Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  All they saw at first was the maid’s back, hunched and clenched. She was facing into the room, screaming hysterically, fresh towels dropped at her feet. Rowland sidestepped past the woman and he saw what caused her panic. Francesca Waterman was hanging by her neck from the baggage shelf. Her eyes were open, bulging from their sockets, her mouth twisted in agony, her tongue swollen and protruding from blue lips. Her hands were stiff and clawed. She swung on the end of a rope, her feet just a few inches from the plush piled carpet, swaying with the gentle rock of the ship.

  “Ed, don’t…,” Rowland started, but too late. She stood in the room, staring, her eyes large.

  “Ed…”

  Edna pulled her gaze from Francesca Waterman and turned instead to the maid who was still a siren of distress. She put her arm around the distraught woman. “Come on, let’s get you out of here, shall we? Are you all right?”

  The maid began to sob.

  “Let’s find you a cup of tea, shall we? Rowly will take care of Mrs. Waterman.” Soothingly, she coaxed the woman from the room.

  More people were gathering around the door. Rowland wondered where Richard Waterman was.

  “Rowly,” Milton whispered. “Shouldn’t we cut her down?”

  “I don’t know—it’s too late to save her… where the hell is Madding?”

  Even as he spoke, the captain walked in. Yates, the ship’s doctor, was in tow. Madding gave directions immediately to disperse the passengers outside the stateroom and to close the door.

  He looked silently at the corpse suspended from the baggage rail. “Cut her down,” he commanded, his voice heavy.

  The Australians stood back as the crewmen cut the rope and placed Francesca Waterman on the bed.

  “What happened, Sinclair?” Madding turned to them.

  Rowland shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “We heard the maid screaming and found this.”

  “Where is the maid?”

  “Ed—Miss Higgins—took her out. She was understandably distressed.”

  “We’d better find Richard Waterman.” Madding sighed. He sent a man to do so.

  “Do you think she could have topped herself?” Milton asked Yates.

  The poet’s bluntness made him cringe, but Rowland had been wondering the same.

  Yates glanced at Madding and then shook his head. “It seems unlikely,” he said gravely. “There’s no chair.” He went over to the baggage shelf. “See these grooves in the paint—looks like the rope was placed around her neck and then she was hoisted up—she seems to have struggled a fair bit. Not a particularly nice way to go.”

  Madding exhaled. “Is it too much to ask for one trip without the passengers killing each other…” He gave instructions for Mrs. Waterman’s body.

  “We must find Mr. Waterman,” he said, impatiently stroking his beard. The men he sent to find the surgeon had not yet returned. “We’re still a week from Sydney—we’ll have to deal with this matter carefully.”

  Rowland nodded. He wondered whether Madding wanted to offer Waterman his condolences or arrest him.

  “I have an idea where he is,” Clyde volunteered

  Madding turned to Clyde. “The sooner we find him the better.”

  “It’s Sunday and there is one place he would go without his wife.”

  “I can think of several places a man would go without a wife,” Milton interrupted.

  “I think Mr. Waterman may be at Mass,” Clyde went on ignoring Milton. “I noticed him that day Rowly made me go to Mass—he was on his own.”

  “Waterman’s Catholic?” Madding was surprised. “I thought they were Theosophists?”

  “Mrs. Waterman brought him into the movement,” Rowland said, recalling his conversation with Cartwright. “He might have left the Catholic Church for her.”

  “One never leaves the Catholic Church,” Clyde observed. “It has a way of clawing you back.”

  14

  WOMEN WANT “SPICY” FILMS

  Morality Organiser’s Fears

  LONDON

  That women picturegoers were responsible for the showing of objectionable films, was suggested by the organising secretary of the Public Morality Council (The Hon. Eleanor Plumer), addressing the Mothers’ Union. She said that an exhibitor had told her that unless programmes included something spicy, women stayed away.

  “People want entertainment in cinemas, not education nor uplift,” she added. “The majority of films have a pagan outlook, with hardly any suggestion of a Christian approach to problems. This is their most serious weakness.”

  The Guardian

  Clyde scrutinised Rowland Sinclair carefully. He was reasonably sure his friend was bluffing, but it was hard to be certain. It was not that Rowland didn’t have any tells, but that he was aware of them. It made it hard to trust the momentary twitch of his brow or the way he ran his hand through his hair. Clyde cursed under his breath—Rowland was a bloody fine poker player—it was a good thing he never collected his winnings.

  Edna wasn’t playing on this occasion, curled instead on the sofa, eating Belgian chocolate.

  “I thought those were gifts for your father,” Milton reminded her, as he waited impatiently for Clyde to make his play.

  “Papa will understand,” Edna replied as she continued to soothe herself with the dark sweetness.

  “Are you all right, Ed?” Clyde asked, glancing up at her. She always fed distress.

  “That poor woman,” the sculptress said pulling her knees up towards her. “What do you think the captain is telling Mr. Waterman?” She shuddered. “At least he didn’t have to see her hanging there…”

  “Presuming he didn’t kill her,” Milton muttered.

  Clyde finally called.

  Rowland grinned—he hadn’t been bluffing. Clyde groaned.

  “Do you really think he killed her?” Edna’s voice was shocked.

  “He may have, Ed.” Rowland dealt again. “I told you about their argument—maybe he’d had enough.”

  “But to kill her… he’s a surgeon.”

  “And a Catholic,” Clyde added.

  Milton snorted. “Hardly a defence.”

  “Say, Rowly,” Clyde said thoughtfully, “you don’t suppose your Theosophist killer got back on board?”

  “It’s possible, I guess.” Rowland shrugged. “Mrs. Waterman may have been killed for her Theosophical connections… but then again it may have just been because she was jolly unpleasant.”

  “Well, at least we’re safe,” Edna sighed.

  “Maybe,” Rowland replied. “I could be entirely wrong about the Theosophist link… and Mrs. Waterman’s murder mightn’t even be connected to Urquhart’s death, or for that matter, Annie’s fall.”

  “How long before we’re home?” Edna broke off another piece of chocolate.

  “Apparently we’re not stopping in Fremantle—so about ten days,” Clyde said. “I wonder where they’re going to stow the body.”

  “Have to be in one of the cool rooms,” Milton suggested. It had been getting progressively warmer as they crossed the Indian Ocean. They would disembark in a little over a week into the height of the Australian summer.

  A knock at the door announced Captain Madding. “I daresay I should let you all know how this matter is being handled.” The seaman sounded quite weary.

  They waited expectantly. Milton poured the man a drink.

  “Mr. Waterman was understandably very upset. He is adamant that Mrs. Waterman was alive and well when he left for Mass this morning. This is all very unfortunate.”

  “So, what do you plan to do with Waterman?” Clyde asked.

  “Oh, we’ll give him another stateroom.”

  “You don’t think he might be dangerous?”

  “We have no evidence that he was involved in Mrs. Waterman’s unfortunate end,” Madding said carefully.

  “What if Waterman killed his wife?” Milton went bluntly to the point.

  Madding chewed his lower lip. “There is that,” he sai
d. “I’m having him watched, as I did you, Sinclair… I’m hoping the decision turns out as well.”

  “What are you planning to tell the passengers?” Rowland asked.

  “Nothing—I’m hoping any passengers who were in earshot this morning will assume Mrs. Waterman took her own life.”

  Clyde shook his head. “Waterman won’t like that—he’s Catholic.”

  “Unless he killed her,” Milton persisted. “Mortal sin would be quite a handy explanation in that case.”

  Madding stood. “I’d best be getting back.”

  “Yes, shouldn’t you be steering this thing?” Milton said as he topped up his glass. “Or at least watching for icebergs?”

  Clyde kicked the poet under the table.

  Madding said nothing for a moment, and then he laughed.

  “If only it were that simple.”

  The news of Francesca Waterman’s death spread quickly through the Aquitania, and was discussed at length over both cocktails and tea. The notion of such misadventure aboard ship made the luxury liner’s passengers more cognisant of the great isolating body of water that surrounded them. However unfortunate, the news did relieve the length of the trip with a little trepidation, titillating the conversation at opulent dinners with speculation and scandal.

  Rowland Sinclair and his party did their level best to avoid being drawn into such conversations. Their presence at the scene of the crime felt intrusive enough. Instead they carried on enjoying the superlative hospitality of the Aquitania as they passed the time at cards and shipboard games. As the weather warmed they frequented the ship’s massive swimming bath and spent more time on the now sun-drenched decks.

  Isobel Hanrahan appeared to become bolder in her solicitation of the company of Rowland Sinclair, stealing him away to accompany her to the Aquitania’s theatre, or concert hall, on a regular basis. She no longer seemed to fear the impropriety of him walking her back to her stateroom. Rowland did wonder about it. Perhaps the rumours around Mrs. Waterman’s death had made her more cautious about walking the halls alone. Whatever her reasons, Rowland found himself thinking increasingly of the bishop’s incorrigible niece whether or not she was in his company. Isobel Hanrahan had a way about her.

  It was on one such occasion when he had walked her to her room following an afternoon at the cinema, that the bishop’s niece did not leave him at the door, but dragged him inside her cabin and secured the lock. Isobel pulled his face down towards hers and made her intentions clear.

  There was a fleeting moment, during which Rowland wondered what on earth he was doing, but then she kissed him again and the moment passed, as his mind was occupied with the task at hand.

  Still, he was now alone with a lady in her stateroom, uncomfortably aware of the fact that the bishop had the next apartment; how exactly he came to be there, a combination of Isobel’s contrivance and his own acquiescence. He was not unwilling, just surprised, as he had been when Isobel had first decided to secure his affections. It was his experience that women of her social class rarely addressed the mechanics of a tryst so directly. He had expected to do a little of the work himself.

  And yet, it was Isobel Hanrahan who now pressed her body against his and pushed the jacket from his shoulders. It was she who whispered for him to make love to her, not shyly but urgently. If he’d had time, he might have been perplexed.

  Isobel pushed him back into an armchair and proceeded to loosen his tie, her lips soft and moist on his neck. This done, she pulled away, standing before him. Giggling, she released her hair from the coif into which her dark tresses were twisted. Expertly, with seductive progression, she unbuttoned her dress, and let it drop, as she did the slip beneath it.

  Rowland inhaled sharply. There was nothing so perfect as the female body.

  Isobel’s creamy skin was suffused with a blush of rose as she displayed herself to him. His eyes lingered on her breasts, full and round despite her diminutive frame. She smiled, almost posing as her took her in. He would paint her like this, he thought—a brash, impudent nymph of classical allusion. His eyes drifted down her slim body and then in a cold splash of realisation, he saw that which explained everything.

  Briefly there was panic… What did a gentleman do in this situation? Exactly how did he walk out now? His mind returned to painting her… perhaps it would buy him time to figure out what to do next.

  “Don’t move,” he said reaching for his jacket. “You’re just lovely in this light, inspiring—I have to draw you just like that.” He couldn’t believe what he was saying—it sounded ludicrous even to him. Still, he could think of nothing else.

  Rowland extracted the artist’s notebook from the pocket of his jacket and opened to a clean page.

  At first, Isobel appeared bewildered. This was clearly not what she had expected or planned. “But I thought… don’t you want to…?”

  Rowland looked intently at her, stung by the hurt in her voice, surprised by his own disappointment. “You are beautiful, Isobel,” he said quietly.

  Isobel relaxed a little. She smiled, reassured. “You can draw me first, then.” And so she posed for him, and when Rowland repositioned her and drew her again, Isobel did not object. She chose the third position herself.

  The knock at the door startled Rowland out of his concentration. Despite the situation he had lost himself in his work.

  “Isobel?”

  The voice was Bishop Hanrahan’s.

  Rowland froze.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “You’re not still lying abed are you girl?” the bishop called through the door. “Are you poorly?”

  “A wee bit of seasickness is all, Uncle Shaun.”

  “Well get yourself up,” Hanrahan ordered. “Supper is at seven and I’ll be expecting you to join me for the rosary beforehand.”

  “I’m coming, Uncle. I won’t be but a moment.”

  Rowland started to breathe again as the bishop moved away from the door. He was doubly relieved—now he had a reason to leave.

  Isobel Hanrahan gazed at him, frustrated. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she sighed.

  Rowland stood and reached for his jacket.

  “Would you give me one of these?” Isobel whispered, looking at the notebook.

  “Of course. Any one you like.”

  She tore out a page and handed the notebook back to him.

  “Will you make me into a painting one day?” she asked. “Paint me like this.”

  Again, Rowland was surprised. “Yes, if you’ll allow me.”

  Isobel Hanrahan giggled, and pulled on her slip. “Uncle Shaun will faint dead away,” she said, obviously delighted with the idea. “We’ll hang it over the mantel in our grand home for the world to see, and our babies will know their mother was beautiful.”

  Rowland stiffened. This was going to be complicated.

  “Isobel, we’re not…,” he started.

  “You had better be getting away,” she interrupted him. “Uncle Shaun will be wondering where I am.”

  “I think…”

  She kissed him into silence. “Quickly now, or Uncle Shaun may come back.” Quietly she checked the hallway, and hurried him out of the door.

  Rowland tried to readjust his tie as he walked down the narrow corridor towards his own rooms. He turned briefly as he heard a door open behind him. Bishop Hanrahan emerged from his stateroom and knocked again on Isobel’s door. The clergyman looked sharply at him. Rowland nodded politely and kept walking.

  Milton and Clyde were playing cards when he walked into the Reynolds Suite. Edna was perched on the sofa fiddling with her camera. Rowland threw his jacket over the back of the armchair and sat down. Edna glanced up.

  “Are you all right, Rowly?” she asked, concerned. “You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

  “I have,” Rowland groaned as he clenched his fists in his hair.

  Milton and Clyde looked up, suddenly interested.

  “I thought you were with Isobel?” Clyde said putting down h
is hand and leaving the card table to sit with Edna.

  “I was in her stateroom,” Rowland replied.

  Milton grinned approvingly.

  “Don’t,” Rowland muttered. “I can’t believe I got myself into this.”

  Edna moved to sit on the arm of his chair and nudged him playfully. “Don’t be melodramatic, Rowly—did you quarrel?”

  “Well, no, but I rather think we are about to.”

  “She thought you were taking liberties?” Edna asked sceptically.

  “She didn’t think I was taking enough.” He smiled ruefully. “She was quite insistent about it.”

  “You’re not saying that offended you?” Again Edna seemed sceptical.

  “Well no.” Rowland saw no point in pretending to be particularly virtuous. He took his notebook out of his jacket and handed it to Clyde. “I’ve just finally realised why she’s so keen to replace Orville Urquhart.”

  Clyde flicked through the book, and stopped at the drawings of Isobel. He let out a low whistle.

  “Bloody hell, Rowly—you didn’t…”

  “No, I noticed as soon as she took her clothes off…”

  “Noticed what?” Milton grabbed the notebook from Clyde.

  “Isobel’s expecting,” Rowland said flatly.

  Milton squinted. “Are you sure… maybe she’s just putting on weight?”

  Rowland shook his head. “That’s not the way women put on weight… Clyde and I have painted enough girls to know…”

  “So Isobel Hanrahan’s trying to find a father for her baby?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Well, if you didn’t know she was already… well you’d do the right thing wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh Rowly.” Edna rubbed his shoulder. “It doesn’t always work that way.”

  “It would with me,” Rowland said almost to himself.

  “Perhaps Isobel realised that,” she replied softly. “Obviously the man who got Isobel into trouble didn’t feel the need to do the right thing.”

  “That’s fraud!” Milton was outraged.

  “Some men are…,” Edna started.

  “No, I mean Isobel. She’s entirely immoral!”

  “Not immoral,” the sculptress corrected. “Desperate. In a couple of months she won’t be able to hide it and the scandal will ruin her. I’m sure it’s been done before.”