A Whippet blasted its horn as it tried to get past the Pontiac.
“Rowly!”
Clyde yanked him back as Milton kicked the door shut. It closed hard on the hand that held the gun and the weapon was dropped amid screaming profanity. The tyres screeched again and the Pontiac roared away.
Rowland stepped back from the road a little stunned. Edna reached up to grasp his face. “Rowly, are you all right?”
Milton picked up the abandoned gun. He switched the safety back on. “That was close, Rowly.”
Rowland nodded. “Yes… Thanks…”
“These blokes are bloody clowns, but they’re flaming persistent,” Clyde muttered. “We’d better get you back to Woodlands before they try again.”
Edna put her hand on Rowland’s arm. “Rowly darling, I know you think Mr. Abercrombie is a little hysterical, but is there a chance he might have been abducted?”
Rowland removed his hat and pushed back his hair. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Perhaps I’d better talk to Delaney.”
“Mary!” Rowland stood surprised at his own door. Mary Brown held it open. “What are you doing here?”
“I believe Miss Carstairs has given her notice, Master Rowly.” The elderly housekeeper looked at him accusingly, and sighed. “I warned Mr. Sinclair that this was not a situation for the faint-hearted. It’s a fortunate thing I’m ready to resume my duties.”
Rowland smiled. He was well aware that, at best, Mary Brown regarded his lifestyle, his friends, and many of his decisions, with a kind of martyred sufferance, but she had known him all his life. There were certain things that Mary had come to accept, however plaintively she sighed while doing so. “Are you sure you’re well enough, Mary?”
“I am, sir, and not a moment too soon.”
“Indeed, Mary. I’m pleased you’re back.”
“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the drawing room, sir. Apparently he’s staying here.”
“Abercrombie? You mean he’s here?”
They charged into the drawing room. Humphrey Abercrombie sat by the fire with a glass of Scotch and a book. “I say, you’re back. I wondered where you’d all got to.”
“We’ve been out looking for you,” Rowland said, a little too evenly.
“We were terribly worried about you,” Edna chimed in.
“Oh yes, Miss Higgins.” Abercrombie stood. “We lost each other when we were forced to flee from those Communist thugs in the park. I searched for you for hours, and then decided it’d be best if I just took a taxi back here. I came in just as your housekeeper was leaving. She informed me, to my overwhelming relief, that Miss Higgins had come back here and was now in your company, old boy.”
Edna threw herself into the settee. “Well, I’m exhausted.”
“I believe we could all use a drink,” Milton muttered, as he unstopped various decanters.
Rowland nudged Edna over and sat down beside her. “How did you know the men in the Domain were Communists, Humphrey?”
“Aren’t they?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Well they were wearing those badges that they all seem so fond of… and I believe one of them was singing that appalling Communist anthem.”
On cue, Milton began to hum “The Red Flag”.
Abercrombie nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.”
Rowland stared at the financial statements before him. Columns and columns and columns of numbers… neat, clear and incomprehensible. He threw the pages down in disgust. It was a language he didn’t understand.
The Dangar, Gedye and Company board meeting loomed the following Tuesday. In the normal scheme of things Rowland would not have paid nearly so much attention to his board papers. He had always expected that Wilfred, having ensured his appointment to the board in the first place, would guide his vote. It was an arrangement that worked well for both of them.
Decisions taken by the Dangars Board were usually unanimous. Indeed, Rowland wondered if a dissenting vote was considered impolite. The board members were all men of an ilk. Wilfred’s ilk.
On this occasion, however, Babbington’s entreaty at Pocket’s Hut had alerted Rowland to the possibility that the meeting could be more contentious. He had no idea of Wilfred’s position on the Lister franchise. They had not yet spoken a word to each other.
Rowland scowled unconsciously as his mind strayed to the meeting at Oaklea. He and Wilfred had their differences but he had always been loyal—to his country and to his brother. Surely Wilfred knew that. Being called a Communist didn’t bother him. Being accused of treason was another thing altogether.
He looked up a little startled as Edna sat on the arm of his chair. He hadn’t noticed her come in.
She peered over his shoulder. “What are you reading?”
He pointed to the large stack of papers on the side table beside his armchair. “Legend has it that you can assess the health of a company by reading these. I think one may need the Rosetta stone to decipher them however.”
Edna stroked his hair. “Poor Rowly, how frightful.”
“I’ve never been very good with figures,” Rowland admitted.
Edna nodded. “Mr. Abercrombie told me.”
“He did?”
“He was telling me about your sadistic mathematics master.” Edna frowned, clearly disturbed by the story.
Rowland dismissed it. “They were all like that, Ed.”
“It sounds like a frightful school, Rowly… quite Dickensian.” She glanced defiantly up at the portrait of Henry Sinclair which glared contemptuously at her from the wall behind Rowland. “I can’t understand why your father sent you so far away… to somewhere so awful.”
“It wasn’t that bad… and it wasn’t my father, Ed.” Rowland was amused by the way she was challenging a painting. “I was still in Australia when he died. Wil packed me off to Pembroke House.”
Edna turned to face him, not in the least appeased. “That’s horrible! How could he?” Rowland regarded her with a faint smile, as her tone darkened. “Why do you suppose Wilfred wanted you out of the country, Rowly?”
“I don’t think it was anything sinister.” He decided to explain before Edna’s imagination ran away with her. “Wil had just come back from the war, my father died suddenly and my mother had been unwell since Aubrey was killed. I was fourteen. Wil probably thought I’d have an easier time, away from it all.”
“But England, Rowly?” Edna was once again seized with the impulse to protect the child he had been. “You were already at boarding school… You could just have stayed at Kings.”
Rowland’s smile became sheepish. “Well, no actually. I’d been expelled by then.”
“Really?” Edna seemed more impressed than scandalised. “Whatever for?”
Rowland shrugged. “Nothing particularly villainous. I started a bit of a poker club…”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Rowland grinned. “Things were stricter back then and the headmaster was a clergyman—he took it badly.”
Edna shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned this before. You couldn’t possibly have thought we’d think less of you for it?”
Rowland laughed. “No, I’m sure it will only raise me in Milt’s estimation.” He shrugged. “Wil went to such extraordinary lengths to cover it up for the sake of my reputation, that I just became accustomed to not talking of it, I suppose.”
Edna’s brow arched.
“What?” he asked.
“Just wondering exactly how many secrets you Sinclairs have.”
“Good Lord, Ed, our family secrets are a good deal worse than my chequered schoolboy career.”
“Rowly, old boy, there you are!” Humphrey Abercrombie strolled into the room adjusting the cuffs of a grey flannel smoking jacket. “I say, what’s this?” He picked up the papers Rowland had discarded and flicked through them.
“Financial statements,” Rowland said quite bitterly.
“What fun
!” Abercrombie was excited. “Would you like me to go through them with you—relive the old days…”
“No, I would not,” Rowland muttered. He looked again at the papers and sighed. “But perhaps you’d better anyway.”
Rowland stared out the window into the grounds of Woodlands House. Jenkins had men stationed at various points and vantages. The gates were locked, manned by two men who checked everyone who came and went. It was a bloody nuisance.
Delaney had made some headway. Apparently there had been a spate of abduction attempts on prominent citizens in the last months. Indeed two businessmen had disappeared in the last week, though there was some suggestion that they had absconded for reasons of their own. The already stretched police force was now looking into a potential kidnapping ring at work in the Sydney area. Fortunately most of the targets to date were in a position to retain their own security against further attempts.
Rowland turned back to the Dangars papers which lay in a disordered heap on the table. Abercrombie had confirmed what Babbington had told him. The company’s financial position was precarious. The numbers still made no sense to him.
35
PUBLIC INQUIRY
ROYAL SOUTH SYDNEY HOSPITAL
DOCTORS’ CONDUCT: ADMISSION OF HORSEPLAY
An admission that there had been horseplay among certain of the doctors at the Royal South Sydney Hospital on the night of February 21, and that bedding had been damaged, was made by counsel for the former resident medical superintendent (Dr. E. J. Ryan) at a Hospitals Commission Inquiry which began yesterday, The president of the hospital (Sir Joynton Smith) said, in evidence, that Dr. Ryan had admitted to him that he and two doctors had been “making whoopee”.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
“For pity’s sake, Clyde!” Rowland was exasperated. “I only hired her again for your sake… you could at least have spoken to her.”
“I know. I just… she’s coming back, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Rowland groaned. He felt grey.
Between abduction attempts, supposed Communist plots, Babbington’s entreaties, Charles Hardy’s accusations and the ongoing coldness between him and Wilfred, Rowland was not thinking clearly. He had turned to painting as he always did when his mind was troubled. And Clyde had reminded him of his promise.
Rowland had hoped Rosalina Martinelli was no longer available to model but, as fate would have it, not only was Miss Martinelli willing to work, but she was able to do so immediately. Her technique had not improved, and though she professed to be enthusiastic, she had wept and prayed and complained through most of the session.
Surprisingly, the painting was coming along well, but it gave Rowland none of the clarity and calm that the brush and canvas usually delivered. To make things worse, when given this dearly bought opportunity, Clyde had become incapable of conversation. Rowland was sure that Rosalina had left convinced that his friend was either mute or simple.
“This looks bloody good though, Rowly,” Clyde offered by way of compensation, as he scrutinised the work in progress—Psyche Weeping on the Banks of the Styx.
Rowland regarded the compliment suspiciously. Perhaps it was sincerity. More likely it was remorse. He sighed. The Dangars board meeting was impending, and the question of the Lister franchise was playing on his mind, as was Hardy’s accusation that he was working to undermine the company. The safest path would be to speak with Wilfred. He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked up at his friend. Clyde was a sensible man. “What do you think, Clyde? Should I vote in favour of the Lister franchise?”
“Which way would Wilfred vote?’
“Not sure.”
“You could ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Clyde laughed. “You know me, Rowly. I love machinery.”
Rowland nodded. He and Clyde had that in common.
“And I’m from the bush,” Clyde continued. “Can’t see the country getting by without generators, pumps and whatnot. Every shearing shed I’ve ever worked had a Lister plant… Things are grim now but when they get better folks will start restocking and producing things again—and they’ll need their machines.”
Rowland studied him thoughtfully and then, suddenly, he smiled.
“What are you thinking?” Clyde asked.
“That you should sit on this board, not me.” Rowland leaned back, relaxed. “You’ve made more sense in one minute than poor old Humphrey has in all the hours I spent with him and those bloody figures.”
“Thank God,” Clyde muttered. “Commercial contemplations don’t suit you, Rowly… I don’t think you’re cut out for it, mate.”
Rowland nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me, Clyde old son.”
Clyde smiled. “So now you just have to survive this party.”
“What could go wrong?”
Clyde looked hard at him. “Rowly, you’ve invited every Communist you know, and half the police force, as well as our usual crowd—who aren’t exactly quiet. And just to make things really interesting, you’ve asked ‘society’ to come too... it’ll be a bloody miracle if there isn’t a riot.”
“Now you’re being hysterical.”
“Talking of hysterical, you might need to warn Humphrey that half the people he’s been ducking and hiding from will be dropping by to welcome him to Sydney.”
“Rowly, stop! What are you doing?”
Rowland dropped his brush, startled.
Edna pushed him away from the canvas. “You’ll get paint on your dinner suit.” She stopped to take in the painting.
The goddess, Psyche, knelt by a river, weeping. The scene was both dramatic and poignant. Rowland had captured not only misery, but a deep resentment and a faint pride in the face of his goddess. He had cast Rosalina Martinelli in the perfect classical role.
“Oh Rowly, this is heartbreakingly beautiful. I’m so glad you gave Rosalina another chance.”
Rowland smiled. “I miss painting you, Ed.”
She met his eyes and for a moment neither said a word.
“Don’t be silly, Rowly,” Edna laughed finally. “You can’t be a chef with just one recipe.”
“You look lovely.” He changed the subject though he allowed his gaze to linger upon her. She wore a gown of palest green which just skimmed the gentle curves of her figure before floating to the floor. The neckline was scooped and daringly low, and if not for the long gloves she wore, the sculptress’ arms would have been bare.
Edna curtsied. “Why thank you, sir. And you have just enough time to change your shirt.”
“My shirt?” Rowland looked down. The pristine white of his dress shirt was marred by a large splash of Pthalo blue. “Damn! How did I do that?”
“One wonders,” Edna murmured, as she picked up his brush and dropped it carefully onto the tray of his easel. “Have you seen the garden?” She smiled excitedly. “They’ve strung up lanterns, and put up the marquees. There are floating candles in the pond, and garlands of roses in the ballroom… It all looks magical, Rowly. I’ll be rather sad to see it all taken down tomorrow.”
Rowland smiled. “It’ll all have to stay then.”
She giggled. “Yes, that’d be very practical—you’d better go and change.”
Rowland checked his watch. “You’re right. Have you seen Humphrey at all?”
“He’s still getting ready I believe. I saw Michaels coming in and out of his room with shoes and that sort of thing.”
“I’ll check on him after I change—prepare him a bit. It wouldn’t do to have the guest of honour hiding under the table in terror.”
As it was, however, Rowland had only just managed to find and don a dress shirt which had not been ruined by paint when the music started, and the first of his guests arrived. He then discovered droplets of colour on his waistcoat and was further delayed in replacing it. Consequently he was in a hurry when he stuck his head into Abercrombie’s room. The Englishman was fussing with the lapel of a white mess jacket.
“Rowly!” Abercrombie beckoned him into the room. “Could I possibly have a word, old man?”
Rowland stepped in. “Yes, of course, in fact there was something…”
“I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking with Mr. Watson Jones about this board matter of yours.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I must say, Rowly, I’m surprised you would seek the counsel of a person so ill-qualified to advise you on a matter of such import.”
“Indeed.”
“Mr. Watson Jones is a capital fellow but I doubt he has anything more than a basic colonial education. It was, if you don’t mind my saying, quite unfair of you to put the weight of a decision which could ruin a company on such unprepared shoulders.”
Rowland regarded him silently.
“And the fact that you would dismiss my own advice after the hours I committed to assisting you… well… it’s just too bad… too bad.”
Rowland took a deep breath. “Look Humphrey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t realise…”
“Have you considered how Mr. Watson Jones is going to feel when his advice leads you to ruining Dangars and destroying your own reputation in business?”
“No, I can’t say I had.”
“Well, I’m not surprised. You’re an outstanding fellow, Rowly, but I must say you’ve always been a bit oblivious.”
“Oblivious? To what exactly?” Annoyance was challenging Rowland’s initial reluctance to continue the conversation.
“Rowly! There you are!” Edna appeared at the doorway. “You must come down—everybody’s arriving. Mr. Joynton Smith is demanding to know why you think you’re Jay Gatsby all of a sudden.” She grabbed Rowland’s hand insistently.
Rowland allowed himself to be pulled away. He’d deal with Abercrombie’s wounded feelings later.
The party seemed to have exploded immediately into full swing. Rowland’s guests milled, appraising each other warily. His staff mixed gaily with those they had served and attended on other occasions. The small army he’d retained to serve at the party kept glasses charged and moved through the crowd with silver trays of dainty hors d’oeuvres.
Miles Off Course Page 26