Rowland groaned. “What about the police? We can’t…”
“I’m not sure. I’ll speak to our solicitors. Let’s not panic just yet.”
Wilfred lit a cigarette and for a moment there was silence as he fortified himself with the first draw. “Perhaps we should concentrate on who killed Charlie Hayden,” he suggested. “It was, after all, on the strength of Hayden’s murder that they arrested you.” Wilfred sat back, tapping the arm of his chair absently, thoughtfully. “What do you remember from the scene?”
Rowland thought back. “Hayden had a belt in his hand,” he said.
“A belt?”
Rowland nodded. “Like he was preparing to flog someone again.”
“At Emoh Ruo? You don’t think he’d taken a child to—”
“What child? I’m sure I wasn’t the only kid he took a belt to over the years but he’s not been back to the Yass district since you suggested he leave. Even if he came across a worker’s son and decided to give him a hiding for some reason or another, what the hell would they be doing in Emoh Ruo?”
Wilfred sighed. “Was there anything else unusual or worthy of note?”
Rowland paused. “Oh, Arthur. He was there, with Lucy.”
“Of course. Arthur found the body.”
“So he says.”
“You’re suggesting Arthur may have killed Hayden?”
“Let’s face facts, Wil—he’s deceived us from the beginning. Plotted against you while living in your house.”
“But murder? What possible reason could he have to murder Hayden?”
“If he did find Hayden and bring him to Yass, perhaps Hayden was trying to blackmail him. Perhaps they fell out, or Hayden attacked him first—”
“Arthur’s a solicitor, for pity’s sake—Hayden was beaten to death.”
“Granted,” Rowland conceded, “it’s not a particularly lawyerly way of despatching someone, but from what I saw, it looked like Hayden had fallen and hit his head on the hearth. Someone was angry enough to hit him a few times but they may not have intended to kill him entirely.”
“But Miss Bennett was with him, Rowly.”
“Miss Bennett questioned your six-year-old son about my whereabouts and reported my absence to Arthur. I don’t think there’s any question where her allegiances lie.”
“She telephoned to speak to Kate. It wasn’t a conspiracy. She may have mentioned what Ernest told her to Arthur, but I doubt the poor girl has any idea what he’s up to.”
Rowland said nothing.
“She’s Kate’s dearest friend,” Wilfred added.
“And she’s marrying the man who wants to have you incarcerated and assume ownership of Oaklea. For heaven’s sake, she’s already started redecorating Woodlands!”
Wilfred pressed his fingers together pensively. “I do hope you’re wrong on that count, Rowly. Kate’s making arrangements to go to Sydney to help Lucy plan this blasted wedding.”
“Perhaps we should put our cards on the table, Wil.”
“Confront Arthur? What would that possibly achieve?”
Rowland wasn’t sure. “Lucy Bennett should know the kind of man she’s marrying.”
“It’s very gallant of you to be concerned about Miss Bennett,” Wilfred observed.
“What can I say? I’m protective of the women who try to shoot me.”
Wilfred sighed, abandoning the charade that some incompetent rabbit hunter had shot at his brother. He took another cigarette from the mahogany box on the table and stubbed out the remains of the first. “Perhaps it would be useful to acquaint Arthur with what it means to go to war against the Sinclairs.”
“Arthur is a Sinclair, Wil,” Rowland reminded him.
“Not once I’m finished.”
31
WRONGED GIRLS
There is also to be considered the fiction of the law which does not allow a girl to sue for seduction. She can only do so through her father or guardian. And to maintain an action it must be shown that the relationship of master and servant exists. Technically the action is by the father for the loss of his daughter’s services. But if those services cannot be proved the action fails.
The Mercury, 3 March 1934
Rowland checked over his biplane, making sure she had been returned to the shed in good order. The Rule Britannia was a little muddy but otherwise none the worse for landing in the storm.
“We may have to give her a spit shine,” Clyde declared, inspecting the fuselage, “but considering how we landed, she’s not too bad.”
Milton jumped down from the Caterpillar parked on the other side of the shed. It too was caked in fresh red mud, having been called on to pull out a number of the vehicles that had been stranded after forming the makeshift airstrip.
Edna wandered out of the shed, thoroughly bored with the talk of engines and machines. She could see the Emoh Ruo homestead further up the hill. Rowland joined her.
“Shall we walk up?” he asked, glancing dubiously at the sky. It had stopped raining but the clouds had not yet parted.
“I’m sure we’ll be all right,” Edna said. She called out for Clyde and Milton to hurry.
They had decided to take another look at the place where Charlie Hayden had been killed in the hope that some new clue would present itself.
It was not so much that Rowland was convinced that his cousin had killed Hayden but his mind was open to the possibility.
He unlocked the front door and held it open for Edna to enter.
“Whose furniture is this?” Edna asked, peering under the dust cloths.
“I presume the previous owners’. They sold the place lock, stock and barrel to Wil.”
“Everything?” Edna asked.
“I believe Jefferies hanged himself. After that, his wife just wanted to leave. There was a colossal amount of debt.”
“Oh. How terribly sad. They lost everything.”
Rowland nodded. “Pretty close to.”
They followed Clyde and Milton into the room where Hayden had been found. The body had been removed, of course, but otherwise the room was undisturbed. They inspected it in the light of day: the blood was still visible, dried brown on the hearth and the rug adjacent.
In these surrounds, an image of Hayden’s body was easily conjured. Rowland described what he could remember for Edna.
“Look how far into the room he was standing,” Edna mused. “If someone had come in suddenly, surely he would have turned and walked towards the door.”
Milton agreed. “He was meeting with someone. But why here? How did he get in?”
“Perhaps whoever he was meeting possessed a key or knew where a spare was hidden,” Edna suggested.
Clyde stepped out the distance between the door and the hearth. “What do you think, Rowly? Arthur seemed pretty shaken when we got here. Perhaps it wasn’t just because he found the body.”
Rowland frowned. “It would be easier to believe if Arthur didn’t have Lucy Bennett with him. Surely if you were going to kill someone, you wouldn’t take a witness.”
“Unless he didn’t plan to kill Hayden. Perhaps something happened that made Arthur panic and hit him?”
“Maybe he was trying to prevent Hayden revealing their association to Lucy?” Edna suggested. “He does seem genuinely keen on her.”
“The belt,” Milton said. “That’s why the police thought immediately it was you.”
Clyde looked Rowland up and down. “He’d be a bloody idiot to try to take a belt to Rowly now,” he said.
“Yes,” Milton continued. “But maybe someone wanted to point the police in Rowly’s direction. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to remove a dead man’s belt and place it in his hand.”
Rowland shook his head. “He had it wrapped around his hand in exactly the same way—”
“Arthur was there when Hayden told his story,” Clyde reminded him. “He knew exactly what the mongrel did and how he did it.”
Rowland considered the poet’s theory. “It’s possibl
e, but I genuinely can’t see Lucy going along with it. She’s much more likely to have screamed the place down.”
Milton shrugged. “Perhaps she didn’t see him do it. She might have been waiting dutifully in the car. Did you ask her what she saw?”
“No. She hasn’t really spoken more than a few words to me since I refused to marry her.”
“Well, we may have to talk to her,” Milton said firmly.
“Wilfred’s arranged for Arthur and his fiancée to come to luncheon at Oaklea tomorrow,” Rowland replied. “Though it might be a little tricky separating them.”
Edna laughed. “Nonsense. You Sinclairs clear the room of women whenever you’re afraid you may swear!” She winked at Rowland. “You announce that you wish to speak frankly, and everyone will gasp and agree that it’s better if Lucy visits with Kate for a while. We’ll speak to her then.”
Rowland wished he could accuse the sculptress of exaggerating, but, to be honest, it was as good a plan as any.
There was a garden party at Oaklea that afternoon, hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair to thank all those who had helped extinguish the fire. Two marquees had been erected on the lawns. A ten-piece band used the verandah as a makeshift stage overlooking a portable parquetry dance floor, specially laid for the event. White-clothed tables bore a feast of prettily iced cakes, finger sandwiches and cold meats on tiered silver platters as workers and townspeople in their Sunday best arrived to receive the gratitude of the Sinclairs.
Kate stood by her husband’s side, shaking hands and welcoming guests. In the shadow of Wilfred’s powerful and protective presence, she seemed small despite the fullness of her belly.
Rowland smiled as he watched Wilfred whisper in Kate’s ear, gently moving her hair out of the way. The gesture was perfectly proper, but intimate and tender nevertheless. Kate blushed, and Wilfred carried on with the business of shaking hands.
Deciding that they should not cause any more disruption at Oaklea than absolutely necessary, Edna had bullied Milton into one of Rowland’s suits for the occasion. Initially the poet resisted the “three-piece uniform of the Capitalist establishment” but eventually he conceded, making the best of it by adopting what he considered a complementary persona. He proved quite a popular figure, reciting poetry with the refined lilt of someone who regularly moved in the same circles as Wilfred Sinclair.
“Do you recognise the bloke Milt’s talking to?” Clyde asked, handing Rowland a drink.
“I believe that’s Dave Jessop.”
“He’s one of the blokes that tried to tar and feather Milt a couple of years ago, isn’t he?”
Rowland sipped his drink. “I’d say at least half the chaps here were among the mob that tried to tar and feather Milt.”
“And yet, not one of them seems to recognise him.”
“Small mercies.”
Wilfred stood on the elevated deck of the gazebo to deliver a few words of thanks. With Ernest holding tightly to his hand, he spoke of his gratitude to all those who had risked their lives to save Oaklea, his sons and their nanny. His words were greeted with enthusiastic applause and echoed with shouts of “hear, hear” and calls for cheers.
That formality completed, the band struck up again and the festivities resumed. This was not the usual crowd who graced Sinclair functions but a more eclectic gathering of farm workers, fire fighters and neighbours. The guests seemed, to Rowland, a touch inhibited, perhaps intimidated.
He offered Edna his hand. “Shall we begin the dancing?” he said, glancing at the empty dance floor.
She curtsied. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Sinclair.”
The sculptress slipped easily into his arms, as she always had, and they christened the new dance floor with a quickstep.
Soon other couples joined them and the gathering seemed to relax. Rowland managed to keep Edna to himself for three brackets, but inevitably some young man worked up the courage to cut in.
The party had been in swing for some hours when Rowland ducked into the house to check on his mother. Elisabeth Sinclair watched the celebrations from her window comfortably settled on a chaise with a cup of tea. Wilfred had arranged for a nurse to be her companion at all times now.
Rowland stopped with his mother for a while, pointing out people with whom she might be acquainted in the crowd. He neither looked for nor made any attempt to remind her who he really was, unwilling to risk another breakdown.
“We hosted some very grand parties when your father was alive, before the war. I had a blue gown I’d wear for balls. It was considered very daring in its day…”
Rowland listened, wondering how his refined, gracious mother could have been driven to murder, and how they were going to protect her without ending up in prison themselves.
It was Elisabeth Sinclair who eventually urged him, or rather Aubrey, to return to the party, suggesting that he might meet a suitable young lady. He laughed, refilling her teacup and kissing her cheek before he left.
Rowland headed back outside through the kitchen so he could reassure Lenin, who had been confined there for the party, that he had not been forgotten. When he heard the scrabbling, he opened the door quickly, concerned the hound was helping himself to some painstakingly prepared culinary delicacy.
“Mr. Sinclair!” Nanny de Waring sprang back from Jack Templeton, fumbling frantically with the pearl buttons of her blouse.
Rowland turned away while she made herself decent. She apologised hysterically. Rowland did so out of courtesy.
“Charlotte… Miss de Waring is not to blame, Mr. Sinclair, sir,” Templeton said gallantly. “It was me. I—”
“If you were forcing yourself upon Miss de Waring, Templeton, then you and I would have a problem. Otherwise, it’s not really my concern.”
“Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” the young nanny sobbed, smoothing her hair back into place. “If you can only forgive me… it won’t happen again.”
Rowland smiled. “I’m neither your father nor your priest, Miss de Waring.”
“This is my day off,” she offered in mitigation. “There was no one in the kitchen and—”
“Not quite no one,” Rowland said, bending to rub Lenin behind the ear. The hound opened one eye and grunted. “But Len doesn’t seem particularly scandalised. You could probably buy his silence with bacon.”
“We got carried away, Mr. Sinclair,” Templeton explained. “We didn’t mean to—”
“This is a rather risky spot to get carried away, Mr. Templeton, don’t you think? I’m sure there are more private, not to mention appropriate, locations on Oaklea for… courting,” Rowland grimaced, wondering when he’d become so stuffy. Courting! For pity’s sake!
Perhaps Templeton sensed Rowland Sinclair was having trouble being in any way critical. “Do you have any recommendations, sir?” he asked rather impudently. Charlotte de Waring blushed but she didn’t protest.
Despite a vague notion that he should be offended, or at least disapproving, Rowland laughed. “There’s a folly on Emoh Ruo near the creek, looks like a Delphic temple. Some mad notion of the previous owner’s. It’s a bit overgrown now. I don’t think anyone’s been there in years.”
“You won’t be requiring it yourself?” Templeton asked, his eyes twinkling, in what Wilfred would have considered an unacceptable show of familiarity.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Rowland replied.
Rowland returned to the garden party which, by then, was winding down.
“Where have you been, Rowly?” Edna asked. She was flushed with the consequential exertion of repeated invitations to dance.
Rowland told her quietly of the tryst upon which he’d stumbled. Edna giggled. “Good Lord, they’re lucky it was you and not Wil.”
Rowland nodded. Wilfred might well have objected, and quite strenuously, to his children’s nanny entertaining the gardener in such a manner.
“The irresistibly handsome, mysterious gardener,” Edna said dreamily. “It’s all rather like Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lov
er.”
Rowland’s eyes sharpened. “Templeton? You think he’s han—mysterious?”
Edna smiled wickedly. “Well, he’s not nearly so mysterious as you, darling, but yes, I can see why he’d intrigue Nanny de Waring.”
32
SUCCESS TO HITLER
Rev. W.E. Hurst’s Wish
“We wish, with our whole hearts, that Herr Hitler will be successful in the tremendous and revolutionary experiment which he is undertaking at the present time, and that he will succeed in bringing the world a little nearer to what our Lord intended it to be, a society of friends.”
These remarks were made by the Rev. W.E. Hurst, President of the Queensland branch of the Australian League of Nations Union, at a reception given by the branch to the commander, Captain Baron Harsdorf von Enderndorf, and officers of the Karlsruhe, at Mt. Coot-tha on Saturday morning.
The Rev. Mr. Hurst said he had been very much impressed with the remarks of Commander von Enderndorf and First Officer Schiller in regard to Herr Hitler in an interview appearing in the Press. The members of the branch greatly sympathised with Germany in the terrible and unjust conditions which had been imposed on her, and they wished Herr Hitler success in the task before him.
BROKEN PROMISES
There were a large number of persons in this country who felt that Germany had been treated very unfairly and unjustly by the world generally. Other nations gave a pledge that they would disarm to the extent they had forced Germany to do, and they had not done so. The present unrest in Europe, he believed, was mainly due to those broken promises. It had been said that all the trouble of the world to-day could be traced to the war. He refused to believe that; it was not right to impute war guilt to any one nation when there were others in it.
Courier Mail, 16 January 1934
Rowland woke early. He’d slept fitfully. The last weeks since his father’s gun had been found seemed to have halted the normal course of his life. He was frustrated, angry that his father had risen from the grave to cause more pain and misery.
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