Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  Dumbfounded, Wilfred and Kate watched her go.

  “Oh… oh dear,” Kate said eventually. “I’d best go after her.” She set off up the stairs in concerned pursuit.

  Wilfred grabbed Rowland’s arm, furious. “What the hell did you do to that girl?”

  “Nothing,” Rowland replied, shaking off Wilfred’s grip. “Her father asked me never to see her again.”

  “What! Why? If you’ve—”

  “For God’s sake, Wil!” Rowland said, affronted. “Colonel Bennett came to see me. Somehow he’d got the impression that I wanted to marry his daughter, which I can assure you, I do not!”

  Wilfred cursed. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d jilted the poor girl?”

  “I didn’t jilt her… I’ve never had any—”

  “She’s Kate’s dearest friend, Rowly. Why would you—no wonder she—” He stopped as a thought occurred to him. “If you refused her, why did Bennett feel the need to forbid you seeing her again?”

  “I hadn’t had the chance to tell him when he met my friends and decided I was not a fit and proper suitor for his daughter.”

  “Well, that part is perfectly understandable,” Wilfred growled. He sighed. “The poor wretch probably believes I’ve orchestrated this encounter in defiance of her father’s wishes.”

  “I’ll leave,” Rowland offered.

  “Bloody hell, Rowly, why can’t you do anything without a public scandal? Colonel Bennett will unleash the dogs of war when he hears you’re here.”

  “I can be gone before she comes down for dinner,” Rowland said again, but Wilfred was not listening to him. Kate and Lucy were descending the stairs arm in arm.

  “Gentlemen, you must forgive me,” Lucy said, when they’d come down. “It’s been a frightful trip. I’m afraid I was tired and overwrought. You must think me terribly silly, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “It’s wonderful to have Rowly and Lucy visiting at the same time, don’t you think, Wil?” Kate’s enthusiasm was distinctly forced. “The four of us will make such a jolly party.”

  Wilfred cleared his throat, glaring at Rowland. “Don’t forget Arthur, my dear.”

  “Or Clyde,” Rowland added. “Indeed, I might just go and tell him that we’ll be going in for dinner,” he said, taking the opportunity to retreat, for a while at least. “What would you like done with the boys, Kate?”

  “Oh, I’d better have them taken up to the nursery,” Kate replied. “Nanny de Waring will have their supper waiting.”

  “Clyde and I will do that,” Rowland volunteered, already on his way to the conservatory. “It’ll give you and Miss Bennett a chance to get reacquainted.”

  7

  THE HOME CIRCLE

  A SIGN OF TRUE LOVE

  Rarely, indeed almost never, is it of any use for a man to ask advice as to how he shall manage a proposal of marriage to the woman of his choice. Books of etiquette, with formulas for every occasion, counsel from obliging and deeply interested friends, however experienced, alike are of little or no avail to “him who lacks a tongue.”

  Shyness is, above all, a distinguishing characteristic of true love, and the man who has most cause highly to esteem himself is often the one who is most diffident, who will stammer and blush like a bashful schoolboy in the presence of the woman whom he believes to be the paragon of her sex and who all the while, if the truth were known, may be longing to help him out with his faltering speech.

  Camperdown Chronicle, 1934

  Ewan Sinclair shrieked in delight as he was hoisted onto Clyde’s broad shoulders. He grabbed a chubby fistful of the artist’s sandy hair and bounced. Ernest punched into Rowland’s open palms, his face fierce and clenched in concentration.

  “Good show, Ernie!” Rowland said as his nephew managed a jab without closing his eyes. “What did I tell you? Your aim’s rather better when you can see.”

  Ernest nodded thoughtfully.

  “Come on then, Sonny Jim.” Rowland got up off his knees. “Your supper’s waiting and Clyde and I have to go in to dinner.”

  “Are you going to marry Aunt Lucy?” Ernest blurted.

  Rowland was startled enough to answer bluntly, “No.”

  “Oh. Are you sure, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest’s small brow furrowed with concern. “Aunt Lucy is very suitable.”

  Clyde smothered a snigger. Rowland stared at his nephew, wondering what adult conversations the boy might have overheard.

  “I’m sure she is, Ernie, but I’m afraid that I’m not.”

  Ernest nodded solemnly. “Oh, I see.” He took Rowland’s hand. “Will you tell Nanny de Waring that you kept us playing so she won’t be cross?”

  “That I can do.”

  “And that we needn’t go to bed straight after supper?”

  “That might be trickier.” Rowland grabbed Ernest and slung the boy over his shoulder. “When did you become such a scamp?” he asked as Ernest writhed and squealed.

  And so the younger Sinclairs were delivered somewhat raucously to the sanctuary of the nursery so that the adults could go about the business of dinner.

  Kate’s other dinner guests had arrived by the time Rowland and Clyde made their way down. Kate had, like any good hostess, attempted to alleviate the gender imbalance by inviting Miss Edna Walling to join them. Lucy’s surprise arrival had happily evened the numbers exactly, so now each lady had a gentleman to escort her into the dining room.

  The seating arrangements placed Rowland between Lucy Bennett and Edna Walling. Resigned now to an awkward evening, he just hoped for the best.

  Clyde took his place on the other side of the garden designer. The two seemed to find each other good company from the outset. Unlike Rowland, Clyde painted landscapes and so perhaps it was this appreciation of nature that each recognised in the other. It may also have been a certain discomfiture in the rarefied atmosphere of an Oaklea dinner party. Sun-bronzed and straight-backed, Edna Walling looked as out of place in the constriction of her fussy lace-trimmed gown as Clyde had always seemed in a dinner suit, however well-tailored.

  In the absence of any protocol on how to proceed, Rowland decided to carry on as if he had never spoken with Colonel Bennett. Perhaps Lucy, too, wished to relegate the whole embarrassing incident to the past. After all, it was quite possible that her overzealous father had acted of his own accord.

  Lucy’s behaviour did, in fact, reassure him on this account. She was as cheerfully vacuous as ever. She asked about his time abroad, enquiring after fashions and acquaintances she’d made during her own season in London, and extolling over Kate Sinclair’s presentation at court. Of course, nobody mentioned the murders. They were, after all, at dinner.

  Elisabeth Sinclair was also her best self this night, the charming hostess who had once claimed a place at the pinnacle of gracious society. Rowland had vague memories of his mother thus when he’d been very young—long before the war, when his brother and father had been alive. Wilfred expertly managed the conversation so that her inescapable frailty, her inability to acknowledge Rowland with anything but Aubrey’s name, and Aubrey’s life, was barely noticed.

  As the main course was being cleared, Elisabeth Sinclair bid them all good night. “Late nights and Mrs. Kendall’s desserts are best enjoyed by the young,” she said, smiling warmly. All the gentlemen stood, volunteering to see her to her rooms, but it was Arthur’s arm she chose.

  “Your mama seems well tonight, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucy said once Elisabeth had left the room.

  Rowland nodded. “She does.” He presumed that, despite Wilfred’s efforts, the malady of his mother’s memory was something of which Lucy was aware.

  “She has been rather unwell, I believe.”

  “For quite a while,” Rowland murmured more to himself than anyone else.

  “Kate believes that it would be easier if your mama had another daughter-in-law.”

  “She said that?”

  “Not exactly, but I know Kate would love nothing more than to have another woman in the family.�
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  “I expect she would.”

  Lucy giggled.

  Rowland looked desperately for some way to steer the subject to one less personally threatening. As luck would have it, he overheard a snippet of Clyde’s conversation which served the purpose admirably.

  “A project of this size must be daunting, Miss Walling. When we were abroad we visited whole countries smaller than Oaklea!”

  “Fortunately, Mr. Watson Jones, we are not converting the entire property into garden, just the immediate grounds, which already have excellent bones. I’m just adding a few highlights.”

  “You must have Miss Walling show you her plans, Clyde,” Rowland interjected. “They’re quite splendid.”

  Kate nodded. “I’m very much looking forward to seeing it all in place.”

  The garden designer sighed. “We would be progressing a great deal more quickly if the jolly police would stop bothering me about that old gun!”

  Wilfred cleared his throat.

  “That Gilbey chap,” she continued, “is insisting the area be sieved before he’ll let me get on with building the ponds. You’d think I’d dug up Tutankhamun’s tomb!”

  The table fell silent as the Sinclairs struggled for an appropriate response.

  In the end, Rowland leaned over and said quietly, “I’m afraid, Miss Walling, that the police believe our late father was killed with that gun.”

  Edna Walling turned quite crimson. “Oh, my Lord, how clumsy of me. I had no idea… I hope you can forgive my lack of tact.”

  “Not at all, Miss Walling. You weren’t to know,” Wilfred said. “Indeed it was remiss of us not to have told you sooner since you did us the service of finding the weapon.”

  Dessert was served: an extraordinary construction of meringue, brandied pears and caramel sauce.

  Edna Walling was noticeably quiet.

  “Please don’t feel badly,” Rowland whispered to the embarrassed garden designer. “My father died a long time ago. It’s not a fresh wound by any means.”

  “You can always trust me to drop a clanger!” Edna lamented.

  Rowland laughed, taking up his dessert fork. “Tell me, Miss Walling, what exactly did the police want?”

  “All sorts of daft information, Mr. Sinclair. What vegetation has been removed, whether the dam was visible from the house, how long it would take to get from the house to the dam, whether the dam was visible from the workmen’s cottages… I’m afraid they must have mistaken me for a surveyor!”

  “I imagine it must be testing your patience, Miss Walling, but I’m sure the matter will be put to rest soon.”

  “Do you expect they’ll find your father’s murderer quickly, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland shook his head. “No. I don’t expect they’ll find him at all.”

  “You’re being rather pessimistic, don’t you think, old chap?” Arthur said, having returned to the table. He smiled broadly. “Wouldn’t it be something if, after all these years, justice could finally be done?”

  “It’s quite frightening to think that a man was murdered in this very house.” Lucy shuddered. “I’m quite sure I won’t sleep at all tonight.”

  “Well, perhaps we should talk of a more pleasant subject.” Wilfred’s tone was not that of mere suggestion.

  “Oh yes, let’s,” Kate said. “Miss Walling you must tell us more about your work. How exactly does one construct a dry rock wall?”

  Rowland stepped out onto the verandah. The night air was perfumed with the heady scent of his brother’s prized roses. Closest to the house the blooms were red. Wilfred had planted them for Kate.

  Rowland smiled as he pondered the remontant tribute. It was hard to believe stern, pragmatic Wilfred Sinclair was capable of so romantic a gesture.

  After dinner the ladies had retired to the drawing room leaving the men at the dining table with their brandy and cigarettes. Rowland alone did not smoke. Perhaps it was the cigarette fumes, but he’d felt a sudden need for fresh air. And so he’d excused himself.

  “Rowland.” Lucy Bennett stepped out after him.

  He was as startled by her use of his Christian name as by her emergence. “Miss Bennett.”

  “We’re alone, my darling. Finally.” Lucy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I’m not going to cry, I promise.” She moved towards him. “Oh, Rowland, what are we going to do?”

  “Do?”

  “About Pater… his opposition to us.” She ran her hand over the silk of his lapel.

  For some moments, Rowland could think of nothing which would help him. And then he pulled himself together. “He’s your father, Miss Bennett. We have to respect his wishes.”

  She smiled, fluttering her eyelids in a manner Rowland had once assumed an involuntary twitch, but had since discovered was intended to be flirtatious. “You wouldn’t have organised this tryst if you intended to respect his wishes, my darling.”

  “I can assure you I didn’t—”

  “You don’t need to deny it, Rowland. Knowing you’d defy Pater for us only makes me love you more.”

  A voice from the darkness, a timely intrusion. “Rowly, is that you?”

  “Clyde!” Rowland responded with an unmistakeable note of “thank God” in his voice. “Miss Bennett and I were just taking some air. I say, why don’t you join us?”

  It was not so dark that Rowland couldn’t see Clyde’s grin.

  “I’d best get back to the ladies before they wonder what has become of me,” Lucy said casting a resentful glance Clyde’s way. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Well?” Clyde asked when she was gone.

  “Miss Bennett seems to believe that it’s only her father keeping us apart.”

  “Oh… sorry.”

  Rowland leaned back against a verandah post. “She has consequently concluded that the two of us happening to be here at the same time is some sort of illicit tryst!”

  Clyde rubbed his brow , his lips pursed as he tried not to laugh. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m hoping Wil will feel honour-bound to inform Colonel Bennett that I’m here.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Rowland shrugged. “I’ll tell Miss Bennett that I’m Catholic.”

  Rowland and Clyde were just setting out to complete the repairs to the Rule Britannia when the telephone call came through. Wilfred signalled them to wait.

  “What’s wrong?” Rowland asked as Wilfred slammed down the receiver.

  “Detectives Gilbey and Angel are on their way.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. They’ve been despatched from Sydney to deal with Father’s murder.”

  “What do they want? I’ve already—”

  “Someone has apparently come forward.”

  “Who? And what the hell have they come forward with?”

  “I presume we’ll know soon enough,” Wilfred replied calmly.

  Rowland cursed.

  Wilfred ignored him. “I think it may be prudent to have Arthur sit in.”

  “Arthur?”

  “He’s a solicitor, Rowly.”

  Gilbey and Angel were not alone. Clyde had been about to join the ladies when all the policemen were shown into the library—the detectives, two uniformed constables and one other, a large, barrel-chested man who had gone to seed. He was perhaps sixty, his suit as worn as his countenance. His hands trembled slightly and the veins at his temples seemed to visibly pulse. Clyde saw Rowland tense, he noticed his friend’s face. And so he stayed.

  Detective Angel introduced the fifth man. “I believe you may know Mr. Charles Hayden.”

  “Whoa, Rowly!” Clyde grabbed Rowland as he launched himself at Hayden. The constables moved quickly to protect their informant and restrain his attacker.

  “What the hell is this man doing on my property?” Wilfred turned on Gilbey.

  “Perhaps we should have conducted these enquiries at the station,” Gilbey said, standing his ground. “Mr. Hayden has made a statement. We hoped we might
gauge your reactions to his story.” Gilbey looked at Rowland. “I suppose we have already, but I had thought you’d like to hear what he had to say first.”

  Wilfred’s face was stony. “You had no business bringing this man into my house. Be assured that I will be speaking to the commissioner, if not the premier, about this outrage.”

  “Wilfred.” Arthur Sinclair intervened to soothe his cousin. He spoke quietly. “If this chap’s made a statement, it may be in our interests to hear him out. If he’s lying or just making mischief we can establish that before matters get out of hand.”

  “I can warrant that he will be making mischief!” Wilfred replied.

  “Even so, Wil, you’ll not be giving him a hearing that he hasn’t already had. Let’s deal with the scoundrel now and then this investigation, such as it is, can resume without distraction.” Arthur plied his persuasion firmly.

  Eventually Wilfred conceded. “Very well—”

  “Wil—no!” There was a palpable dismay in Rowland’s voice, a wounded rage in his eyes.

  “Arthur may be right, Rowly,” Wilfred said. “The sooner we deal with this mongrel, the sooner we can despatch him.” He addressed the policemen coldly. “You can unhand my brother now.”

  The constables who held Rowland looked to Gilbey for his approval. He nodded cautiously. “You should understand, however, Mr. Sinclair, that this man is under the protection of the New South Wales Police Department.” He turned to Wilfred. “Perhaps we should sit down.”

  Wilfred directed them to the long polished meeting table which ran parallel to the south wall of the library, and around which, at one time or another, had sat the most powerful men in the country.

  The Sinclairs sat on one side, the two detectives and Hayden on the other.

  Unsure of his place in this, but unwilling to leave Rowland to it, Clyde remained, standing unobtrusively with the constables. He’d never before seen Rowland look quite like this—it wasn’t so much anger as unbridled loathing.

  “Perhaps if Mr. Hayden was to begin by reiterating the statement he gave to Detective Angel last evening.”