The telephone at Oaklea rang so often with well-wishers and acquaintances who had read of the fire that a maid was stationed permanently beside it to act as a secretary of sorts, offering assurances that the Sinclairs were all well though they were not at home to calls.
It was not until that evening that the problems arose, or they became aware of them at least.
They first noticed that Arthur and Lucy had not returned when Mrs. Kendall enquired about numbers for dinner.
“They might have stepped out for a meal,” Milton suggested. “The Royal seems to have become quite fashionable. From what I understand, every man and his sister is dining there these days.”
Wilfred glanced at his wife. “Arthur and Lucy seem to have become rather close.”
“Oh… oh how lovely.” Kate seemed uncertain. She asked Mrs. Kendall to set extra places in case they returned.
It was after dinner when Wilfred decided that it would be a good idea to look for them. Not wanting to alarm his wife, he took his brother aside.
“I’m sure it’s unnecessary, Rowly, but would you drive out to Emoh Ruo to make sure Miss Bennett hasn’t driven her car into a ditch or some such thing.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll take Milt and Clyde with me—Clyde’s a good hand with motors and Milt can always push.”
The yellow Mercedes arrived at Emoh Ruo just a minute before the two police cars. The house was dark. On the verandah, Arthur held a hurricane lamp and Lucy Bennett was smoking frenetically.
Rowland ran up the front steps. “Arthur? What’s wrong?”
Arthur was pale, shaken. He pointed into the house.
Rowland took the hurricane lamp and walked inside. Though not on the same scale of grandeur as Oaklea, Emoh Ruo was a substantial homestead. The rooms were large and well appointed. Most of the furniture was covered with dust sheets. It was in the hallway that Rowland noticed the smell. He heard the police cars pull up as he stepped into the drawing room.
“Rowly, what the—Holy Mother of God!” Clyde stopped beside him. A body lay crumpled on the floor by the hearth, its head haloed by a pool of blood. The dead man’s eyes were swollen shut, in a face that was cut and bruised. The stench was overpowering.
Milton’s entry into the drawing room was marked with cursing. “Is he—?”
“I’d say so.”
“Do you know who he is, Rowly?”
“Hayden. Charlie Hayden. He worked for my late father.”
The informant’s fists were balled and clenched, a strap looped loosely around his right hand.
“What is that?” Clyde bent over for a closer look.
“His belt,” Rowland said quietly.
“Bloody oath!” Milton yanked Rowland back as Detective Angel entered the room with his weapon drawn.
“Stand clear!” he shouted checking behind the doors.
Gilbey and two fresh-faced constables followed him in. They all stared mutely at the body of the informant.
“Would you gentlemen step outside with the constables,” Gilbey instructed. “Detective Angel and I will be with you in a moment.”
The uniformed policemen escorted them out. Arthur Sinclair was seated on the steps with Lucy Bennett. She was crying, and he looked decidedly unwell.
“What happened?” Rowland asked his cousin.
Arthur swallowed. “I don’t know. Lucy and I came in to see… and we found him.” He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “I telephoned the police.”
“From here?”
“Wil had the telephone reconnected before he offered me the house.”
“Mr. Sinclair,” Angel strode out of the entrance.
Both Sinclairs turned.
“Rowland Sinclair,” Angel qualified. “Might we have a word?” He motioned back into the house.
“We’ll be right here, Rowly,” Milton said as Rowland followed the detective in. “Just call.”
Angel led him to the billiard room. A single kerosene lamp now illuminated the chamber and cast strange elongated shadows onto the wall. “Do you have anything you wish to tell us, Mr. Sinclair?”
“About what?”
Gilbey sighed. “Do you know anything about this particularly unsavoury matter, sir?”
“No.”
“Can you tell us when you last saw Mr. Hayden?”
“The day before yesterday. He turned up just as I was landing my biplane in the next paddock.”
“What did he want, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I don’t know… I told him to get off the property.”
“And did he do so quietly?”
“Eventually.”
“I see. Was any other person present who could corroborate your version of events?”
“Mr. Watson Jones, and my nephew Ernest.”
Angel made a few notes.
“Can you tell us where you were yesterday, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I was in my bedroom asleep.”
“That seems to be your standard alibi, Mr. Sinclair, as unreliable as it has already been proved.”
Rowland did not respond.
“And where was your brother, Mr. Wilfred Sinclair, yesterday?”
“Wil? Why do you want to know where he was?”
“Just answer the question, sir.”
“I don’t know. As I said, I was asleep. Nevertheless, detective, I’m sure there are any number of people who could verify my brother’s whereabouts.”
Rowland did not miss the glance that Gilbey and Angel exchanged. It, more than anything, made him uneasy.
The detectives sent them back to Oaklea then, with a police car escort.
Clyde drove Lucy’s Riley as both she and Arthur were too upset to take the wheel.
They returned to find that Kate and Elisabeth Sinclair had retired. Wilfred and Edna had been passing time listening to a broadcast of the Sane Democracy League, which had so amused Edna that she was laughing out loud when they came into the drawing room.
Rowland waited as Arthur explained the grim discovery at Emoh Ruo. Lucy Bennett had composed herself somewhat and sat beside Arthur offering details now and then.
Wilfred listened calmly. “You’ve had a very upsetting evening, Lucy. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Perhaps you should go up to bed. I’ll have Mrs. Kendall bring you up some brandy and milk.”
Lucy nodded tearfully. “You know me, Wilfred, always happy to muck in. If there’s anything I can do…”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow,” Wilfred replied firmly. “The police will most likely wish to speak to you again. It’s probably best if you get a good night’s rest.”
For some reason, Wilfred did not try to similarly dismiss Edna. Perhaps he realised she would not so easily be sent away.
Once Lucy had gone, Wilfred questioned his brother. Rowland told him what he had been asked and what he had answered. Again, Wilfred listened, saying little.
“What’s your assessment, Arthur?” he asked in the end.
Arthur pursed his lips. “It doesn’t look good, Wilfred. They already assume Rowland had something to do with Uncle Henry’s death. He was just a boy then, but now…”
“Wait a minute,” Milton said, flaring. “He didn’t kill anybody, then or now.”
“I only meant that any chance the police would let sleeping dogs lie with respect to Uncle Henry has probably been blown by this latest murder,” Arthur replied.
Wilfred tapped the arm of his chair as he thought. He glanced at his pocket watch. “There are some people I need to get out of bed,” he said. He pointed sternly at his brother. “You, Rowland, are not to speak to the police again without a barrister present, do you understand? Now get some sleep, and I’ll handle this.”
17
HE BUYS HIS PRESENTS
The Great Xmas Problem Solved
A MAN’S WAY
(By O. T. H.)
I AM one of the Christmas shoppers that the shops do not like. I do my Christmas shopping late to avoid the rush of those who do it ea
rly because they think they’ll avoid the rush of those who do it late.
But, then, of course, I have a little idiosyncrasy that counterbalances that. I write down suggestions on the backs of envelopes, so that I can buy everything without a hitch. I put alongside the entries where I am going to buy them, and the prices I am going to pay. And then I lose the envelopes, and my Christmas shopping’s done.
Today, though, I remembered that I had borrowed a handkerchief from a girl, and that at the time I had decided to give her a really good one back for Christmas. I went into a shop and said I wanted some handkerchiefs. They referred me to the next counter. I explained there that I wanted some good handkerchiefs. And that, of course, meant that I had to go to another counter.
THIS “KERCHIEF PROBLEM”
“I want to see some handkerchiefs, not too dear,” I said, and was directed back to the first counter for not-too-dear sorts. They showed me some for 5/11 a dozen (marked down from 6/6), but I said that I wanted some a little better. They showed some more—25/11 a dozen. The girl said that any friend of mine—implying of course, that I was a Fine Old English Gentleman who would have nothing shoddy—would appreciate those.
I worked it out quickly. That was 6/ for three. “No,” I said. “They are a little too coarse.” So they brought out some Irish linen handkerchiefs with white lace round the edges. “35/,” the girl said. This was getting terrible. “Too gaudy,” I said, hoping that they would have nothing plainer at a higher price. But they had. I said I would let the girl come in and choose her own.
So I created a new record. I am the only man in South Australia, who has not bought a handkerchief to give someone this Christmas.
The News, 24 December 1931
Rowland had been staring at nothing in particular—more thinking out of the window rather than looking—when he caught sight of two figures in the moonlight. He could discern the red glow of a cigarette as the men strolled together in the muted luminosity and dense shadow of the summer night. He knew the figures, their shapes, their gaits. Wilfred, and Harry Simpson. It did not surprise him that they were talking in the garden—Harry would not set foot into the house. The original edict that the blue-eyed Wiradjuri boy never come to the “big house” had been Henry Sinclair’s—perhaps a minor concession to the feelings of his wife. Of course, Oaklea under Wilfred would have welcomed Harry, but the stockman still refused.
There was a tap on the door of the bedroom. Rowland turned. His nephew seemed to be making a habit of going visiting in his pyjamas. “Come in, Ernie,” he said quietly.
But it was Edna Higgins who slipped in, shutting the door quickly behind her. She was not Ernest, but she wore her pyjamas nevertheless. Actually, Rowland noted—by the monogram on the pocket and the fact that the sleeves had been rolled several times—they were his pyjamas.
He smiled. Convinced that male attire was more comfortable to work and sleep in, Edna had been blatantly helping herself to the clothing of the men she lived with since she’d moved into Woodlands. Milton complained bitterly that it took three washes to get her perfume out of his shirts.
“Ed… couldn’t you sleep?”
“No,” she said, standing at the window beside him. “Who’s that?”
“Wil and Harry.”
“What are they talking about, do you think?”
“Fish probably. Or perhaps Harry’s telling Wil about one of his accident-prone hounds.”
Edna laughed softly. She turned her back on the window and looked up at him. “Rowly, I’m really scared.”
“Scared?” he asked, puzzled.
“Wilfred is too, I can tell. Whatever their reasons, the police want to say you killed your father. Maybe Mr. Hayden as well.”
“They’ll come to their senses, Ed.”
“But what if they don’t? What if they decide to arrest you? Remember what happened to Allie Dawe in London? If you hadn’t helped her, she might have hanged.”
“Ed, you’re getting ahead—”
“I’m not. Rowly, please, I just want you to fight for yourself the way you did for Allie.”
For a while he said nothing. Then, “This is not something I can talk about.”
She ignored that, kicking off her slippers and settling herself cross-legged on his bed. Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down beside her.
“Rowly,” she said, taking both his hands now and locking her eyes on his, distracting his resolve with her closeness. “Did Wilfred kill your father?”
He wavered. “No… God, I don’t know… Ed, can’t you leave me—?”
“Rowly, please, I need to understand, that’s all. Can’t you just trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then tell me exactly what happened the day your father died. There may be something. Please.”
Rowland rubbed his face. Finally he nodded, but he was at a loss as to where to start. It all seemed so complicated.
“What precisely happened when you returned home from school, Rowly?” Edna prompted.
“Wil had stepped out to meet someone. He was involved in politics even then…” Rowland’s brow furrowed as he remembered the details. “Must’ve been someone of whom Father didn’t approve or Wil would have brought him to the house.” He laughed. “Perhaps Wil was a Communist back then.”
Edna waited for him to continue, refusing to let him jest the subject away.
“My father called me into his study. I knew what I was in for. He shouted the bible at me for a while, then Hayden came in.”
“And did Mr. Hayden say anything to you?”
“No. That wasn’t how it worked.” Rowland lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he spoke. “I’d remove my shirt, Hayden would wrap the buckled end of that flaming surcingle once around his hand.” Edna could sense the tension in Rowland’s body, as if he were there again, waiting to be brutalised on his Father’s command. “I would brace myself against the chair, Father would read from the Book of Psalms and Hayden would begin. It was the way it always was.”
Edna desperately wanted to leave him alone, to let him forget. She steeled herself to continue. “But this time Wilfred intervened?”
Rowland nodded. “Yes, eventually. He must have returned.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“It’s rather confused, to be honest. Wil punched Hayden. There was a lot of shouting… I don’t know, Ed. I was barely conscious.”
“Oh, Rowly.” Edna’s voice was hoarse. She traced her hand over his shoulders. They were broad now, and strong, but they wouldn’t have been then. It hurt her heart to think of them bearing so much.
Rowland drew her close, touched by her tears, the way she wrapped her arms around him as though she were trying to protect him in retrospect. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering just inches from hers. For a moment he forgot about everything else.
“No!” she said, pulling away and wiping her face angrily. “You’re not to stop! Tell me what you remember next.”
“Ed…”
“Please, Rowly.”
He exhaled. “There was a doctor, Mrs. Kendall…” He glanced at the chaise by the window. “Wil sat right there, drinking whisky and smoking. I could barely look at him.”
“Why?”
“I was ashamed, I suppose.”
“Why would you be ashamed?” Edna asked gently.
“They’d completely broken me that night, Ed. My brother was a war hero… it was not something I wanted him to see.”
“You were fifteen!”
“I’m sure Wil didn’t think any less of me, Ed. I just felt less.”
“What about your mother, Rowly? She speaks so lovingly of your father. Didn’t she—?”
“My mother seems to have re-imagined life with my father, Ed. Back then she was terrified of him. She’d lock herself in her room whenever Father… is there any point to going over all this?”
“If you weren’t here, in this room, when your father was shot, where were y
ou, Rowly?”
“I was walking out.”
“Walking out of where?”
“The house, everything. I wasn’t thinking sensibly. I was scared and angry…”
“You were running away?”
“Not running… I could barely walk. I heard the gunshot when I was at the back door.”
“What did you do, Rowly?”
“I went back into the house.”
“To the study?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“My father was dead.”
“Did you see anything else?”
Rowland said nothing.
“Who are you protecting?” Edna demanded, reading into his silence. “Wilfred…” she said accusingly. “You saw Wilfred, didn’t you? With your father’s body!”
He flinched. “Ed…”
“Did he tell you what he was doing there?”
“We’ve never talked about it.”
“What? Never?” Edna stared at him, flabbergasted. “Not once?”
Rowland shrugged. “It’s not a particularly pleasant subject.”
“For pity’s sake!” Edna was cross now. “Well then, what did you do?”
“I returned to my room. Wil came up later to inform me Father had passed.”
“And nothing else?”
“He said he was sorry.”
“Of course he was sorry,” Edna said, determined to make Rowland see sense. “He’d just shot your father!”
“I don’t know that. But honestly, Ed, I don’t care.”
“But the police believe you were responsible,” she said, clenching her fists.
Rowland sat up. He tried to make her understand. “I was a boy, Ed. Wil was not. Wil has a wife and young family, and I do not.”
“You have us!”
“You know that’s not the same thing.” He smiled. “Perhaps if you were to marry me…”
“How can you make jokes?” Edna’s tears were hot and frustrated now. “You’re an idiot, Rowly!”
He didn’t take his eyes off her. Even crying and angry she was beautiful. If she’d said yes, he might well have sold his soul. “You’re overreacting, sweetheart. If there’s anyone who can sort this nonsense, it’s Wil.”
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