Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “They dropped us near a road outside Leura, Wil. I believe they were trying to frighten more than really hurt us.”

  “I beg to differ,” Maguire murmured. “While your face isn’t nearly as damaged as Mr. Watson Jones’, you’re both black and blue.” He stepped back and considered Clyde thoughtfully. “It’s as if Mr. Watson Jones’ face offended them particularly.”

  “I think it’s more to do with the fact that I’m taller.” Rowland spoke as a past pugilist. “It’s easier to hit me in the body than to leave yourself open reaching for my head. You’d hardly need to raise your arm at all to punch Clyde in the eye.”

  “Fair go,” Clyde muttered, straightening.

  But Maguire nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would happen. I take it these hoodlums weren’t particularly tall?”

  “The police will measure them when they’re processed,” Wilfred said curtly.

  “If this goes to court,” Clyde said desperately, “the fact that Rosie modelled for the painting will come out. She’ll be humiliated, ruined. I’m not sure her new fiancé even knows I exist.”

  “I don’t know how things are done in Italy, but they can’t go about abducting and assaulting innocent citizens here!” Wilfred declared angrily.

  “To be fair, they didn’t know we were innocent citizens,” Rowland offered. “They thought we were blackmailers attempting to destroy the good name of their sister and daughter. Milt tells us they even returned my pocketbook.”

  “You want to let this matter go?” Wilfred asked, clearly unhappy with the mere idea.

  “It might be the gentlemanly thing to do, all things considered.” Rowland resorted to what he knew was Wilfred’s quite earnest and entrenched sense of chivalry.

  Wilfred stared at them both. “They may have been behind the shooting!”

  “The timing isn’t right,” Rowland argued. “Clyde had just left the painting with Miss Martinelli’s landlady when the shot was fired. They hadn’t had time to want me dead.”

  “What if this isn’t the end of it?”

  “It will be,” Clyde said. “There was only one painting.”

  Wilfred closed his eyes. “Lord, give me patience. Very well, we won’t involve the police, though I’m sure it won’t be long before you give them cause to call again!”

  They gathered that night in Edna’s bedroom, dragging their chairs around her bed as she sat cross-legged amongst the rumpled bedclothes. In lieu of supper, and on Rowland’s request, Mary Brown had sent up a tray of bread, a dish of butter, a silver pot of some new hot chocolate drink and a decanter of brandy, which Milton insisted upon for its medicinal properties.

  “I’ll telephone Joan tomorrow and tell her I’m pulling out of the race,” Rowland said determinedly.

  “What?” Edna gasped. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “I’m not putting you in any further danger, Ed.”

  “Don’t be daft, Rowly. I’m not in any danger.”

  “That blasted coward tried to kill you! God, if he’d succeeded, I would never have—”

  Edna reached out and placed her hand on his. “He didn’t Rowly. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have been because you were driving in some silly charity race.”

  “How do you surmise that?” Milton asked.

  “There were men meeting with him at the Lido when I arrived. I interrupted them. I think that was what panicked him.”

  “And who were these gentlemen?” Rowland asked.

  “I think one of them was Detective Hartley.”

  “The bloke in charge of the investigation into White’s murder?” Clyde asked incredulously.

  “Yes, I’m almost certain of it.”

  “Almost?”

  “It’s all still a little confused… but I remember now that Reggie and I argued about Detective Hartley… Reggie didn’t want me to talk to him.”

  Milton poured himself a cup of frothing milky chocolate from the silver pot and took a sip. “What is this stuff?”

  “It’s called Milo,” Edna said. “It came in my sample bag. They launched it at the show this year.”

  Milton tilted his head as he considered the taste, and then added a liberal splash of brandy to what was remaining in his cup. “It’s a bit odd that Mackay came to interview Edna himself, don’t you think? One would have thought he had superintendent-type activities to occupy his time… and why was that fool Hartley here?”

  “Perhaps he wanted to be on hand if Ed revealed he was at the Lido.” Rowland loosened his tie.

  “What about Mackay?” Clyde placed the plate of bread he’d just toasted in the fireplace on the bed in front of Edna.

  “I got the distinct impression that he was there to referee between Hartley and Delaney,” Milton said on reflection.

  Edna buttered a slice for Lenin who was watching the proceedings with liquid-brown begging eyes. “Since Reggie didn’t abduct you two,” she said thoughtfully, “there must have been some other reason he panicked like that. Perhaps it was to do with Hartley.”

  Rowland took the thick toast that Edna handed him. He met her eye sternly. “Ed, please don’t do anything like that again.”

  “Like what?” she asked innocently, allocating toast to Milton and Clyde and handing a loaded toasting fork to the latter.

  “Like setting out to confront a dangerous criminal on your own.”

  She smiled. “I would have taken you along, Rowly, but you had very carelessly got yourself abducted!”

  “I’m serious, Ed.”

  “Well don’t be, it doesn’t suit you.” Edna pulled her knees up and clasped her hands around them.

  “Ed, please…” Rowland shook his head. “You should have waited for Milt.”

  Edna’s face softened but there was an edge to her words. “I made a mistake with Reggie, I admit it. But I’m not made of glass and I’m not nearly as reckless as you and Milt, or even Clyde.”

  Rowland hesitated. He’d caught the warning in the sculptress’ voice. Edna would not be told what to do, however well the direction was meant. She would not tolerate any attempt to contain her. But his instinct was to protect her.

  “Well you were bloody lucky that Flynn and I turned up when we did.” Milton was less circumspect about Edna’s independence. “The police seem inclined to believe Stuart Jones’ cock and bull story even with you around to deny it. He’d have had no trouble getting away with this if you’d died of an overdose of ether.” Milton swigged his brandy bitterly. “He may yet get away with it.” The poet recounted his interview with the police—Hartley’s apparent reluctance to believe that Edna had not gone to see Stuart Jones as a patient. “It all makes sense if the bastard is trying to cover up something.”

  “Reggie’s cleverer than I thought,” Edna said quietly.

  Rowland was silent now, angry and unnerved. He considered Delaney his friend.

  Edna saw. “Rowly, I wasn’t—”

  “God, I know that, Ed,” he said quickly. “I just want to kill Stuart Jones for even touching you. Whatever he was trying to do, he might have killed you, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, I know.” The sculptress’ face lost its bravado only fleetingly before she straightened her shoulders again. “I’m sick of talking about Reggie. The police have it in hand. I want to know exactly what happened to the two of you.”

  They told her.

  “And you’ve decided to do nothing and let them get away with nearly killing you?” Edna demanded, aghast.

  “They didn’t nearly kill us,” Rowland protested. “Just roughed us up somewhat.”

  “Look at Clyde’s face!” Edna said.

  “There’s no permanent damage, Ed,” Clyde said, blowing on a piece of toast that had caught alight. “And what’s more, I was never a handsome man.” He pulled the burnt slice off the fork and dropped it onto the plate. “Better butter that one for Len.”

  “I think you’re handsome!” Edna said with such fierce protective conviction that Clyde blushed, Milton laughe
d and Rowland loved her all the more.

  “The Martinellis did nothing to Clyde and Rowly that we aren’t going to do to bloody Reginald Stuart Jones,” Milton promised quietly.

  Colin Delaney arrived so early that Rowland alone was awake and about.

  He’d been painting while brooding on what might have happened had Milton and Flynn not arrived when they did. Edna seemed determined to treat Stuart Jones’ handling as a miscalculated attempt to restrain her. Perhaps it was. But that didn’t stop Rowland wanting to tear the doctor limb from miserable limb. Edna had forbidden murder, of course.

  And so the detective found him in a less than sunny disposition.

  “How is Miss Higgins?” Delaney asked.

  “She’s alive.”

  Delaney sighed. “Rowly, I did not for a moment believe a word Dr. Stuart Jones said.”

  “That’s not the impression you gave Milt.” “

  I’m a police detective. I’m under obligation to at least appear impartial.” Delaney blanched and continued to explain himself. “The problem is that Stuart Jones’ nurse is adamant that Miss Higgins had an appointment for a medical examination, and Miss Higgins doesn’t remember a great deal.”

  “She remembers why she went to the Lido and it had nothing to do with a medical examination, Colin.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m glad you and Clyde are back, by the way. Where the hell were you?”

  “We thought we might give Beejling the slip—I was rather fed up with being shadowed,” Rowland followed his lie with the truth in the hope that the result would be vaguely believable.

  It wasn’t. Not to Delaney anyway, but he didn’t press Rowland on that count. He handed Rowland an old leather-bound notebook. “White’s,” he said. “You wanted to have a look, I recall. Consider it a peace offering.”

  Rowland relented. “I’m sorry, Colin. I know you’re simply doing your job. It’s just the thought of that bastard touching Ed…” He dragged a hand through his hair and smiled apologetically. “Have you had breakfast?”

  Relieved, Delaney accepted the invitation. He had no wish to fall out with Rowland Sinclair. He liked the man for one thing.

  The breakfast room had been set. Steaming silver warming trays graced the sideboard. On request, a maid disappeared and returned a short while later with a bowl of porridge, which she placed before Rowland.

  “Is that…?” Delaney began.

  Rowland drizzled honey over the cooked oats. “Yes, I seem to have developed a taste for it.” He waited until Delaney’s plate was piled high. “Detective Hartley was at the Lido, you know.”

  “When?”

  “Ed saw him just before Stuart Jones attacked her. She wonders if that might be the reason he panicked and tried to silence her.”

  Delaney pulled at the knot of his tie. “Hartley has his own way of doing things, Rowly.”

  “By consorting with criminals?”

  “Sometimes. It’s only the low-level crims that won’t speak to the police. Honour among thieves is negotiable when you’re dealing with the likes of Stuart Jones. It may well be that Hartley is on some undercover operation. He’s Superintendent Mackay’s golden-haired boy at the moment.”

  “Or involved in something untoward.”

  Delaney exhaled loudly. “I’d be mighty careful about making allegations like that.”

  “He’s a police detective associating with Stuart Jones and then turning up to personally question the witnesses to that association. What does that look like to you?”

  Detective Delaney chewed and swallowed before speaking. “Being a good copper isn’t always about following every rule, Rowly. We all bend the rules. It’s just a matter of how much and for what reason. I’ve allowed you to see evidence—in fact, I’ve borrowed evidence from case files to which I’m not assigned—I’ve shared information and intervened on your behalf often enough. And here I am enjoying your fine bacon and drinking your coffee. Would you say I’m on the take?”

  “No… of course not, but—”

  “All I’m saying is that if Hartley was there, as Miss Higgins believes, it may not be without good reason. If he is meeting with Stuart Jones, it may not be because he’s in league with the bastard. Sometimes you have to deal with the devil for the greater good.” Delaney put down his knife and fork. “Look, Rowly, I’ll keep an eye on Hartley, but we can’t be making loose accusations.”

  “Are you going to arrest Reginald Stuart Jones or not?” Rowland asked, angry despite being able to see Delaney’s point, or perhaps because of it.

  “At the moment we’ve only got Miss Higgins’ word against his that she was not there for medical reasons.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Colin. Ed had no reason to seek his dubious medical expertise.”

  Delaney paused. “Are you sure, Rowly? Would Miss Higgins necessarily tell you if she were in trouble? Now hear me out before you lose your temper—I’ve seen girls move heaven and earth to ensure their families never find out about this sort of thing.” Delaney looked at his plate and kept talking. “I mean, what would you do if Miss Higgins told you she was in trouble? Could she go on living here, would you still feel the same way? These are the kinds of things Stuart Jones’ lawyers are going to put to the court to make it look like she had every reason to lie.”

  They ate in silence for a while, as Delaney gave Rowland a chance to calm down, to resist the impulse to deck a police officer. The detective knew that Edna Higgins was the soft underbelly of Rowland Sinclair and that he’d probably tested their friendship with his words, but the man had to know what was ahead.

  Rowland eventually spoke. His voice was tight, barely controlled. “Ed does not lie. She doesn’t pretend she’s anyone but who she is. And yes, I think she would tell me, and no, I doubt it would change how I feel. But more to the point, Colin, you know Edna Higgins! Do you really believe she would accuse an innocent man of attacking her, even scum like Stuart Jones, simply to protect her reputation?”

  “No, I don’t. I believe that Stuart Jones, at the very least, tried to keep her quiet for a while by putting her forcibly under anaesthetic. But my faith in Miss Higgins’ good character is not evidence, Rowly. I just want you to understand why we haven’t rushed out and hanged the bastard, and to caution you against undertaking such a course yourself.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about hanging him,” Rowland muttered.

  Grand Master Installed

  SYDNEY, Tuesday

  Before a brilliant assemblage in the Town Hull to night, Most Wor. Bro. Dr. F.A. Maguire was installed as Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of New South Wales of Ancient Free and Accepted Masons. The installation ceremony was performed by the retiring Grand Master (Most Worshipful Bro. A. Halloran). Among the visitors were R. Wor. Bro. E.A. Jones, Grand Master of Queensland; M. Wor. Bro. L.J. Abra, Grand Master of Tasmania; M. Wor. Bro. W. Warren Kerr, Grand Master of Victoria; R.W. Bro Sir William Brunton. Deputy Grand Master of Victoria; and H.W. Bro. A.D. Young, Deputy Grand Master of South Australia. Greetings were received from England and other parts of the Empire. In the afternoon the visiting delegates were given a reception at the Masonic Club.

  The Argus, 1933

  ____________________________________

  Rowland leafed through Crispin White’s notebook, noticing as he did so white chalk dust on his fingertips. “Your chaps don’t dust for fingerprints with chalk dust, do they?” he asked Delaney, a little perplexed by the presence of the stuff.

  “Of course not.” Delaney was finishing a second helping of breakfast. “I assume the dust came from Smith’s Weekly. Don’t they use powder to blot ink when they’re drafting?”

  Rowland nodded. “That makes sense.”

  The last entries in the notebook were of course about Rowland Sinclair—abbreviated notes from the interview and dinner. The earlier entries concerned a wide range of stories: the cricket, Campbell’s launch of the Centre Party, a house fire in Wollstonecraft, a stabbing in Darlinghurst and a single re
ference to the Kings Cross coven.

  “Do you have any idea what these numbers might signify?”

  “They’re odds,” Milton said peering over Rowland’s shoulder as he took a seat at the table. Clyde and Edna had also come down. “Bookmakers’ odds.”

  “They’re on every page.”

  “I’d say White was a seasoned punter then.” Milton pointed to a note written on the perpendicular. “That’s a horse and race number.”

  “Perhaps White owed the bookmakers money. They can be a tough bunch,” Delaney said standing to see the notebook.

  Milton raised a brow. “We seem to be encountering rather a lot of bookies lately.”

  Rowland nodded. “Perhaps they’re behind more than White’s demise.”

  “Like the shooting,” Edna suggested, spooning sugar into her tea.

  “I dunno.” Milton was sceptical. “Dead men can be replaced, as we saw with Linklater. If the bookies wanted to make sure that Joan Richmond’s team doesn’t win, it’d be more effective to simply convince Rowly to throw the race. They hadn’t even tried when the shot was fired.”

  “Perhaps that’s what that shot was meant to do,” Delaney pointed out.

  “You’d have to be a crack shot to shoot the painting and still miss me,” Rowland said.

  “Perhaps he was just lucky.”

  “Reggie is a very good target shooter,” Edna said quietly. “Do you remember, Milt? He was forever shooting out light bulbs to show off.”

  Delaney took out his notebook and wrote the possibility down. “We’ll certainly look into his whereabouts when the shooting occurred. If we can put him at Woodlands that morning it could go towards his credibility, or lack thereof, on other matters.”

  Edna moved to sit next to Delaney. “I expect Rowly’s already growled at you this morning, Colin. I want you to know that I don’t hold what happened yesterday against you.”

  Delaney stuttered, flustered and clearly embarrassed. “I am sorry if it seemed—”

  “I’m glad you were there,” she said. “Detective Hartley and Superintendent Mackay seemed determined to ‘crack’ me.”