Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

Rowland was intrigued. It was more common for Wilfred to summon him to Oaklea than to seek him out. Obviously it was important. He handed his brother a glass of whisky.

  Wilfred took a seat intimating that Rowland should do likewise. “You might remember that early last year we purchased a snow lease.”

  Rowland sat down. His brother was being liberal with his use of the word “we”. Wilfred made all the decisions pertaining to the protection and expansion of the Sinclair fortune. Even if Wilfred had ever sought his input into their commercial dealings, Rowland would have struggled to feign interest. He did, however, vaguely remember some mention of leasing mountain country for the purpose of grazing stock.

  “We’ve been driving cattle from our holdings at Nangus and Gundagai up to the lease during the summer,” Wilfred continued. “There was some trouble last year… discrepancies in the numbers, so I sent a man up to look into it.”

  “Cattle?” Rowland murmured. “I didn’t know we had gone out of wool.”

  Wilfred rolled his eyes. “We haven’t. If you paid a modicum of attention to that which funds your lifestyle, you’d know that we’ve purchased a number of small cattle properties in the last few years. We combined the holdings to maximise economies of scale.”

  Rowland was beginning to lose interest. It seemed that Wilfred had tracked him down to lecture him on family finances.

  Wilfred removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief as he regarded his brother with the deep blue eyes that marked all the Sinclair men. “He hasn’t returned—by all accounts he’s vanished.”

  “Who?”

  “The man I sent to investigate—I want you to go up there and look into it.”

  Rowland was a little bewildered. “Isn’t this a police matter, Wil?”

  “The authorities have taken the position that there’s nothing unusual in this case.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Harry, Rowly. I sent Harry. The authorities assume he has just gone wandering… as they do, I guess.”

  Rowland understood then. Harry Simpson was an Aboriginal man. His mother had worked for the Sinclairs at Oaklea and Harry had grown up on the property. About ten years older than Rowland, he was one of Wilfred’s most trusted men. The Sinclairs had always been good employers. They took particular care of Harry.

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “It’s hard to say. From what I can ascertain he hasn’t been seen in about a week. One of the men he’d taken with him came back to let me know, but the dashed fool can’t seem to tell me more than that Harry disappeared. As I said, I can’t seem to get the police to take it seriously. That’s why I want you to go.”

  “Of course,” Rowland agreed without hesitation. “I’ll set out tomorrow.”

  “We have several men up there already—you can call on them if you need to. You might need to take charge of them… Without Harry to keep them in line, God knows what they’re doing.”

  Rowland looked up, alarmed. “What do you mean ‘take charge of them’?”

  “They work for us, Rowly. They’re up there to do a job. I don’t expect you to become a drover, just make sure the men are managing the stock properly.”

  Rowland wondered how he could possibly know if the stock were being managed properly or not, but he let it go.

  “Where exactly am I going?” he asked instead.

  Wilfred removed a folded map from inside his jacket and opened it out on the occasional table between them. He spent the next twenty minutes pointing out the boundaries of the Sinclair lease, and the major roads, villages and landmarks of the High Country. He described the planned routes of the Sinclair cattle through the mountain pastures.

  “Base yourself somewhere near Kiandra,” he said, marking the centre with a pencil. “You’ll need to ask the men up there about Harry’s movements.”

  Rowland nodded, refolding the map. “I’ll find Harry,” he assured his brother.

  “Look Rowly,” Wilfred leaned forward. “Harry would not leave the stock and the men without good reason. Something untoward must have happened. Be careful—from what I hear, the High Country is not entirely civilised… though I suppose that might suit you… but be careful nonetheless.”

  “On that point,” Rowland started, remembering that he had been trying to get hold of Wilfred for other reasons, “you might need to be careful too.” He proceeded to tell his brother about the intruders.

  Wilfred frowned but he reacted calmly. “They knew who you were, you say?”

  Rowland nodded. “It seems they had been waiting for me to return.”

  “And you are sure you have no idea who sent them.”

  “None at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, perhaps this would be a good time for you to get away. With a bit of luck you’ll have this sorted in a couple of weeks. It’s imperative you be back in Sydney by April.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a board meeting,” Wilfred informed him brusquely. “Dangars is meeting to vote on the Lister franchise—you’ll need to be there.”

  “Oh.”

  Rowland had recently been appointed to the board of Dangar, Gedye and Company, a wool-broking firm in which the Sinclairs held a substantial shareholding. He did not pretend to possess any particular commercial insight, nor did he aspire to gain any, being content instead to allow his brother to guide any decisions he was called on to make. He trusted that Wilfred knew what he was doing. To Rowland’s mind the board meetings were in any case a ceremonial formality—most of the business seemed to be done at the Masonic Club.

  “These came for you.” Wilfred handed his brother several envelopes. “They’re from Mother. Apparently she’s going to stay with Aunt Mildred till June.”

  Rowland nodded. The envelopes were not addressed to him but to his late brother, Aubrey Sinclair. Somehow in the grief that followed Aubrey’s death, his mother had assigned him his brother’s identity. She seemed to have forgotten the existence of her youngest son. Aubrey had been dead for seventeen years now… Rowland had become accustomed to it.

  “When are you going back to Oaklea?” he asked.

  Wilfred checked his pocket watch and stood. “I’m heading back to Sydney now—I’ll catch the afternoon train and be home tonight… I suppose I’ll see you at Oaklea tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, I expect you will,” Rowland replied, as he followed his brother out of the room. From Yass, near Oaklea, there was a road which followed the travelling stock route to Kiandra. It was probably the most sensible way to get up there.

  “I’ll have one of the Rolls ready for you to take up,” Wilfred decided.

  “No need—I’ll take my car.”

  Wilfred regarded him coldly. Rowland’s flamboyant Mercedes Benz had always been the subject of discord between them. An ex-serviceman, Wilfred maintained that owning a German automobile was somehow an act of disloyalty, a snub to their brother who had fallen in France. Rowland had been too young to see service. Perhaps this was why he saw it differently. He remained besotted with the motor car regardless of her dubious heritage.

  The moment was broken by their growing awareness of chanting coming from within the studio. Clyde still stood helplessly outside the closed door. Rowland could just make out the Italian.

  Wilfred Sinclair’s brow rose. “What the blazes?”

  Rowland sighed. “She’s praying.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Forgiveness I think.”

  Wilfred shook his head. “Understandable, I suppose.” He had never approved of his brother’s determination to paint naked women; he approved of the women themselves even less. He put on his hat. “Perhaps this really would be a good time for you to get away.”

  Rowland smiled ruefully as he shook his brother’s hand. “Quite.”

  He turned back to Clyde after he’d shut the door. He straightened his tie and braced himself. “I’d better go in and talk to Miss Martinelli.”

  Clyde stepped out of his way. “I
’ll pour you a drink.”

  Nearly an hour later, Rowland returned to the drawing room, having told Rosalina Martinelli that he had been unexpectedly called away. He had assured her, quite honestly, that his decision to delay, perhaps abandon, his painting of Eos, the Goddess of Dawn, had nothing to do with her, and quite dishonestly that he looked forward to working with her again. He eventually persuaded her to accept payment for the entire month, a sum which he quietly hoped would help her find another profession. After she left, he had glanced regretfully at the beginnings of his painting. Rosalina was undeniably lovely—a nightmare to paint but the results, however painfully extracted, were promising. He doubted he’d finish anything for the exhibition now.

  Clyde handed him a glass of Pimms and lemonade as he sat down. Milton and Edna had returned and were seated on the couch expectantly. Apparently Clyde had informed them that something was afoot.

  Rowland told them all of Wilfred’s visit and of the disappearance of Harry Simpson.

  “Since when do the Sinclairs personally chase their workmen around the countryside?” Milton asked.

  “Harry’s a good man,” Rowland replied carefully. “Wil relies on him.”

  “Still, Rowly,” Milton persisted. “He wouldn’t be the first to just wander off.”

  Rowland was circumspect in his response. Milton was right. The Sinclairs had employed many native stockmen over the years and they had come to accept that sometimes even the best of them would wander… it was just their way. But something told him Wilfred was not overreacting. “Not Harry,” he said finally. “He wouldn’t just leave the men and stock like that… he’s always let us know when he needed to go off.”

  “But why’s Wilfred sending you?” Edna asked. “It’s a little odd, don’t you think, Rowly?”

  “Not really. Harry lived on Oaklea, he saw service with Wil—aside from everything else they’re good friends… they go fishing together.”

  Edna smiled faintly. Wilfred was a bastion of British traditionalism. It seemed an unlikely friendship, but both the Sinclair brothers appeared drawn to unlikely friendships. “He’s an unusual man, your brother.”

  “You might say that.”

  “So when do we go?” Clyde asked.

  Rowland was startled. “We… I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Milton interrupted him, “but we’re coming anyway.”

  “The High Country’s my old backyard.” Clyde grinned. “You don’t want to go up there without a local, mate. Folks up there take a little getting used to.”

  “Don’t worry, Rowly, we’ll look after you. It’ll be a lark,” Milton announced.

  “But what about Ed—she’s still not…”

  “I’m fine,” Edna protested, “and you are not leaving me behind. I’m jolly sick of baths anyway… I’m getting permanently wrinkled.”

  “Nothing like mountain air to fatten her up,” Clyde added. “You should see my sisters.”

  Rowland shrugged. It probably wasn’t such a bad idea. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

  Clyde stood, and began rolling up his sleeves. “I’d better check over your car then,” he said. “You coming, Rowly?”

  Rowland rose enthusiastically. Clyde had once worked for a motor mechanic. He knew cars in a way that Rowland could only envy. Generally, the Sinclairs did not personally attend to their vehicles, but maintenance of the Mercedes was more an indulgence than a chore.

  “Whoa, Rowly,” Milton reminded him. “Don’t you have to draft up some plans before we go? Old Foy’s already been around this morning asking after them.”

  Rowland groaned. He’d forgotten about the plans for Foy’s tomb.

  Edna laughed. “Come on, Rowly, I’ll help you draft something up.” Milton had told her of the bargain between Mark Foy and Rowland Sinclair. It amused her, but then she was a sculptress and had worked on tombs before. To her, the request was not so odd. Indeed, the last few years had brought her many commissions for cenotaphs and memorials as each town across New South Wales honoured the men it had lost in the Great War. “Mr. Foy likes to sail, doesn’t he?”

  “I believe he founded the Sydney Flying Squadron.”

  “The what?” Clyde asked.

  “It’s a yacht club.”

  “There you go, Rowly—a nautical theme… this might even be fun.”

  Rowland sighed. He had given Foy his word. Maybe a nautical tomb would be slightly less daft than the pyramids.

  4

  GREAT TOMB NOT TO BE BUILT

  WAS TO HAVE COST £32,100

  DIRECTION QUASHED

  SYDNEY

  A Sydney merchant’s direction in his will for the erection of an elaborate £32,100 tomb in the Blue Mountains was quashed by Mr. Justice Hardie in the Equity Court today.

  Mr. Foy, who died last year, aged 86, directed in his will that the tomb be erected on land he owned at Medlow Bath in the Blue Mountains.

  He directed that the vault be built in a rock cliff with provisions for six coffins, that the floor be slabbed with thick billiard table slates and that the tomb be surrounded by an eleven foot wall with a strong iron barbed gate for the entrance.

  The will also directed that an acre of land surrounding the tomb be fenced with two barbed wire fences inside the other, eleven feet apart to keep out trespassers. The space between the two fences should be planted with native shrubs.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, October 1951

  It was well after dark when Rowland Sinclair’s yellow Mercedes pulled up at the entrance gates of Oaklea. They had been travelling since the early hours of that day. Even so, they had made a slight detour at the neighbouring farm to look in on the Gipsy Moth housed in its shed. Wilfred had purchased the Rule Britannia the previous year, along with the property itself. The land was consolidated into the Sinclair holdings and Rowland took enthusiastic possession of the plane. Now he had just to learn to fly.

  Rowland and Edna had spent half the previous night designing Mark Foy’s tomb. They had amused themselves for a number of hours working on plans featuring pyramids, giant fish and Biblical whales, challenging each other into producing greater absurdities, and they were consequently awake into the next morning trying to cobble their less fanciful drawings into something that looked like they had taken the project seriously. Even so, the final drawings featured marble mermen and a mausoleum which was set into the cliffs and resembled the hull of a yacht.

  Lack of sleep had forced Rowland to initially share the driving of his beloved car, but by the time they had reached Yass he was once again behind the wheel. A small part of him was quietly convinced that the car preferred it that way.

  The gates at Oaklea were locked, but Wilfred had left McNair, his taciturn one-armed gardener, to wait for his brother’s arrival. McNair cursed as he fumbled with the chains and padlock. Somewhere in the string of profanity and grunts, Rowland made out the words “late” and “bloody daft”. It seemed that McNair was unimpressed by Wilfred’s tightening of security.

  Rowland climbed out to help him with the gates, but in the face of the gardener’s surly disposition, simply stood by. McNair had worked on Oaklea since returning from the Great War. He answered only to Wilfred, and for the most part ignored Rowland.

  Edna giggled audibly from within the car, and McNair realised suddenly that there was a lady present. He fell sullenly silent and stepped back, signalling that they should drive through.

  “Does he speak to Wilfred like that?” Edna asked, still amused, as Rowland climbed back into the car. The Sinclairs’ staff were obviously very aware of the difference between Wilfred and Rowland. Regardless, few were so openly hostile.

  Rowland laughed. “Yes… and more often.”

  “And Wilfred doesn’t object?”

  “I don’t think it would matter if he did. McNair has his own way of doing things.”

  “Is he a particularly good gardener?” Edna was still looking to somehow explain this unusual level of tolerance
.

  “Good Lord no. He’s constantly pulling out flowers to plant potatoes—drives Wil to distraction.”

  Clyde snorted. “Can’t eat flowers, Rowly. Sounds like the old codger’s got a bit of sense.”

  Rowland brought his Mercedes to a stop in the sweeping cobbled circuit in front of the Oaklea homestead. “It’s more likely that McNair’s suffering from a particularly belligerent case of soldier’s heart,” he muttered as he allowed the engine to idle.

  “Oh, of course, the poor man,” Edna said quietly. Too many men had returned from the war not quite whole, even if they still had all their limbs.

  Clyde snorted. “Nonsense. It’s common sense not shell shock. My folks used every square inch of ground we had to grow vegetables—only way to feed us all. It’s only your lot that wastes good ground politely growing flowers.”

  Rowland laughed. “Flowers have their purpose, Clyde.”

  “I’ll take a pound of potatoes over roses any day.”

  “And that,” concluded Milton, “is why you can’t get a girl.”

  They may have continued arguing over Clyde’s romantic successes, or lack thereof, had not Oaklea’s front door been opened to allow a small boy in pyjamas to hurtle out.

  “Uncle Rowly, Uncle Rowly!” Six-year-old Ernest Sinclair jumped up and down on the spot excitedly until Rowland had alighted from the car. He stuck out his small hand. “Good evening, Uncle Rowly. Did you bring Lenin?”

  Rowland bent to shake his nephew’s hand. Lenin was Rowland’s dog, a particularly ugly and ill-bred one-eared greyhound that Milton had rescued from the track. “I’m afraid Len stopped at home, Ernie.”

  Ernest’s deep blue Sinclair eyes dropped in disappointment. Rowland swung the boy up under his arm. “Tell you what—you can catch up with Len at the Royal Easter Show—how’s that? I’ll talk your father into bringing you to Sydney with him.”

  Ernest squealed with delight. “That would be just splendid, Uncle Rowly.”

  “For pity’s sake, Rowly, how am I supposed to say ‘no’ to him now!” Wilfred muttered as he came down the stairs to shake his brother’s hand.