Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Milton started to laugh. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am. He’s had an acre on the grounds marked out for it.”

  Milton sipped his scotch and mineral water and put his feet up on the upholstered footstool. “You know, Rowly, I think being idle has driven the upper classes completely bonkers.”

  Rowland nodded. “Yes, dangerous thing being idle.”

  There was a brief knock at the door, a perfunctory announcement of impending entry rather than a request to be admitted. Edna Higgins breezed in, pausing briefly to look through the open door of Rowland’s makeshift studio. Her skin was rosy, her copper tresses still damp. She was noticeably thin, but otherwise she looked well and in good spirits.

  “Hello, Ed,” Rowland murmured, as she perched on the rolled arm of the couch. “How was your morning with Dr. Lindbeck?”

  Lindbeck, the Hydro Majestic’s resident physician, was a specialist in the hydropathic therapies offered at the resort. A small, wiry man who had a fondness for spats, he barked accented orders at the uniformed matrons as he supervised the treatments.

  “Lovely, thank you. A hot immersion, a cold douche, a compression wrap and then another hot bath—I must say I’ve never before felt so extraordinarily clean.”

  “Are you hungry?” Rowland asked. “Shall I have Mrs. Murray cook something for you?”

  Milton chuckled. “Rowly’s trying to fatten you up for his own purposes.”

  Edna smiled. “Really? What purposes, Rowly?”

  “He needs a model,” Milton replied for him. “Miss Martinelli isn’t working out,” he added, in an exaggerated stage whisper.

  “Oh that.” Edna laughed. “I saw your painting when I came in—you can’t blame the poor girl for that, Rowly. It’s your palette. You’ve got far too much crimson in your flesh tones.”

  “I know how to mix paint, Ed. It’s jolly impossible to get a reasonable skin tone when your model won’t stop blushing,” Rowland replied brusquely. “I could have painted her with undiluted scarlet.”

  “Oh dear, the poor thing. Whatever did you say to make her so uncomfortable, Rowly?” She poked the artist playfully.

  “I think it was ‘good morning’.”

  “I’m sure she’ll settle down once she gets used to you. Modelling is not as easy as it looks you know,” Edna was firm. “And you could be quite intimidating, I imagine.”

  “Me? How?” Rowland was genuinely surprised.

  Edna thought back to all the times she had modelled for Rowland Sinclair. She remembered the clear intensity of his gaze, the blue eyes that seemed to leave her more than naked.

  “It’s the way you pose your models to look straight at you,” she replied finally. “It’s hard to hide any part of yourself from someone looking directly into your eyes. It takes a little getting used to.”

  Rowland snorted. “I have no idea what Miss Martinelli’s eyes look like. She all but covered her face.”

  Edna smiled. “Come on, Rowly, be a sport.” She put her hand on his arm. “I was very nervous on my first jobs too. I’ll talk to her if you like—help her relax.”

  Rowland sighed. It didn’t appear he had a choice.

  Milton glanced at him and shrugged. It seemed Edna was adopting the hapless model as a personal crusade. It was better that Rowland give in now.

  Rowland smiled faintly. Edna had not as yet met Rosalina Martinelli. It was very easy to be compassionate when you weren’t standing in an overheated room with someone who complained about everything and couldn’t sit still.

  He waited till Edna had gone to tell the valet that they were ready for tea, before he muttered to Milton, “I’m going to deck bloody Norman Lindsay.”

  2

  KIDNAPPED

  LINDBERGH’S BABY

  STOLEN FROM NURSERY

  NEW YORK, Tuesday

  The 19 months old son of Colonel Lindbergh and Mrs. Lindbergh was kidnapped from his home at Hopewell, New Jersey, on Tuesday night.

  The baby was put to bed at the usual hour. Two and a half hours later somebody looked in the nursery and he was gone, clad in his sleeping suit. A wide search is being conducted by the police.

  Mrs. Lindbergh discovered that the child was missing about 10 p.m. The nursery window was open and a frantic search of the house and grounds failed to reveal the infant, whereupon the police were notified, and the search immediately extended to New York and Pennsylvania, and will undoubtedly extend throughout the Eastern United States unless he is found by the morning.

  It is assumed that the kidnappers, if they escape detection, will demand an enormous ransom.

  The Canberra Times, March 1932

  “Clyde, over here!” Rowland hailed his friend as Edna lined up her shot in the fading light.

  Clyde Watson Jones approached with his easel folded over his broad shoulder. He carried a paintbox under his other arm. The wide-brimmed hat he wore when working outdoors cast a shadow on gentle eyes that had seen a different side of life. At thirty, Clyde was only a couple of years older than Rowland, but his face was etched with experience in a way that aged him. Of course Rowland Sinclair had seen his own trials—just not the kind that left a physical mark. Now, however, on the lush croquet lawns of the Hydro Majestic, hardship of any sort seemed very distant indeed.

  Edna knocked Milton’s ball away with her own and squealed in triumph.

  Milton protested vehemently, calling the sculptress all manner of cheat.

  Rowland glanced at Clyde. Edna notoriously and shamelessly bent the rules of croquet when it suited her. The artists had always let it go—it was just croquet after all—but Milton had known Edna since childhood. A kind of sibling familiarity prevented him from exercising any gracious tolerance in her favour.

  “Any luck today, Clyde?” Rowland asked, as the other two proceeded to bicker.

  Clyde put down the easel and handed over a large folder containing the sheets of cartridge paper on which he had been working. Rowland pulled out the series of watercolours. Clyde didn’t often work with watercolours but they were convenient when one was lugging equipment any distance. He had wandered down to paint the Megalong Valley from the edge of the clifftops on which the Hydro Majestic stood.

  Rowland studied the vistas that Clyde had created with muted washes of undersaturated colour. The effect was subtle, almost ethereal. His low whistle was wistful.

  “This is smashing, Clyde… I’d forgotten how still and quiet trees were.”

  Clyde smiled. “Still and quiet? I take it Miss Martinelli was not the best model.”

  “A tree, she is not.” Rowland glanced at Edna, who was still arguing with Milton. “I’ll give you a hand taking this back to the suite,” he said, replacing the paintings and grabbing the easel. He turned back to the warring croquet players. “We’ll meet you at the restaurant for dinner.”

  They waved him away without pause.

  As they walked back to the Grand Majestic suite, Rowland told Clyde of Rosalina Martinelli and his troubles. Clyde was sympathetic. Rowland worked intensely but he was not unreasonable.

  “Ed’s right though,” he said. “She might get better. When is she sitting for you again?”

  “Tomorrow,” Rowland replied gloomily.

  At the suite, Rowland stowed the easel, while Clyde took a minute to wash up, collect his jacket and put on a tie. They were dining casually this night. Rowland waited in the darkened sitting room, wondering vaguely why Jarvis, the fastidious valet, had drawn all the curtains.

  He stepped towards the window to remedy the lack of light. Even as he did so, he sensed it: the movement from behind him, another from the corner of the room.

  There was no time to react—an arm locked about his neck. Rowland twisted, lashing out instinctively.

  A hood was dragged over his head and pulled tight. He could see nothing, his breathing stifled by the sack. His arm was twisted painfully behind his back.

  “Come quietly, Sinclair, and we won’t have to break yo
ur arm.”

  Rowland’s response was muffled by the hood, but it was less than co-operative. He swore again as his arm was wrenched further back. And then someone else joined the fray: Clyde.

  Mayhem ensued amidst the crack of impacting blows and a great deal of profanity. The scuffle was fierce, confused. Rowland wrested free and pulled off the hood just in time to duck a swinging fist.

  There were three intruders, hefty men in cheap suits. The settee crashed over as Clyde was thrown into it. Two men turned on Rowland again, striking without restraint and pinning him to the floor.

  “Give over, you stupid toff!”

  Rowland gasped as a heavy boot ploughed into his back. And then a second kick to the ribs.

  “Enough already! I’m not carrying the bastard out of ’ere.”

  Clyde roared, launching himself at the closest intruder. Rowland struggled to help him.

  The door to the suite flew open and Milton stood in the doorway—but only for a moment. The poet barely missed a beat—he knew a fight when he saw one—and launched himself enthusiastically into the scuffle.

  The numbers were now even and the intruders seemed to be startled into retreat. They pushed past the bewildered staff at the door who had come to investigate this disruption to the sanatorium’s advertised serenity.

  “Mr. Sinclair, we heard… oh my Lord!” Once again, confusion seemed to reign.

  In the ruins of the sitting room, Rowland helped Clyde upright. “You all right?”

  “Fine.” Clyde mopped his bloody nose with a paint-stained handkerchief. “You’re going to have one helluva shiner though, mate.” He looked critically at the bruise forming over Rowland’s left eye. “Who the hell were those blokes? Bit game, burgling the place in broad daylight.”

  Rowland shook his head. “I don’t think they were common burglars… they knew who I was for one thing.”

  Milton moved closer to him. “You don’t owe money do you, Rowly? Those fellas looked like debt collectors, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Don’t be a flaming idiot,” Clyde muttered.

  Rowland understood what Milton meant. He had frequented enough of Sydney’s gambling dens and sly-grogeries in his time to recognise the kind of men who inhabited Sydney’s underworld. He shook his head.

  “I don’t owe anything,” he said, as he rubbed his arm. “But they did want me to go with them.”

  By this time, there were other people pushing into the room, and Rowland was compelled to explain to the management what had happened to raise such a din and leave the suite in utter disarray. Edna also arrived to investigate why all the men in her party had left her waiting alone in the restaurant. Jarvis was found locked in a broom cupboard. It appeared he had been bound and gagged by the three intruders prior to Rowland’s return to the suite. Inevitably the authorities attended to ask questions and take statements. And so, it was well into the evening when the battered men of Rowland Sinclair’s party found themselves finally alone in the Grand Majestic suite with Edna.

  Rowland loosened his tie and removed his jacket thankfully. He felt a little damaged and he was hungry. Milton handed him a glass of sherry. It would have to do. The dining room was closed now and Jarvis had retired early after his ordeal in the broom cupboard.

  “So what’s going on, Rowly?” Edna asked, perching as usual on the arm of the now righted couch. She looked from his bruised face to Clyde’s swollen nose. “You were nearly abducted.”

  “Now let’s not get carried away,” Rowland said. Abduction sounded a bit hysterical.

  “What else would you call it?” Edna challenged.

  “Well, yes… I suppose… technically…”

  “It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Rowly would be a target for abduction,” Clyde said, frowning. “They could demand a whopping great ransom.”

  “From whom?”

  “Your brother for one.”

  Rowland smiled. “I don’t know that Wilfred would pay anything to get me back.”

  “Perhaps you should telephone him,” Edna suggested. “Let him know what’s happened. He might be able to…”

  Rowland’s eyes darkened. “I don’t need Wilfred to rescue me quite yet, Ed.”

  “Oh don’t be silly, Rowly.” Edna reached over and patted his hand fondly. Rowland’s relationship with Wilfred was invariably adversarial and Rowland instinctively resisted the control and interference of his elder brother. There were fourteen years between the two and the gap exacerbated the natural differences in their dispositions. Still, Wilfred Sinclair was an influential man and he would not tolerate any threat against his brother.

  “Rowly can look after himself, Ed.” Clyde spoke up with perhaps a little more understanding of Rowland’s reluctance to seek his brother’s help, unless absolutely necessary. Wilfred Sinclair cast a formidable shadow.

  “So what do you propose to do?” Edna persisted.

  They looked at her blankly. It had not occurred to any of them that they should do anything.

  “The police have been called, Ed,” Milton said finally.

  “And if they come back?”

  “What—the police?”

  “No—the men who did this.” Edna lifted her hand gently to the darkening bruise on Rowland’s brow.

  “We’ll try to hang on to one—probably the best way to find out what they want with Rowly.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll be careful, Ed,” Rowland assured her. He was touched by the sculptress’ concern for his safety. He was not entirely nonchalant about the incident himself, but he didn’t see what he could possibly do about it. There had been a spate of kidnappings in Sydney over the past couple of months. It seemed abduction had become fashionable among the criminal elements and the Sinclair fortune was not a secret.

  And then something occurred to him. He dragged a hand through his hair. “I will call Wilfred,” he said.

  “Really?” Clyde was surprised.

  “I’m not the only Sinclair… Wil needs to make sure Kate and the boys are safe.”

  Clyde nodded. He had not thought of Wilfred Sinclair’s young family. The abduction and murder of the Lindbergh baby the year before had received worldwide coverage. The tragedy had made people like the Sinclairs understandably protective of their children.

  Rowland stood to use the telephone. He dialled the exchange and had a call booked through to Oaklea near Yass, the family estate on which his brother resided. It was several minutes before he returned the receiver to its cradle.

  “Wil’s in Sydney on some kind of business,” he informed them. “I told Kate to be particularly careful until he gets back… They’ll be all right at Oaklea.”

  The Sinclair estate had long been well protected. Wilfred was both politically and commercially powerful—with that came enemies. Rowland had always believed his brother to be somewhat paranoid about security, but, in light of what had happened, perhaps it was fortunate.

  He resumed his seat beside Edna. She still looked troubled. Her unease was a little contagious. Rowland rubbed his shoulder absently where his arm had nearly been wrenched from its socket. “I’ll get hold of Wil tomorrow,” he promised.

  3

  STUDY OF CIVILISED NATIVES

  SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM

  By Daisy Bates

  The natives coming out of the wilds will be an increasing menace as the years go by. The civilised native knows the power of the white man’s law, but anything may happen with these wild creatures.

  But there will be no solution of the native question, no cessation of exploitation or of broadcast misstatements to the detriment of our good name until some great Empire maker will take over the entire question and make it a “one man’s duty of service” and carry on with his job to the end, above all politics and parties. No lesser man can do the needed work.

  And I can think of no one better fitted for the task than an English gentleman.

  Brisbane Courier, 1930

  The knocki
ng at the door of the Grand Majestic suite was insistent.

  Rowland emerged from the room he was using as a studio. Jarvis had not as yet returned, so the suite was still without a valet. Clyde, who had been working in the parlour, reached the entrance first. He opened the door, cautiously at first, then flinging it wide as soon as he recognised the gentleman outside.

  “Mr. Sinclair.” He stood back surprised.

  “Mr. Jones.” Wilfred shook Clyde’s hand and removed his hat as he stepped into the room.

  “Wil—I’ve been trying to reach you.” Rowland wiped the paint off his hand before he offered it to his brother.

  Wilfred looked distastefully at Rowland’s waistcoat, now smeared with Viridian blue, and adjusted his cuffs as he noted the rolled sleeves of his brother’s shirt. His gaze stopped briefly on Rowland’s bruised eye, but he made no comment.

  “Rowly, it seems I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

  Rowland smiled. “I was just working…” He glanced anxiously back towards his studio as the noise from within became audible. Sobbing. It was unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

  “And who may I ask is in there?” Wilfred demanded.

  “Miss Martinelli… the model.”

  “Good Lord, Rowly, what’s wrong with her?”

  Rowland scratched his head. “She’s a little emotional.”

  “What in the blazes did you do to her?” Wilfred glared at him.

  “I didn’t do anything to her!” Rowland replied, mortified and angered by the suggestion.

  Wilfred stopped. “No… of course you wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll see if Miss Martinelli needs anything,” Clyde said awkwardly. “Why don’t you talk in the drawing room… it’ll be… quieter.”

  And so the Sinclair brothers left Clyde trying to calm Rosalina Martinelli through the closed door of the studio.

  “So, what are you doing here?” Rowland asked once he’d poured Wilfred a drink.

  “I drove up to have a word with you.”