.

  “I’ll be back for you, sweetheart,” he said tossing the aviator cap and goggles into the cockpit and extracting his hat from the bag. Removing his leather flying jacket, he slung it over his shoulder and set out in the direction of the main house.

  The day was warm and the countryside had already taken on a mantle of summer gold. The new green growth coming up amongst the longer yellowed stalks spoke of recent rain despite the ripening of the landscape. Some of the paddocks Rowland cut through were stocked. The lambs, no longer tiny, were still with their mothers and the mobs were sleek on the rich pastures of Oaklea.

  He’d been walking for nearly an hour when the workman hailed him. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  Rowland stopped and waited for the man to approach. He wasn’t about to announce his arrival by shouting across the paddocks.

  He realised it was a woman only when she stood before him. Rowland supposed she was about forty, though he couldn’t be sure. Tall and broad shouldered, wearing jodhpurs into which was tucked a man’s shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A large sketchbook was clamped under her arm and a small paintbox and brushes protruded from various pockets. She peered curiously at him from beneath a thick, blunt fringe of dark hair.

  “I say, are you lost?” she asked. “You’re on private property, you know.”

  Rowland removed his hat. “I’m not lost, Miss…”

  “Walling,” she said, offering him her hand. “Edna Walling. And who are you?”

  “Rowland Sinclair, Miss Walling. How do you do?”

  “Well, well… another blue-eyed Sinclair!” Edna Walling looked him up and down. “Good Lord, you’ve hurt yourself!” she said, noticing his trousers were ripped and bloody at one knee.

  “It’s just a graze,” Rowland replied. “I belted it against the dashboard when I clipped the fence.”

  “You’ve had a motor accident…”

  “A plane actually,” Rowland said, sheepishly. “I was forced to improvise. For some reason Wil’s had stock placed in the paddock I planned to use for landing.”

  “Oh, that would be my fault, I’m afraid.” Walling uncapped the canteen she’d had slung across her body and offered him a drink. “We moved them there when we began draining the dam so we weren’t having to rescue the silly creatures from the mud constantly.”

  Rowland realised then with whom he was speaking. “You must be the gardener chap that Arthur retained,” he said smiling.

  She laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Are you painting?” Rowland asked, glancing at the sketchbook.

  “Just some plans for the grounds.” She opened the sketchbook so he could see.

  Rowland dropped his coat and took the book to examine the watercolour more carefully. It was an aerial plan of the grounds at Oaklea… though he recognised only Wilfred’s rose gardens and the grand oaks which lined the drive to the house. Edna Walling had taken those bones and added sweeping stone walls and extensive new plantings. The plans she had created in detailed watercolour were of themselves beautiful—fluid, and balanced with an innate sense of space and light. They conjured the garden she’d designed. Rowland was spellbound.

  At Walling’s invitation, he turned the page to view the plans for the dam paddock. The small dam was gone in this second watercolour, replaced by a cobble-edged pond, surrounded by terraced gardens.

  “Why, these are magnificent,” Rowland said. “Has Wil seen them?”

  “If you mean Mr. Wilfred Sinclair, yes, of course. We’ve already started work draining the old dam.”

  Rowland remembered the gun. “You found the revolver.”

  “Yes. It was quite the surprise. I took it to Mr. Sinclair and he called the police.”

  “Wil?” Rowland’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, the other Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I see.”

  “I should let you get on,” Walling said, taking back her sketchbook. “I expect they’re wondering why you haven’t turned up at the house.”

  5

  A LITTLE NONSENSE

  HONEST LABOURER

  “These barbed-wire fences bean’t no good,” said the farm laborer. “I wouldn’t have one of ’em on my place if I had my way.”

  “Why not?” inquired the stranger. “They are cheap and strong and keep cattle in better than anything else.”

  “That may be, sir,” replied the rustic, “but a man can’t sit down to rest on ’em.”

  Molong Express, 1938

  The old housekeeper threw open the door. Every part of her plump person seemed to beam. Rowland forgot he was on the threshold of his brother’s house, where propriety was paramount and a certain reserve preferred, and he embraced her warmly, wholeheartedly. She clasped his face delighted. “Mr. Rowland! Now don’t you look a sight! My goodness what have you done to yourself?”

  “It’s just a scrape, Mrs. Kendall.”

  “You boys—tearing headlong about the place as if the world was on fire. It’s a wonder you don’t do yourself serious harm!”

  Rowland allowed her to fuss over him as she always had. Though she at least allowed him the title of “Mr.”, Alice Kendall had somehow missed that he was no longer twelve years old, smoothing and chiding him as if he were a child, promising to bake him a special batch of shortbread that very same afternoon. Still, her unrestrained motherly welcome reminded him that Oaklea had once been his home.

  “Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair came hurtling down the grand staircase. He stopped abruptly and raised his small fists. “Put up your dukes.”

  “Ernest Aubrey Sinclair!” Kate descended the stairs more slowly behind him. “Is that any way to speak to, let alone to greet your uncle?”

  Rowland laughed, dropping gingerly onto his uninjured knee to move Ernest’s fists a touch higher and adjust his stance. He’d been teaching his nephew the basics of boxing. Ernest, in his way, applied himself to the sport with solemn diligence.

  “That’s better,” R
owland said when he was satisfied with Ernest’s fighting posture. “You don’t want to overbalance when you swing.”

  Ernest thus sorted, Rowland stood to greet his sister-in-law. “Hello Kate. You look well.” The swell, which had first become noticeable on Kate Sinclair’s slim frame as they were all sailing home from Britain, had become much more pronounced in the two months since they’d returned.

  “Did you have a good flight? We were expecting you earlier, Rowly,” she said as he kissed her cheek. “Wil thought you might have lost your way.”

  “Not quite,” Rowland replied.

  Kate turned to her son. “Ernie darling, if you’ve quite finished challenging your uncle to fisticuffs, perhaps you might accompany him into the library to see Daddy, while Mrs. Kendall and I see about luncheon. Is that your bag, Rowly? Just leave it here… I’ll have one of the maids attend to it.”

  Ernest took Rowland’s hand, pulling him gently but insistently into the hallway.

  “Rowly!” Wil was seated on the studded chesterfield. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray of the chrome stand beside him and stood. “We were wondering what had become of you.”

  Rowland shook his brother’s hand explaining quickly why he’d been delayed.

  Wilfred frowned. “Sheep? Lord knows what that Walling woman is up to now. We’ll be lucky if we have any paddocks left for the bloody stock!”

  “Actually I ran into Miss Walling on the walk up to the house,” Rowland said. “I must confess I thought her plans rather splendid.”

  Wilfred sighed. “Yes, yes, she does seem to know what she’s doing,” he said vaguely. “Kate’s idea, you know. Apparently this Miss Walling has a popular column in some publication called Home Beautiful. McNair is beside himself. I’ve had to intervene to prevent him digging trenches to defend the flaming vegetable garden!”

  Rowland smiled as his brother mentioned the intemperate one-armed gardener. Having seen service on the Western Front with Wilfred Sinclair, McNair had returned more than just physically damaged. He’d worked at Oaklea for the past decade, obsessively planting potatoes and pumpkins on every unattended square of ground.

  Wilfred paused to send Ernest off to play. “It was Miss Walling who found Father’s gun,” he said when they were alone.

  Rowland nodded. “She did mention that. And then Arthur called in the police.”

  “Naturally.”

  Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. “God, I thought this was finished thirteen years ago, Wil.”

  Wilfred gripped his brother’s shoulder. “You mustn’t worry, Rowly. I’ll handle it.”

  “I say, Wilfred—oh, hello.” A gentleman of about Wilfred’s vintage strode into the library before Rowland could reply. He was, in fact, quite like Wilfred physically. His fair hair was slicked sharply back and his tie sat perfectly against a starched white shirt and, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were the same dark, distinct blue that seemed to mark all Sinclair males. He had a similar upright neatness about his person to Wilfred Sinclair, but his smile was more boyish, broad and uncontained.

  “Well, well, Cousin Rowland,” he said, extending his hand. “I haven’t seen you since you were in knee pants! Good Lord, look at you!” He glanced up pointedly at Rowland’s height. “They obviously had you on better pasture than Wilfred and me. And the spitting image of poor Aubrey… it’s uncanny!”

  “They were always quite alike,” Wilfred agreed.

  “Hello, Arthur.” Rowland regarded curiously the cousin whose story had become a precautionary tale in Sinclair family folklore.

  Arthur Sinclair had only recently come back into the Sinclair fold after being disinherited before the war for what Wilfred called an “inappropriate association”. It may have been that Edward Sinclair, Arthur’s father, had not intended to permanently cut off his only child—previous generations of Sinclairs had often used disinheritance to control their sons. Unfortunately, Edward’s unexpected death had intervened before the falling out could be resolved or forgiven, and his considerable personal fortune had reverted to his elder brother, Henry Sinclair, becoming part of the great estate that Wilfred now controlled.

  Rowland expected that Arthur’s current residency at Oaklea was Wilfred’s way of compensating their cousin for the harshness of their fathers and the anomalies of the succession.

  “Young Ernest said he saw your biplane over an hour ago,” Arthur continued. “But when you didn’t turn up we thought it must have been the boy’s imagination. He’s been frightfully excited about your visit, hasn’t he, Wilfred?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I had to bring her down near the billabong,” Rowland said. “Actually I had rather a rough landing. I’m afraid the plane will need a bit of attention.”

  “You crashed?” Wilfred said, alarmed. He stepped back to look at his brother, noticing the blood on the knee of Rowland’s trouser for the first time. “Good Lord, why didn’t you say? I thought Kingsford Smith taught you to fly that contraption! I’ll send for a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor, Wil,” Rowland protested. “It’s a graze, that’s all. I just haven’t had a chance to clean up. But if you could send a lorry to pick up Doris, I’d be grateful.”

  “Doris?”

  “The plane—she thinks Rule Britannia is a daft name. Asked me to call her Doris now that we’re on more intimate terms.”

  Wilfred stared at him. Arthur laughed.

  “Yes, of course,” Wilfred said eventually. “I’ll send some men to bring her in. You’d best get cleaned up. Kate will expect us all at luncheon soon.”

  Rowland knotted his tie hastily, aware that Kate was waiting luncheon on him. Still, it would not have done to sit at his brother’s table in a state of dishevelment. He had been given his old bedroom which, aside from new wallpaper and the addition of a shaving mirror to the marble-topped washstand, remained essentially unchanged. The brass bed under which he’d occasionally hidden as a child, still creaked, the oak wardrobe and tallboy still smelled of lavender oil; the heavy Persian rug still caught on the door if you weren’t careful. Perhaps it was this business about his father’s gun, but the familiarity of it was a little unnerving.

  He grabbed the cufflinks he’d left on his last visit from the drawer of the dumb valet, and was still adjusting them when he walked into the drawing room for a customary drink before being seated.

  “Aubrey! When did you arrive?” Elisabeth Sinclair clapped her hands joyfully as he entered.

  Rowland barely blinked. “Just a short while ago, Mother,” he said as he bent down to kiss her cheek. It had been many years since his mother had recognised him for himself, insisting instead that he was the son she’d lost to the Great War. What Elisabeth Sinclair thought had happened to her youngest son was unclear. It appeared she’d forgotten that Rowland ever existed.

  The confusion may initially have been born of the marked resemblance between Rowland and the late Aubrey Sinclair, but the delusion had become fixed in Elisabeth’s mind and she would not now countenance that he was anyone else. Rowland had long given up trying to remind his mother who he was.

  He talked with her for a while, not really impersonating Aubrey but without challenging her mistake. And so the conversation was easy—until she asked him to play for her. Aubrey had been quite the musician, an excellent pianist, and Elisabeth Sinclair was adamant.

  “I don’t play, Mother.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Aubrey! You play beautifully.”

  Rowland looked to Wilfred for help.

  “Kate will want us to sit down soon I expect,” Wilfred intercepted.

  Elisabeth Sinclair’s green eyes flashed. She straightened. “Yes, well I don’t want to be a bother. We don’t want to upset Kate, do we?”

  “Now I didn’t mean—” Wilfred began.

  “I’m afraid I’m feeling rather tired.” Elisabeth stood. The gentlemen followed suit. “I might take luncheon in my room. I’m sure Kate won’t be too upset by my absence.”
r />   “Come now, Mother.” Wilfred tried in vain to persuade her to change her mind.

  Elisabeth refused to hear him. “Arthur, darling, would you be a dear and have Mrs. Kendall send something up on a tray?”

  “Er… yes… of course, Aunt Libby,” Arthur agreed awkwardly, as she left the room.

  Rowland glanced at his brother.

  Wilfred sighed. “Mother is becoming more difficult,” he said quietly. “It’s hardest—she’s hardest—on Kate. I suspect she doesn’t remember how much she liked her.”

  “What else has she forgotten?” Rowland asked. His mother had been fragile for some time, but they had hoped it would not get worse.

  “She has good days and bad days, Rowly. Both seem to be worse than they once were.”

  “Can I pour you a whisky, Rowland?” Arthur asked in an apparent effort to soothe the situation with alcohol.

  “Whisky… no,” Rowland replied, flinching instinctively at the thought.

  “I think you’ll find Rowly would prefer a sherry or whatever it is the ladies are drinking these days,” Wilfred said tersely.

  Rowland ignored his brother and helped himself from a bottle of gin. For some reason Wilfred seemed to believe that a dislike of whisky was some unforgivable failure of character.

  Arthur laughed. “Give him time, Wil. Young Rowland’s only twenty-eight. I couldn’t bear whisky until I was thirty.” He raised his charged glass. “Then I realised what I’d been missing.”

  “One can only hope,” Wilfred muttered.

  Arthur nodded towards the portrait of Kate and Ernest Sinclair hanging above the mantelpiece. The composition was tender—Ernest asleep in his mother’s arms. The brushwork was soft, loose. It captured Kate as a young woman becoming aware of her own power and place, gentle, timid but protective and imbued with a kind of gracious strength. “I believe that particular piece is your work, Rowland.”