Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Edna kicked, connecting with the doctor’s shin. She broke for the door. He came after her, catching Edna at the door and clamping a manicured hand over her mouth. The sculptress fought like a wildcat, and Stuart Jones whispered as much in her ear as he dragged her back into the nightclub.

  Doctor Exonerated

  SYDNEY, Wednesday

  ____________________________________

  “Death could have been caused by shock, but it is the most extraordinary death that I have ever seen,” declared Dr. Reginald Stuart Jones, of Macquarie Street city, today, giving evidence at the inquest into the death of Mrs. Adeline Amy Jones, 42, wife of a Grenfell farmer, while she was being given an anaesthetic by Dr. Jones to facilitate a medical examination.

  The witness said that he had been called in to see Mrs. Jones. She was extremely nervous and agitated, however, and he suggested the anaesthetic to complete the examination. She agreed. She had only taken about twelve breaths when he saw her colour change. When he removed the mask she was barely conscious. He gave her an injection of adrenalin, and asked for someone to call another doctor. He then resorted to artificial respiration until she died.

  “I had just finished, and stood up exhausted and dripping with perspiration, when Di Macnamara came in,” continued the witness. He said “It is jolly bad luck.”

  Witnesses said that it was usual to administer an anaesthetic to examine a patient in such circumstances, and even without anyone else being present.

  The Coroner returning a finding of death from shock said that he thought the practice of giving anaesthetics in private houses by a doctor who was by himself was not a desirable one. In the evidence disclosed the deceased was a woman of excessive nervous temperament. The state of her nerves was entirely due to her own feelings, and caused the cessation of her heart action. The doctor was entirely absolved.

  The Canberra Times, 1935

  They set out for Leura at first light, slowly, as the blood frozen in their veins was coaxed to flow again with movement and billy tea. The swelling around one of Clyde’s eyes had subsided and he could see to walk. Rowland stayed within reach nevertheless. The dirt track joined a more substantial road within a mile, and seven men trudged two abreast, with Thompson at the lead. Petey Holmes whistled God Save the King in a manner that seemed to have no end. Otherwise they said little.

  Rowland’s mind settled on the murder of White and he brooded there, wrestling with what had evolved over the past days. The race had muddled his thinking, crowded his perspective so that he was distracted. The miles before him were an opportunity to focus and think clearly.

  He tried to picture White, portly with thinning slicked hair, a creased suit and that tiepin—Les Bocquet’s tiepin. Bocquet had claimed the pin was an anniversary gift from his wife. Rowland considered the design—two horseshoes in the centre of a bar. Was it intended as a lucky charm or did Bocquet simply like horses? Why would Beryl give her husband a talisman of good fortune, unless fortune was something Les called on regularly? Perhaps he gambled. On reflection, Rowland didn’t believe that the Bocquets had been burgled, or that the maid had taken the jewellery. The tiepin had almost certainly left the Bocquet residence through the hands of either Mr. or Mrs. Bocquet. Which, he wasn’t sure.

  What White had been doing at Magdalene’s still perplexed him. Perhaps there’d be some clue in the reporter’s notebook. Mollie Horseman had said White was looking into the occult, and the girl employed to weep at the House of the Macabre had spoken of clandestine meetings. Rowland had never really embraced the current fascination with the supernatural but he was aware that some took the fashion quite seriously. He remembered, fondly, Annie Besant who had passed away the year before. The old theosophist had been his friend. Rowland admired her deeply and though she seemed to believe in the stuff of myth and fancy, he had never dismissed the honesty of that belief. Perhaps it was some exposé of alternative religion or black magic that had incited someone to murder the reporter.

  “Rowly,” Clyde said quietly. “What are we actually going to do when we get to Leura? We have no money.”

  “I’ll book a call through to Wil, reverse the charges. He’ll sort something out—send someone to get us.”

  “You might ask him to send a few sandwiches as well.”

  It was nearly mid-morning when they finally walked into the small mountain town of Leura. Rowland cast his eyes up to the Italianate guesthouse which looked over the town from its highest point. The smoke that spilled from its chimneys promised warmth and perhaps a meal. He pointed it out to his companions. “There’s bound to be a telephone there.”

  Thompson and Eather exchanged an amused glance. “You’re ambitious Sinclair, I’ll give you that.”

  Clyde squinted at the street through his one good eye. There didn’t seem to be a police station that he could see. He was, by virtue of experience, a little more realistic about how men in their current state would be received at a genteel guesthouse. But perhaps the Sinclair name would be recognised even here.

  They were stopped at the gatehouse where a gardener informed them that there was no work. He pointed to a sign that prohibited hawkers and beggars.

  Politely, but firmly, Rowland asked to see the manager. As firmly, though not at all politely, the gardener told them to clear off.

  “Come on, mate, let’s go,” Thompson said. “You don’t need to impress us. We ain’t nothing.”

  A housekeeper came out to investigate the disturbance. Rowland introduced himself and Clyde. “Mr. Watson Jones and I have been involved in… an accident. Could I trouble you, madam, for the use of your telephone?”

  The housekeeper inhaled conspicuously and then grimaced in a manner pointed. “It seems to me, Mr. Sinclair—if that is your name—that you and your companions have been consorting with the demon drink. I will not allow you and your kind onto the premises! Now get on your way before I call the police.”

  Having, like Clyde, ascertained that the town didn’t have its own police station, Rowland decided to press his luck. “Madam, if you are making a call perhaps you could telephone Mr. Wilfred Sinclair at Roburvale in Woollahra, yourself. I’d be happy to compensate you for the telephone call and for your trouble.”

  “I don’t believe you are in any position to compensate anyone, my good man.” She sighed. “It’s against my better judgement, but if you go around to the tradesmen’s entrance I’ll see if Cook has any porridge left over from breakfast.”

  “That’s not necessary—” Rowland began.

  “Be quiet, Sinclair,” Thompson interrupted, pushing Rowland back. “Thank you, kindly, madam. The trade entrance is this way, is it?”

  The housekeeper sniffed. “Wait outside the door and don’t let the guests see you, mind. If there’s any trouble I’ll have Gerry fetch his shotgun!”

  The gardener nodded. “Happy to oblige.”

  “We don’t want any trouble, madam,” Thompson said with his hands in the air. “But that porridge would be most welcome.”

  “Go on with you then. I’ll have someone come to the back door, and then you’ll have to move on.”

  Thompson thanked her and grabbing Rowland’s arm to make sure he didn’t talk them out of breakfast, led his derelict band around the property to the door at the back of the kitchen.

  Gerry, the gardener, watched every step, a spade at the ready.

  “What are we going to do now, Rowly?” Clyde murmured.

  “Breakfast, I believe.”

  “And after that?”

  “We might be able to send a telegram at the post office.”

  “With no money?”

  Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll have to try.”

  Milton Isaacs guessed immediately that Edna had gone after Reginald Stuart Jones. He cursed. The sculptress had always underestimated how dangerous their old acquaintance could be. To her, he was still “pudgy Reggie”; ineffectual and pitiful. Even now, he elicited her compassion as much as her ire.


  But the poet knew full well that Reginald Stuart Jones had changed. He was no longer innocuous and he had learned much from the associations he had made while moving with the criminal classes.

  Milton did not need to telephone Stuart Jones’ wife to know the doctor would be at the Lido. The nightclub had been Stuart Jones’ primary place of business for a couple of years.

  As he was leaving Woodlands to find Edna, Milton spotted Errol Flynn’s Triumph easing to a stop at the gate. He sprinted down the long driveway to meet it and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “I say, old chap, what are you doing?” Flynn asked as the wild-eyed poet landed beside him.

  “Ed’s in a spot of trouble. Turn around. We need to get to Bondi Beach.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “The kind that might just get her killed. Now drive!”

  Without any further hesitation Flynn turned the car around and applied the skills he’d learned on the Maroubra Speedway.

  A maid came to the back door with green and yellow enamel plates of thick porridge. Leftover from earlier in the morning the porridge had become lumpy and congealed, but, to the cold, famished men, it was ambrosia. They ate without speaking, scraping the plates clean as they stood at the back door. When the maid came to the door to collect the plates, Rowland asked if she would call her mistress to speak with him.

  “The mistress is very busy,” the servant said uncertainly.

  “Please,” he said. “It’s extremely important.”

  The maid wiped her hands on the crisp white of her apron.

  “I’ll only need a moment of her time.”

  “Wait here,” the maid said, relenting. “I’ll ask.”

  The housekeeper came to the door clearly irritated by the further imposition. “What is it?” she snapped.

  “I hoped, madam, to persuade you to reconsider the use of your telephone.” Rowland spoke quickly before she could stop him. “I am Rowland Sinclair of Woollahra. Mr. Watson Jones and I were abducted and robbed. If not for the kindness of strangers, we might have frozen to death last night.” He unfastened his wristwatch and handed it to her. “Please take this as a sign of good faith that I will compensate you and this establishment for the kindness you’ve already shown. We have been missing for over a day now and I must get word to my brother.”

  The housekeeper looked at the watch he’d pressed into her hand. Despite the cracked crystal it was obviously an expensive piece. Probably stolen. She turned it over. The initials RHFS were engraved on the case.

  “Rowland Henry Ffrench Sinclair,” Rowland said quietly.

  “Ffrench…?”

  “My mother’s family name.”

  “With two ‘f’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “My aunt did for a family called Ffrench…” the housekeeper said almost to herself.

  “Mother’s people were from Cootamundra.”

  Perhaps the housekeeper’s aunt had worked for the Ffrenches of Cootamundra—Rowland could not tell, but she did ask him for Wilfred’s details. He obliged, and she instructed him to wait. Minutes later she returned, and asked him to follow her.

  With a hopeful glance at Clyde, Rowland did so. She directed him to a telephone in the office.

  “Rowly, what the hell are you doing in Leura?” Wilfred demanded the moment he took the phone. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Rowland replied. He told his brother that he and Clyde had been abducted and robbed, that they’d been left in the wilderness a few miles from Leura. But he was deliberately vague as to the details of why.

  “Why did these ruffians feel the need to give you a thrashing? Do you need medical attention?” Wilfred asked brusquely.

  “Clyde should probably see a doctor, but we’ll be fine until we get back to Sydney.”

  “I’ll send a car and driver directly. I’ve already made arrangements with Mrs. Garrick to provide you with whatever else you need until they arrive.”

  “Look Wil, the five chaps that helped us… they’re looking for work. I don’t suppose you could use anyone on Oaklea?”

  “Are they Communists?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  Wilfred sighed. “Put them on a train to Yass. Tell them to alight at the Oaklea siding. I’ll have Harry arrange something for them.”

  Errol Flynn’s Triumph approached the Lido just as several motorcars pulled out. “Looks like Reggie’s had some friends over,” Milton murmured. He knew Stuart Jones’ Studebaker and it was not among the departing vehicles. They pulled over on Ramsgate Road and waited until the last car had moved out of sight before driving onto the premises. He recognised Stuart Jones’ vehicle parked inconspicuously at the far end of the Beach Court complex.

  Milton led Flynn behind the nightclub building. “The door ’round the back will be easier to force,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t we knock first?” Flynn asked uneasily.

  “Reggie Jones carries a gun, Errol. All we’ve got is the element of surprise.”

  “I see,” Flynn said gravely. “Carry on then.”

  The back door of the dance hall was not particularly secure. The lock was rusted and it had clearly been kicked in and repaired a number of times.

  “Right.” Milton’s voice was grim. “On the count of three.”

  Flynn licked his lips and stood ready.

  The door gave way on the second charge, bursting open into a long dimly lit hallway with several doors on either side.

  A woman in a nurse’s uniform waiting outside one closed door screamed as they stumbled in. Milton pushed past the woman and threw open the door to reveal Stuart Jones. He wore a white smock over his suit which was possibly what hampered him in pulling the gun out of this pocket. The nurse continued to scream, as Flynn launched himself at the doctor bringing Stuart Jones unceremoniously to the ground. The revolver, which he had just managed to grasp, skittered across the floor and under a bench. Milton left it there, preoccupied with the unconscious form laid out on a makeshift operating table.

  A white sheet only partially covered the sculptress. Her dress and stockings had been removed and she was attired in only her cotton slip. A medical mask designed for the administration of ether covered most of her face and she had been strapped down. Milton ripped off the mask and unfastened the restraints. Edna was unnaturally pale and her breathing shallow.

  He swore at Stuart Jones. “What the devil have you done to her, you belly-crawling worm?”

  “I was examining her,” Stuart Jones said calmly. “Miss Higgins suffers from a somewhat nervous disposition and so I administered just a whiff of anaesthetic to keep her calm.”

  “Examining her? Like hell! Why isn’t she waking up, you bastard?”

  “Sometimes the anaesthetic can lead to shock. If you’d get your pretty buffoon to unhand me, I could have a look at her—” “Touch her and you’ll answer to me, Jones.” Milton slipped his arms under Edna and lifted her from the table. “We need to get her to a doctor—”

  “Dear fellow, I am a doctor—” Stuart Jones protested.

  “And then we go to the police and have this dingo locked up,” Milton finished.

  Stuart Jones did not seem the least bit perturbed. “As my nurse will attest, Miss Higgins came in for an examination of a discreet nature. I administered anaesthetic to calm her so I could carry out that examination, which you interrupted. If Miss Higgins’ heart stops due to shock, it’ll be jolly bad luck exacerbated by the fact that you will not allow me to attend to my patient.”

  Milton might have swung at the doctor if his arms had not been otherwise occupied carrying Edna out of the Lido. Flynn dragged Stuart Jones out to the Triumph with them, waiting for Milton’s instructions on how to deal with the doctor.

  Milton placed Edna carefully into the vehicle. “Just hang on old thing,” he whispered as he placed his ear to her lips to check she was still breathing.

  “What do you want me to do with this scurvy wretch, Mr. Isaa
cs?” Flynn asked.

  “Let him go,” Milton said straightening. “The police’ll know where to find him.”

  Somewhat reluctantly Flynn obliged. Stuart Jones rubbed the arm the actor had twisted behind his back, and opened his mouth to speak.

  Milton punched him. He watched the doctor stagger and fall before he climbed into the Triumph beside the unconscious sculptress and valiantly resisted instructing Flynn to drive over Stuart Jones on the way out.

  Following on the admission of a 17-year-old girl to the Women’s Hospital last night in a serious condition, police arrested the mother of the girl, a nurse, another woman and a young man on a charge of conspiring to bring about a certain event.

  The Braidwood Dispatch and Mining Journal, 1932

  ____________________________________

  While awaiting the arrival of Johnston and the Rolls Royce, Rowland took rooms at Leura House for the five men who’d given them refuge the night before. Arrangements were made with the manager and housekeeper to keep them in every comfort. He’d had to press the point with respect to Thompson whom the housekeeper initially refused to accommodate. However, in the face of Rowland’s insistence, his obvious offence that she was in any way reluctant to afford hospitality to the gentleman, and the fact that he was turning out to be a very good customer indeed, she relented.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of booking your passages to Central Station and then out to Yass for the day after tomorrow,” Rowland said as they were seated in the dining room for a proper breakfast. “If you’d care to work on a sheep property, there’s employment at Oaklea.”

  They regarded him with a mute awe that made Rowland intensely uncomfortable. “Did I misunderstand…?”

  “No. Crikey no,” Thompson said shaking his head. “It’s just we thought you was having us on… a bit of wag trying to save face you know. We figured you was just a bloke down on his luck, like us.”

  “I am just a bloke,” Rowland said. “But I’m more fortunate than most, I suppose. Believe me, happening upon you chaps last night was a tremendous stroke of luck.”

  “You don’t have to do all this Mr. Sinclair,” said Petey Holmes. “We woulda let anyone sit at our fire.”