The Rolls Royce eased to a stop and Samuels, Wilfred’s elderly chauffeur, stepped out and opened the rear door. Lucy Bennett handed out a large basket before emerging from the leather interior, being careful not to catch her broad-brimmed hat. “Kate thought you gentlemen might enjoy some refreshment.” She considered the state of them. “My goodness you have been working hard!”
“Miss Bennett,” Rowland tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”
“I brought the picnic, silly,” Lucy chirped. “Surely there’s some shade about somewhere to lay out a blanket.”
“Not unless you want to picnic inside the shed,” Rowland said. “It’s very kind of you to go to such trouble, Miss Bennett, but Clyde and I are filthy. I don’t think we’re fit company, even for a picnic.”
“Kate will never forgive me if I return without being able to report that you’ve eaten!” Lucy sashayed into the shed. “Why don’t you gentlemen clean up, while I put out some sandwiches?”
Clearly she was not leaving.
Left with little choice, Clyde and Rowland walked around to the water tank to wash up. Clyde stuck his head under the tap, allowing the cool water to wash away the dirt and sweat of the afternoon’s toil.
“You know, Rowly, we need more dope to finish repairing the fuselage. I might drive into Yass and fetch some.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“One of us needs to stay here and attend a picnic.”
Rowland groaned.
Clyde smiled. “I rather think you need to tell the poor girl the truth. Clearly, offending her father wasn’t enough. You may just have to risk offending her.”
“You’re probably right.” Rowland handed Clyde his pocketbook. “Try the stock and station agent—he flies a Tiger Moth himself.” He glanced at the sky. “It’ll be dark before you get back, so I suppose I’ll see you at the house.”
Clyde slapped him on the back. “Chin up, mate… and good luck.”
So Rowland walked back into the shed alone. Lucy Bennett had laid out a blanket on the dirt floor and on it, placed plates of sandwiches, shortbread and bottles of lemonade. The chauffeur had taken the car a discreet distance from the shed.
“You’ve sent Mr. Watson Jones away,” she gushed.
“I didn’t send him anywhere, Miss Bennett, he had an errand to run.”
“I must remember to ask him if he’s of the Novocastrian Watson Joneses. Irma Watson Jones was at school with Kate and me. Lovely girl. Married a Macarthur, I believe. Do you suppose Mr. Watson Jones is related?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Well, I think he’s a wonderful friend to have given us this time alone.” She held out her hand. “Come and sit with me, Rowland.”
Rowland decided he’d best get straight to the point. He sat because it did not seem a conversation one should have while standing over a lady. “Miss Bennett, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”
“I’ll say there has! Pater is convinced you’re some kind of Communist pornographer.”
“Pornographer?” Rowland was startled. “He called me a pornographer?”
“A Communist one!” she said, indignantly. “Your paintings, darling. Pater can be very old-fashioned. Perhaps if you were to paint landscapes or still life…”
“I’m afraid I don’t paint trees… or fruit.”
Lucy pouted. Her voice became childishly coy. “But couldn’t you try for me, for us. Just for a teensy widdle while. Pweeese, Wowly.”
Rowland blinked. Why the hell was she speaking like that? He shook his head in horror at both the request and the manner in which it was made. “No.”
She sighed. “Oh darling, I’m so mad for you that I don’t care that you’re so dreadfully stubborn.” She inched closer; her breath came quickly as she gazed up into his face. “You know, I believe I shall have my bridesmaids wear the same blue as your eyes.”
Rowland looked away. Of course. Lucy’s apparent obsession with him was about creating a matched set—to coordinate with Kate, the bridal party and quite possibly the curtains… she was probably planning blue curtains. “Miss Bennett, I’m afraid your father may be operating under a misimpression.”
“I know, darling, I’ve tried to talk to him, told him we absolutely love each other to bits. I’ve cried, sworn I won’t eat till I starve to death, but he’s adamant you’re a scoundrel.”
“Miss Bennett, when your father called I had no intention of asking for your hand.”
“Oh my darling, I’ve always known you were impulsive,” she said, turning suddenly to clasp her hands behind his neck. “Wonderfully, romantically impulsive.”
Rowland cracked. “For pity’s sake, Miss Bennett, I am trying to say I am not, and never have been, in love with you!”
Lucy Bennett reacted as if he’d struck her. She recoiled wide-eyed and shaking. “But that’s not true!” she whispered, pleaded.
“I assure you it is,” he replied, but gently.
Lucy became strangely rigid as her hopes finally gave way. Silent tears cut a channel through the carefully applied layer of face-powder on her cheeks. Rowland offered her his handkerchief. Lucy clutched it to her breast, gasping and gagging as if his rejection was too bitter a fruit to be swallowed, crumpling finally into anguished wails.
Rowland couldn’t help but feel a cad. He had not thought her feelings genuine. “Miss Bennett, please, your father is right. I’m not at all suitable for you.”
He tried to help her up.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “You toyed with my feelings… led me to believe…” Enraged, Lucy threw a bottle of lemonade at him and ran out of the shed.
Rowland, ducked, cursed, and followed her.
Sobbing inconsolably, Lucy ran directly to the waiting Rolls Royce. Samuels climbed out. Clearly disconcerted, the chauffeur looked from Rowland to the weeping woman who was waiting for him to open her door. Samuels had driven for many wealthy men. His face remained unreadable, his decorum unflustered. He opened the door for Lucy without a word and, turning his back on Rowland Sinclair, took his seat behind the wheel.
Rowland watched helplessly as the car pulled away, swearing as he realised he was now stranded a good five miles from the homestead.
Clyde pulled in outside the post office. He booked a call through to Woodlands House and waited until the operator put Milton on the line.
“What’s wrong?” the poet asked immediately. The very fact that Clyde was telephoning from Yass did not bode well.
Clyde recounted what had occurred over the past days.
Milton was quiet. “How’s Rowly?” he asked after a few moments.
“This is the problem, Milt. I know his old man was a mongrel, but Rowly doesn’t seem the least bit interested in who killed him.”
“God, Clyde, who could blame him? It sounds like the murderer did him a favour.”
“Except, I think the police suspect Rowly. And he’s quite happy to let Wilfred deal with it.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad plan. Wilfred may be a capitalist bastard, but he’s a powerful capitalist bastard.”
“No, it isn’t a bad plan. Unless, of course, it was Wilfred who murdered Henry Sinclair.”
“Wilfred? Have you lost your mind?”
“Hear me out, Milt. Wilfred was about to be disinherited. If he had been, he would have lost everything and wouldn’t have been able to help Rowly at all. Anyone can see he had more to gain from the old man’s death than Rowly. Rowly was a battered kid, Wilfred a man just returned from the war. He packed Rowly off to England the day after the funeral; he sacked that bastard manager and ran him and his family out of Yass. It seems to me he got rid of anyone who might have heard Henry threaten to disinherit him.”
“Or he was just protecting his brother.”
“There’s more to it,” Clyde persisted.
“And Rowly doesn’t see this?”
“He’s not
an idiot, Milt. Of course he does. But it’s Wilfred.”
“What about the lawyers? Surely—”
“I’m sure Wilfred will retain the best legal minds in Australia, but they’ll be Wilfred’s lawyers. Look, Milt, what worries me is that there’s no one, including Rowly himself, who’s going to put Rowly’s interests first. He could go down for this. Fifteen is old enough to be convicted of murder and Rowly may just be willing to go to gaol to make sure that Wilfred doesn’t hang.”
Milton swore. “Ed and I will head out to you at Yass tomorrow. We’ll think of some excuse to tell Rowly on the way. I’ll call Delaney tonight—see if I can’t find out why the police are suddenly so interested in a thirteen-year-old murder.”
9
KENNEL CHRONICLE
DOINGS IN DOGGIE LANE
CANINE PSYCHOLOGY
Some Interesting Sidelights
Dogs have a colour complex. This is the view of a prominent member of the staff of the Royal Veterinary College, London.
The greyhound, for instance, cannot resist the impulse to chase small dogs and cats. They have been known to worry goats, especially white goats.
Sunday Times, 1937
Rowland felt a little guilty eating Lucy’s picnic, but he was famished. Between them, he and Lenin polished off most of the basket’s contents. It had cooled off marginally and, after the difficulty of the last couple of days, the shed was a peaceful refuge. He brooded for a time, furious that Hayden had emerged to resurrect the ghosts of a past he had tried hard to exorcise. The scars left by the vicious beatings of his youth were on his back where he couldn’t see them. Until now, Rowland had put the memories where he couldn’t see them, too.
“I doubt Lucy’s coming back for us, old boy,” he said, scratching the dog’s one ear. “We’d best start back—it’ll be dark soon.”
Rowland decided to take the road rather than cut through the paddocks. It would make the walk longer but at least they wouldn’t miss any car despatched to collect them.
He found a rope, a makeshift lead to prevent Lenin tearing after every rabbit they came across, and man and dog set off. Once the sun set, the evening became quite pleasant. There was no moon but the stars were many and spectacular, one of those vistas that Rowland had always thought unpaintable.
Lenin padded along quite happily for about a mile, straining against the rope at every movement in the grass. But then it seemed the past day’s heat and the unexpected exercise took its toll. The dog’s head began to droop pathetically and he whined from time to time.
“For pity’s sake, Len, you’re a greyhound. Well something like a greyhound,” Rowland muttered as he realised the drag on the rope was now more to do with the dog wanting to stop, than rabbits. The hound’s eyes glistened reproachfully up at him. “I know, it’s my fault we have to walk, but I’m not carrying you.”
They were nearly halfway back to Oaklea when Rowland caught sight of headlamps in the distance. “There you go, Len, you can quit your complaining. It looks like the cavalry’s arrived.”
He blanched as the vehicle approached. He knew it wasn’t the Mercedes by the sound of its motor, but the glare made it impossible to see who was behind the wheel. Rowland waved. The car slowed to an idle.
“Come on, Len,” he urged, tugging on the rope. Lenin whined and resisted in reply. Rowland was still arguing with the dog when the first shot cracked the night air. Instinctively, Rowland dropped down. He felt the whistle as the second shot passed his shoulder. Cursing, he tried to pull Lenin off the road but the dog would not stir. “Len!” he shouted. “Move!”
Lenin whimpered. The car’s engine roared. A third shot, and a screech as the car swung around and sped back in the direction from which it had come.
But Rowland wasn’t looking at the car. In the swing of the headlamps as the car turned, he’d seen the blood.
“Len, hang on mate,” he said pulling out his lighter to inspect his dog in the feeble glow of its flame. Blood oozed from Lenin’s bony hind. Swearing, Rowland pulled off his jacket and then his shirt. He pressed the shirt against the wound, and then wrapped the stricken hound in his jacket. Knowing the dog would respond to his voice, Rowland spoke calmly. “Helluva way to get me to carry you, mate.” He heaved Lenin into his arms. “You’re going to be all right… we’ve just got to get back.”
Rowland continued on the dirt road as quickly as he could manage under the greyhound’s weight. The road was rough here and he was forced to slow down and step carefully lest he stumble. Lenin became limp and somehow heavier.
“Come on, Len, talk to me,” Rowland demanded as even the whimpering stopped.
Then he saw headlights again. For a moment, he panicked, looking frantically for some place to hide, some sort of cover. And then, he recognised the familiar attention-seeking scream of a supercharged motor. His car. He ran towards it.
The Mercedes stopped as it caught him in its headlamps. Clyde stepped out first and then a giant of a man, so dark that had he not been standing against the yellow paintwork he might have been invisible in the night.
“Harry!” Rowland exclaimed, recognising the shape of the shadow.
“Rowly, what the hell!” Harry Simpson said by way of greeting.
“Lenin’s been shot,” Rowland gasped.
“That was years ago, Rowly. Are you all right?”
“He means the dog,” Clyde said. “Who would—”
“He’s not moving,” Rowland said as Harry took the dog from him.
Harry Simpson put his ear to the greyhound’s muzzle. He listened, his face grim. “We’d better get your dog seen to quickly, Rowly.”
Rowland sat by his dog’s head, comforting and restraining the hound as Harry Simpson stitched the wound. The bullet had grazed but not lodged. Lenin had lost a good deal of blood, but thanks to Harry’s needlework the wound would not be fatal.
“You gave me one helluva scare, you daft bloody dog,” Rowland said gruffly as he stroked the animal’s long muzzle.
They were in the manager’s cottage reserved for Harry Simpson.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Harry,” Rowland said.
The Aboriginal stockman washed his hands in an enamel basin. “Wil needed an extra man to oversee the stock while Bob Bowman deals with the harvest. Jim’s got the stock in the high country well in hand—good man, that Jim—so I came down.”
Clyde smiled. His brother, Jim, worked under Simpson on the Sinclair holdings in the high country. “It’s a lucky thing you did, Harry. Old Len wasn’t looking too chipper.”
Harry Simpson frowned. “What happened, Rowly? Who shot your ugly dog?”
Rowland left his hand on Lenin. “I don’t know.” He told them about the car.
“So they were shooting at you?”
“Seems that way.”
“Why?” Simpson asked.
“That rather depends on who it was, I suppose. There might be a few reasons.”
Harry Simpson chuckled, his face creasing around blue eyes that were all the brighter for the darkness of the brow under which they were set. He reached over and ruffled Rowland’s hair. “I’ve missed you, Gagamin.”
Rowland smiled. “Thank you for fixing my dog, Harry.”
“Looks like it’s not the first time you broke him, Rowly,” Simpson regarded the battle-scarred Lenin dubiously. “I had a dog with only one ear once. Lost the other in a fight with a cat.” The stockman’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled loudly. “He died eventually… I think it was the embarrassment.” Simpson’s eyes moved to the swastika-shaped scar of cigarette burns on Rowland’s chest. “That’s new, Gagamin. You had an interesting time in Germany then?”
“You could say that. I may have to borrow a shirt before we return to the house.”
Rowland told him of the trouble they’d found in Munich, of what had happened to him. Simpson let him talk, cursing occasionally.
“And these fellas who did you over,” he asked eventually, “what happened to them
?”
“Well, one of them is Mr. Hitler’s deputy.” Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know Harry. I’m hoping our escape was at least awkward for them, but who knows?”
Simpson studied him, assessing more than the physical scars. “Are you painting?” he asked.
Rowland nodded.
“Good,” Simpson replied as if nothing more needed to be said.
Clyde watched the exchange, intrigued. Despite the fact that he’d been by Rowland’s side in Germany and England, that he’d seen Rowland struggle with nightmares and sleeplessness, it had taken him weeks to realise that Rowland needed to paint to deal with the violence and fear of his encounter with Nazis. And yet Harry Simpson knew this instinctively.
“Does Wil know you’re here, Harry?” Rowland stroked Lenin’s muzzle, smiling as the dog’s eyes rolled back with pleasure.
“Yes. I called the house when I got in,” Simpson said. The manager’s offices and cottages on Oaklea were equipped with telephones. He frowned. “Wil said that mongrel Hayden’s turned up.”
“They found Father’s gun.”
“How?” Simpson asked, clearly surprised.
“It was in the dam. And now they…”
“Well, don’t you worry about it, Rowly,” Simpson said after a moment. “Wil will deal with it.” The stockman rubbed his jowl. “Who knew you were out there tonight, that you’d be walking back?”
“Clyde and I went out to work on the plane this afternoon. I expect Miss Bennett mentioned that she’d left me out there… among other things.”
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten about Miss Bennett,” Clyde said. “What happened? How did it go?”
Rowland told them.
Clyde grimaced. “Well at least it’s done, Rowly. You can concentrate on finding someone far less suitable now.”
Rowland sighed. “I’m sure Wil will have plenty to say on the matter.”
“He told me to go get you when I pulled in,” Clyde replied, smiling. “If he’d been too upset he’d have let you walk, I imagine. I’d just dropped in here to say hello to Harry when we heard the shots.”
Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440) Page 8
