A House Divided

by Sulari Gentill

  Clyde tried to give him some hope. “Look, Rowly, the police haven’t talked to you yet. That may change things.” He stood. “We should let you get some rest now, or Wilfred will have us. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.” As much as Clyde loathed leaving just after giving his friend the news that this might all have been for nothing, Rowland was clearly exhausted, and Edna and Milton weren’t looking too flash either.

  Milton took a small pewter flask from inside his jacket and slipped it under Rowland’s pillow. “Chin up, comrade,” he said. “We’ll get the bastards eventually. We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting of those that they would throttle; They needn’t say the fault is ours if blood should stain the wattle.”

  Rowland stared at him blankly. “Good Lord, don’t tell me you actually wrote something?”

  Clyde groaned. “Bloody typical! You recognise everything written by dead Brits, and you let the man steal from Lawson.”

  Edna smiled. “Shame on you, Rowly.” She kissed his cheek. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  * * *

  It was Wilfred who arrived first the next day. He studied Rowland over the top of his bifocals. “Good heavens, Rowly, you look a bit rough. I’ll send a barber in later this morning.”

  Rowland pushed the hair out of his face and responded a little ungraciously.

  Wilfred went on regardless. “We’d better organise some clothes as well… There’s a few people lined up to talk to you, and I’d rather you didn’t look like someone who might actually burgle a man’s house.”

  Rowland pulled himself up gingerly. He had slept very badly. He was stiff and in more pain than he’d thought possible, yet Wilfred seemed to think that he needed a tie and jacket.

  Wilfred pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “We need to talk about how we’re going to handle this.”

  “Handle what?”

  “I’ve just left a meeting with Campbell. We’ve come to an arrangement.”

  Rowland bolted up, winced, but did not fall back. “Arrangement—what are you talking about?”

  “This is such a bloody mess, Rowly. You didn’t tell me you fabricated references to get this portrait commission with Campbell. What the devil were you thinking? Do you understand how serious forgery is these days? And then you left the bloody evidence with Campbell. He could have you charged at any time!”

  “But if we explain…”

  “Campbell is claiming your plan was to assassinate him, that you smuggled a gun into his house…my gun, for heaven’s sake…for that precise reason. He’s contending that this was an Old Guard plot, and that my neck is in it as much as yours.”

  “And what happened at his house…?” Rowland clutched his side and gasped as he moved too suddenly. “Ed was there too—she heard Henry admit they killed Uncle Rowland.”

  Wilfred’s face softened slightly. “Rowly, as unsuitable as she is, I know you care about this girl—you do not want to involve her in this any more than she is already. Campbell’s lawyers could make a Sunday school teacher sound like a harlot…and your Miss Higgins is no Sunday school teacher. However careless you are about your own reputation, you don’t want to do that to her.”

  “No, I don’t.” Rowland swallowed. “So what does this mean?”

  “It means, Rowly, that you could go to prison for a significant period, the Sinclair name stands to be ruined and the Old Guard compromised.” Even as he said this, Wilfred put his hand reassuringly on his brother’s shoulder.

  “And the police…Delaney?”

  “They’re sympathetic, but if Campbell pushes the issue, they’ll have no choice but to arrest you…at least for forgery and deception, and possibly for attempted murder.”

  Rowland knew that somehow Wilfred had rescued him. What had he done?

  “So this arrangement with Campbell…?” he asked.

  “Fortunately, the New Guard is keen to avoid exposure of their less acceptable practices.” Wilfred exhaled. “Campbell has agreed not to press charges against you, or Miss Higgins, or me.”

  “And in return?”

  “The men who killed Uncle Rowland will plead guilty to simple assault, but no mention will be made of the Legion or the New Guard. They’ll probably get a fine. The assault on you will be treated as a misunderstanding. I’ll pay for the damage to Campbell’s house and the new carpet to replace the one you bled all over.”

  Rowland said nothing, defeated, humiliated.

  “Rowly, there’s more.”

  Rowland clenched a fist in his hair, beyond frustration, beyond anger. This was bad for Wilfred too. He knew it would have galled his brother to negotiate with Campbell.

  “Whether or not you believe it, we’ve managed to the get the better end of this deal. I’m concerned that Campbell may change his mind, and then there’s Henry…”

  Rowland bristled at the mention of Alcott.

  Wilfred looked at him intently. “Exactly,” he said sternly. “Your doctors tell me that, provided there is no infection, you should be able to walk on crutches in a week or so… I want you to go abroad.”

  Rowland laughed hoarsely. “Exile?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. You could use some time away—to recuperate—and there are some business matters you could take care of for me. Take your, er, friends with you… It’s not as if they have employers to miss them.”

  “How long?”

  “I’m not punishing you, Rowly,” Wilfred said gently. He paused. “A few months.”

  “And what will I come back to, Wil?”

  Wilfred rose and closed the door to the hospital room. He sat down again. “If I have anything to say about it, Rowly, you’ll come back to the Australia you left. There are thousands of men, right-thinking men who will protect what we have against both the Communists and people like Campbell.” He regarded his brother thoughtfully. “You’re a young man, Rowly. You’re impetuous. You hurtle headlong into things and go down in a blaze of glory. Older heads do things differently, quietly, more effectively.”

  “And you want me to just leave you to it?” Rowland’s mouth was tight.

  “You don’t have a lot of choice.” Wilfred sat back. “This mess has the potential to damage a lot of people. For all our sakes, you have to walk away.”

  Rowland twisted inside with what his brother asked, conflicted, resistant. Finally he nodded, resigned. Wilfred had kept him out of prison—he couldn’t really refuse. He would do as he was told.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  DE GROOT IN COURT

  FREED FROM RECEPTION HOUSE

  FURTHER ACTION BY POLICE

  REMAND ON THREE CHARGES

  SYDNEY, Monday

  Captain Francis Edward De Groot, an officer of the New Guard, who cut the ribbon during the opening of the Harbour Bridge on Saturday, and who was charged subsequently with being deemed to be insane and not being under proper care and control, appealed before a special Court at the Reception House this morning.

  Mr. Macdougal S.M., after hearing the evidence, discharged De Groot without making any comment, after a doctor told the court that De Groot was sane.

  Police officers under Detective Superintendent MacKay, immediately took De Groot to the Darlinghurst police station, where he was charged with offensive behaviour, with having used threatening words to Inspector Stuart Robson, and with having damaged ribbon worth £2, the property of the New South Wales Government. De Groot was released on bail of £10 to appear at the Central Police Court tomorrow.

  The leader of the New Guard (Colonel Eric Campbell) was with De Groot during the proceedings at the reception house and at the Darlinghurst Police Station. He supplied bail and drove away with De Groot and Mrs. De Groot.

  A crowd of 1,000 men cheered Captain de Groot and Colonel Campbell whenever they appeared.

  —The Argus, March 29, 1932

/>   * * *

  “Good grief!” Milton lurched forward to support Rowland as his crutch slipped and clattered to the floor.

  “Keep your voice down!” Rowland said urgently but quietly, as he resisted his own impulse to curse. “If that damned nurse hears you, she’ll never shut up.”

  Milton grinned. Rowland had returned to Woodlands House under the dedicated care of two senior nurses who worked round the clock in shifts. They were fearsome, humourless women who were impervious to any form of charm and seemed to answer only to Wilfred. Stalwarts of the temperance movement, they treated pain with tea and readings from the Good Book. The physician, Maguire, a man of equally dour disposition, called twice a day.

  Milton eased Rowland onto the couch.

  “Do you want a drink, Rowly?” he asked as he saw the sweat beading on his friend’s brow.

  Rowland nodded.

  Between Wilfred’s determination that morphine was unnecessary, and his own refusal to lie quietly and heal, Rowland was having a hard time of it. Milton prescribed alcohol whenever the nurses were out of earshot.

  “What do you want?”

  “Anything, just hurry before she returns.”

  The door opened and, for a moment, they thought they were too late…but it was just Edna and Clyde. The sculptress was resplendent in a ball gown of ice blue taffeta.

  Milton whistled.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” She dipped into a deep curtsey.

  Milton waved her away. “The whistle was for Clyde. He’s positively pretty.”

  “The tailor will be ready for you in a few minutes,” Clyde growled as he fiddled with the cuff of his tailcoat. Rowland had instructed his gentleman’s tailor to outfit his friends with dinner suits, tails, and whatever other attire they would need for their extended tour of the Continent.

  He’d arranged for Edna to be fitted out by one of the more elite High Street boutiques. From what he’d seen so far, the Sinclair party was going to look smashing.

  The sculptress sat unceremoniously on the arm of the couch and put her hand gently on Rowland’s forehead. “Rowly, darling, you’re a bit warm. Are you sure you didn’t leave the hospital too soon?”

  “This might help.” Milton handed him a large glass of gin.

  “Wilfred thought I’d recuperate better at home,” Rowland said vaguely, not wanting to distress her unduly.

  In truth, his brother had become concerned that the hospital was not safe. Wilfred was convinced that the New Guard now had Rowland Sinclair in their sights. He had taken Rowland home after just a few days and had surrounded the mansion with his own security. For the first time since Rowland had become master of Woodlands, the gates were locked and guarded.

  Their passages aboard the RMS Oceanic had been purchased for a sailing in a week. Wilfred was determined to put his brother out of Eric Campbell’s reach.

  “You look outstanding, Ed.” Rowland raised his glass to her and drank.

  “Slow down,” Edna said, alarmed by how he was throwing down his gin.

  “I might not have much time before that nurse woman returns to ensure I’m miserable.”

  Edna smiled. “Nurse Conroy? She’s busy. I think she might be a while.”

  “Really. What’s she doing?”

  “I heard her arguing with Mary Brown as I passed the kitchen…something about what kind of food you should be eating. Mary was quite indignant.”

  “Thank God for Mary,” Rowland muttered. “That old crone’s probably trying to poison me.”

  “Poor Rowly.” Edna took his empty glass. “Would you like another?”

  Rowland shook his head. “I don’t need a hangover on top of everything else.”

  “You can top me up if you’re offering.” Milton handed her his own glass as he adjusted the black beret which sat over his brow. Selwin Higgins had presented Milton with his beloved beret so that the poet could hide the word which now marked his forehead. Milton hadn’t taken it off since. To Rowland, that was just one more thing for which the New Guard should have to answer.

  Clyde removed his tailcoat and sat down with the newspaper. “Looks like the Guard is going to show up in force for De Groot’s trial,” he said, scanning the page. “They’re expecting some sort of stoush.”

  “And they’re going to get it.” Colin Delaney walked into the room. “MacKay’s priming the boys to belt a few New Guard heads in.” The detective walked over to shake hands with Rowland. “Blimey, Sinclair, I had a time getting past your security… You’re better protected than the Premier.”

  “That’s Wil,” Rowland replied. “He’s convinced that some overzealous Guardsman is going to finish me off.”

  Delaney’s face was sober. “He’s got a point. Things are tinder dry at the moment—any spark and people will lose their heads.” He glanced at Rowland’s leg. “How are you, anyway? You look like hell.”

  “Do you think Campbell will make his final putsch?” Rowland asked.

  Delaney sat down. “He’s getting cocky—issuing ultimatums left, right, and centre… They still have a load of public support—despite De Groot’s antics at the bridge. Bloody Jock Garden’s rallying the Communists and Union men.”

  Rowland watched the eye contact between Milton and Clyde. “Hell of a time to be leaving Sydney,” he murmured darkly.

  Delaney shook his head. “No, your brother’s right.” He pointed at Rowly sternly. “You’re a marked man, Sinclair…and if this deal he’s made with Campbell falls apart, the story that you tried to assassinate the New Guard’s commander may just swing public opinion in their favour. You’ve no choice but to sit this fight out.”

  “Mr. Sinclair! What are you doing down here? If I had known you were going to ignore the doctor’s orders for rest, I would never have allowed you to get dressed!” Nurse Conroy stormed into the room ignoring everyone but her errant patient.

  “Rowly can rest here,” Edna ventured courageously. Now she’d shot him, she’d become very protective.

  Nurse Conroy puffed. Her considerable chest expanded imperiously. “Young woman, Mr. Sinclair is not a well man. I will not risk his convalescence for either his whim or your entertainment. Is that understood?”

  Rowland groaned. The other men shrank into their seats.

  Edna continued valiantly. “But we could make Rowly comfortable here, Nurse Conroy, and he wouldn’t get so bored.” She tried to appeal to the woman’s compassion. “It hurts more when he has nothing else to think about.”

  “Young woman…” Nurse Conroy was not impressed or moved in any way. “Mr. Sinclair is not to have any form of excitement.” She handed Rowland his crutches and stood back with her arms folded expectantly.

  Edna patted his hand. “You go then, Rowly. I’ll just change and pop in to sit with you. We can play cards.” The sculptress looked pointedly at Clyde and Milton, who agreed cautiously but with nervous glances in the nurse’s direction.

  Nurse Conroy snorted.

  Delaney stood. “Well, I’d better be getting on.” He made a face at Rowland, out of the nurse’s sight. “Cheer up, Sinclair. There’s really nothing you can do now.” The detective took his leave and headed back out to the increasingly tense streets of Sydney.

  Rowland struggled to his feet. Clyde and Milton stood to help him. “Clyde,” he said quietly, “could you find Poynton? He lives in Newtown. Get him to come meet me—he will need a little convincing.”

  “You want me to bring him here?”

  “No, Campbell might have people watching…not to mention Wil’s people.”

  “Well, how’s he going to meet you?” Milton whispered. “There’s no way you’re going to get past Warden Conroy.”

  “Warden” Conroy cleared her throat impatiently as she waited by the door.

  Rowland thought for a moment. “It’ll have to be the day we leave…that tea h
ouse on the docks, the grimy little one. We’re less likely to be seen there.”

  Clyde nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Be careful… Remember your name is mud with the New Guard.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  NEW GUARD ACTIONS

  POLICE MAY INTERVENE

  SYDNEY, Tuesday

  In the Legislative Assembly today, Mr. Heffron asked the Chief Secretary (Mr. Gosling) whether his attention had been drawn to the recent actions of the New Guard. Would he consider declaring the New Guard to be an illegal organisation?

  Mr. Gosling said that some time ago he had regarded the actions of the New Guard as buffoonery, but now it was approaching criminality. The question of proceeding against members of the New Guard for breaking the law was one for the police.

  —The Sydney Morning Herald, April 4, 1932

  * * *

  The clientele of the tea house at the docks were, for the most part, those about to embark in the second- and third-class cabins of the passenger liners that left from the harbour. The establishment’s windows were so caked with grime that it could offer its patrons a privacy forgone in the more fashionable and well-maintained cafes. At a table by the murky window sat a heavily jowled man who smoked continuously and seemed to produce unreasonably large clouds of fumes whenever he exhaled. Seated with him was a young man with dark, slightly unruly hair. His eyes were so intense that they were recognisable as blue from across the room, despite the tobacco fog of the tea house. A pair of crutches leant against the back of his chair.

  The two had been deep in conversation for over an hour. Earlier, there had been a strong tension between them—the older man had initially refused to sit and, at one point, had knocked the crutches to the floor. But something the younger man had said thawed the atmosphere, and their heads had been bent close for a while. The younger man looked at his wristwatch and reached round to grab the crutches. He struggled to his feet, gritting his teeth as he did so. His companion stubbed out his cigarette and stood also. The two shook hands.