Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “Thank God, bacon!” Rowland murmured as a platter of rashers was placed on the table with eggs and sausages. “You were generous with what you had, Mr. Holmes. Please allow me to express my gratitude and then let us agree to never talk of it again.”

  “You’re a good egg, Sinclair,” murmured Grady as he crammed fresh bread spread with pale yellow butter into his mouth.

  “How about you, Jones?” Eather said to Clyde. “Are you rich, too?”

  “Haven’t got two pennies to rub together,” Clyde replied, gazing with his one good eye upon a plate piled high with the kind of fare to which he’d become accustomed at Rowland Sinclair’s table. He was getting quite disgracefully soft, but at that moment he was too excited about the bacon to care.

  By the time Johnston arrived, it was nearly midday and Rowland and Clyde had cleaned themselves up a little with soap and water and iodine. They still smelled vaguely of rum, Clyde’s face remained alarming and their suits were in need of a tailor’s attention, but they felt much restored by the comforts of Leura House.

  Wilfred Sinclair was at his brother’s house when Flynn’s Triumph returned. Percy Armstrong had called from the gate to tell him that Miss Higgins had been injured. Exasperated but concerned nonetheless, he telephoned the surgery of Frederick Maguire and summoned him hence. Why the prominent Sydney surgeon dropped everything to respond was not apparent, but the exact machinations of Wilfred Sinclair’s influence were often inscrutable.

  Milton carried Edna into the house, laying her on the chaise longue in the ladies’ drawing room. He explained to Wilfred what had happened, as he watched anxiously for any sign that her breathing had slowed further. Appalled for many reasons, Wilfred sent servants for blankets, brandy and smelling salts. And he telephoned the police.

  “What happened to Miss Higgins’ clothes?” Wilfred asked quietly. He needed to know how bad this was.

  “That bastard, Stuart Jones, wanted to make it look like he was examining her, I expect,” Milton said firmly, determinedly. “If she’d been fully clothed that story would have seemed untenable.”

  “I see.” Wilfred did not voice an alternative, whatever he may have feared. “And what exactly was his purpose, Mr. Isaacs?”

  “Clearly, Ed discovered where he’d stowed Rowly and Clyde. He was trying to keep her quiet.”

  “My brother has been found, Mr. Isaacs—he and Mr. Watson Jones. I came to inform you in person.”

  “What? Where are they?” Milton demanded.

  Wilfred walked to the window to look for Maguire’s motorcar. “Leura—I sent Johnston to fetch them. It appears they were abducted from Leichhardt and abandoned in the wilderness some miles out of town.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “Rowly seems to think they’ll live, which does beg the question as to why Mr. Stuart Jones would go so far as to attempt to murder Miss Higgins.”

  Maguire’s arrival forestalled further discussion. The gentlemen stood aside as the eminent surgeon examined Edna.

  “She’s suffering from an overdose of ethyl ether,” he concluded, reaching into his bag. “Fortunately Miss. Higgins has not gone into severe shock or stopped breathing, but she will nevertheless require some assistance to come out of the anaesthetic.” Maguire filled a hypodermic and injected the sculptress with what he informed them was adrenalin. The results were immediate.

  Edna gasped, her eyelids fluttered. “Rowly?” she breathed.

  Flynn rushed to her side. “How are you, sailor? It’s me, Errol.”

  Edna retched and Maguire informed them that nausea was a perfectly normal and expected reaction to the anaesthetic. He issued instructions to Mary Brown for Edna’s care, prescribing sweet foods, hydration and bed rest.

  As she was still disoriented when the police arrived, they spoke to Milton and Flynn first, taking over the study for that purpose. Ordinarily Milton would have been startled by the fact that not only Detectives Delaney and Hartley, but Bill Mackay, the Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police, had been despatched to investigate. But then, it had been Wilfred Sinclair who had called the police. Given that, it was probably more surprising that Commissioner Childs had not come himself.

  Milton and Flynn recounted what had happened. Delaney and Hartley asked the questions. Mackay stood back, silently watching his detectives. “How did you know Miss Higgins would seek out Dr. Stuart Jones, Mr. Isaacs?” Hartley began.

  “We had assumed Rowly and Clyde had fallen foul of bookmakers, Detective. Edna knew Reginald Stuart Jones had contacts in that world.” “She might simply have been shopping might she not?”

  “Not with Rowly and Clyde missing. Anyway it turns out I was right, so what does it matter what she might have been doing?”

  Hartley ignored the challenge. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Watson Jones have been located, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Dr. Stuart Jones had nothing to do with their disappearance.”

  “We don’t know that yet.” Milton glanced at Delaney. The detective looked troubled, but he did not interfere with Hartley’s line of questioning.

  “Why was Miss Higgins acquainted with Dr. Stuart Jones?”

  “We knew him years ago…, when he was still a medical student.”

  “You and Miss Higgins seem to have a number of unfortunate past acquaintances.”

  “What do you mean by that, Detective?”

  “Didn’t you also describe the late Mr. Crispin White as an old acquaintance?”

  “What has one thing got to do with the other?” Milton demanded, incensed that Hartley would use this to pursue him for White’s murder.

  Delaney cleared his throat and pulled Hartley aside. Though Milton could not hear what was said, it was clearly not an amicable conversation. Mackay joined the sidebar briefly and the whispered dispute was curtailed.

  “Are you aware that Dr. Stuart Jones has a reputation for being willing to carry out certain illegal procedures on women?” Hartley barked when they returned.

  “If that’s the case, shouldn’t you jolly well arrest him?”

  “I don’t suppose Miss Higgins visited Dr. Stuart Jones in his professional capacity.”

  “I beg your bloody pardon!” Milton roared, outraged.

  “Dr. Stuart Jones presented at CIB Headquarters just minutes before we received Mr. Sinclair’s telephone call,” Hartley said steadily, almost smugly. “He states that he was assaulted, and a patient he was examining, abducted. He feared for the patient’s wellbeing as she was forcibly removed from his care while under anaesthetic. His account is collaborated by the statement of his nurse, a Miss Macnamara.”

  For a moment Milton was speechless. “I expect Miss Higgins will confirm why she called on that lowlife grub and it will have nothing to do with his professional capacity.”

  “I have no doubt,” Delaney said glaring at John Hartley.

  Hartley would not retreat. “Miss Higgins has every reason to deny Dr. Stuart Jones’ account.”

  “Because it’s a pack of lies!” Milton appealed to Delaney. “You can’t believe this!”

  “What I believe is immaterial,” Delaney said with a wary glance at Mackay. “It’s a matter of what will stand up in court, Mr. Isaacs. Stuart Jones is a doctor.”

  “But Flynn was there too,” Milton persisted. “Surely that’s enough?”

  “Unfortunately, nothing Mr. Flynn has said actually contradicts Dr. Stuart Jones’ version of events,” Hartley said, with no indication that he thought it unfortunate at all.

  “This is insane! If we hadn’t arrived he might have killed her!” Milton slammed his fist on the table.

  “Mr. Isaacs, calm yourself, sir!” the superintendent intervened as the feelings rose dangerously.

  Wilfred Sinclair entered the room. The policemen and the poet all fell silent as he glared from one to the other. “Miss Higgins’ physician is willing to allow you to speak with her now,” he said.

  “Very good,” Mackay replied. He motioned
for Delaney and Hartley to proceed before him, and nodding curtly, followed his detectives into the ladies’ drawing room.

  Edna now sat upright on the chaise longue holding a cup of sweet honeyed tea. Still wearing only a cotton slip, her modesty was maintained by blankets. She smiled when she saw Delaney, though her voice was hoarse and strained. “Hello, Colin. Did you hear? Rowly and Clyde have been found!”

  Professional though he was, Delaney could not help smiling in return. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt, Miss Higgins.”

  Hartley cleared his throat primly and Edna noticed his presence for the first time. The tea cup clattered into its saucer and her hands shook perceptibly. Delaney moved quickly to take the cup and saucer from her. “Are you unwell, Miss Higgins? Can I get you anything?”

  “Of course she’s unwell,” Maguire growled from his stance by the fire. “Ether is a particularly dangerous chemical in the wrong hands, and Miss Higgins was clearly in the wrong hands.”

  Mackay exhaled impatiently. “Dr. Maguire—”

  “Mr. Maguire,” the surgeon corrected.

  “Mr. Maguire, then. Would you mind leaving the room while the detectives and I interview Miss Higgins?”

  “Actually yes, I would mind. Miss Higgins has only just been brought out of anaesthetic.” Maguire met Mackay’s cold gaze with one that was equally icy. “I have always been taught to be cautious,” he said slowly, “and leaving Miss Higgins now would undoubtedly be an abrogation of my duty of care as her physician.”

  In the silence that followed Edna struggled to remember why the presence of John Hartley distressed her particularly.

  “Very well,” Mackay said, irritably. “You may stay.” He motioned for Hartley to carry on.

  Hartley positioned himself so he was facing Edna, his arms crossed. “Miss Higgins, can you tell us why you called upon Dr. Stuart Jones at his place of work?”

  “I thought Reggie’s idiot friends had taken Rowly and Clyde to fix this stupid car race,” Edna said. “I thought I could get him to tell me where they were.”

  “Were you not afraid for your own safety, Miss Higgins, if you were as you say convinced Dr. Stuart Jones was involved in the abduction of Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Watson Jones?”

  “I’ve known Reggie Jones since I was fifteen.”

  “You trusted him?”

  “Trust is too strong a word… I didn’t think he’d…” She stopped.

  “Was there no other reason?”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “Dr. Stuart Jones has made a claim that you are his patient and that you came to the premises at Beach Court for an examination.”

  Shocked, Edna addressed the detective sharply, “I am not his patient, and even if I were, I promise you I would not seek treatment of any sort in a sordid nightclub!”

  Hartley’s barrel chest seemed to deflate a little. “Yes, well…”

  Edna was not finished. “And what’s more, I have no need of Reggie’s particular specialty!”

  Delaney intervened. “Do you have any thoughts as to why he would claim that you were his patient, why he would do what he did?”

  “He panicked,” Edna said tentatively. So much was still hazy, confused.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m not sure… I remember we were shouting and then he grabbed me… and then…” she shook her head.

  “I believe that’s quite enough for today.” Maguire intervened, moving to the chaise longue and checking Edna’s eyes. “Miss Higgins needs to rest. Perhaps you might conclude this interview tomorrow when her recollections are clearer.”

  “Of course,” Delaney said quickly.

  But Hartley was reluctant. “It’s important to establish—”

  “Superintendent Mackay,” Maguire cut Hartley off by addressing his superior. “I’m sure you would not wish to place Miss Higgins’ wellbeing at unnecessary risk.”

  Mackay’s nostrils flared and his jaw tensed truculently. “Very well. Tomorrow then.”

  Johnston delivered Rowland and Clyde to Woodlands House just as it was getting dark. Meeting them on the sandstone steps, Wilfred looked hard at both men, grimacing slightly at the sight of Clyde’s battered face even in the waning light. “Clearly we have a great deal to discuss,” he said, “but perhaps I ought to have Maguire look at you while he’s here.”

  “Why is he here?” Rowland asked. Wilfred had always seemed able to produce the surgeon as if Maguire resided in his back pocket, but surely he would not have summoned the poor man to sit and wait for their return.

  Wilfred hesitated. “He was called to treat Miss Higgins.”

  “Ed?” Both Rowland and Clyde reacted. “Why?”

  Wilfred told them what had happened, as he understood it. He was quite honest. “It seems Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Flynn arrived in the nick of time.”

  “Where is she?” Rowland demanded.

  “Maguire has had her confined to bed. Mr. Isaacs is sitting with her, I believe.”

  Rowland and Clyde were already charging into the entrance hall, taking the grand staircase two and three steps at a time to Edna’s bedroom on the second floor. The suite had once been the guest quarters reserved for the Sinclairs’ most illustrious and discerning guests. Rowland had given it to the sculptress. Built into one of the corner towers of the gothic-styled mansion, the room boasted a ceiling some thirty feet above its mosaicked floor. The windows were commensurately immense in scale and looked out over the grounds and beyond. It was furnished eclectically with finely crafted pieces, chosen by past generations of Sinclairs, and the battered trunks and gramophone, which Edna herself had added. Behind a folding oriental screen a marble bust in progress sat on a working plinth. There was artwork, of course, paintings by Rowland and Clyde, etchings by Norman Lindsay and the occasional two dimensional work by Edna herself.

  Rowland and Clyde paused at the doorway, not wanting to startle Edna. Milton, ensconced in an armchair, looked up from his vigil. Edna was asleep, child-like in too-big pyjamas she’d stolen from Rowland at some point in the past. Lenin had settled on the end of the bed with his long nose burrowed into the covers by Edna’s feet. Edna’s rescued cat nursed her kittens in a basket near the hearth. The poet smiled, relieved to see his friends, though he was shocked by the state of them. “Flaming oath, aren’t you blokes a sight for sore eyes!”

  CHARGES OF POLICE CORRUPTION

  SYDNEY, Thursday

  The Commissioner of Police this morning detailed a senior detective to investigate the charges of corruption in connection with starting price betting made by Mr. McDicken in the Legislative Assembly yesterday.

  Northern Star, 1932

  ____________________________________

  Edna heard the deep murmur of men in conversation before she opened her eyes. For a while she didn’t interrupt them, until she heard Rowland say quite plainly, “I’m going to kill him!”

  “Don’t you dare plot murder without me,” she said, sitting up.

  They rushed to her bedside and she screamed. “Clyde! What happened to your face?”

  Lenin leapt off the bed, collecting his master in exuberant midflight. Rowland staggered back. “Settle down, Len. I’ve only been gone a day,” he said, trying vainly to calm the dog.

  Horrified, Edna reached up to touch Clyde’s swollen and blackened eyes. “Oh, does it hurt? I really will kill Reggie for this!”

  “This wasn’t the doc or any of his mates, Ed,” Clyde confessed.

  “Perhaps you and Rowly could enlighten us as to what exactly happened to you, Mr. Watson Jones.” Wilfred stood at the door unwilling to enter a lady’s bedroom without invitation, even in a house that was technically his.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said. “Please come in.”

  Wilfred nodded and stepped into the room. “Thank you, Miss Higgins. I trust you’re feeling better?”

  “I am, Mr. Sinclair, thanks to Mr. Maguire. Is he still here? Clyde appears to be in pressing need of him and Row
ly’s really not much better.” The sculptress knelt on the bed to scrutinise their faces. “What on earth happened?”

  Clyde told them, adding humiliation to all the other injuries of the past days.

  “They thought you were trying to blackmail them?” Edna said, aghast.

  “It was all a dreadful misunderstanding,” Clyde said glumly.

  Wilfred walked towards the door, and then changed his mind and came back. He poked his brother in the chest. “How many times have I told you that your insistence on painting these poor women in such a disgraceful state of undress would catch up with you? If she’d been my daughter… For the love of God, Rowly!”

  “It really wasn’t Rowly’s—” Clyde began in defence of his friend, but Wilfred wouldn’t hear it.

  “I’ll tell Maguire to expect you down in a couple of minutes,” he said, stalking out of the room in disgust.

  For several moments there was silence in Wilfred’s wake.

  Then Milton laughed. “I’m sorry mate,” he said to Clyde. “I feel for you, I really do. But blackmail…”

  “I’m sorry about Wilfred, Rowly.” Clyde sighed.

  Rowland wrinkled his nose. “Don’t let it concern you. Wil’s happiest when he has something to berate me about.”

  Edna took his hand and Clyde’s in each of hers. “I’d hug you both but I’m afraid I might hurt you,” she said biting her lower lip as she considered them. “You go and see Mr. Maguire… get him to patch you up. You mustn’t worry about me; I’m well on the mend.”

  Rowland pressed her hand to his lips. “We won’t be long. And then we shall plot that murder.” With that promise, they left to deal with their injuries.

  The Sinclair brothers argued while Maguire finished examining Clyde to ensure that the artist’s eyes had not sustained any permanent damage. Rowland took his brother’s displeasure in his stride. He’d grown accustomed to Wilfred’s disapprobation, learned to judge its level. Wilfred was more exasperated than truly angry. It was not as if Rowland’s interest in painting from life was a recent passion. Wilfred knew what his brother did.

  Wilfred wanted to inform the police and have the Martinelli men arrested en masse. Clyde was reluctant, and Rowland indifferent enough to defer to the feelings of his jilted friend.