Rowland glanced at Edna.
“What on earth are you talking about, Matthew?” she demanded.
Matthew Bryan smiled. “It is not a conversation for such pleasant company,” he said, sipping his brandy. He turned towards the impromptu recital being rendered by Milton and Van Hook. “Particularly when we are being so well entertained.”
“I think you’re using the term ‘well’ rather loosely,” Rowland muttered.
Edna tried again to bring the clergyman back to Michael Murphy’s sad end, but he would no longer be drawn on the subject.
“Leave it,” Rowland whispered in her ear as he drew her away. He did not want Bryan to feel interrogated, and it was unlikely that a man in his position would say more.
They passed the remainder of the evening casually, talking mainly of cricket and films. The subjects of Isobel Hanrahan and Father Murphy were now both politely and conspicuously avoided.
Rowland stood to drive his guests home, whilst there was still time to make the last Manly ferry.
Bryan and Van Hook took their leave of Edna and Clyde whilst Rowland brought round the car. The Mercedes’ Teutonic engine was loud in the stillness of the hour, disrupting the peace of leafy Woollahra with its attention-seeking roar. Milton climbed into the back with Van Hook, and Father Bryan took the seat beside Rowland.
The ferry had already docked when they reached Circular Quay. Bryan jumped out, waving them away as he boarded the craft.
Hubert Van Hook was staying at The Manor in Mosman, also on the other side of the harbour. It was a fair drive but Van Hook had missed the last ferry and as the Harbour Bridge had been opened only just before they had gone abroad, crossing it was yet a novelty.
“And so how are you getting on with Charles Leadbeater?” Rowland asked, turning the Mercedes into The Manor’s driveway. The large federation mansion, the Australian headquarters of the Theosophical movement, was outwardly traditional, overlooking the harbour from one of Sydney’s most conservative addresses.
“I should have gone to India,” Van Hook muttered unenthusiastically.
“What exactly are you doing here, Hu?” Milton prodded.
“I had to make old Charlie put his John Hancock to some papers before it was too late… legal stuff… the Society’s financial arrangements can be complicated and Charlie always makes things difficult.”
“So they sent you?” Milton’s sceptism was audible.
“Absolutely. I’m an attorney.”
“An attorney?… That’s a lawyer, right?” Milton didn’t try to hide his shock. “You’re not a lawyer!”
“Really… on the level. It’s what I do for a clam.”
“You don’t sound like a lawyer.”
“Oh I can wherefore and party-of- the-second-part like any other mouthpiece… but I’m on vacation sort of… so I speak like a regular person.”
“Regular, my bloody hat!” Milton.
“Anyway,” Van Hook went on, “Ma sends someone to check on old Charlie every now and then. Jiddu’s decision to jump ship you know—he didn’t take it well.”
“Annie’s afraid of what he might do?”
“We’re all afraid of what Charlie might do,” Van Hook sighed. He stiffened. “Holy Mahatmas!”
Rowland slammed his foot on the brake as the figure stepped into the path of the Mercedes. He swerved hard, plunging the car into the low hedge which lined the drive.
26
INTERVIEW WITH COLONEL OLCOTT
The Latest in the Theosophical World
“When Dr. Daly goes out he will probably meet Mr. C. W. Leadbeater, who was an English clergyman. Mr. Leadbeater worked in the Buddhist branch of the Theosophical Society, and subsequently renounced Christianity for Buddhism. Just like Mrs. Besant, Mr. Leadbeater was converted by our Theosophical literature.”
The Brisbane Courier
Rowland swore. He climbed out to inspect his car. To his great relief, he found her essentially unharmed. It was only then that he turned towards the figure whose sudden appearance had forced him to risk the pristine chassis.
For a moment, Rowland wondered if he had struck his head in the collision. The man before him was tall. A long, grey beard reached his waist and seemed, by hiding the rest of his features, to accentuate the chilling glare of his eyes. He wore a cassock of some sort and a purple cape which fluttered in the gentle midsummer breeze.
Milton, who had joined Rowland outside the car, was predictably moved to poetry by the strange apparition, though he had the good manners to mutter his words.
“It is an ancient Mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. By thy long, grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”
“Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” Rowland replied, without taking his eyes from the alarming man. He speculated fleetingly on the presence of a medieval wizard in Mosman.
The figure raised a gnarled hand, pointed at him and roared, “Who, sir, are you?”
“Whoa Charlie—these bozos are my pals.” Van Hook had emerged from the car. “Gentlemen, may I introduce the legendary Charles Leadbeater, master of mysticism and dubious dress sense.”
Leadbeater disregarded the mockery in Van Hook’s introduction with a wave of his hand. Rowland was unsure how to respond. Van Hook continued.
“This here is Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs—first-rate fellas, the both of them.”
Rowland offered his hand. Leadbeater put his palms together and bowed. “Namaste.”
Rowland dropped his hand. “Yes, quite.”
Leadbeater looked up. “Rowland Sinclair,” he said. “The incomparable Annie Besant has written to me of your promise. I was told of your coming. I have been expecting you.”
“Indeed,” Rowland replied pleasantly, though inwardly he groaned. He hadn’t actually intended to use Annie Besant’s letter of introduction.
“You must come in,” Leadbeater ordered more than invited. “You should remove your motor from the hedge first.”
He stood with his arms folded, clearly intending to remain until they complied with his command.
Rowland put the Mercedes into neutral and they pushed her back onto the drive.
“I could hold him if you fellas want to make a run for it,” Van Hook whispered.
Rowland glanced at Leadbeater. He smiled, already looking forward to recounting the story. It was not every day one met a man in a cape. “She’ll be right, Hu.”
Once the Mercedes was out of the shrubbery, Leadbeater unfolded his arms.
“Very well,” he said, waving towards the house. “We shall be away then—come along boys.” He flourished his cape and proceeded to skip, like some giant aging wood nymph, to The Manor.
Rowland looked at Milton. “I think even Coleridge would find this rather odd.”
“Beat it, fellas. Fade. I’ll alibi you. Jump the train ’cos the destination ain’t pretty.”
“What did he say?” Milton asked.
Rowland smiled and clapped Van Hook on the shoulder. “It would be rude to leave now, Hu.”
“Rowly’s always been excessively civil,” Milton confirmed.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Van Hook’s mood was darkening.
They joined Charles Leadbeater in the main drawing room of The Manor. It had been decorated in the rich and colourful style of the colonial east. Fringes and tessellation finished cushions of opulent fabric strewn across intricately carved ebony couches. A triad of wooden elephants held aloft the inlaid top of a coffee table. The room was lit with candles, though an electric bulb hung unused from the ceiling. Amongst all this, Leadbeater lay stretched out on a divan, smoking a hookah.
“Good Lord—we’ve fallen through the looking glass,” Milton said a little gleefully.
“Indeed,” Rowland agreed. “Let’s just hope we can climb out again.”
The hookah bubbled gently. “Annie spoke most highly of you and your friends, Mr. Sinclair,” Leadbeater announced, fixing Rowland with his rather disturbing
gaze. “Please, sit, sit.”
Milton stretched out on a divan in much the same manner as their host. Rowland sat tensely, his feet flat on the ground, his weight forward. Van Hook paced the room clearly agitated.
“I am pleased with your aura, Mr. Sinclair.”
“For pity’s sake don’t start that nonsense,” Van Hook snapped. “Rowly doesn’t go in for that stuff!”
Leadbeater did not appear to notice the outburst.
“Annie thought you open to ideas of international brotherhood. She saw in you a longing for the sacred mysteries of the soul…”
“Demented old geezer!” Van Hook cursed under his breath, and continued with a muttering tirade that became progressively more profane.
Leadbeater turned to him quite calmly. “Now Hu darling, I think that’s enough. I fear you have been neglecting your meditations, since you left our care. You must forgive him Mr. Sinclair. I’m afraid Annie has indulged his temper without correction. It is why she sends him to me from time to time… so that I can remind him of his past life amongst the children of God.”
Van Hook responded furiously. “I know where you’re heading, Charlie. Annie should have had you put in a nuthouse years ago…”
Rowland glanced uneasily at Milton. This was quite extraordinary not to mention uncomfortable.
“Of course it would grieve Annie greatly if I let Rowland Sinclair leave The Manor, without him agreeing to join me at a meeting of the Order of Co-masons.” Leadbeater returned to the original thread of his conversation as if Van Hook were not there.
Rowland would ordinarily have declined the invitation outright, but Van Hook was now engaged in a truly superlative oration of vitriol against the old man, who reacted only with well-aimed condescension. This was not how Rowland Sinclair was accustomed to people behaving. It unsettled him. He was, if truth be told, inclined to promise anything in order to leave.
“Yes well, if Annie insists…”
“The next meeting is on the 10th of the month. Be here by five, and we shall go together.”
Milton laughed.
“Of course, I meant the both of you gentlemen.”
Milton stopped laughing.
Van Hook persisted, decrying Leadbeater.
The hookah continued to bubble.
Rowland stood. “Yes, well we should be going. Thank you. Terribly sorry about the hedge… goodbye, Hu.”
The American paused his invective for just a moment. “It’s been swell, fellas.”
They let themselves out and walked silently back to the Mercedes. When they were seated safely within it, Milton started laughing once again.
Rowland shook his head. “What the hell was that all about?”
Milton replied with a hint of admiration, “Leadbeater’s mad as a cut snake.”
“Hu didn’t sound much saner,” Rowland observed. “I gathered Hu didn’t like him, but… maybe we should…” He looked back towards The Manor, a little concerned.
“Don’t worry about Hu, Rowly. Americans just have an odd way of expressing themselves. He probably has a perfectly good reason to go on like that.”
Rowland fired the engine. “Well, we’ve got till the 10th to come up with a plausible reason why we can’t attend his Co-Masonic meeting.”
27
BRADMAN’S DUCK
LONDON, Saturday
Headed “Rare Specimen” Tom Webster’s Daily Mail cartoon depicts a colossal pigeon-toed, cross-eyed duck in an Australian cap, being led across the Melbourne Museum stage by a gloomily-attired undertaker.
Wagga Daily Advertiser
Rowland groaned as he listened to the news report. A duck! A golden duck no less. How could Bradman have been dismissed without scoring anything? Glad now he’d missed the actual broadcast of the Test match’s first day, he turned down the Radiola’s volume dial in disgust, glaring at the wireless as if it were responsible for the offending delivery.
Lenin sighed and slumped onto the rug, his single ear drooped despondently. It seemed, he too, was unhappy with this inauspicious start to the second Test.
Edna sat primly on the couch, struggling with needle and thread. “Oh damn!” she said watching a small floret of blood stain the fabric as she stabbed her finger yet again.
“What on earth are you doing?” Milton asked peering at her from over his glass.
Edna held up the blood-speckled sampler proudly. “Cross-stitch.”
“Good Lord.” Rowland’s brow rose. “Why?”
“It’s ladylike.”
“It looks quite dangerous.”
Edna sighed. “I’m not particularly good at it,” she admitted.
Rowland picked up his notebook. “You have other talents.”
Milton reached over and snatched the sampler for a closer look. “My grandfather was always doing these,” he said. “I’m sure it’s what killed him.”
“Your grandfather?” Rowland looked up.
Milton nodded; a smile twitched upon his lips. “Yes. Family secret—used to sit by the fire with his embroidery frame and his sewing basket. He was quite prolific.”
“But your grandmother…?” Edna started, surprised.
“She just took the credit… lot less embarrassing for everyone that way,” Milton replied solemnly. “Granny can’t sew a stitch.”
Clyde walked in, jacketless, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. “Your car’s ready to go, Rowly.”
Whilst Johnston, the chauffeur, took care of the other Sinclair vehicles, Clyde insisted on servicing the Mercedes personally, just as he did odd jobs around the mansion despite Rowland’s protestations that it was unnecessary. It seemed it made him more comfortable with the generosity of his friend’s patronage.
Rowland closed his notebook and replaced it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Shall we go then?”
Lenin whined, dropping his head dejectedly and grumbling.
Rowland bent down to pat the hound. “We won’t be gone long, Lenin old mate.” He lowered his voice. “You make sure that Mary doesn’t throw you out with all my paintings.”
Milton glanced at the walls, now devoid of anything but landscapes and the odd family portrait. Mary Brown was unstoppable. “Maybe we should take him with us.”
“It’s a long way to Springwood with a greyhound in your lap.”
“Ed won’t mind.” Milton slapped his thigh. “Come on Lenin—do you want to go to a party?”
It seemed that Lenin did, and so it was decided. The hound would accompany them to the home and studio of the often controversial artist, Norman Lindsay, where they would see in the New Year at one of the parties for which he had gained notoriety.
They walked out and loaded their various carpet bags into the yellow tourer. Milton and Edna fought over the front seat. Edna prevailed by insisting the back seat gave her travel sickness and, consequently, it was the poet who shared the back seat with Clyde and the greyhound.
The drive into the Blue Mountains was one they had made often. Both Rowland and Clyde had spent weekends at Springwood studying the brilliance of Lindsay’s pen draughtsmanship and etching techniques. Edna had posed for him—her face and figure appearing regularly in his etched illustrations of classical translation and poetry. Occasionally, her likeness would find its way into the political cartoons Lindsay produced for The Bulletin. She sometimes found this disturbing, but it was not for a model to dictate the forum through which the artist chose to exhibit.
The mountains in late December were clear and fresh. The drying winds of January had not yet turned the grasses yellow. The air was sharper, cleaner than in Sydney; it filled the lungs and made breathing a noticeable pleasure.
Lindsay’s house was a sprawling country home, surrounded concentrically by wide verandahs, lush lawns and the gum and wattle of the Australian bush. Rowland pulled around the lecherous satyr who pursued a voluptuous nymph of naked cement—one of Lindsay’s works.
A number of cars were already parked in the driveway. Li
ndsay’s parties were by reputation, and in fact, elegantly raucous affairs. His guests were chosen from amongst the artistic and literary communities: painters, sculptors, poets and novelists, and, of course, models. Nymphs of both flesh and cement had always run among the trees of the mountain property.
“It appears the festivities are in full swing,” Milton murmured as he fiddled with his yellow silk cravat and pulled at the cuffs of his cream jacket. The lively strains of a jazz band and the distinct bubble of sparkling conversation drifted up from the bushland.
“They must all be at the pool,” Rowland said, nodding towards the path, which led into the trees. Lenin seemed content to lay in the shade of a mature elm, and so they left him to it.
Though the pool was only a short stroll from the main house, it was set in the natural woodlands in a way that seemed to separate it from civilisation and give the site an air of pagan abandon. It was probably why Lindsay chose it as the centre of celebrations.
An animated crowd gathered around the pool, some well-dressed, others undressed, very few in-between. Champagne had already loosened tongues and morals. Couples sat draped in each other by the water and uninhibited women posed naked and carefree for photographs with Lindsay’s sculpted sirens.
Edna entwined her arm through Rowland’s and waved to Lindsay and his wife.
The artist came forth, his arms outstretched. “Rowly. Wonderful to see you… how did you find the Continent? Not long returned myself. Appalling weather—people not much better. Edna, my darling. Did you see the new Siren by the herb garden… you might recognise her. And Clyde—welcome, welcome…”
He stopped short suddenly as his eyes fell on Milton.
“You!” he roared. “Who invited you? You Bolshevik vermin of dubious breeding. You parasitic, uneducated fraud, purveying your vulgar utterances amongst learned men.” Lindsay paused and poked Milton in the chest. “You unmitigated Jew!”
The partygoers fell into an uneasy hush broken only by the isolated nervous giggle.
Milton met the great artist’s eye. “That’s correct,” he said dangerously. “Completely unmitigated, you pitiful has-been peddler of pornography. Masquerade as an artist all you want, Lindsay, we both know your only talent is titillating the repressed middle classes with your finely etched filth!”
Decline in Prophets Page 20
