Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Humphrey Abercrombie arrived the next morning, with Michaels and a half-dozen trunks. Rowland had forgotten about Michaels. Fortunately his new housekeeper took charge of the ageing manservant, finding him a room in a part of Woodlands House that Rowland rarely entered.

  Abercrombie was installed in one of the more luxurious bedrooms. The Englishman was deeply and expressively grateful for the invitation; so much so that Rowland felt quite bad about his reluctance on the matter. Edna, it seemed, had decided to adopt the bumbling classicist as a cause of sorts and set about organising activities that would distract him from the conviction that his life was in danger.

  To Rowland’s recollection, Humphrey Abercrombie had always suffered under some kind of persecution paranoia. Admittedly, back when they were at school, it had not been entirely unwarranted. Perhaps the poor fellow had been permanently scarred by the experience.

  Rowland avoided giving Abercrombie any reason for the extraordinary security at Woodlands House, having decided that his guest’s imagined dangers did not need to be collaborated with evidence of real ones. Abercrombie seemed in any case disinterested in the reasons for the fortification. Perhaps he assumed that such precautions were in the ordinary scheme of things.

  “I think he was more lonely than scared,” Edna whispered when Rowland pointed this out. “This nonsense about being in fear of his life was just an excuse to come here, I think.”

  “Possibly,” Rowland conceded.

  “You know, Rowly…” Edna’s eyes glittered with the excitement of a sudden idea. “We should have a party! It’ll be a fabulous way to introduce Mr. Abercrombie to people who don’t spend their lives in gentleman’s clubs.”

  “A party?” Rowland hesitated. They had thrown parties at Woodlands before. They were far from staid affairs. “Don’t you think our crowd might be a bit much for old Humphrey? He’s not particularly intrepid.”

  “He just needs to come out of himself,” Edna replied, sliding onto the couch beside him. Then she stopped. “Perhaps it’s not such a good idea,” she said, frowning. “It wouldn’t be the best time for you to invite an entire crowd of dangerous insurgents into your home.”

  Rowland looked up. The sculptress had a point. The sympathies of the artists and performers in whose circles they moved were often very left-wing. There were probably a number of “dangerous insurgents” among them.

  “Everybody seems to be watching you at the moment, Rowly,” Edna said gently. “We should be careful.”

  Rowland’s eyes darkened. He wondered what Hardy and his conservative inquisitors would think of a Woodlands party. He could almost hear Wilfred’s fury. “They can’t hang me for throwing a party, Ed,” he said quietly.

  “Rowly…”

  “This Saturday, I think,” Rowland smiled. “We can all go to church and repent the next day.”

  The preparations for Humphrey Abercrombie’s introduction to the wrong crowd were, at Rowland’s insistence, elaborate. After some discussion, an evening soirée was agreed upon, with a picnic supper and champagne on the lawns; jazz bands and dancing in the ballroom. The guest list was extensive and varied, and it was not entirely devoid of names from the better families of Sydney, many of whom were quite happy to attend Rowland Sinclair’s scandalous parties, even if they would never throw such an affair themselves. Also invited were the more creative, occasionally quite destitute, acquaintances of the residents of Woodlands House.

  “Are you sure, Rowly?” Milton asked, scanning the list. “Some of these blokes are on the crazy side of red… Good grief, you’ve asked Jock Garden…”

  Rowland smiled.

  “Are you throwing this party for Humphrey or for Wilfred?” Clyde asked dubiously.

  “Who cares?” Milton laughed. “It’s going to be one helluva gathering!”

  “Still, Rowly, I don’t know that Humphrey’s going to cope.” Clyde folded his brawny arms and shook his head. “The bloke spends two hours every morning writing to his mother.”

  Unexpectedly, it was Milton who came to Abercrombie’s defence. “He might surprise you. I had quite a regular conversation with him yesterday—he seemed quite interested in the party… we might turn him into a comrade yet.”

  Rowland sighed, convinced Milton was exaggerating. “I’ll keep an eye on Humphrey,” he said. Then, realising he hadn’t seen the Englishman all morning, “Where is he?”

  “Ed took him to Manly… she thought he needed a bit of colour.”

  Rowland’s brow creased. Abercrombie’s initial shyness of women seemed to have dissipated where Edna was concerned.

  “Excuse my intrusion, Mr. Sinclair.” Miss Carstairs entered the room. She seemed put out, but then she had seemed thus since they arrived. “A Detective Delaney to see you, sir.”

  “Smashing… where is he?”

  “I asked him to wait until I checked whether you were receiving visitors, sir.”

  “Oh… yes, I am. Tell him to come in.”

  Colin Delaney strode in shortly thereafter, clearly bemused by the unexpected increase in formality at Woodlands. He shook Rowland’s hand warmly.

  “Bloody hell, Sinclair,” he said, grinning. “You can’t seem to go two months without coming to the attention of the Bureau… Blimey,” Delaney glanced at Milton and then back at Rowland, “I’m out of town for a few weeks and this is what happens!”

  Rowland relaxed a little. Delaney hadn’t been in Sydney. Rowland had been worried the detective was calling with a few words to say on the subject of the Englishman Rowland had directed to him. “You’ve come about the break-in here haven’t you?” he asked hopefully.

  “What else have you been up to?” Delaney regarded him sharply.

  “Nothing at all.” Rowland offered the detective a seat, and Milton poured him a drink. “So… this break-in, Col… what do you know?”

  Delaney sighed. “Not a great deal I’m afraid. We’re no closer to identifying the blokes who broke into Woodlands… or who they were working for.”

  “So you don’t think this is a random snatch a rich bloke thing?” Clyde asked.

  “Doesn’t seem likely. They want Rowly particularly, for some reason.”

  “Well, we just have to apply our intellects to that reason to deduce both it and the perpetrator,” Milton mused, pacing.

  Clyde groaned and threw a cushion at him.

  “Sorry, Col.” Rowland looked at Delaney apologetically. “Milt channels Conan-Doyle from time to time… it’s some kind of elaborate tic.”

  Delaney smiled. “There was a time when Elias Isaacs would have been our prime suspect.”

  “What’s changed?” Clyde asked dryly. “Don’t tell me Milt’s become respectable.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Delaney swirled the whisky in his glass. “It’s just that there are any number of reasons to snatch Rowly.” He put down his glass, counting off on his fingers. “Between the New Guard, the Communists, Wilfred’s political enemies and the usual gentlemen of Sydney’s underworld, we have a few people who could be behind this… and now this connection with treasure-hunting bushrangers really has us pulling out our hair.”

  Rowland regarded the detective thoughtfully. “Why would the Communists want to kidnap me, Col? Word has it I’ve been one of them for a while now.”

  Delaney shrugged. “They’d know that you’re not… you’re not, are you?”

  Rowland sighed. “No, I’m not.”

  Delaney leaned forward onto his knees. “The feds seem to think that Soviet spies are operating here.”

  “Soviet?” Rowland started to laugh.

  Milton said nothing.

  Delaney sat back in his chair. “According to our friends in the federal police, Communist spies are infiltrating our great bastions of capitalism on Moscow’s orders. There are rumours about a Senate Enquiry or some such thing.”

  “Do you think there’s something to it?” Rowland asked. It all seemed a bit fanciful.

  “There’s definitely something,
but it’s hard to tell what. Bit early for a witch hunt though.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Rowland murmured.

  33

  IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY

  BY F.S.S.

  “Chaucer at the Court of Edward III” is one of the glories of the National Art Gallery of New South Wales—its chief glory, I should like to say… In his “Chaucer” there is another point of contact of a more whimsical kind to the stranger, but not unimportant to Brown, because it made each work of art a monument to friendship.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1931

  The halls of the National Art Gallery in Sydney were, on this day, nearly deserted. Edna rocked gently back on her heels as she gazed at Chaucer at the Court of Edward III. The oil had been one of the first ever purchased by the gallery and was still the anchor of its European Art collection. Her own artistic tastes lay elsewhere, with the modernist school, but Humphrey Abercrombie seemed more at home with British realists like Ford Madox Brown. Still, the painting was not without its allure. The classical formality of its composition was almost sculptural.

  Glancing at her watch, Edna looked around for the Englishman. He strolled over to her, beaming. “Dear lady, this is a simply superb way to spend a morning. An appreciation of art in the farthest outpost… who would have thought!”

  Edna laughed. Humphrey Abercrombie was ridiculous, but so completely unaware of it that she could not take offence. She did not find him unpleasant company. His earlier nervousness seemed to have improved somewhat. It had been at least an hour since he had felt the need to duck behind a door and leave the room for fear of some imaginary assailant. In the beginning, Edna had dived out of sight with him, quite enjoying the drama of his paranoia, but very quickly it had become tiresome. Admittedly she had recognised some of the people from whom he insisted on hiding as Communists, but considering the number of people he avoided, at least a couple were bound to be from the Left. She’d tried greeting them cheerily to show him that there was nothing to fear, but whenever she turned to introduce him, Abercrombie had disappeared. She came to understand Rowland’s impatience with the man. Fortunately, Abercrombie had seemed to settle down a little in the gallery and the last hour had been passed in relatively agreeable conversation.

  Occasionally he gave the sculptress vague insights into Rowland’s past.

  “Rowly was never much good with figures,” Abercrombie said, while professing his own proficiency in mathematics. “Always getting thrashed by the master…”

  “Oh poor Rowly!”

  “Yes, beastly man really. I tried to help Rowly with the subject, naturally, but he was hopeless.” There was faint smugness about his smile.

  Edna observed, intrigued. It seemed an odd thing to gloat over. “Rowly has other talents,” she said.

  “Yes… of course he does, capital fellow—a real Briton,” Abercrombie blustered, startled. “I didn’t mean to suggest… I have nothing but the most sincere admiration and affection for Rowly.”

  “I can see that.” Edna laughed, pitying the man in his discomfort. “I just meant that Rowly seems of have got by quite well without mathematics.”

  “Yes, of course he has… people do, you see…”

  “Rowly was always rather clever with languages, I believe.”

  “Yes, brilliant in fact.” Abercrombie seemed keen to extol Rowland’s virtues now. “The French master would applaud as he walked in!”

  Edna giggled. “Really? That does sound a bit peculiar.”

  Abercrombie nodded. “Frenchman, you know. Mad Frog really.”

  There was a brief moment of silence during which Edna considered informing Abercrombie that her mother was French. In the end she didn’t. “Shall we take a walk in the Domain, before we head back?” she asked finally.

  Abercrombie offered her his arm. “I am at your disposal, dear lady.”

  Edna ran into the drawing room, breathless. Her hat was awry. Her dark copper tresses had escaped beneath it into stray wisps, and she was flushed.

  “Ed!” Milton put down his drink. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Abercrombie hasn’t come back here, has he?”

  Clyde looked up now. “No… why?”

  “I’ve lost him.” The sculptress sank wearily into an armchair.

  “What do you mean you lost him?” Milton asked. “He’s a man, not a purse.”

  “Where’s Rowly?” Edna demanded with a note of panic.

  “In the kitchens—he’s inviting the staff to this party.”

  “Really?” Edna stopped, surprised and for a moment distracted. “What a lovely idea.”

  “Milt’s actually,” Clyde replied. “I think Rowly just wanted to see the look on that woman Carstairs’ face.”

  Rowland walked into the room in time to catch Clyde’s words. “Miss Carstairs has given her notice, I’m afraid.” He smiled at Edna. “But the rest of the staff, with the exception of the cook, have accepted. I suppose I’d better hire some more staff to attend to the guests and whatnot. I should probably have thought this through…”

  “Rowly, I’ve lost Mr. Abercrombie!”

  “How could you lose him?”

  “He’s gone. I took him for a walk in the Domain and he ran away.”

  “Good Lord, Ed, he’s not a puppy—what do you mean he ran away?”

  “There were some men from the Party at Speakers’ Corner—Mr. Ryan and his friends. As soon as he saw them, Mr. Abercrombie just turned and ran away.”

  “Did you look for him?” Clyde asked.

  “Of course. He’s vanished. Rowly you don’t think there’s anything to this notion that the Communists are after him?”

  “More likely the bloke needs to be committed,” Milton muttered.

  Rowland was clearly leaning in favour of Milton’s assessment. He retrieved his jacket and slipped it on. “I suppose we’re going to have to find him now. He’s probably got lost or some such thing.”

  “Rowly, aren’t you supposed to be keeping a low profile until these kidnappers are caught?” Clyde reminded him. “That security bloke, Jenkins won’t be happy with you wandering the streets. Milt and I could…”

  “I’m not going to stay inside Woodlands for the rest of my life,” Rowland replied firmly. “And we can’t leave Humphrey out there.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rowly,” Edna said.

  “Heavens, it’s not your fault, Ed. Humphrey’s always been a bloody fool.”

  “We should take the Rolls,” Milton suggested. “It’s more discreet than your car.”

  “I’ll call Johnston,” Rowland agreed. Taking the chauffeur would make the search easier.

  “Perhaps you should take your gun too, Rowly,” Milton suggested.

  Rowland smiled. “No thanks… somehow it always ends up pointed at me.” He grabbed his hat. “Let’s find Humphrey. We can have him committed after the party.”

  Johnston stopped the car outside the ornately-wrought iron gates at the entrance to the Domain. The afternoon was slipping into evening and the parklands were falling into shadow as they began to empty of polite society. The bedraggled figures of the men who would find refuge for the night in the rock walls of Mrs. Macquarie’s Point trickled in through the gates.

  The residents of Woodlands House set out on foot in search of Rowland Sinclair’s missing guest. Edna took them to the place where she had last seen the Englishman.

  “He ran that way,” she said, gazing at the tree line as if she expected to see him there.

  Rowland frowned. “I don’t see how he could possibly be lost here.” He turned to Edna. “Where exactly did you take him, Ed? Perhaps he went back to one of those spots in search of you.”

  They spent the next hour and a half retracing the route Edna and Abercrombie had taken. By the time they arrived at the neoclassical Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park, where the tour of Sydney had apparently begun, Rowland was becoming concerned. He glanced back at St Mary’s Cathedral, just over the road from where they stood. He wo
ndered if the Englishman would have sought refuge in the church. The gothic British grandeur of the building would have attracted him, if nothing else.

  He waved to the others who were gathered near the fountain’s bronze minotaur. “I’m just going to check St Mary’s,” he called, as he walked briskly towards the road. For a moment he thought he’d caught sight of Humphrey Abercrombie on the stairs of the cathedral. He quickened his pace, shouting “Humphrey!”

  He didn’t hear Edna scream, “Rowly!”

  He didn’t see the car until it was too late.

  34

  DANGAR, GEDYE AND CO.

  19 September 1932

  Dangar, Gedye and Company Ltd reports a net profit of £22,951 for the year ended June 30, an increase of £205 over that of the previous year. In the previous report gross profit was given. It is not given in the present report. The distribution on ordinary shares is unchanged at 22 per cent (15 per cent dividend and 7 per cent bonus) requiring £16,875, preference dividend of 8 per cent accounts for £2912, and the balance, £3164, is transferred to reserve account with capital of £111,400, of which £36,400 is preference, and a reserve of £18,475, bank overdraft, sundry creditors, and provision for taxation is £38,111. In the previous balance sheet these accounts were given in three items, totalling £49,351. Assets amount to £182,401. Here, too, there has been consolidation of items, three against five previously given cash debtors and deposits amount to £68,687, stock in hand to £79,005, and property and plant to £34,709.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1932

  The Pontiac screeched to a stop just in front of him. The back door swung open before Rowland could react. He was only feet away from the barrel of the gun.

  “Get in the car, Sinclair.”

  Rowland froze.

  “Now, Sinclair! I’m bloody sick of chasing you around… I’ll happily shoot you and be done with it.”

  Rowland recognised the fair brows and the T-shaped scar: the face he had seen by the flame of a match at the steps of Caves House.