Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “You’re looking a trifle beleaguered, Rowly. Come on—we’ll have Mrs. Kendall make us some coffee.” He looked out at the party now in full swing amongst the marquees. “I think they might cope without us for a while.”

  Rowland followed his brother into the library. Mrs. Kendall, who had served at Oaklea since well before the war, brought in a tray of coffee and another of the shortbread he had loved as a child. The housekeeper beamed, gratified by the enthusiasm with which he helped himself to a handful of the dainty biscuits.

  “It’s so lovely to have you home, Mr. Rowland,” she said warmly. “You always did like a nice biscuit—I’ll have a tin packed into your trunk… now don’t you eat too quickly…” She looked at him, clucking like he was one of her chicks. Wilfred cleared his throat, and finally she left them to it.

  “It’s astounding she doesn’t still cut your meat,” Wilfred grumbled.

  Rowland sank back into an armchair and brushed the crumbs from his tie. Alice Kendall had started excessively mothering him when Aubrey had been killed, and his own mother had become distant. He had been a bewildered child then, but even now he found her fussing rather sweet and comforting in its way. He was, in any case, very fond of his brother’s housekeeper.

  It was nearly nine o’clock. His train would leave from Yass Junction in the early hours of the morning. He had hoped to get a couple of hours’ sleep first.

  Wilfred pulled a number of volumes from a shelf and placed them onto the table beside Rowland.

  “Here, you’d better read these.”

  “What are they?” Rowland asked, too busy eating shortbread to actually open the books.

  “Reports—they’ll give you a bit of background to Dangar’s company affairs.”

  “Oh.” So it was time to start paying for the Gipsy Moth.

  “I reminded Mrs. Kendall to make sure your regalia was packed.”

  “My regalia! Whatever for?”

  As Rowland only attended Lodge when Wilfred dragged him to a local meeting, he had never taken his Masonic regalia back to Sydney. There was no need.

  “Rowly, you are about to join the board of Dangar’s. You’ll need to go to Lodge occasionally—how else do you expect to do business?”

  Rowland groaned.

  Wilfred ignored him.

  “You can come with me to Lodge Victoria at the Masonic Centre in January… it’ll be a good opportunity to introduce you to the rest of the board… I’ll make the arrangements and have you affiliated there. You might be wise to brush up on your charges.”

  Rowland, whose resistance had been mitigated with an afternoon of champagne, was feeling a bit under siege. He decided to retire before Wilfred told him that marrying Lucy Bennett was included in his agreement to become a director of Dangar, Gedye and Company.

  “I’ve ordered you a kilt,” Wilfred added as his brother stood to leave. “I’ll have it delivered to Woodlands.”

  “A kilt! Have you lost your mind?”

  “The Sinclair tartan,” Wilfred said calmly. “You know what Kate’s people are like.”

  “Yes. They’re mad. There’s no reason we should be too.”

  “It would be a nice gesture…” Wilfred did not dispute that his in-laws were mad. “They want some sort of formal dinner in Ewan’s honour, before the christening.”

  “Kilts?”

  “It would make Kate happy.”

  Rowland groaned again. He was very fond of his sister-in-law, but she wasn’t his wife. Surely that had to count for something.

  “I’m going to bed,” he muttered.

  When Clyde came up to the first class compartments from coach, Rowland was seated somewhat uncomfortably, with part of Lenin in his lap. The remainder of the rather large dog was stretched out on the leather seat.

  The dog launched himself at Clyde, pushing off against Rowland’s ribs and winding him in the process. Clyde laughed. He was sure that animals, particularly those as ugly as Lenin, were not permitted in the carriages. Of course such rules did not seem to apply to the Sinclairs or their dogs.

  “Hello, Clyde.” Rowland shook his hand warmly once he could breathe properly again. “How was your Christmas?”

  Clyde sat down and stretched. “We fixed the roof,” he said contentedly. “The yo-yos were a big hit with the kids. Mum thought the other stuff was too extravagant—but she’ll get over it. Oh… she wants me to get married.”

  “To whom?”

  “No one in particular—as long as she’s Catholic. She’s afraid you’re introducing me to loose-moralled Proddie girls.”

  “Well, she’s not entirely wrong there.”

  “And I’m not entirely ungrateful,” Clyde replied. He shook his head. “You look tired, mate,” he said studying his friend critically in the dim light. “What have you been doing?”

  “Of course, I’m tired,” Rowland said, yawning. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.” He proceeded to tell Clyde of his time at Oaklea: the polo match, Rule Britannia and what he found himself promising in return for her.

  Clyde laughed at him. “Wilfred will have you in parliament next. I hope it was worth it, Rowly.”

  “You should see her, Clyde,” Rowland smiled at the very thought of his Gipsy Moth. “I’ll organise hangar space at Mascot.”

  “Careful,” Clyde grinned. “The Mercedes won’t be happy about sharing your attentions.”

  Rowland’s supercharged, S-class tourer had to date been his great passion. The spoils of a poker victory, he had brought the extravagant Mercedes back from Oxford, and despite the post-war antagonism towards German motorcars, he had been loyal to her.

  Rowland rubbed his brow thoughtfully, almost guiltily. “I’m sure the three of us can come to some arrangement.”

  It was still early when the train pulled into Central Station. Johnston had their trunks loaded into the waiting Rolls-Royce. Lenin climbed into the front with the chauffeur, his misshapen, one-eared head lolling happily from the window.

  They arrived at Woodlands to find that Mary Brown had already begun the process of returning the Sinclair mansion to the propriety it had once enjoyed. The series of large urns modelled on the naked female torso, were gone. They had just recently lined the driveway like earthen nymphs beneath the jacaranda trees. The intertwined lovers, who once graced the formal pond, had also vanished.

  Rowland’s mood darkened. This seemed a bit excessive. Wilfred was turning his house into a monastery. When he walked in, he saw that the housekeeper had also been busy inside the building. Every nude and abstract had been taken down from the walls, leaving only the austere family portraits that had hung in Woodlands House since before his time. The rooms seemed large and stark. Some of the heavy Victorian furniture Rowland had put into storage had re-emerged in the hallway, ready to reclutter the drawing room once he had removed his easels and paint. Mary Brown knew better than to touch those. Rowland Sinclair was not finicky about many things but he was particular about the tools of his trade.

  “This is going to be a long month,” Rowland muttered.

  “It’s only a month, mate,” Clyde said reassuringly. “How bad could it be?”

  “I had beds for Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Jones put into your rooms, sir,” Mary Brown informed him.”

  “I guess we should move a couple of easels up there,” Rowland said to Clyde. “We’ll need to paint somewhere. We’ll move the rest of our gear into Edna’s studio.”

  “The sculptures moved from the grounds have already been stored in Miss Higgins’ studio, sir,” the housekeeper warned. “It was rather a tight fit.”

  Clyde smiled. “Ed’s going to love that,” he murmured.

  “I suppose we’ll have to take them up to the attic,” Rowland sighed.

  Since Mary Brown was clearly anxious to reorder the rooms, they removed their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and began the task of moving the heavy easels to new locations. Rowland’s bedroom was large. Even with the extra beds there was enough room for two easels in
front of the large arched window. More challenging was the bedroom’s situation on the third floor.

  Thus, when Edna and Milton arrived back at the house, they found Rowland heaving a cumbersome, oak H-frame easel precariously up the staircase.

  “Rowly,” Edna gasped as soon as she saw him. “I’m so glad you’re back. Put that down and come and look at this.” The sculptress waved The Sydney Morning Herald in her hand.

  Of course, Rowland was unable to put the easel down halfway up the stairs, so he was compelled to carry it down again. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck. “What?”

  Edna handed him the paper. “It’s horrible, Rowly. Poor Father Murphy.”

  Rowland looked at the front page. The headline splashed, “Boxing Day Tragedy”. He read the subheading: “Deacon falls to his death from the belltower of St Patrick’s College.” Father Murphy was dead.

  25

  A PLEASANT DINNER PARTY

  It is one of the best things about English public life that political differences do not interfere with private friendships.

  The Argus

  Rowland returned the phone’s handpiece to its cradle, and turned towards his friends’ expectant faces.

  “Delaney doesn’t seem to know a great deal,” he said. “Murphy appears to have fallen from the belltower late on Boxing Day. Nobody knows what he was doing up there—his body wasn’t found for a couple of hours.”

  “Did he jump?” Milton asked.

  Rowland shrugged. “I gather that the police are being pressured to call it an accident.”

  “But Delaney doesn’t think so?”

  “Rather stretching the realms of coincidence, one would think,” Rowland replied, shaking his head. “Apparently the police are having a hard time getting any of the priests to talk to them. There was some kind of ecumenical dinner that night—place was teeming with clergy but no one saw anything. The archbishop’s been on the phone to MacKay. Delaney’s questioning all the seminarians and visiting clergy—trying to find out as much as he can about Murphy without getting excommunicated—apparently not easy.”

  Clyde smiled. “You’re not suggesting the church has secrets?”

  “Delaney would like us to speak to Bryan—see if he knows anything.”

  “He’s deputising you?”

  “Ed, actually. Bryan’s always been drawn to her,” Rowland replied. “What do you think?” he asked the sculptress, unsure how she’d feel about trying to extract information from the deacon.

  Edna shrugged. “Why don’t I invite him to dinner tomorrow—are they allowed out, do you think?” She looked to Clyde for an answer.

  He looked back blankly. “I don’t know. He’s a grown man—surely he’s not a prisoner.”

  “Just ask him,” Rowland advised. “Presumably, he’ll let us know if we need to break him out.”

  Edna made the call and, as it turned out, Father Bryan was both able and willing to join them for dinner the following evening.

  She put down the phone. “He seemed quite keen to get out of the Seminary.”

  “No bloody wonder if they’re throwing priests from the belltower,” Milton observed.

  Clyde shrugged. “Bryan’s a pretty regular sort of bloke in any case.”

  Edna smiled prettily. “And so handsome.” She frowned at the tragedy of it. “It’s wasteful.”

  They spent the rest of the day reversing the impact that their residency had made on Woodlands House. The timing was probably fortunate. Rowland was unsure how a clergyman, however handsome, would view the more provocative pieces that usually adorned his walls. At the very least, it would make the poor man question his calling.

  He went out to fetch Father Bryan from the ferry himself. Finally reunited with his beloved yellow Mercedes, he was enjoying being behind the wheel whenever possible, even if it was just a run to the Quay. Edna came with him.

  They waited in the car as the ferry docked and its passengers disembarked. Bryan, distinctive in the black suit and collar of priesthood, walked off the ferry in the company of another man. They were in heated discussion.

  Rowland climbed out of the Mercedes and squinted at the two men. “That’s Hu,” he said to Edna.

  “Really? What’s he doing here? I didn’t know he knew Matthew.”

  “Perhaps they met on the Aquitania,” Rowland suggested, though it was not something he could recall. Aside from Van Hook’s altercation with Bishop Hanrahan, the Theosophists had generally given the clergymen a wide berth. He waved and caught their attention. “Father Bryan, Hu!”

  Hubert Van Hook seemed a little startled at first, but he accompanied Bryan over to the car. He shook Rowland’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Well, well, Sinclair… the people you meet standing on a dock.” He winked at Edna. “Hello doll. You been missing me?”

  “Why Hu,” Edna jumped out of the car to greet the American and the priest. “How delightful to run into you. We’re just about to take Matthew back for dinner—you must come, too.”

  “Yes, do.” Rowland added.

  “Well if it ain’t my lucky day!” Van Hook replied. “First I run into the Father here and then you two… and now an invitation to dine.”

  “You’ll come then?”

  “Swell! I don’t have my glad rags on, though,” he said, glancing at Rowland’s dinner suit. He moved on. “This your jalopy then, Sinclair?”

  Rowland looked at him. Jalopy indeed. “Yes, she’s mine.”

  Van Hook let out a low whistle. “You travel in style, Sinclair. I’ll say that much for you.”

  And so they returned to Woodland’s House with an extra guest.

  “Humpty-doo, Sinclair! What gives? You didn’t mention you were the ruddy president?” Van Hook exclaimed as they drove up the long winding drive with Woodlands looming majestically before them.

  Rowland laughed. “We don’t have a president, Hu.”

  “No kidding. Who runs the joint then?”

  “It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

  Clyde and Milton met them at the front door and they went into the now pristine drawing room where Milton poured drinks.

  Matthew Bryan studied the portrait of Henry Sinclair which dominated the room with its stern image. The likeness had been painted in its subject’s later years. Henry Sinclair’s hair was grey; the years had lined his face with a kind of fierce severity, which silently and uncompromisingly declared power. Only his eyes, intensely blue, spoke of his youngest son.

  “My late father,” Rowland said, as he handed the clergyman a glass of sherry.

  Bryan inspected the painting closely from just inches away. “He looks like a gentleman of stature, a man of conviction.” His tone was approving, perhaps a little awed.

  Rowland glanced up briefly. “Yes, I suppose he was.”

  “Aside from your eyes, there’s little resemblance.”

  “Rowly hasn’t any convictions,” Milton assured the clergyman casually. “Hasn’t even been arrested.”

  “I’m glad you don’t look like him, Rowly,” Edna said, raising her eyes to the portrait. “I always thought him a little frightening.”

  Rowland couldn’t imagine the sculptress being frightened of anybody. Still, his father had been quite accurately depicted. Henry Sinclair had died whilst Rowland was still a boy, but the man in the portrait was the one he remembered.

  Rowland noticed Mary Brown standing at the doorway, looking perceptibly put out. She still considered Henry Sinclair the master of Woodlands.

  “Perhaps we should go in to dinner,” he suggested.

  Edna took Matthew Bryan’s arm and led the way into the dining room. Despite the late addition of Hubert Van Hook, the table had been set elegantly and appropriately for a party of six; the polished silverware placed precisely around china monogrammed with the Sinclair crest. They took their seats as soup was served. The conversation was, for most of the meal, light and inconsequential.

  When dinner was complete they returned
to the drawing room, where Milton sat at the piano and Van Hook entertained with a repertoire from the music halls of America. Clyde was doing battle with his pipe, which it appeared was uncommonly difficult to light. Whilst they were thus engaged in performance, Rowland and Edna spoke to Matthew Bryan of the death of his colleague.

  “What was he doing in the belltower at that time of night?” Rowland asked.

  Bryan shook his head. “It’s hard to know. He was looking for Bishop Hanrahan, but he wouldn’t have been in the belltower…”

  “Bishop Hanrahan was there?” Rowland asked surprised.

  “Just that evening,” Bryan confirmed.

  “How long had Murphy been working for the bishop?”

  “We were both assigned to His Grace about six months ago.”

  “Poor Father Murphy,” Edna murmured. “What could have been so wrong that he…”

  “Father Murphy was a man of God,” Bryan corrected her sharply. “Only the Heavenly Father has dominion over life or death—he would not have committed such a sin.”

  “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…,” Edna started hastily.

  “Surely you don’t think one of the other seminarians pushed him?” Rowland’s voice held a note of challenge. Every now and then the righteousness of the deacon irritated him.

  Bryan was unsettled. “Well no… an accident… he might have slipped…”

  “We’ve been up there,” Rowland reminded him. “It’s hard to see how he could possibly have slipped over the balustrade.”

  Bryan struggled. Finally, he said quietly, “Michael Murphy joined the church after some kind of romantic disappointment.”

  “Did he confide in you, Matthew?” Edna asked.

  “More poor Isobel than me. They were both from Dublin, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Rowland replied. “Not about Father Murphy at least.” He lowered his eyes. “Isobel, where was she…?”

  “Rookwood,” Bryan told him. “Isobel was laid to rest in Rookwood. It wasn’t a big funeral.”

  “What do you think happened, Matthew?” Edna asked. “To Father Murphy and to Isobel?”

  Matthew Bryan was visibly uncomfortable. For a while he said nothing, and then, he chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult to say. I would not slander either of them. Neither would I wish to defame those around them. I think it was a sad and tragic episode. It’s hard to know what evil lurks in friendly guise.”