Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “Most certainly.”

  They took their leave of the reporter soon after.

  “You’re not starting to believe she can see the future through short stories, are you, Rowly?” Milton asked as they walked out onto Phillip Street.

  “Lord no!”

  “You asked for the cutting.”

  “It’s not a bad tale, and she seemed so desperate to be taken seriously. To be honest, I couldn’t think of any other way to get out of there politely.”

  “Oh yes, manners,” Milton muttered. He glanced at his watch. “What now, Rowly?”

  “We ought to go back and check on Clyde.”

  “Do you suppose one of your paintings has devoured him by mistake?”

  Rowland laughed. “I’ll telephone Delaney from Woodlands and tell him that Crispin White’s notebook has turned up.”

  …“Queer thing the way the police hushed it up—a sensational murder like that! Most of the public never heard of it at all. My brother (he’s connected with the police) told me that Raynham, poor devil, was literally torn to pieces, and chewed! As if by a wild beast. Seems to me as if no man could have done it. “Funny, too, the way a big canvas (he was found in his studio you know) had a great hole in it, as though something had jumped right through it…

  Smith’s Weekly, 1934

  ____________________________________

  Clyde and Edna were in the conservatory poring over her photographs from Germany when Rowland and Milton returned. Edna had progressively posted prints and films back to Sydney, and so, despite having fled Munich, her record of their time had, for the most part, been saved.

  Clyde compared the snapshots to sketches he’d made, trying to gather enough recollection to inspire a painting. Edna’s photographs gave him composition, shape and detail, his own sketches gave him movement and in his memory there was colour.

  “Good,” Clyde said, looking Rowland up and down. “You seem to have recovered after last night’s lapse.”

  “Lapse?” Rowland asked, bemused. He had not been drinking alone.

  “You’re driving again tomorrow, Rowly. You’ve got to be alert, your reflexes must be in top form.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Motor racing is a sport like any other, mate. You’ll need some sort of training regimen to get you race ready.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Rowland conceded, without any real conviction. Clyde seemed to be taking the race a little too seriously, but Rowland was not of a mind to argue with anything that took his friend’s thoughts from Rosalina Martinelli. Rowland had already made enquiries about the painting that had caused the young model so much regret. But that was something they could talk about later. For now the issue of White’s murder pressed.

  Rowland excused himself to telephone Delaney.

  “They have his actual notebook?” The detective was furious.

  “It seems someone handed it in.”

  “Who?”

  “A vagabond, apparently. They didn’t have a name.”

  “Did you see the notebook?”

  “No. I wasn’t really in a position to demand they show it to me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll speak to Detective Hartley and if he’s not interested, I’ll fetch it myself.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be interested?”

  “As I said, Rowly, he’s got his gun trained on Milton. Anyway, thank you.”

  “Pleasure, Colin. You will keep me informed, won’t you?”

  “You know I can’t do that, Mr. Sinclair, but the odd classified snippet has been known to slip out over a social drink now and then.”

  When Rowland walked back into the conservatory Milton was reading The Painted Horror to Clyde and Edna.

  “So Miss Norton believes Rowly is this Peter Raynham character?” Clyde asked, shaking his head.

  “She seems to,” Rowland replied, taking a seat beside Edna.

  “And you’re going to be murdered by something in your painting?” Edna said smiling.

  “To be fair, I was very nearly murdered by the man I’m trying to paint, but that was before I had any thought of painting him. Perhaps Miss Norton’s psychic sphere is a little confused as to chronology.”

  “Still, it is a bit of a coincidence,” Milton mused.

  Rowland sighed. “I’ll keep the turpentine on hand in case any of my paintings come to life. I’m more interested in this nameless ‘vagabond’ who returned White’s notebook.”

  Milton agreed. “But I don’t know how we’ll find him. Slessor didn’t seem to have the vaguest clue who he was.”

  “Perhaps the notebook wasn’t returned to him personally. Who gave this vagabond the guinea?”

  “I expect it was the editor, Frank Marien.”

  “Well then he might have a name… or at least a description.”

  “Hopefully Delaney will be able to extract that information,”

  Rowland said. As much as it seemed incumbent on them to offer an alternative to Milton, he was well aware that they were not policemen and had no real right to demand answers of anyone.

  Rowland pulled on his driving helmet and leather driving gloves. He depressed the starter button and brought the six cylinders to life. Revving the motor, he checked the gauges.

  Clyde ran around the Mercedes in a last visual check before signalling that all was well. The British Racing Green Vauxhall with the Honourable Charles Linklater at the wheel was also ready. Joan Richmond and Hope Bartlett had arranged the practice races to give the less qualified members of their teams some experience driving against another car of similar engine capacity and horse power.

  Linklater had been less than pleased that he was being relegated to what he called the “dunces’ class” but had eventually conceded to the practice race for “young Sinclair’s sake”. He was at pains to make it known that he had accrued extensive touring experience in the British Isles and on the Continent. Consequently Rowland was determined to win. Milton and Edna watched the proceedings with Flynn and Joan Richmond.

  A whistle sounded, the flag was dropped, and they were away.

  Both cars went out hard and for the first ten laps the lead changed regularly. Then the yellow Mercedes extended the gap, pulling ahead as the supercharged motor engaged. Rowland allowed the vehicle to settle into the bank, pleased. She still had plenty in her and he suspected that Linklater was on the ropes. He moved the car higher on the wall of the bowl to avoid the worst area of deterioration, as he did each lap. Later, he could only assume that Linklater had, in the heat of the moment, forgotten about the danger.

  The Vauxhall surged to come through. The motorcars were abreast when the Vauxhall lost control and spun. Rowland pulled the Mercedes hard to the left to avoid a collision and she skidded as he fought to bring her safely out of the path of his careering competitor. A jolt as the Vauxhall clipped his rear bumper. Rowland was thrown hard against the steering wheel and the windshield. Dazed he fought to correct the steering and keep his car upright. It was only when he’d finally stopped that he saw that Linklater had hit the outer wall. The Vauxhall was on fire.

  Rowland kicked open the door of his own car in an effort to lend aid but found himself unsteady. The track seemed to be spinning. Men were jumping the fence to get to the Vauxhall in which it appeared Linklater was trapped.

  Rowland staggered towards the flames. Milton grabbed him. “Whoa, Rowly, there’s nothing you can do, mate. They’ll get him out.”

  The poet sat Rowland down on the track as the crowd began to build around him. “Rowly, can you hear me? Rowly?”

  “I’m all right, Milt… just a little dizzy. Linklater…”

  Milton craned his neck. “They’ve got him out of the car.”

  Frantic, Edna broke through the concerned circle of onlookers.

  “I’m fine,” Rowland said, seeing the panic on her face.

  “You’re bleeding, Rowly,” she said, kneeling to get a closer look at his face.

  Rowland touched the abrasion o
n his brow gingerly. “Must have hit the windscreen,” he said. “But I’m not hurt.” He stood to prove it, being careful not to grimace as the bruising impact of the steering wheel on his chest asserted its presence.

  By then an ambulance had arrived for Linklater. Rowland flatly refused any attempt to take him to the hospital, insisting he was perfectly well. Joan Richmond might have pressed the issue if not for the fact that they were all preoccupied with Charles Linklater, who it appeared was quite dangerously injured. The Vauxhall was beyond repair.

  The track was a bedlam of police, race officials, the media and inquisitive locals.

  Clyde drove the Mercedes off the incline of the track so he could properly inspect her. Edna poured Rowland a cup of sweet black tea from the picnic thermos that Mary Brown had packed for them, and, worried that he still seemed too quiet, watched while he drank it.

  “There’s a dent on the rear mudguard and bumper and a crack on the windscreen to match the one on your head, but otherwise she seems in good shape, Rowly.” Clyde flinched as he glanced at the mangled remains of Linklater’s motorcar. “You’re bloody lucky, mate!”

  Rowland nodded slowly, playing the accident over in his mind.

  “You!” The woman who stamped up to Rowland was nearly as tall as he. Pearls and the Peter Pan collar of a pink blouse were visible at the open neck of her racing suit, which bore a crest of some sort. “What the hell did you think you were doing out there?”

  Rowland stepped back startled. She turned around and kicked the grille of the Mercedes.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss…”

  “Linklater, Charlotte Linklater!” She turned back to him, shaking. “That was my dear brother you nearly killed out there.”

  Rowland faltered, wounded by the accusation. “Miss Linklater, I’m—”

  “I saw what you did. You, sir, drove him into that wall! You cheating blaggard! You won’t get away with this!” Charlotte Linklater pulled back her fist and swung. Not expecting fisticuffs from someone called Charlotte, Rowland failed to duck and took the full and considerable force of the blow. He fell back and she went after him again.

  “Steady on!” Clyde leapt between the two before the enraged young woman could have a second go.

  The press photographers missed the punch but they swarmed now, and Charlotte Linklater repeated her accusations, breaking down in the midst of her tirade against the man who’d raced her brother. Hope Bartlett and Joan Richmond tried to restore calm, to reason with Charlotte.

  In the end, Joan pulled Clyde aside and told him to take Rowland home. “And for pity’s sake make sure he’s seen by a doctor,” she instructed. “I’ll call with any news about Charlie Linklater.”

  Edna tapped and poked her head around the door. “Rowly, are you decent?”

  “Decent enough,” Rowland said as he pulled on a fresh shirt. The doctor, upon whom Edna had insisted, had just left. “I’m fit and well, nothing broken,” he added, before she could ask.

  “I met Dr. Yates in the hallway,” Edna said, staring at the impression of the steering wheel turning blue on his chest. “That’s not quite what he said.”

  Rowland smiled. “It’s the gist.”

  Edna hesitated. “Joan just telephoned.”

  “Oh yes?” Rowland buttoned his shirt.

  “Rowly, Charles Linklater has died.”

  “What?”

  “He died. They couldn’t save him.”

  Rowland swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He sat down on the bed, horrified, shaken. For the hundredth time the accident replayed in his mind. Had he made a mistake? Had he somehow forced Linklater onto the dangerous part of the track?

  Edna sat beside him and held his hand in both of hers. “Rowly, this wasn’t your fault. Mr. Linklater lost control of his car and there was a terrible accident. It’s a wonder you weren’t more badly hurt, but if you had been it would have been his fault, not yours.”

  “Miss Linklater—” he began.

  “—Has one heck of a right hook,” Edna finished, reaching up to touch the swelling around his eye. “She was distraught, Rowly. She knows it wasn’t your fault… she was just angry and scared.”

  “God,” Rowland squeezed her hand, “what a flaming mess!”

  “It is rather,” Edna said. “Come on, finish getting dressed. Joan will be here soon.”

  Joan Richmond sat down and addressed Rowland in her no-nonsense way. “Now Rowly, regardless of what Miss Linklater said, you are not responsible for the tragic passing of her brother. I say this without equivocation or reservation. The fool was so determined to pass you that he took the worst part of the track at quite ridiculous speed. I could see that, so could Hope. And once Charlotte is calm enough to be reasonable, she will see that too.”

  Rowland nodded. He was grateful that Joan had called simply to reassure him. “Would you tell Miss Linklater that if there’s anything at all I can do…?”

  “Of course, of course. But what I need to know, Rowly, is how soon you’ll be ready to drive again.”

  “Drive? They’re still running the race?”

  “Motor racing is a dangerous sport, Rowly. These mishaps, accidents, acts of God—call them what you may—they happen. And there’s a great deal invested in the Maroubra Invitational. The Red Cross is relying on us.”

  “It just seems…”

  “I don’t mean to sound callous, but if we cancelled events every time a driver was injured or hurt, motor racing would not exist.”

  “But Charlotte Linklater… Surely she wants the race cancelled?”

  “Charlotte is an Englishwoman. Her upper lip is admirably stiff and she’s keen to race in her late brother’s memory.”

  Rowland exhaled. “What do you want me to do?”

  “We have to get you back on the horse as soon as possible, old boy. Your man, Clyde, tells me that your car is in good shape aside from a dent or two. We shan’t be able to use the speedway for a couple of days but I’d like you to get behind the wheel as soon as possible.” She looked critically at the damage to his brow, now cleaned and dressed. “Tonight, if you’re able.”

  Rowland shrugged. “I’m quite able to drive, Joan. I do have a short errand to run—will that do?”

  Joan nodded. “Yes, I just want you in the saddle before you begin to doubt yourself or anything equally daft. This sort of mishap can make you quite shaky.” She reached over and patted his hand. “Hope is terribly cross with Charles Linklater, if you must know. Charles knew the issues with the speedway as well as you did and he tried to pass anyway. He might have killed you, too. As it is, he’s left us all with a dog’s breakfast.”

  …Given the conditions I have tried to explain as constituting good art; —then, if it be devoted further to the increase of men’s happiness, to the redemption of the oppressed, or the enlargement of our sympathies with each other, or to such presentment of new or old truth about ourselves, and our relation to the world, as may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn here, or, immediately, as with Dante, to the glory of God, it will be also great art…

  From “Style,” by Walter Pater Advocate, 1934

  ____________________________________

  The white-washed corridor was hung with smaller works—lino prints and etchings for the most part. Rowland and Clyde followed the prim young woman who led them from the reception area. It was after opening hours and so the gallery was almost entirely empty of people.

  The main exhibition room was not particularly large but interestingly shaped, with multiple alcoves and nooks which lent themselves to displaying sculpture as well as paintings. It was here that Rowland’s painting, Psyche by the Styx, had hung for nearly a year.

  A diminutive man in a fine suit and white gloves stood before the canvas, studying it with his arms folded. His cologne was noticeable from about six feet away.

  “Mr. Frasier,” Rowland said. “How do you do, sir?” He spoke loudly because the gallery’s proprietor was partially deaf.

  Fras
ier turned and enclosed Rowland’s hand in both of his. “Very well, Mr. Sinclair, very well indeed.” He peered at the gauze dressing on Rowland’s brow. “My dear fellow, what have you done to yourself?”

  “An accident,” Rowland said tersely, not wanting to go into the incident. He introduced Clyde, lowering his voice a little now, as Frasier could see his lips.

  “I have seen your work, I believe, Mr. Watson Jones,” Frasier said regarding Clyde over the top of his half-moon glasses. “In fact, I’d be very interested in acquiring a piece for the gallery.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you,” Clyde said, wrong-footed. They had not come to sell paintings.

  “Actually, Mr. Frasier, we’re here to acquire a painting,” Rowland said.

  “Georgina did mention something of the sort.” Frasier nodded at the corridor down which the young woman who’d let them in had long since disappeared. “What piece are you interested in, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “The one you’re looking at actually.”

  “But that painting is yours, Mr. Sinclair. I acquired it from you.”

  “I’ve decided I want it back, Mr. Frasier.”

  The generous space between Frasier’s two front teeth was exposed as he smiled. He clicked his tongue against the gap. “I’m afraid I’ve become rather fond of this painting,” Frasier said sweetly. “I’d be loath to let it go, even to you.”

  “I’m not expecting you to gift it to me, Mr. Frasier. I ask only that you name your price.”

  “Rowly…” Clyde said, alarmed.

  Rowland placed a reassuring hand on Clyde’s shoulder.

  Frasier beamed. “I don’t think I could possibly part with it for less than, say, three hundred pounds…”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Clyde exploded. “Why, that’s got to be fraud. That’s what it is—fraud!”

  “Done.” Rowland reached into his breast pocket for his chequebook.

  “Rowly, this is ridiculous. He’s taking you for a fool!”

  “It’s all right, Clyde, really.” Rowland turned back to Frasier. “I do have a condition.”

  “Oh yes?” Frasier eyed him suspiciously.

  “I would like you to let it be widely known that you sold this painting for three hundred pounds, but you are not to let anyone know who bought it. I do expect the strictest confidentiality in that respect.”