A ROWLAND SINCLAIR MYSTERY
Shanghai in 1935 is a twentieth-century Babylon, an expatriate playground where fortunes are made and lost, where East and West collide, and the stakes include life itself.
Into this, Rowland Sinclair arrives from Sydney to represent his brother at international wool negotiations. Rowland is under strict instructions to commit to nothing… but a brutal murder makes that impossible.
As suspicion falls on him, Rowland enters a desperate bid to find answers in a city as glamorous as it is dangerous, where tai-pans and tycoons rule, and politics and vice are entwined with commerce.
Once again, the only people Rowland can truly trust are an artist, a poet and a free-spirited sculptress.
“A sparkling crime series… Evelyn Waugh meets Agatha Christie…” – THE AGE
“Glossy, original and appealingly Australian.” – THE AUSTRALIAN WOMEN’S WEEKLY
“The writing is witty and assured, confidently claiming the historical territory.” – SYDNEY MORNING HERALD
“It takes a talented writer to imbue history with colour and vivacity. It is all the more impressive when the author creates a compelling narrative.” – AUSTRALIAN BOOK REVIEW
“Containing an intriguing mystery, a unique sense of humour and a range of historical characters, this is a highly recommended read for lovers of Australian fiction.” – CANBERRA TIMES
All the Tears in China
Book 9 in the Award-Winning Rowland Sinclair Mysteries
SULARI GENTILL
Praise for the
Rowland Sinclair Mysteries
“Containing an intriguing mystery, a unique sense of humour and a range of historical characters, this is a highly recommended read for lovers of Australian fiction.”
—Canberra Times
“Sulari’s knowledge and love of Australian history and politics is woven through her very human and wonderful protagonists. This series is witty, fun and suspenseful and a joy to read. Oh and if ever anyone asks you to step outside and view the southern cross, you would be well advised to have read this series first.”
—The Hon. Graham West, Jindabyne (President of the Snowy Monaro
Readers Writers Festival/ex-proprietor Snowprint Bookshop)
“I recommend these to anyone who asks—and so do the colleagues I’ve converted to the Sinclair Mysteries.”
—Fiona Hardy, Melbourne (Readings Carlton)
“… a wonderful mix of mystery, fun, history and whimsy … I always enjoy picking up a Rowly book and settling into his world. Long may his adventures continue!”
—Anne Kennedy, Canberra
“Subtle tongue in cheek humour, artfully misquoted poetry, and an endearing sleuth, make these impeccably researched historical mysteries compulsive reading.”
—Elizabeth Jane Corbett, Melbourne
“… smart, atmospheric, engaging and fresh.”
—Kate Sclavos, Gosford (ex-All Good Bookstore)
“The Rowland Sinclair books are fun, superbly researched, beautifully written, and they teach a fascinating period of Australian history in a fabulous way.”
—Susannah Fullerton, OAM, FRSN, President of the Jane Austen Society of
Australia, Patron of the Kipling Society of Australia
“In 2010 a book quietly dropped into Australian crime fiction history, triggering a tidal wave of dedicated fans, and eager readers. A Few Right Thinking Men introduced us to Rowland Sinclair and his band of clever, compassionate and interesting colleagues; pulled us into their world of fun, danger, intrigue, and most importantly taught us lessons about history … Long may Sulari Gentill continue to weave her magical tales.”
—Karen Chisholm, Reviewer, ACWA Committee Member,
AustCrimeFiction
“Rowly has taken up the same place in my heart and my mind of a polygamous reader as Sherlock Holmes, Miss Phryne Fisher and Erast Fandorin.”
—Svetlana Tishchenko, Melbourne
“The character of Rowland Sinclair is an excellent one—a gentle man who has no hesitation in using his considerable wealth to help those less fortunate, especially his dearest friends, Edna, Milton and Clyde … Highly recommended.”
—Brenda Telford, Newcastle
“The Rowland Sinclair novels bring aspects of Australian 1930s history to life through Gentill’s careful attention to details and lively descriptions of place and setting.”
—Janice Simpson, Melbourne
“I loved getting to know Rowly better with each book. I have read the series twice, and love the historical references throughout …”
—Jan Strudwick, Sunshine Coast
“… an engaging series that I feel gets better with each book.”
—Ashleigh Miekle, Sydney
“… compulsively readable. Sulari Gentill is a masterly writer of crime fiction.”
—Elise McCune, Melbourne
“Great reading … interesting times and people … adorable leading characters … crime, mystery and drama in a very interesting time in Australian history.”
—Diane McKewin, Townsville
For Angela Savage,
who named this book.
BOOKS BY SULARI GENTILL
The Rowland Sinclair Series
The Prodigal Son
A Few Right Thinking Men
A Decline in Prophets
Miles off Course
Paving the New Road
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed
A Murder Unmentioned
Give the Devil His Due
A Dangerous Language
All the Tears in China
The Hero Trilogy
Chasing Odysseus
Trying War
The Blood of Wolves
Crossing the Lines
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Author Bio
1
THE WOMAN’S WORLD
CONDUCTED BY WINIFRED MOORE
DEAR READERS OF MINE
Though eavesdropping as a habit is not regarded with favour in the best society, it is an amusing and sometimes instructive occupation when the matters overheard are of a general and not a personal nature. Indeed, if one’s sense of hearing is acute it is almost impossible not to collect a few items of other people’s business when going about the city even if they are not sought deliberately. As the poet might have said: ‘A little eavesdropping now and then is relished by the wisest men…’
Courier Mail, 31 May 1934
Rowland Sinclair’s Chrysler Airflow was prone to attract attention, both admiring and aghast in equal measure, and so the presence of three men loitering curiously by the motorcar was not particular
ly unusual. The automobile’s revolutionary design and all-metal body, not to mention its yellow paintwork, made it distinctive amongst the black Austins and Ford Tudors also parked in Druitt Lane.
Rowland handed his seven-year-old nephew the key to the Airflow’s door. “Let yourself in, Ernie, while I have a word with these gentlemen.”
Rowland had become accustomed to explaining his automobile to inquisitive strangers. He was, himself, still enamoured enough with the vehicle not to find the interest tedious. Still, on this occasion, he was in a hurry, and the men in question had placed themselves in the way of the car. They’d probably want him to show them the engine.
Ernest Sinclair ran directly to the driver’s side door with the key clutched tightly in his fist while Rowland strode over to the men leaning on the Airflow’s bonnet.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Flash car. She yours?”
“She is.”
The man who’d asked glanced at his companions. “You Sinclair?”
At the mention of his name, Rowland tensed instinctively. Apparently this reaction was reply enough. They fell upon him, fists leading. In the face of the onslaught, Rowland gave no quarter and responded in kind. The situation was not one with which he was unfamiliar and he knew to keep the three men in front of him—if one was to grab and hold him from behind, the scenario would become grim indeed. His assailants, too, were clearly not novices in the dubious arts of street fighting. They forced him away from the car, raining blow after blow and using their number to bypass his defences. Eventually Rowland went down.
The surface of Druitt Lane was warm and hard against his face. He used it to steady the world, to focus on fighting back. Rowland wanted to shout at Ernest to run, but he was not sure if that would simply alert what might be a band of kidnappers to the boy’s location.
He was almost relieved when one of the men—he could not see which—called him a “Commie-loving traitor”. This was about him, not Ernest. Whatever their purpose, it was probably not child abduction. The jagged impact of a boot against his ribs drove the breath from his lungs. And then another.
“Oi! What the hell’s going on here?”
From the ground, Rowland knew only that it was a voice he’d not heard before. In the moments that followed, he could almost hear the indecision, and then the pounding feet of men in flight.
“Are you all right, mate?” A concerned hand on his shoulder.
Rowland pushed himself gingerly off the road. “Yes, I think so.”
“Mongrels! Bloody mongrels! Did they rob yer?”
Rowland shook his head slowly.
The Samaritan—a large man with a strong and steady grip—helped him stand. “They were giving you one hell of a kicking, you sure you’re—”
Rowland’s head began to clear. “Dammit! Ernie!”
“I beg yer pardon, mate?”
“Ernie, my nephew. He was…” Rowland stepped unsteadily towards the Airflow, panicked now. He couldn’t see the boy. “Ernie!”
A tousled head rose hesitantly above the dash, blue eyes wide.
Rowland stopped to breathe. He opened the front passenger door. “Ernie, thank God!”
Ernest was pale and obviously shaken. “I wanted to help, Uncle Rowly, but you told me to stay in the car.”
“I’m glad you did, mate.” Rowland leaned against the doorframe, still trying to get his breath.
“You’re bleeding, Uncle Rowly.” Ernest remained in the protection of the Airflow’s cabin.
“It’s just a scratch, Ernie. I’ll be all right.”
“Who were those men?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure.”
“Why were they cross with you?”
To that, Rowland did not respond. He could guess why, but there was no point frightening Ernest. “We should get home to Woodlands.”
“Are you up to driving that contraption, mate?” The man who’d stopped the attack regarded first the Airflow then Rowland Sinclair with equal scepticism, before drawing back sharply. “Hold your horses there a minute…” He rummaged inside his jacket to extract a newspaper.
Rowland sighed. He really didn’t want to get into another fight, but at least there was only one man this time.
The man held the front page beside Rowland’s face. “That’s you!” he said. “That’s you with that fella, Keesch.”
Rowland glanced back at Ernest in the car. Egon Kisch was regarded as either a peace advocate, or a dangerous Communist subversive. The three men who’d just tried to pound Rowland into the ground were indisputably of the latter opinion. Still, Rowland had never been a man to deny his friends. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Well, whaddaya know, from the front page! The wife will never believe it.”
Rowland relaxed. He put his hand and introduced himself, relieved that the gentleman seemed more starstruck than offended by the picture. “I appreciate your assistance, sir.”
“Barry Love,” he said, shaking Rowland’s hand solemnly. “Always pleased to help a gentleman. You’d best be on your way lest those jokers come back. There’s some folk pretty worked up over your mate Keesch.”
“It would seem so.”
Rowland farewelled Love with more thanks and slipped behind the steering wheel, wincing as he settled.
Ernest watched him intently.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Ernie. But I’m fine, you know.”
“You were on the ground.”
“Yes, that was a little undignified—but I was about to get up.”
“Pater said that half of Sydney wants to kill you.”
Rowland smiled faintly. Wilfred hated being called “Pater” but Ernest was rather enthusiastic about learning Latin. “He told you that?”
“He told Dr. Maguire. I was leavesdropping.”
“I believe the term is eavesdropping, Ernie.”
“Even if we were in the garden?”
“Even then.”
“Oh.”
“And eavesdropping is not generally the done thing, old boy, not if you’re a gentleman,” Rowland added, keen to distract Ernest from the subject of who might want to kill his uncle.
“You’re not going to tell Pater, are you?”
“No, I won’t tell your father. But perhaps you should try to do less of it anyway.”
“What if they’re talking about me?”
“Especially if they’re talking about you.”
“What if I was there first and they walk in talking afterwards?”
“Well you should leave or let them know you’re there.”
“Pater says I shouldn’t interrupt.”
By the time young Ernest Sinclair had thoroughly defined the parameters of eavesdropping, the Airflow had turned into the long drive of Woodlands House and pulled up at perhaps the most grand and stately home in Woollahra, which was not a suburb lacking in magnificent abodes. Ernest jumped from the car to greet the misshapen, one-eared greyhound that leapt down the entrance stairs to greet them.
“Sit, Lenin, sit, sit, sit!” Ernest shouted. The greyhound licked his face but otherwise ignored him.
Rowland climbed out of the motorcar and called his dog to heel. He was only slightly more successful than his nephew. The emergence of two men from the house did little to abate the hound’s excitement.
Milton Isaacs threw open his arms and declared, “I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.”
Lenin barked.
“Clearly Len has no respect for Shakespeare.” Rowland reflexively attributed the words. A self-proclaimed poet, Milton seemed to consider that repurposing the verse of the great bards with passion was creative effort enough. To Rowland’s knowledge, his friend had only ever composed one original line—more akin to a nursery rhyme than verse—though that was not something that bothered any of them unduly.
“Lay down, Len!” Clyde Watson Jones’ attempt to silence the hound was more effective if less elegant. Raised in the count
ry, Clyde was as direct and practical as Milton was theatrical. Years on the wallaby track, scavenging for work and survival, had infused a necessary pragmatism into his otherwise romantic soul. Lenin settled beside Rowland’s feet, eyeing them all resentfully.
Clyde turned to Rowland, his arms folded across his chest. “What’s happened? You look like you’ve gone a couple of rounds.”
Rowland glanced uneasily at his nephew who was, as usual, listening intently. “Ernie, why don’t you be a good chap and take Len into the kitchen? I’m certain Mary was saving a ham bone for him.”
“Yeah, go on, mate,” Clyde added. “She’s been baking those little jam cakes.”
Any reluctance to leave thus overcome by jam cakes, Ernest set off into the house with Lenin in tow.
“So?” Milton asked as they watched boy and dog disappear.
“Three chaps grabbed me as I was getting into the car. They must have been waiting.”
“Ernie?”
“He was already in the car. I don’t think they realised he was there.”
“So they just gave you a kicking?”
“Yes,” Rowland admitted ruefully.
“Do I need to ask why?”
“The gentlemen objected to my association with Egon Kisch, I believe.”
“God, if Egon knew—”
“There would be nothing he could do, so telling him would be pointless,” Rowland said firmly.
“You’re going to have one hell of a shiner,” Milton observed.
“I suppose I should clean myself up. I promised Ernie we’d—”
“Hello!” Milton interrupted as a racing-green Rolls Royce Continental came through the gates and negotiated the sweeping drive. “Isn’t that your brother’s motor?”
2
“THANK YOU, MR. MENZIES!”
Agitator’s Debt of Gratitude
A KISCH’S … FAREWELL
KISCH has gone! At long last. But before he left the West he gave a farewell message to Australia and some words of advice to Mr. Menzies, whom Kisch apparently considers to be about the funniest man he ever met. Anyway, he thanks the Federal Minister most cordially for the splendid publicity he gave both him and his cause during his stay in Australia. Without Mr. Menzies’ aid he would have been powerless.
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