Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  “That’s the man who came to see Mummy,” Ernest said shakily.

  “He came to see your mother? When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What did he want?”

  Ernest’s lower lip began to tremble. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right, mate,” Rowland said more gently. “I can ask your mother.”

  “Why did you punch that man, Uncle Rowly?”

  “I was angry.”

  “Why?”

  Rowland hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I shouldn’t have hit him, Ernie,” he said in the end. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  Ernest threw his arms around Rowland’s neck and hugged him. Rowland was surprised and then ashamed. Whether by nature or training, Ernest was not generally demonstrative. The child must have been truly frightened by the violence.

  He stood up with Ernest still in his arms. “Come on, you can ride in the cockpit while Clyde and I push Doris back into the shed.”

  12

  DOCTOR SAYS:

  Weather Decides A Baby’s Sex

  (From Brooke McClure, The Sunday Times Special U.S.A. Representative.)

  NEW YORK, Saturday

  Dr. William F. Peterson, pathology expert of Illinois University, is convinced that the fact of a baby being born a boy or girl is largely due to temperature.

  He believes that, broadly speaking, girl babies are the result of warm weather conditions and males the result of cold weather.

  More geniuses as well as sub-normal babies are born when weather conditions are unsettled, and he believes that Europe is filled with so many turbulent figures because its climate is more unsettled than the climate of many other parts of the world.

  The Sunday Times, 1939

  The two-ton Federal lorry looked entirely out of place with the imposing elegance of Oaklea as a backdrop. Battered and patched with mismatching timbers and tin-plate, it was a stark contrast to the pristine duco of Lucy Bennett’s Riley Lynx, beside which it was parked. Rowland did not pay a great deal of attention to the lorry, assuming it belonged to Edna Walling or one of her contractors. It was the third vehicle that caught his attention: a black police car.

  “It looks like Gilbey and Angel are back.” He brought the Mercedes to a stop.

  Clyde nodded. “You might want to have a word to them about this bloke Hayden,” he said, frowning. “The man’s got some hide turning up here again.”

  “I will,” Rowland promised as he climbed out of the car.

  He glanced up at Oaklea. In their absence a grand wreath had been hung on the front door and swags of holly beneath the windows. With all the drama he had almost forgotten it was nearly Christmas.

  “Your poor mother will be wondering where you’ve got to,” Rowland said guiltily. “You should have reached Batlow days ago, Clyde.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Rowly—with all the wives and husbands and children, there are an awful lot of us now. I expect Mum’s glad to have the extra bed until the last possible moment. And my sisters’ boys won’t be half-impressed when I tell them about how we fixed Doris.”

  Rowland had an idea. “Why don’t I fly you up there? There must be somewhere near Batlow we could land.”

  For a moment Clyde considered it and then, reluctantly, he declined. “Nah, Rowly, I’d never hear the end of it. My old mum doesn’t really approve of flying. She thinks it’s blasphemous.”

  “Blasphemous?”

  “She has this notion that the heavens are the dominion of the good Lord and we should not venture up there unless we’re invited, or dead.”

  “I see,” Rowland smiled. He’d met Mrs. Watson Jones. Clyde was probably wise to be cautious. “Come on, we’d best see what the constabulary wants this time.” He looked thoughtfully at his nephew. “Ernie, why don’t you investigate what Miss Walling and her band of gardeners are up to?” Rowland handed Ernest Mrs. Kendall’s picnic basket which had, it turned out, been packed with enough cakes and shortbread to feed a dozen men. “See if they’re hungry.”

  Ernest took the basket eagerly. He liked talking to the workmen. Miss Walling had let him plant the violets. Templeton and Bates always made him laugh, calling him “Ernest, Lord of Oaklea” or “Prince Short Pants” and requesting that he shift great boulders out of the way.

  And so he set off happily, leaving his uncle and Clyde to see about the police.

  “Rowly! Clyde!” Edna Higgins flung open the homestead door and launched herself at them, somehow managing to embrace them both simultaneously.

  Milton came up behind the sculptress and shook Rowland’s hand. “Lenin told us he took a bullet for you. How are you, Rowly?”

  “I’m well…” Rowland replied, bewildered. “What are you both doing here?”

  “Aren’t you pleased to see us?” Edna asked, feigning hurt.

  “Of course I am. I’m simply surprised. How did you get here?”

  Milton pointed to the shabby Federal. “My cousin lent me his lorry, though I did have to promise him your car for his wedding in return.”

  “What?”

  “He could hardly expect his bride to arrive in the Federal.”

  “Aren’t you both supposed to be spending Christmas in Sydney?”

  “Ed received an invitation to spend Christmas in Canberra,” Milton replied.

  “Do you remember Bertie Middleton, Rowly?” Edna asked casually.

  Rowland did. Bertram Middleton had been one of the sculptress’s many suitors… a writer, if memory served. “Yes, Middleton—whatever happened to him?”

  “He moved to Canberra… something about inspiration for his novel.”

  “Canberra?”

  Edna shrugged. “Where else would you write the Great Australian Novel?”

  “I can think of a few places… he won’t be hindered by distractions, I suppose.”

  She laughed. “Poor Bertie has been wretchedly lonely—he literally begged us to visit.”

  “Actually, he begged Ed,” Milton corrected. “I’m just the chaperone.”

  “I see,” Rowland said. It was a little startling to find them both here but it was the kind of impulsive thing they would do. And he was strangely relieved to see them. Of course he was less than pleased that Middleton seemed to be once again pressing his case. “I thought you had a film role?” he said to Edna.

  Milton grinned, delighted. “They sacked her.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “A creative disagreement,” Edna declared loftily.

  “She told the director that he was ridiculous,” Milton revealed.

  “Kenny Hall? Good Lord! Why?” Edna had always got on famously with Ken Hall.

  “It’s K.G. now,” Edna said rolling her eyes. “He won’t let anyone call him Kenny anymore.”

  “And that’s why you told him he was ridiculous?” Rowland ventured.

  “No, of course not. Kenny wasn’t directing this film. This was Harry Southwell who wanted me to die like a lady.”

  “How else could you die?”

  “Like someone actually dying!” Edna said, demonstrating by clutching her hands to her chest, gasping and stumbling in a wild but surprisingly convincing depiction.

  Rowland grabbed her in case she fell off the verandah in the pursuit of realism. “Yes, I see.”

  “He wanted me to sigh and slip ethereally to the floor without mussing my hair or showing too much leg. It was quite absurd! Not even nuns die like that!”

  Rowland was contemplating how exactly one would expect a nun to die when Kate Sinclair came to the door. She smiled nervously. “Is there some reason you’re all standing at the threshold rather than coming inside?”

  “No, of course not… sorry, Kate. Clyde and I were just taken a bit by surprise,” Rowland said, standing back for Edna.

  “I think that was the point,” Kate said. Clearly, she too was surprised.

  “We’re so sorry to impose,” Edna apologised directly to Kate. “There’s nothing worse than pe
ople who drop in out of the blue—we just wanted to let Rowly know we were here and where we’d be staying.”

  Kate blushed. “Oh no, I didn’t mean—you must stay with us, of course.”

  Edna shook her head. “That’s very kind, but we wouldn’t dream of imposing any further. We’ve taken rooms at the Royal in town. The manager remembered us, in fact.”

  “Of course he remembered us,” Milton said indignantly. “How many of his establishment’s guests do the good people of Yass attempt to tar and feather!”

  “Oh, they didn’t actually tar and feather you,” Edna chided. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  Wilfred Sinclair cleared his throat as he stepped into the entrance hall. “I would consider it a personal favour if you and Miss Higgins would stay at Oaklea while you are in Yass,” he said firmly.

  Rowland was once again surprised and he wasn’t alone. Though Wilfred’s opinion of his brother’s friends had softened somewhat over the years, his attitude to them was closer to sufferance than anything else. Kate’s invitation was probably compelled by courtesy but very few things ever compelled Wilfred Sinclair.

  “But we couldn’t—” Edna began.

  “Nonsense, it would be more convenient for all concerned if you were to lodge here. Katie, my dear, perhaps you might speak to Mrs. Kendall about preparing guest rooms when she’s finished with the detectives.”

  “Detectives!” Rowland tensed. “What do they want with Mrs. Kendall? Where are they?” He moved towards the kitchen.

  Wilfred pulled his brother back. “They’re questioning all the staff who were here the night Father died. We’ve been instructed not to interfere in any way, Rowly.”

  “And you agreed to that?”

  “If I hadn’t, they would simply have carted everybody back to the station for interviews,” Wilfred replied firmly. “Perhaps you should all visit with mother in the drawing room until they’re finished. I have some telephone calls to make.”

  “Don’t you think—?”

  “I think we should at least appear to co-operate with this nonsense,” Wilfred said, making no attempt to mask his irritation. “Go, Rowly. I told you I would handle this.”

  Frustrated, Rowland did as his brother asked, retiring to the drawing room and reintroducing his friends to his mother. Elisabeth was as always delighted to meet “Aubrey’s” young friends, though she had met them before on occasions she’d forgotten soon after.

  Milton and Clyde chatted patiently and kindly with Rowland’s ailing mother, and the poet was soon persuaded to play the piano since Aubrey never played for her anymore. Lenin had been settled in a large basket by the hearth with blankets and cushions and every conceivable comfort. Rowland knelt to talk to him, and Kate Sinclair lowered herself into an armchair, looking exhausted and uneasy.

  Edna went to her, taking both her hands. “You look all in, Kate. I’m going to fetch you a cup of tea.”

  “But Mrs. Kendall is being interviewed. Oh dear, I can’t even offer you tea.”

  “I can make the tea,” Edna said, patting Kate’s hand.

  “They’re conducting the interview in the kitchen.”

  “They won’t bother about a girl making tea,” Edna replied with confidence.

  “I’ll go with you.” Rowland stood.

  “Don’t be silly, Rowly.” Edna dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand. “You, they will notice, and you can’t make a decent pot of tea anyway.” She looked at Kate and winked. “All those fancy schools and they didn’t teach him one sensible thing!”

  Kate smiled, and her reserve thawed.

  Edna was gone much longer than Rowland expected. He was just preparing to go searching for her when she arrived with a large, heavily laden tray of the promised tea. She looked pale and shaken.

  “Ed? What’s wrong?” he whispered as he took the tray from her and set it on the sideboard.

  She stared at him for a moment, and then impulsively she embraced him. “My God, Rowly, your father was a fiend, a brute,” she whispered. “How could he?”

  “I’m not sure what—”

  Edna pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I heard Mrs. Kendall talking to the detectives, telling them…” She swallowed.

  “Mrs. Kendall was always very protective of me, Ed. You mustn’t—”

  “The police are suggesting you killed your father,” she blurted. “They believe you shot him.”

  Rowland frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the drawing room. Milton was now singing to his own piano accompaniment, and the mildly alarmed amusement of all. “Let’s not upset my mother with this right now,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, but Rowly you must—”

  “I will. I’ll speak to Wil as soon as the police leave. You mustn’t worry.”

  Edna seemed about to say something more, but she thought better of it. The sculptress poured tea instead and gave Rowland a cup for his mother. She took a cup to Kate.

  “Who is that very demonstrative young woman, Aubrey?” Elisabeth Sinclair demanded when Rowland brought her the tea.

  “That is Miss Higgins, Mother, I just introduced you.”

  “Oh did you? I must have forgotten.” She patted the settee beside her and he sat obediently. “Your father would have considered her most improper, Aubrey.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I thought you and that lovely girl, Lucy, were about to announce your engagement. I’m sure your father would have approved.”

  “I am afraid reports of our fondness for each have been grossly exaggerated.”

  “Oh dear, that is a shame. Henry would have liked her, I think.”

  Rowland rubbed her hand absently, watching as Edna spoke with Kate. His sister-in-law seemed more relaxed now. She laughed at something Edna said, and patted her swollen belly. It was only then he realised she’d not mentioned one word about the impending addition since he’d arrived. Perhaps that was not something you spoke of in the presence of men. No wonder she’d been so desperate to have him bring Lucy Bennett into the Sinclair fold.

  Kate slipped off her wedding ring and handed it to Edna. The sculptress released the clasp of the locket she always wore and looped the silver chain through the ring. She suspended it then over Kate’s belly, allowing it to swing gently.

  Kate giggled and for the first time she seemed to Rowland as young as Edna.

  Clyde, who had also been watching, laughed. “You’re not going to pay any attention to that old carnival trick are you, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “Don’t listen to Clyde, he’s always been a spoilsport,” Edna said. “It’s another boy!”

  “Oh dear… really!” Kate said, smiling.

  “I had three boys,” Elisabeth Sinclair interrupted. “Three blue-eyed boys. Henry was so proud.”

  The room stilled; for a moment it seemed that no one breathed. Rowland pressed his mother’s hand and Elisabeth Sinclair looked at him, her eyes bright and clear. She handed him her empty cup and saucer. “I’d like another cup of tea, Aubrey darling.”

  Rowland paused before he replied. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at his watch—surely the police had finished with Mrs. Kendall by now. “I might pop out to the kitchen and see if the detectives are done.”

  “Actually, Rowly,” Milton said, leaving the piano. “Might I have a quiet word before you go?”

  “Yes, if you like.” Rowland opened the door and allowed Milton to step out before him into the hallway.

  Milton moved directly to the point. “Look, Rowly, I spoke to Delaney about this business concerning your father. He says that he’s being kept out of the investigation.”

  Rowland shrugged. “Colin Delaney’s not my personal detective, Milt.”

  “He did find out that the police received information that your father’s murder had nothing to do with a robbery.” The poet seized his friend’s shoulder. “They suspect it was you. That’s what they’re investigating to establish. Delaney says Gilbey’s an ambitious sod, Angel’s not much better. Apparen
tly the publicity this case could generate…”

  Rowland rubbed his face. “They can investigate till hell freezes over, they won’t find anything.”

  “I don’t know, Rowly,” Milton said, his face grim. “From what I gather, Eric Campbell’s been in to see the commissioner about what he says is a ‘campaign of harassment’. Wilfred’s friends in the department are coming up against his enemies. Delaney’s worried.”

  13

  THE MIRROR OF SOCIETY

  By ANNE SEYMOUR

  THIS week sees Mrs. Ernest Merriman, of Yass, staying in Sydney with her sister, Mrs. C.G. Berge, with a specially fat cheque, a result of the high wool prices, clasped in her hand, ready to be spent on decorations and such for the Picnic Race Ball. Mr. Merriman is the president of the race committee.

  Australian Women’s Weekly, January 1934

  Gilbey and Angel confronted the Sinclair brothers in Wilfred’s study. Gilbey began quite affably, examining the Glover which hung behind Wilfred’s desk, and commenting quite extensively on the artist’s technique, until Wilfred lost patience and asked him what he wanted.

  “We tracked down Dr. Oliver,” Gilbey informed them. “He remembers the night in question and categorically denies giving Rowland Sinclair any form of sedative.”

  Wilfred didn’t falter. “It was an assumption—I may have been mistaken.”

  “At 11 p.m. a Miss Jane Pell, then in your employ as an upstairs maid, took a cup of tea to Mr. Rowland Sinclair’s room. According to Miss Pell, he was not there. As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Henry Sinclair was shot at ten past or thereabouts. Given Miss Pell’s revelations, would you care to tell us where exactly you were, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland frowned. “I can’t remember. The bathroom, perhaps.”

  “Well that’s the interesting point, Mr. Sinclair.” Angel flicked through his notebook. “Miss Pell states that she waited so that she could report back to Mrs. Kendall that you had taken the tea. She was in your room when she heard the fatal gunshot.”

  “She alleges,” Wilfred said pointedly.

  Gilbey flipped on a couple of pages. “Mrs. Kendall has just confirmed that she sent Miss Pell up to Mr. Sinclair’s room with a cup of tea and that she does not recall seeing her again until after the gunshot.”