Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “I suppose Urquhart is the cuckoo?” Milton murmured, disgusted.

  Edna shook her head. “Not if you can tell she’s expecting—she met him less than eight weeks ago. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t happen that quickly.”

  “If she knew she was in trouble, that might explain why she was so keen to marry Urquhart in the first place,” Clyde agreed.

  Rowland rubbed his brow. “Father Bryan did say she was wild—maybe that’s why they sent her to live with the bishop.” He pushed the hair out of his face. “God, what was I thinking?”

  Clyde regarded him sympathetically. “Look, Rowly, it was a close call, but in the end…”

  Rowland flinched. “Isobel doesn’t realise I know. She seems to think I’m going to save her… this is flaming awkward.”

  “You’re not angry?” Milton was incredulous.

  “More embarrassed than angry,” Rowland admitted. “I feel bloody sorry for her.”

  “How sorry?” Milton sounded alarmed.

  Rowland smiled. “Not enough to marry her… but her life’s going to go to hell in a hand basket, when the bishop finds out.” He loosened his tie, angry at the situation, at what he was going to have to do, and aware of how much he didn’t want to. “Dammit!”

  “So what are you going to do?” Clyde asked.

  “I’ll have to make something up… tell her I’ve lost interest.”

  “You’re not going to tell her why?”

  Rowland shook his head. “I’ll feel like a cad but what’s the point of humiliating her? It would just make everything worse.” He groaned again.

  Milton stood. “I think you’d better have a drink, Rowly.”

  15

  PARENTS TO BLAME

  For “Unmarried Mother” Scandal

  All the twisting and closing of eyes cannot get away from the fact that the average girl, be she educated or otherwise, has not much of a chance when she is forced to go out into the world, and fight her own way. Many of the reports and letters published in the press during the past few months show how easy it is for the unsophisticated girl to be led astray by the promises of the jackals who infest every city.

  The New York Times

  Quite predictably, Rowland Sinclair’s meeting with Isobel Hanrahan did not go well.

  At first she refused to understand what he was saying.

  “Come with me,” she whispered, taking his arm. “I know a place where Uncle Shaun won’t find us—even if he were walking right by.”

  The lifeboats. Could she possibly mean the lifeboats?

  “Isobel, no…”

  Rowland spoke to her gently, trying to be kind, a gentleman, despite the impossibility of it in the circumstances. He did want to help her, just not in the way she planned. He didn’t mention the “condition” he was now certain she was in.

  The bishop’s niece cried and then raged—accusing him of deception and false promises. She hit him, several times. It was a fortunate thing that she was such a small, light woman, for there was really nothing he could do. Rowland was as unprepared for the ferocity of her reproach as he had been for the intensity of her favour. For the most part he said nothing as she shouted at him, cringingly aware of the other passengers on the deck where he spoke with her. He watched her run away, sobbing brokenly, leaving him to the disapproving scrutiny of those who had witnessed what appeared to be the cold jilting of the young Irishwoman by the wealthy playboy from Australia.

  Rowland did not stand alone for very long.

  Edna slipped her arm through his. “I’ll go speak to her in a minute,” she assured him quietly. “She’ll understand in time. She’ll be okay.”

  Rowland didn’t respond.

  The sculptress squeezed his hand. Rowland had never been careless with the feelings of others—unaware occasionally, but never careless. The bishop’s niece had meant much more to him than he cared to admit or even realised, and he was more than a little winded by his own sense of loss.

  “I have such a talent with women,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Milton laughed and nudged him. “You do all right, mate.”

  “Come on,” Clyde said, looking uncomfortably at the other passengers. The atmosphere on the Aquitania had been noticeably tense since word of Mrs. Waterman’s death had spread. “Let’s go in.”

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” Rowland leant against the rail and gazed out to sea.

  Edna let go of his hand. “We can make sure she’s all right, Rowly,” she said softly. “She needn’t be alone in this.”

  They left him to deal with his own thoughts. Rowland tried to forget the collapse of Isobel Hanrahan’s face when he told her that there couldn’t be anything between them, the complete panic in her eyes. He grimaced as he remembered how she had pleaded with him, begging him to tell her why he did not care for her anymore. Perhaps it would have been less cruel to confess he knew her secret. He hadn’t created her situation, he knew that, but he felt appalling nonetheless—responsible at least for her immediate disappointment. He wondered if she’d allow him to help her, he wondered how he could. Unmarried mothers were not unheard of, just not spoken of… at least in the company Isobel was used to keeping.

  The crack was heard clear across the ship. Rowland felt the bullet whistle past his head. Instinctively he fell to the deck. Another shot splintered the boards a couple of feet short of him… and then nothing. The shocked silence was short-lived and followed by screams and shouts of terror.

  His friends reached him first, for they had not gone far.

  He had already risen to his knees. Edna put her hands around his face, hers a picture of relief.

  “God, Rowly, are you hurt?”

  Rowland stood, dusting off his jacket. “No, I’m fine. What the hell was that?”

  Clyde handed him his hat.

  Madding and several of his officers were there by then.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Perfectly well, Captain. What happened?”

  “It appears someone tried to shoot you.”

  “Me? Are you sure?”

  “Both shots were in your direction.” Madding glanced at the damaged deck.

  Rowland watched as a crewman retrieved the bullet embedded in the boards with a penknife. “Damn! Did anyone see the lunatic?”

  “Afraid not. We’ll have to talk to the other passengers… but at this point we only know that the shots seemed to come from the stairs.” Madding’s brow furrowed. “You haven’t fallen out with anyone in particular, have you, Sinclair?”

  Rowland responded calmly. “I can’t say I’m aware of anyone wanting to shoot me, Captain Madding.”

  The seaman studied him carefully. “Can I ask you to stay in your stateroom whilst I look into this?”

  Rowland sighed. “I was going to work today anyway,” he said. “Will you let me know what you discover, Captain?”

  Madding nodded. “I’ll come and see you this evening.” The captain motioned a couple of crewmen to escort Rowland Sinclair to his rooms.

  Rowland threw his jacket over the top of his easel and fell into one of the Gainsborough Suite’s armchairs. “I think I’m a bit fed up with cruising.”

  Milton shook his head. “The high seas seem to be getting more treacherous by the minute.”

  Clyde sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he looked directly at Rowland. “Rowly, mate, why didn’t you mention Isobel to the captain?”

  “She didn’t try to shoot me,” Rowland replied. “Where would she get a gun?”

  “Who else would want to shoot you?”

  Rowland glanced at Edna and smiled. “The last person who shot me didn’t really want to… at least I hope she didn’t.”

  Edna shoved him. “How can you joke about this, Rowly? You could have been killed.”

  “Isobel didn’t shoot at me, Ed,” Rowland assured her.

  “Women have done crazier things for love,” Milton muttered as he poured drinks. “Th
ey can be quite vindictive—” He swigged his scotch. “Even dangerous.”

  Clyde laughed. “You’re thinking about that blonde from Glebe, aren’t you? She wasn’t in love with you—she just liked knives.”

  “No,” Milton said sadly. “I think I broke her heart.”

  Clyde snorted.

  “We were talking about who is trying to kill Rowly,” Edna said pointedly.

  “How about we wait to see what Madding finds out?” Rowland insisted. He opened the book Milton had left on the settee and stared at the page, refusing to participate further in the conversation.

  Edna watched him, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. She stood and put her gloves back on.

  “Where are you going?” Milton asked.

  “I’m going to find Isobel.”

  “Now? Why?”

  Edna leaned over and closed the book Rowland was pretending to read. “Because Rowly’s still worried about her. He’s not going to pay attention to who’s trying to kill him till he knows she’s all right—he’s daft like that. She’s probably in her stateroom.”

  “Ed, I don’t know if…,” Rowland began. The sculptress was not wrong, but he wasn’t sure he wanted her wandering the ship with a gunman on the loose.

  She regarded him severely. “I’m going to check on Isobel and then we are going to talk about who could be trying to shoot you,” she said sternly. She headed towards the door.

  “Madding said to stay here,” Clyde reminded her.

  “The captain said Rowly should stay here. Nobody shot at me.”

  “Still, Ed…,” Rowland protested again.

  “I won’t be long,” she said as she ducked out of the door.

  “Ask if she owns a gun,” Milton called after her.

  16

  FOR THE BRIDE

  For that greatest day in her life, the bride should be a picture of happiness and beauty which her husband, her family, and her friends can carry the memory of, all their days. And any girl, even without beauty of features, can be lovely on her wedding day—provided she plans wisely.

  The Daily Mail

  Edna knocked on Isobel Hanrahan’s door.

  “Isobel darling, it’s just Edna. May I come in?”

  There was no answer, just sobbing, broken and desperate. Edna tried the door—it was unlocked. Isobel was on the bed, her body racked with gulping misery.

  Edna sat down beside her and held the young woman until she had calmed.

  “Isobel, Rowly is really sorry if he hurt you. He didn’t mean to.”

  “Did he not?” Isobel replied bitterly. “He was supposed to marry me—he took liberties.”

  “What liberties exactly?” Edna asked. Isobel had her compassion, but instinctively she wanted to defend Rowland.

  Isobel regarded the sculptress, her tone became accusing. “Is it yourself you want him for, then?”

  Edna smiled wistfully. “No. Rowly’s far too sweet for someone like me. I know you’re disappointed, but you must try not to be angry with him. He’ll be a good friend—he’ll always help you if he can.”

  Isobel was spiteful now. “Like he helps you? What exactly do you do for him in return?”

  Edna reacted calmly. It was not the first time that her lifestyle had been questioned. The bishop’s niece was distressed, caught in what must have seemed like a hopeless situation. Edna refused to be offended. She was determined to be understanding. Still, her voice carried warning.

  “I am trying to be nice to you. You could at least be civil.”

  Isobel began to sob again, and Edna regretted the sharpness of her words. Repentant, she held Isobel’s hand and endeavoured to say nothing more whilst the unhappy Irishwoman raged about Rowland Sinclair, and wished him all sorts of ill. Inevitably, however, Edna’s compassion was exhausted. Surely they could not continue with this charade? They would resolve nothing by simply not mentioning it.

  “For pity’s sake, Isobel, you can’t blame poor Rowly for everything! This is not his fault.”

  The bishop’s niece looked wounded at first, and then defiant. She pulled her hand away.

  Edna was angry too now and ready to give the young woman a piece of her mind.

  The impulse was halted by a knock on door.

  “Isobel! What’s the matter with you girl? Are you poorly again?”

  “I’m fine, Uncle Shaun.”

  The door burst open and the bishop strode in. “Well, what are you…” He stopped short when he saw Edna. He glared openly at the sculptress.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said, standing hastily.

  The bishop said nothing.

  “I guess I should be running along,” Edna said, as she manoeuvred past the clergyman’s substantial girth on her way to the door. “I hope you’re feeling better soon, Isobel.”

  She jumped as the door was slammed behind her. Clyde stood in the hallway just outside.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just looking out for you,” he said as they walked back to the Gainsborough Suite. “With people being murdered left, right and centre, we’re all getting a bit nervous.”

  “I thought Rowly was sure Isobel had nothing to do with the shots?”

  “He is. I believe it’s the bishop who worries him.”

  Edna laughed. “Oh, he’s harmless,” she said. “He’s just loud.”

  Rowland looked up from his book when they came in. Edna did not wait for him to ask. She perched herself on the arm of his chair. “Isobel will be all right I think, Rowly—she’s more angry than heartbroken… and scared of course.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  Edna shook her head. “No.” She thought guiltily of what she had been about to say to Isobel Hanrahan. She was glad now that the bishop had interrupted them.

  “More to the point,” Milton interrupted. “Did she try to kill Rowly?”

  Edna hesitated. Isobel Hanrahan had been very angry. “I didn’t see a gun, but…”

  Rowland went back to his book. “Thank God, we’re nearly home. You’re all starting to lose your minds.”

  As the afternoon slipped into evening, Captain Madding called in, as he had promised. He took a seat and spoke gravely.

  “We haven’t been able to find the gun, and I’m afraid we are no wiser than we were this morning.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Edna asked uneasily. “Someone’s trying to kill Rowly.”

  “Someone may have tried,” Rowland corrected. “There’s nothing to say they’ll keep trying.”

  “So you’re relying on this assassin throwing in the towel because they missed the first time,” Milton shook his head in exasperation.

  “Milt’s right,” Clyde said firmly. “The Aquitania doesn’t seem the safest of places these days.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Jones,” Madding protested, “Every precaution will be taken to ensure there is no repeat of this unfortunate incident.”

  Edna leaned forward and touched Madding’s arm. “Please don’t be offended, Captain. It’s just that we are all rather fond of Rowly.”

  Madding relaxed a little. “Indeed, Miss Higgins. I have no intention of losing another passenger either—the death toll’s getting embarrassing if nothing else.” He turned to Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay in your suite until we reach Sydney.”

  Rowland groaned.

  “I understand this is inconvenient, Sinclair, but there are well over two thousand souls on board—we cannot keep an eye on all of them. You’re safest here.”

  “We’ll be home in three days,” Edna reminded Rowland as he wavered. She was scared for him. “Please, Rowly.”

  Rowland glanced at her and conceded. “You’ll let me know if your investigations reveal anything?”

  Madding stood. “Of course.”

  It was the early hours of the morning. Rowland Sinclair pulled on his jacket. After two days, the tastefully papered walls of his suite were beginning to close in on
him. Though it had not been an inordinate length of time, the knowledge that he could not step out was testing him.

  “Where are you going, Rowly?” It was Clyde.

  “Just onto the deck,” Rowland replied guiltily. “There’ll be no one out and I’m really getting cabin fever.”

  Clyde did not try to argue with him. It was three in the morning, and he’d watched Rowland become progressively more restless. “Give me a minute to get some clothes on, and I’ll come with you.”

  A short time later they left the Reynolds Suite and headed out onto the first class deck. It was a pleasant night, warm. The breeze was gentle and, for a moment, Rowland fancied he could smell eucalyptus on the balmy movement of air. He laughed at himself, at the improbability of the notion. Perhaps he was more homesick than he thought.

  He and Clyde stood out on the deck, talking quietly of home under the broad southern sky. The state government had changed whilst they were away, and the conservative forces were again in control of New South Wales. That was more important for Clyde and Milton who were Communists, than for Rowland who managed to remain entirely indifferent to politics. Still, when they left Sydney the country had seemed on the verge of civil war. It was only the threat of criminal prosecution that had convinced them to walk away from the fight which had appeared imminent, but never eventuated.

  The twisted end of Clyde’s rolled cigarette glowed red in the darkness.

  Rowland leant against the balustrade looking out over the lower decks of the ship. There was still a little movement; primarily the crew ensuring all was well while the passengers of the Aquitania slept. He wasn’t nervous but he did wonder who had tried to shoot him, and why.

  “Sinclair. So the snake finally leaves its hole!”

  Rowland recognised the broad Irish lilt before he turned. Bishop Hanrahan stood on the deck, fists clenched, already trembling with rage.

  Clyde sighed loudly.

  “Your Grace,” Rowland said evenly.

  “Defiler, despoiler. Would you ruin an innocent girl with your carnal desires?”

  “I assure you…”

  The bishop stepped forward and staggered Rowland with a punch to the jaw.