Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  After the reception that Vanzella received, a number of acts withdrew. The remainder were subject to Leigh’s brutal critique, every utterance of which was greeted with uproarious laughter and approbation.

  As the stage was being prepared for a group act, she moved unfettered in the hall whilst officers with batons kept all the other convicts in line. In the row in which the remand prisoners were seated, Kate Leigh stopped to offer Yuletide succour to Frank Green, who was apparently an ally in her long-running public war against the gangster madam, Tilly Devine. The chair beside his was quickly vacated for her. It creaked and strained as she settled her considerable form upon it.

  “There sat a jolly giant, glorious to see…” Milton whispered wickedly.

  Rowland smiled. “I doubt Dickens had Kate Leigh in mind for the Spirit of Christmas Present,” he said, as they watched.

  Leigh and Green both leaned forward and craned their necks to look towards Rowland.

  Milton sighed. “Looks like Frank’s telling her that you stole his girl.”

  The sly grog queen heaved herself up, and after wrapping a hand-knitted scarf around Green’s neck, pushed her way through the chairs to Rowland and Milton.

  “As I live and breathe!” She looked the poet up and down. “I always knew you’d never ’mount to any good, Milton Isaacs. Your nan must be ’eartbroken! I must call on ’er and see if there’s anything I can do.”

  Milton glowered at Leigh and she smiled triumphantly, exposing the generous gap between her yellowing front teeth.

  She turned to Rowland, grinning coyly. “Well, well, I did always wonder what ’appened to the gents who fell into me vegetable patch. Destroyed me silverbeet, you did, and not a ha’penny in compensation.”

  Rowland nodded politely. “How do you do, Miss Leigh?” He and Wilfred had encountered Kate Leigh’s ire earlier that year when they fell off the roof of her sly groggery whilst escaping an unrelated band of villains. He’d discovered then that she’d known his late Uncle Rowland.

  She beckoned him closer. “Just a word of advice, for old Sinkers’ sake. Men who mess with Nellie Cameron have a ’abit of dying ’fore their time.” She inhaled and smacked her lips as she looked into his blue eyes. “You smell real sweet for a bloke in ’ere. I can see why Nellie strayed, aside from ’er being an alley cat of course.” She cackled wickedly. “I could show you a Merry Christmas if you like.”

  Rowland’s face was unreadable. Valliantly so. Kate Leigh had made a similar offer when last they’d met. He was no more inclined to accept.

  Milton laughed. “He turned down Nellie Cameron. What makes you think he’d take on an ugly old crone like you?”

  “For pity’s sake, Milt—” Rowland began, disconcerted by his friend’s lack of basic courtesy.

  But Leigh did not pause, hissing like a bloated serpent. “He’s locked up now, there ain’t as much on offer ’ere,” she said, her voice lowering dangerously.

  “He wouldn’t be that desperate on the gallows, Kate!” Milton snorted.

  She lunged at him, slapping his face with an almighty blow before cuffing him around the ear. Guards hurtled down the row to prevent a riot as prisoners rose in both support and fear of Leigh.

  Withers pulled Kate Leigh off, but it was Rowland and Milton he had taken from the hall. They might have objected but the concert was making them long for the relative silence of their cell.

  Kate Leigh laughed, and curtseyed clumsily as they were led away. “Good on yer, Mr. Withers, sir.” She winked slyly at him. “There’s a token of my respect waiting for you at the desk.”

  “Yes well, thank you. Now move along.”

  “You gentlemen ’ave a lovely Christmas,” the sly grog queen shouted after Rowland and Milton. “Don’t you forget to thank the good Lord for Mr. Withers ’ere—a prince among guards—and when you get out, feel free to come see old Kate for a ’elping ’and and a bit o’ Christian comfort!”

  The Long Bay crowd laughed and cheered, calling “God bless yer, Kate” and “Merry Christmas, luv.”

  “Kate Leigh’s well known for assisting with enquiries,” Milton muttered as they were locked into the cell. “Clearly being a dobber has its advantages. You’d think she ran the place.”

  They did not, however, languish in the cell for long before Withers opened the door. “Isaacs, Sinclair, you’ve got visitors!” he said, grinning.

  Rowland and Milton were handcuffed for transfer to the entrance block visitation room. “And take that flaming book with you,” Withers warned. “The blokes in this place aren’t always honest.”

  Edna and Clyde were waiting for them. The handcuffs were removed and they were left to visit, though Withers returned shortly thereafter to announce that the dinner which Wilfred arranged had arrived.

  “You can eat here,” he said. “Best not to torture the other blokes in the block—the Long Bay kitchen does its best but… anyway, this way, your sister can stay.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Withers,” Rowland said, a little surprised. Withers was unexpectedly considerate for a gaoler.

  “Mrs. Withers is as pleased as punch with her Christmas present,” the guard said quietly. “Said she was proud to have such a fine-looking gentleman on her mantle. Saintly she is!”

  Into the windowless room was delivered a feast of cold turkey, ham, lobster and a dozen or so side dishes, as well as a pudding so soaked with brandy that it served as after-dinner drinks.

  Considering that two of their party were presently incarcerated, they had a merry time indeed. It was in fact the first Christmas dinner they’d all shared together and, despite the fact that it was in Long Bay Prison, it was spent in good company.

  “Wilfred said he’d visit this afternoon,” Clyde said. They had seen Rowland’s brother briefly that morning. “He’s sorry he can’t—”

  “I didn’t expect him to miss Christmas morning and sitting down with his family, just to keep me company,” Rowland said. “I feel bad enough about you all having Christmas at Long Bay as it is. I expect my sister-in-law was disappointed you didn’t stay as well.”

  Edna glanced at Clyde.

  Rowland noticed. “What?”

  “The atmosphere at Woodlands is a bit tense at the moment,” Clyde said carefully.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Clyde informed Rowland about the clearing of his studio.

  “And Arthur decided this?”

  “I believe he thought he was protecting the women folk and children from your paintings.”

  Rowland cursed. “Arthur can be a surprising prig.”

  “Black sheep are not what they used to be,” Milton sighed.

  “Who does he think he is?” Rowland shook his head. “And Wilfred allowed—”

  “Wilfred wasn’t there, Rowly. I don’t suppose he would have stood for it. They bullied poor Kate into agreeing really. We didn’t want to upset her by making a fuss.”

  “That was probably wise,” Rowland replied, “and kind. I’ll remind Arthur that Woodlands is my house when I get back. He can do whatever he wants at Emoh Ruo.”

  Edna sighed. “I suspect he and Lucy have decided that they prefer Woodlands—” She gasped, pressing her lips together as she realised her slip.

  “Lucy?” Rowland asked.

  Clyde looked at the ceiling. “Lucy wanted to tell you herself, so act surprised when she does. She and Arthur are engaged.”

  “Really? Good Lord!” He laughed. “I guess any Sinclair will do!”

  Clyde folded his arms and rocked back in his chair. “Rowly, mate, I’d be careful of that Arthur if I were you.”

  “Arthur? What do you mean?”

  “I suspect he wants to replace you in more than just Lucy Bennett’s affections.”

  Rowland smiled. “I feel rather like he’s taken a bullet for me, with respect to Lucy.”

  “Well don’t be too grateful, mate. I don’t trust him.”

  Early on Boxing Day, Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs were collected
from Long Bay Penitentiary in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Wilfred had arranged for fresh suits and a barber to be sent into the gaol, so that anyone watching from outside the gates may well have assumed the smartly dressed, clean-cut young men were solicitors.

  The charges against Milton had been dropped. Rowland was committed to face trial in April, and bailed into his brother’s recognisance. The court was closed to the public and not attended by the press, and consequently the committal of Rowland Sinclair for murder was not yet a full-blown scandal.

  They followed Wilfred’s green Continental to Woodlands House. Ernest Sinclair met the small convoy at the gate, waving his father through and running beside the second motor car all the way up the long drive. On Rowland’s instruction, the chauffeur drove very slowly to ensure the boy could keep up.

  When they got to the house, Ernest opened his uncle’s door. “Hello, Uncle Rowly.”

  “Hello, Ernie.” Rowland shook the boy’s extended hand.

  “You missed Christmas, Uncle Rowly.”

  “Yes, I’m terribly sorry. I was—”

  Ernest beckoned him down before he could finish and whispered in his ear. “I’m not supposed to know that you were in prison, Uncle Rowly. I’m just a child, you know.”

  “I see.”

  By then the rest of the family had emerged in a rather civilised cacophony. Even Elisabeth Sinclair came out to greet her son, though it was the wrong one she welcomed home.

  To Rowland, his mother seemed to have become smaller in the few days he’d been away, and more deeply confused. He sat with her in the sunroom for a while, reassuring her that the presence of the police at Oaklea had been a mistake. She’d clearly found the incident distressing. Clinging to Rowland, she whispered, “The gun… I saw the gun. I thought he was going to kill you.”

  “Detective Angel is rather too quick on the draw, Mother. But he had no intention of shooting me.” He put his hand on hers and rubbed gently. “I’m perfectly fine, you mustn’t be upset.”

  Elisabeth reached up to straighten Rowland’s tie. “Your father would have been so dreadfully proud of you, Aubrey. I do wish he might have lived to see the man you’ve become.” She brushed the hair out of his face. “If only you’d comb your hair properly. Wilfred’s hair is never out of place.”

  Rowland smiled, comforted that his mother was well enough to scold him. “Wil doesn’t have as much hair to worry about,” he said loudly.

  Wilfred cleared his throat and glared across at his brother. He did not take kindly to being reminded that his hair was thinning.

  Luncheon was, if anything, more extravagant than that which they’d eaten the day before, and served with the formality that Wilfred preferred, but which was rare under Rowland’s stewardship of Woodlands. Indeed, usually neither Rowland nor his houseguests were in residence during Christmas. Still, the staff coped admirably presenting a table and a service that was both excellent and smooth. Some grumbled about the extra work, others relished the opportunity to do things properly and all were in any case assuaged by the generous sums which had been included in their Christmas envelopes.

  The family and their guests retired to the drawing room for coffee and Rowland entered his studio for the first time since it had been made fit for polite company. The only painting which remained was the portrait of his father. Rowland’s easels and paintboxes were gone and the paint-splattered rugs had been removed. The furniture and drapes too had been changed. An exquisitely decorated Christmas tree stood in the large bay window in which he usually posed his models.

  “What do you think, old boy?” Arthur asked, beaming. “I’ve organised the painters for the new year.”

  “Painters?” Rowland looked slowly about the room. “I always thought I was a painter.”

  “For the walls.” Arthur pointed out a splatter of viridian and another of ochre. “Miss Brown did her best, but we couldn’t remove much of the damage. Repainting’s the only way. I’ve asked Lucy to pick out the colours. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch.”

  Wilfred handed Rowland a drink. “Settle down, Rowly,” he said under his breath. “They meant well.”

  Rowland forced a smile.

  Wilfred stepped through the French doors onto the verandah, beckoning his brother to follow. They stood looking out over the manicured lawns.

  “I’m afraid you are going to have to return to Oaklea with us, immediately after the New Year—terms of your bail.”

  “We were prepared for that,” Rowland said.

  Wilfred scowled. “Prepared? We?”

  “You heard what Beswick said—our best plan is to find out who did, in actual fact, kill Father.”

  “And you need a band of Communists to do that?”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  Wilfred sighed. “Arthur won’t like it.”

  “Since when does Arthur’s—”

  “Keep your shirt on, Rowly. I was simply warning you, not telling you not to bring them. After all, my dear wife already issued them an open invitation.” Wilfred lit a cigarette. “It’s just that I believe Arthur and Mr. Watson Jones, not to mention Miss Higgins, have had a falling out.”

  “Over what?”

  “To be truthful, I suspect Arthur was out of line.”

  “Well he’d better bloody well apologise—” Rowland began furiously.

  “I’ve spoken to him, Rowly.”

  “I’ll do more than speak to him!”

  “Arthur means well.” Wilfred attempted to soothe his brother. “It was getting mixed up with a woman not unlike Miss Higgins that led to his own ruin.”

  “Ruin? For God’s sake…”

  “In his own way, he’s trying to save you from making the same mistakes he did.” Wilfred removed his glasses and, clenching the cigarette in his teeth, polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “Arthur worked tirelessly with our solicitors to secure your bail, Rowly. He’s never doubted your innocence. Even I can’t say that.”

  Rowland groaned. “Very well, I won’t deck him. Not today anyway.”

  “We do have to talk about Dangar Geddes.”

  “What about it?”

  Wilfred’s influence and the Sinclairs’ substantial shareholding in Dangar Geddes and Company had seen Rowland appointed to its board. He was far from the most enthusiastic, let alone diligent, director, but they had not as yet asked him to leave.

  “You can’t remain on the board whilst on bail,” Wilfred said. “You’ll have to stand down, for the time being at least. I thought perhaps Arthur could assume your place.”

  Clyde’s warning that Arthur intended to replace him passed fleetingly through Rowland’s mind. Perhaps. But Arthur was welcome to the Dangar Geddes board meetings. “Capital idea.”

  23

  HUGH D. MCINTOSH

  Again Declared Bankrupt

  A second sequestration order against the estate of Hugh Donald McIntosh was made yesterday by the Judge in Bankruptcy. The petitioners for sequestration were the defendants in the libel action brought by the respondent against The Truth and Sportsman Ltd a writ for costs (£700) which McIntosh had been ordered to pay having been returned unsatisfied.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1932

  Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair opted to spend New Year’s Eve in, with a small party of close friends and family, including Lucy Bennett, her parents and Arthur Sinclair. A gracious dinner was planned, an intimate first celebration of the very recent engagement of Lucy and Arthur. Of course, the guest list did present some awkwardness for the usual residents of Woodlands House, considering their last encounter with the good Colonel Bennett. It was not surprising then, that an alternative invitation, extended to Rowland and his friends by none other than Hugh D. McIntosh, was greeted with general approbation and relief.

  Rowland had met Hugh McIntosh only once before. Norman Lindsay had introduced the gentleman as a “denizen of the sporting world” and the conversation had been struck with a discussion of the pugilistic arts. McIntosh prom
oted professional fights at the Sydney Stadium, which, it seemed, he had built. The man was a brash, gregarious raconteur, but there’d been a child-like exuberance about him that Rowland had found engaging. McIntosh had been quite proud that the press had dubbed him “Huge Deal”, which he claimed was a resounding endorsement of his entrepreneurial prowess and not a moniker from which he resiled. He was, however, happy for Rowland to call him Mac.

  At present, after a recent bankruptcy, McIntosh was managing Bon Accord, a fashionable guest house in the Blue Mountains, beside which, he’d built a nine-hole golf course. It was at Bon Accord that McIntosh was throwing his New Year’s Eve party followed by a day of golf for those who survived to play on.

  “Golf?” Milton exclaimed. “We don’t play.”

  “Rowly does,” Clyde replied. “His chip shot ain’t half bad.”

  “Really?” Edna was surprised. She’d never known Rowland to play.

  “Shall we go?” Rowland asked. “I’m told Mac’s parties are reminiscent of Jay Gatsby’s shindigs.”

  “Of course, we’re going!” Milton declared. “What about the conditions of your bail?”

  “I have to reside with Wilfred and I can’t leave New South Wales. Otherwise I’m essentially free.”

  “And Wilfred?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have us out of Woodlands while the Bennetts are here.”

  And so it was decided.

  Edna removed the scarf which had held her copper tresses vaguely in place for the trip up to Springwood. The summer evening had been so warm and clear that they had travelled the entire forty-five miles with the top of Wilfred’s Rolls Royce Phantom II well and truly down. Now she and Milton fought over the rear vision mirror to re-groom what disruption the wind had inflicted upon their hair. Clyde had used enough Brylecreem to make that unnecessary, and Rowland did not even think to check his reflection.