Bryan’s eyes were fixed on the silver pendant in Rowland’s hand. His brow was damp with sweat and his breath ragged. He was decomposing. His words were hoarse. “Do you think she loved you, Sinclair?”
A smile played on Rowland’s lips. “Why, of course.”
Bryan shook his head. “He was just like you—my dear little brother. Arrogant—it was always all about him.”
Rowland pushed further. “I guess Isobel loved him, too.”
“Isobel didn’t care a toss for him, or you, Sinclair!” Bryan’s accent was suddenly different—its edge harder, more common—he lisped slightly through the jagged chip of his teeth. “You were a mark, that’s all. Another rich fool.”
“You killed Isobel, didn’t you Father?” Rowland said coldly, unable to hold back any longer. “Didn’t you? And the child she carried. Your child, I suppose, not Murphy’s. Is that what you were afraid he’d tell me?”
Bryan looked up furiously.
Rowland smiled. His voice remained icy. “God, what am I saying? Isobel would not have taken you as a lover.”
Bryan reacted. Rowland Sinclair had found the soft underbelly of his resentment.
“She played you, Sinclair, and she did it because I asked her to.”
“Then why kill her, you cold-hearted bastard?”
“Because she failed, because she couldn’t stick to the story, because she started having fantasies about home and hearth.” Bryan practically spat the last.
Rowland said nothing. He waited.
Slowly the deacon realised the effect of his words. For a moment there was panic, a desperate search for explanation and then, a chilling resignation, almost a relief. Matthew Bryan had accepted the noose.
“Isobel couldn’t betray me in the end though, could she?” Rowland said evenly. He felt the need to mount some sort of defence for the murdered girl, to redeem her somehow.
Bryan chuckled, careless now. “In the end she would have watched me kill you, as she did my beloved brother. They’re women, Sinclair. Original sin. Weak, pathetic whores—all of them. You’ll see eventually… if she survives.” He smiled cruelly, as if amused by the memory of what he had done to Edna. “If she doesn’t, you’ll thank me…”
Delaney grabbed Rowland’s shoulder as he launched forward incensed. The detective held him back, and Bryan laughed.
Rowland composed himself, just barely. There were things he wanted to know now.
“You tried to shoot me on board. How were you going to blackmail a dead man, you bloody fool?”
“You have a family,” Bryan replied glibly. “People had seen you with Isobel—you wouldn’t have been around to deny it. How much is a Sinclair bastard worth, do you think?” He leant across the table until his face was close to Rowland’s. He whispered. “Of course, I wouldn’t have needed to do it if you’d just agreed to marry poor Isobel… she’d still be alive.”
“Murphy and Francesca Waterman,” Delaney intervened because Rowland was beyond words. “You killed them simply because they knew you?”
“I have been rather busy, haven’t I? Frannie would have told Jiddu eventually—was always besotted with the Holy Sambo.”
“But why now?” Delaney continued. “And why on earth would someone like you join the Church?”
Bryan shrugged. It seemed he had given up trying to protest any form of innocence. “I was a pious man once—had no need for my inheritance or my parents—just wanted to get as far away from them and their blasphemous causes as possible.”
“So you entered the priesthood?” Delaney was leading him now.
Bryan nodded. “I was assigned to the bishop. I met Isobel… she opened my eyes to the pleasures of the flesh.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “It’s hard to go back once you’ve realised what women are for. It was only then I started to think about what Annie and Leadbeater had been doing with my money… what they were stealing from me. Of course it wasn’t till later that I figured out that Van Hook was involved.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll hire the back-stabbing rat to defend me.”
“And finding Annie and Krishnamurti on the Aquitania? Was that just luck?” Delaney asked.
“No. The World President of the Theosophical Society does not travel quietly,” Bryan replied, rolling his eyes. “It was public knowledge that she’d be travelling on the Aquitania. The bishop hadn’t actually planned to embark for a month after the Aquitania had left, but I was in charge of making his travel bookings. Once the bookings were made Isobel convinced him not to break them… told him it was a sign from God that the colonies needed him or some such thing.” Bryan’s eyes sparkled as he spoke of Isobel. “She was quite good at that sort of thing… a natural liar really.”
“Did Isobel know you planned to kill your brother?” Rowland was sickened by the thought. Could the enchanting, lively girl he had almost loved, have been so callous?
Bryan turned to him, his face set with pity and contempt. “Yes… she cried and carried on afterwards… but she knew. She lured him to the lifeboat… she had a way about her.” The deacon smiled. “But you’d know all about her ways wouldn’t you Sinclair?… of course you weren’t man enough to go through with it.”
Rowland’s face became stony. “Go to hell!”
Bryan laughed, strangely gleeful. “Yes, it looks like I might.”
For a moment there was nothing as Rowland considered whether it would be fair to strike a man in shackles. In the end he resisted.
Edna’s locket pressed into Rowland’s palm, as his grip tightened about it. He spoke dispassionately to Delaney. “Do you have what you need?”
The detective nodded.
Rowland Sinclair stood up. He walked out of the room without another glance at the man who called himself Matthew Bryan. It was finished, and Milton was right. Bryan would swing.
41
RESOURCEFUL MOTHER
ROCKHAMPTON
Gladys Hinchcliffe, aged three, drank a quantity of strychnine. Her life was saved by the resourcefulness of her mother who administered a simple salt and water emetic and later gave the child some charcoal followed by a drink of milk.
Northern Territory Times
Edna Higgins opened her eyes slowly, burrowing back into the cushions of the chaise lounge. She could hear Rowland and Clyde discussing colour palettes somewhere nearby. It was past noon; the morning sun no longer cast its shaft through the glass panels of the French doors. Rowland had carried her down that morning so that she would not have to spend another day confined to her bed. It had been five days since she had come out of sedation to find the men she lived with gathered about her hospital bed. They’d acted as if she’d just woken from the dead. She had told them to go home and shower.
As she grew stronger, she had spoken to them and the dashing Detective Delaney of what Bryan had done to her. Now they seemed reluctant to leave her alone. Edna could see that becoming a problem, but for the time being, she was glad of it.
Milton was the first to notice she was not asleep. He looked up from his book. His mouth twitched. The bard in him could not refrain.
“That we are well awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.”
“Shakespeare,” Rowland made the attribution casually, as he smiled at Edna.
Milton was not finished. He raised a finger. “Why then, we are awake; let’s follow him; And by the way let us recount our dreams.”
Rowland sighed, looking pointedly at the poet. “He also wrote ‘Man is but an ass’.”
Milton ignored him. “How are you feeling, Ed?”
“A little tired.”
Rowland frowned. “Shall I carry you, upstairs?”
“Oh no—not yet.”
“Ed’s afraid of that nurse your brother hired to look after her,” Milton said, laughing.
Rowland glanced at Edna sympathetically. Wilfred had a talent for finding the most grim-faced staff. He’d surpassed himself with Nurse Harrington—the woman was altogether terrifying.
Lenin cla
ttered across and licked Edna’s face before he tried to climb onto the chaise with her. Clyde grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him off. “Are you hungry, Ed? Mary left a plate for you… there was some shortbread too…”
“Mary took that away I think,” Milton informed them. “She seems to have an issue with the crumbs.”
Edna shook her head. Her appetite hadn’t returned. All she could taste was charcoal.
“You should eat something,” Clyde warned. “Nobody wants a thin model, Ed… you’ll lose work.”
Rowland looked carefully at the sculptress. For the first time Edna felt a twinge of self-consciousness under his gaze. She knew she had become angular. Gone were the gentle curves and rounded lines of her figure, the feminine shape that seemed to so suit the sweep of the brush. Still, when she did raise her eyes to Rowland’s, she could see no difference in the way he regarded her.
“There’s a depression,” he murmured as he pulled the notebook from his inside pocket. “She’ll be cheaper to paint like this.”
Edna laughed. “Has Hu sailed yet?” she asked, nestling comfortably into the pillows which surrounded her. Hubert Van Hook had called a couple of days before to say goodbye in his own colourful and entirely incomprehensible manner. Having been cleared, he was joining Annie Besant and Jiddu Krishnamurti in India.
Clyde nodded. “Yesterday. He’ll have an interesting story to tell Annie.”
“Provided they can figure out what the hell he’s saying,” Milton added.
Clyde flicked open the Truth, scanning the pages for mention of Rowland Sinclair. “You seem to have fallen out of the headlines, Rowly. How did Wilfred manage that?”
“He bought the paper.”
“You’re joking!”
“Of course I am… Wil wouldn’t buy the Truth—The Sydney Morning Herald maybe… The Age in a pinch… but not the jolly Truth!” Rowland looked disdainfully at the paper in Clyde’s grasp. “Standards, old boy, standards.”
Clyde grinned. “Where are the illustrious Sinclairs? The house seems rather quiet.”
Aside from the servants, they were alone at Woodlands.
“Half of them went to the races, and the rest went to church to pray for the half at the races.” Rowland said as he began to draw Edna. “Oh, Ed—before I forget. More flowers arrived whilst you were asleep.”
There had been a steady stream of bouquets delivered for the sculptress.
“That’s lovely,” Edna said without lifting her head. “Who sent them?”
“Bishop Hanrahan.”
Clyde looked up surprised. “My God!”
“No—just the bishop, I’m afraid.” Rowland winked at the sculptress. “It wasn’t even addressed to Jezebel.”
“He’s obviously feeling guilty,” Milton said closing his book.
“Why would he feel guilty?”
“Between his niece and his deacon, a lot of people died,” Milton replied.
Rowland’s eyes lost their humour. Isobel.
Edna watched him. A couple of days ago, he had sat at her bedside and told her of Bryan’s claims. She knew he was still haunted by the deacon’s words, that he had wanted the bishop’s niece to be innocent. Rowland seemed to accept that Isobel Hanrahan had reasons for wanting to seduce him, but he had not thought it quite so calculated.
She curled up her legs to make space on the chaise. “Rowly darling, come here.”
Rowland did as she asked.
The sculptress shifted to face him and reached out for his hand. What did it matter what really happened? Rowland had cared for Isobel. “You only have Matthew’s word that Isobel was involved,” she said softly. “She can’t defend herself.”
“You think she didn’t know?”
Edna held his gaze, steadily. “Only Matthew says otherwise and he’s… he’s a cruel man, Rowly—you shouldn’t doubt how you saw Isobel.”
Rowland shook his head. “I just feel such a fool.”
“Do you still have those drawings you made of Isobel?” Clyde asked suddenly.
“Yes.” Rowland closed his notebook and handed it over.
Clyde flicked to the sketches of the bishop’s niece. “I don’t see a cold-blooded murderer’s accomplice here, mate—just a bit of a girl with appalling bloody taste in men.”
Rowland took back the notebook and studied his own sketch. He smiled faintly.
Edna squeezed his hand. “You leave your memories of Isobel be,” she said quietly.
“So what’s going to happen with Arthur Urquhart?” Milton asked.
Rowland shrugged. “There’ll be a trial I suppose. Delaney’s convinced he’ll hang.”
Milton returned to his book. “Good.”
“What are you reading, Milt?” Edna asked, changing the subject. She wasn’t yet ready to think about the fate of Arthur Urquhart.
“Rowly’s book—Isis Unveiled,” Milton replied holding up what many considered the founding thesis of the Theosophical movement. “There’s some interesting stuff in here… I don’t know if I’m reading this right, but apparently we are all gods.” The poet straightened to suit the title. He glanced at Clyde. “Of course some of us look the part more than others.”
Clyde snorted. “You’d fit right in with Leadbeater and his band of bleeding nutters!” He turned to Rowland. “What happened to him, anyway?”
“He’s recovered—he’s going back to Perth in a couple of days. I believe Wil has sent lawyers to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t say anything more before he goes.”
“Wise man, your brother,” Clyde nodded.
Milton’s head lifted, a familiar poetic inspiration in his eye, verse poised on his lips.
“For he knoweth vain men: he seeth wickedness also; will he not then consider it? For vain man would wise, though man be born like a wild ass’s colt.”
There was silence as they all waited for Rowland to make the attribution. With his traditional British education, he was best equipped to defend the works of poets past from the shameless appropriation of Milton Isaacs.
Rowland’s face was blank as he struggled to place the line. He could find nothing. Finally, he conceded. “You know, that was so incomprehensible that you might actually have written it.”
Edna gasped. “Surely not…” They had never known the poet to actually write anything.
“Of course I did.” Milton was triumphant, smug.
“The Bible,” Clyde said tersely. “The Book of Job, to be exact.”
“Oh, really?”
“You just let him steal the word of God, Rowly.”
“Book of Job, you say… I might have to look at that again,” Rowland replied with no intention of ever doing so. He turned thoughtfully to Clyde, his smile just slight. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
Clyde shook his head in disbelief. “Protestants!” he muttered in disgust.
Epilogue
NOT A THEOSOPHIST
AMSTERDAM
The seventh annual camp of the Order of the Star of the East was opened last week by Krishnamurti, who a few years ago was hailed by Mrs. Annie Besant as “the New Messiah,” and it closed today in drenching rain. In his closing address, Krishnamurti repeated that truth was only attainable through realisation. No spiritual organisations were needed. Asked if he was still a member of the Theosophical Society, he returned an emphatic negative. He urged the complete cleavage with the past, and said it was futile to try to reconcile the new with the old.
The Argus
Arthur Urquhart was hanged on 7th September 1933, for the murder of Isobel Hanrahan, and the attempted murders of Edna Higgins and Charles Leadbeater. Jurisdictional issues prevented him being tried for the murders of Orville Urquhart and Francesca Waterman. The death of Patrick Murphy was ruled an accident.
Hubert Van Hook eventually returned to Chicago where his family and his legal practice were waiting.
Annie Besant died on 20th September, 1933, in Adyar, India. Until the very end of her life she campaigned for soc
ial and political reform. After a brief ceremony in the Co-Masonic Temple at the headquarters of the Theosophical Society, Dr. Besant’s bier was carried by admirers to a pyre for cremation. She was movingly eulogised by the Rt. Reverend Charles Leadbeater, and mourned around the world. Rowland Sinclair hung her portrait at Woodlands House amongst his more scandalous works and a painting by Picasso.
Charles Webster Leadbeater died in Perth on 1st March 1934.
The Theosophical Society continued despite the loss of World Prophets and the death of both Annie Besant and Charles Leadbeater. It still welcomes seekers belonging to any religion or to none who are in sympathy with its Three Objects:
• To form a nucleus of the Universal Brotherhood of Humanity, without distinction of race, creed, sex, caste or colour
• To encourage the study of comparative religion, philosophy and science
• To investigate unexplained laws of nature and the powers latent in the human being.
Jiddu Krishnamurti continued his work as a philosopher though he never rejoined the Theosophical movement. He visited Australia on a number of occasions, where he spread his word and caught up with old friends.
The reward offered by Mrs. Harry Houdini for any person who could successfully communicate with her late husband was never collected. She herself stopped attempting such contact on the 10th anniversary of his death.
On 30th January 1933, Adolf Hitler was sworn in as Chancellor of Germany.
Archibald Leach went on to achieve some success as an actor, appearing in several motion pictures. He changed his name to Cary Grant.
Colin Delaney was promoted to Detective Sergeant in recognition of his sterling work in the apprehension of the “Cruise Ship Killer”.
Satisfied that Woodlands House was no longer a haven of satanic activity, Bishop Hanrahan stopped calling unexpectedly on Rowland Sinclair. He remained in Sydney doing God’s work with conviction and volume.
Rowland Sinclair assumed his directorship of Dangar Gedye and Company, and although his Masonic ritual remained hesitant, he did acquire the collected works of George Gershwin.
Decline in Prophets Page 30
