Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Why it’s simply superb. Quite extraordinary.”

  Wilfred cleared his throat.

  “It must be said, Wil.” Arthur continued, regardless. “Business and whatnot is perfectly all right for the likes of us, but your brother is a real talent. God knows where it came from… I’ve never heard of another Sinclair who could draw anything more than a cheque.”

  “Possibly because they were more usefully occupied?” Wilfred said testily.

  “Usefully occupied… Good Lord, Wil, look at that painting and tell me he should have been doing something else! I look at it and think, by Jove, Wilfred Sinclair is the luckiest man in the empire.”

  Wilfred glanced at the portrait and despite himself, his eyes softened. “Yes, well I suppose it did come out rather well.”

  Rowland watched the exchange silently, bemused by Arthur’s lavish praise and Wilfred’s barely discernible, and hardly unequivocal, approval. The sentiment of the first and the expression of the second were somewhat unexpected.

  Kate joined them, having settled the children to eat in the scullery, and they proceeded into the dining room where Alice Kendall had laid out what was more a banquet than luncheon, even at opulent Oaklea.

  “It appears Mrs. Kendall is pleased to have you home,” Wilfred said, regarding the feast comprised of all Rowland’s favourite dishes.

  Over the meal, which, on account of its abundance, was necessarily a long one, Rowland became reacquainted with Arthur Sinclair who had been excluded from the Sinclair family over twenty years before. It appeared that his cousin had sought his fortune abroad with just enough connections remaining to secure a position articled to a solicitor. The war had intervened and Arthur Sinclair had joined the British army and distinguished himself in France. He had returned to complete his clerkship and had in time established a successful practice of his own in London, returning to Australia just the year before and settling in Melbourne.

  “It was rather fortunate that Arthur was able to keep an eye on the place while we were both abroad,” Wilfred said, frowning.

  Rowland glanced guiltily at Kate, guessing that Wilfred was referring more to their mother than Oaklea. Wilfred, and therefore his wife, had always taken responsibility for Elisabeth Sinclair, managing her frailty in a manner that kept her condition from public knowledge and maintained her dignity.

  Despite this, Kate still seemed manifestly frightened of her mother-in-law, and, on occasion, Elisabeth Sinclair forgot that she was no longer mistress of Oaklea. In the past, any potential conflict had been tempered, if not completely avoided, by Elisabeth’s genuine fondness for Kate. Now Rowland wondered if that had changed.

  He was aware that by refusing to live on the property, he had effectively abdicated shouldering much of the strain involved with his mother’s condition. Perhaps he should take her back to Woodlands with him, for a while at least.

  Tentatively he suggested it.

  Wilfred rolled his eyes. “For pity’s sake, Rowly! Do you propose to have our mother live with you and your idle Communist friends? I suspect, seeing for herself what you’ve done to her house would be one tragedy too far!”

  Kate was quiet.

  “I’m sure I could—” Rowland began.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Mother doesn’t even remember who you are, not to mention the fact that you run Woodlands in a manner that is hardly appropriate for the residence of a lady!”

  “Wil…” Kate touched her husband’s arm, startled by the harsh frankness of his words.

  Rowland said nothing, seething.

  “You know,” Arthur Sinclair interrupted the tension. “I would be very pleased to have Aunt Libby stay with me whenever… whenever she needs a change of scenery.” He waited while one of the maids took his plate. “We do rub along rather well, and it won’t be far away.”

  Rowland’s face was unreadable. It was true that while his mother had forgotten him, she remembered fondly her nephew by marriage who had been cut out of their lives two decades ago—a stinging irony he was trying valiantly not to hold against Arthur.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I might go and check on the children,” Kate said.

  “Yes, of course.” Wilfred stood to pull out her chair.

  “Kate seems a trifle quiet,” Arthur whispered as they watched her go.

  Wilfred nodded. “I suspect she finds Yass a little dull and lonely after the excitement of our time abroad.” He lit a cigarette. “I’ve organised a small surprise which should cheer her up.”

  “You cousin, are a prince among men!” Arthur rose from the table. “I have some business in Yass, so I might leave you chaps to it. Wil, do you mind if I—”

  “Not at all. Take the Continental,” Wilfred replied. There were several Rolls Royce limousines garaged in the Oaklea stables. The Phantom II Continental was Wilfred’s particular favourite.

  When Arthur too had departed, Wilfred took Rowland into his study. Clearly there was much on his mind.

  Rowland assumed the seat his brother offered him and watched as Wilfred paced. He was feeling restless himself but they couldn’t both pace without risk of collision.

  “Look, Rowly, I expect that by now the police will have realised this new investigation into Father’s death is futile but, if they haven’t, I think we should be crystal clear about what happened.”

  “I see,” Rowland said. He clenched a fist in his hair, his face unguarded for the first time. He was worried. “Just tell me what you want me to say, Wil.”

  Wilfred sat. He fixed his eyes on Rowland’s. “You were in bed when you heard the gunshot. You did not leave your room until I came to tell you there had been a break-in and that Father had been shot and killed.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I’ll deal with the rest of it.”

  Rowland nodded. “Very well.”

  “I don’t want you to worry, Rowland. I’ll take care of this. Just keep your head.”

  6

  GOLF HINTS

  Art of Putting

  USEFUL PRACTICE

  (By S.R. HOWARD.)

  There is no part of the game which is so vital to a player’s success as putting. When played badly it causes more aggravation than the misplaying of longer shots. When a player gets out of the double-figure handicap class an analysis of his score will show that half of his strokes will be putts.

  Dungog Chronicle, 19 May 1931

  The yellow Mercedes slowed to halt outside the chapel on Oaklea. The small sandstone church sat alone amongst sheep paddocks and occasional stands of gum trees from which cicadas raised the background scream of an Australian summer. The building was encircled by the private cemetery in which Sinclairs had been interred for generations.

  The driver’s-side door was swung open, and Clyde Watson Jones stepped out. A greyhound followed him, its excessive tail already wagging furiously. Clyde smoothed back his hair before replacing his hat and adjusting his tie.

  He’d called at the homestead, knocking bashfully at the tradesman’s entrance where he’d been greeted by Alice Kendall. She’d plied him with tea and cake and informed him that Mr. Rowland was visiting his father’s grave. Not wanting to announce his arrival in the absence of the friend who’d invited him, Clyde had followed the housekeeper’s directions to the chapel.

  He’d been both surprised and relieved to learn Rowland was here. His friend’s apparent lack of interest in Henry Sinclair’s murder had unsettled Clyde. It was not the way one expected a son to behave. But visiting graves was. Perhaps it was the shock of learning the gun had been found, or simply that insane upper class stoicism that had initially made Rowland seem so indifferent.

  Clyde held tightly to Lenin’s collar as they walked around behind the chapel to the main part of the picket-fenced cemetery. The dog struggled against the restraint as they sighted his master—by a grave and on his knees. Clyde held the dog back, respectfully allowing Rowland a private moment of prayer.
/>   Less considerately, Lenin barked.

  Rowland looked up. “Clyde!” he said pulling his arm out of the dirt and walking over the grave at which he’d been kneeling to greet his friend. He slipped the golf ball into his pocket before he offered Clyde his hand. “How are you? Hello Len.”

  The hound responded with a demented excitement, leaping and writhing with such pure joy that he seemed unable to proceed with any composure at all. It took a time to calm him. It was while Rowland was thus occupied that Clyde noticed the golf clubs. They were propped against a marble headstone at the apex of which was mounted a gilded angel who appeared to be wearing Rowland’s jacket.

  “Rowly, what the dickens were you doing?”

  Rowland looked up from his dog. He pulled the golf ball from his pocket. “I was retrieving my ball… that hole’s a few inches deeper than I remember. I hope it hasn’t attracted a resident.”

  “What?”

  “A snake.”

  “No, I mean… what are you doing here?”

  “Playing golf with Aubrey,” Rowland said, pointing out a bronze and sandstone memorial a few yards away. The inlaid portrait of a young soldier might have been Rowland Sinclair, so striking was the resemblance.

  “And exactly how often do you golf with your late brother?”

  “We try to play a round whenever I’m back in Yass.”

  “Rowly, mate, this is a cemetery.”

  Rowland smiled. “Yes… it’s more putting and chipping practice than an actual game of golf.” He retrieved his jacket from the headstone, revealing the inscription: “Henry John Sinclair, 6th July 1851 – 13th March 1920”. There was something more below that began with the word “Beloved”, but which had otherwise been so badly chipped as to render the original lettering illegible.

  Rowland fetched a putting iron, dropped the golf ball on to the grass before him and, lining up his shot, swung. The ball hit the headstone like a bullet. “Beloved” became “Belove”.

  “You’ve lost your mind!” Clyde accused.

  Rowland laughed but he offered no explanation. “Did you have a good run?”

  “Yes, not bad. I’m early in fact.”

  “Good! Can you stay a while? I might need your help with something.”

  “I’m not playing golf in a cemetery. I’ll have enough explaining to do when I face the Almighty as it is!”

  “No, not golf. Something else.”

  “Then, sure. I could catch a train tomorrow or the next day if your brother doesn’t mind my sleeping in one of his sheds.”

  “He mightn’t, but I would,” Rowland replied. “I’m sure we can find you an actual bed.”

  “In that case, what do you need?”

  “I’ll show you.” Rowland gathered his golf clubs and stowed them in a rough shed behind the chapel. He patted his brother’s memorial affectionately, before heading back to the Mercedes. Slipping behind the wheel, he drove them to what was technically a separate holding. Emoh Ruo had been purchased by Wilfred a couple of years previously and, with it, the Rule Britannia. Past the now uninhabited homestead was a cluster of sizeable sheds.

  Rowland keyed the padlock that secured the largest shed, and opened the doors wide to allow light into what was a makeshift hangar.

  Clyde whistled. “What the hell happened to her?”

  “I landed a bit hard and clipped a fence on the way down,” Rowland confessed. “I’ve managed to procure a replacement tyre through the local flying club—it’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

  “Any other damage?”

  “I’ll need to patch the fuselage…”

  Clyde nodded, running his hand over the rips in the body’s fabric. “You’ll need some linen canvas and a couple of coats of dope. You’re damn lucky the wire didn’t go over the wheel—you’d have flipped old Doris completely.”

  Rowland nodded. “It was a new fence,” he said in his own defence. “I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

  Clyde squatted before the damaged wheel. “We might as well get started then.” He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Rowland followed suit.

  Having worked for a time in a motor mechanic’s workshop, Clyde had acquired an understanding of machines, and the virtue of improvisation.

  And so they remained in the shed, jacking up the Rule Britannia and determining how to remove the shredded wheel. As they worked, Clyde brought Rowland up to date with goings on in Sydney: Edna had won a part in another film.

  “I think she must die in this one,” he said, grimacing. “She’s been rehearsing her final moments in the drawing room… sounds like it may be a painful demise. Your housekeeper is not happy. That’s why I had to bring the dog with me. Miss Brown is quite clearly fed up with the strays you bring home.”

  Rowland laughed. Over the years Edna had procured the odd acting role in local amateur productions and been an extra on one or two films. Perhaps it was because she approached the roles like an excited child at play that none of them took it seriously.

  They’d only just managed to remove the wheel when Wilfred’s Continental approached. The racing green duco was coated with a thick layer of red-brown dust. The chauffeur opened the door, and Wilfred and Arthur Sinclair stepped out.

  “Good Lord, she’s a beauty!” Arthur said admiringly. “What a jolly ship!”

  “She will be once Clyde and I fix my little mishap,” Rowland said smiling. Wilfred had never appreciated the biplane sufficiently. It pleased Rowland that Arthur, at least, could give the aircraft her due. “And what are you gentlemen doing out here?”

  “We’ve stopped in to see what you were up to, on our way to the house,” Wilfred said. “I thought Arthur might like to take over the Emoh Ruo homestead since he plans to stay on in Yass.”

  “As long as you don’t have any objections, Rowland,” Arthur added hastily. “Wilfred assures me that you have no intention of taking over the place yourself… but if you’ve changed your mind—”

  “God, no!” Rowland glanced at Wilfred, more disconcerted by the fact that his brother had not mentioned that he planned to offer Arthur a house on what was now the greater Sinclair property, than by the offer itself. “I’m happy where I am.”

  While Clyde showed Arthur what they were doing to repair the biplane, Wilfred took the opportunity to pull Rowland aside. “I am informed that Campbell, Campbell and Campbell is preparing to take action against you for slander and libel.”

  Rowland frowned. Campbell, Campbell and Campbell, as the name suggested, was Eric Campbell’s law firm.

  “Let him sue.”

  “For God’s sake, Rowly, can’t you just leave this alone? Campbell’s Centre Party will amount to nothing. You are making yourself a target for no reason at all!”

  “But what if it doesn’t amount to nothing, Wil?” Rowland asked, shaking his head.

  Wilfred looked at him thoughtfully. “I know you’re still smarting after what happened in Germany but there are better ways of taking a stand against him, Rowly. All you’re doing at the moment is inviting the New Guard to silence you one way or another.”

  “I am not afraid of those—”

  “This is not the time to call out all your enemies!” Wilfred stopped as Clyde and Arthur emerged from the shed. “We’ll talk about this later. At least you can’t get into any more trouble while you’re here!”

  Rowland could hear the bubbling chatter of his nephews as he came down the stairs. They were in the conservatory with Clyde who was telling them some kind of country yarn, spinning it out with amusing voices and imitations. His tale was consequently interrupted by Ernest’s giggles and questions and exclamations of thrilled horror. Ewan, who was only eighteen months old, babbled and clapped with equivalent enthusiasm.

  Rowland smiled. Clyde had a way with children. He expected that his fellow artist would be the first of them to settle down and do that for which his long-suffering Catholic mother prayed. He knew that Clyde’s sweetheart, a young woman by the name of Rosali
na Martinelli, was of the same mind, though Clyde himself was in less of a hurry. Indeed, Clyde had been playing a game of matrimonial duck and weave since they’d returned from abroad.

  They’d come in only a short while earlier to clean up and dress for dinner. Rowland’s trunk had, by then, been collected from the Mercedes, taken up to his room and unpacked. Kate had welcomed Clyde to Oaklea and ensured he was comfortably accommodated in one of its many guest rooms.

  They were dining formally that evening. Rowland’s dinner suit had, of course, been in the trunk Clyde had delivered with the Mercedes. Clyde’s not untirely unfounded conviction that any interaction with the upper classes, however brief, would require formal attire, meant he had also brought his own.

  It was when Rowland was about to join Clyde and the boys in the conservatory that he heard the commotion at the front door and Kate, breathless with excitement. “Oh Wil, how could you not tell me? What a truly wonderful surprise!”

  “I thought you might like the company, Katie,” Wilfred replied. Rowland could hear the warmth in his brother’s voice. It was always the way when Wilfred Sinclair spoke of, or to, his wife and sons.

  Rowland hung back, allowing them that moment alone. He may have continued in to join Clyde if he hadn’t heard a vaguely familiar voice shriek, “Kate, darling!”

  And then, Kate’s response. “Lucy, how simply wonderful to see you!”

  Rowland closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. With everything that had happened he had completely forgotten to mention his awkward conversation with Colonel Bennett to his brother and sister-in-law.

  “Rowly!” Wilfred caught sight of him as they walked through into the drawing room. “You remember Miss Lucy Bennett…”

  Lucy gasped. She had arrived dressed for dinner, in voluminous, emerald-green taffeta and jewels. Perhaps it was the influence of the season, but she reminded Rowland of a blonde Christmas tree.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennett,” he said uncomfortably.

  Lucy stared at him. Some moments later, it seemed she might speak, but instead her eyes brimmed with tears and she pushed past Rowland to run up the stairs in quite obvious distress.