Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that!” Rosaleen jumped to her feet.

  Edna stood too and the men rose less enthusiastically. Milton grabbed the decanter of sherry as they walked out.

  There was indeed a full moon that night, so bright that the garden was rendered in stark colourless clarity. The air was cold. Perhaps that was what chilled them into a kind of acute awareness. It seemed to Rowland that he heard every footfall and crackle, every night bird and frog. He saw the faint glow of a cigarette near the gatehouse and the black silhouettes of each leaf. Of course, he’d walked the grounds in the moonlight before, but on those occasions he might have been somewhat distracted by the company and purpose of taking the night air. Certainly it was the first time he’d stepped out at this time to inspect a statue.

  Edna’s sculptures, bathed in moonsilver and shadow, were ethereal, and strangely threatening. Rosaleen Norton’s eyes were large and bright. They fell upon the statue of Pan with a kind of reverent lust.

  “He’s really quite alive under this Pagan moon,” she whispered. “Marvellously beautiful.” She touched the statue’s lips. “His face is exquisite… exotic and soulless.”

  Clyde guffawed.

  “It’s Milt’s—Mr. Isaacs’ face,” Edna said, shoving Clyde. “I used him as my model. See, his nose is distinctly crooked, just like Milt’s.”

  “I believe the word Miss Norton used was exquisite,” Milton said, adopting the pose of the statue. He winked at Rosaleen. “Perhaps your next story could be about a particularly handsome statue that comes to life and becomes the toast of society.”

  “It’ll be your most frightening tale yet,” Clyde added.

  “I must say, being a statue rather suits you, Mr. Isaacs,” Rosaleen said running her hands over Pan’s shoulders. “He’s quite wonderful— makes me want to dance wantonly in the moonlight like some ancient priestess.”

  Milton offered the young reporter his hand. “If you’ll allow me to stand in for my statue?”

  “But there is no music.”

  “Oh, I’ll sing!” the poet said, undeterred.

  The Red Flag was possibly an unusual song by which to dance the foxtrot, and probably not what Rosaleen had meant by “wanton”, but they danced nonetheless. Rowland, Clyde and Edna watched, amused. Beejling and Armstrong wandered up from the gatehouse to investigate the disturbance and stayed to watch, disapproval declared in their tightly crossed arms. Rowland grimaced. The episode would probably be reported to Wilfred soon. He was accustomed to Milton’s idiotic notions, but his brother was likely to be less understanding.

  …His face was marvellously beautiful and sad with all the sadness of the ages—sad yet utterly, soullessly evil. His was a detached wickedness of something beyond humanity, like an archangel of evil. It might in fact have been a mask of Lucifer at the time of his fall—still young, yet incredibly ancient in the knowledge of ghastly secrets and fearful rites that were old when mankind lived like apes in the trees…

  Smith’s Weekly, 1934

  ____________________________________

  The Australian Red Cross’ refreshment tent at the back of the horticultural pavilion at the Royal Easter Show was enjoying a surge in popularity. The Maroubra Invitational Race was generating considerable interest and a static display model of the speedway complete with racing cars added a certain excitement to tea and biscuits.

  Rowland lifted his godson onto his shoulders. Ewan promptly knocked the hat off his uncle’s head. Ernest retrieved it.

  “Thank you, Ernie.” Rowland held on to the hat as he could feel that Ewan’s small hands were entwined in his hair.

  Wilfred and Kate were viewing the roses in the pavilion. Young Gilbert had remained with his nanny at Roburvale, but Ernest and Ewan had accompanied their parents to the show. Inevitably the boys had become bored, and Rowland and Milton had volunteered to take them for ice-cream. Of course, Beejling was presumably also nearby.

  They were not actually heading for, but past the Red Cross tent in search of an ice-cream vendor. Indeed, Rowland was trying to give the tent as wide a berth as possible to ensure he didn’t find himself being endlessly introduced to the venerable patrons and matrons of the charity.

  Even so they passed close enough to notice Redmond Barry and Reginald Stuart Jones in conversation outside the tent.

  If not for his nephews, Rowland might have responded in a manner that was at the very least rash.

  “What the blazes are they doing here?”

  “I expect some of the gentlemen coming out of that tent may be placing bets on the outcome of the Maroubra Invitational.” Milton pointed out the spotters walking in and out of the tent in the company of men eager to part with their pounds and pennies. “There’ll be a bookie nearby to take wagers.”

  “Clearly the police didn’t see fit to hold Stuart Jones,” Rowland said angrily.

  “Is something wrong, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest asked, looking up. “Are you cross?”

  “Of course not, Ernie,” Rowland said quickly.

  “Are you nervous, Uncle Rowly?”

  “Nervous? About what?”

  “The race. Digby Cossington Smythe says that it’s bewitched. He says you’ll be driving on a killer track. He says the track gets everyone eventually.”

  Rowland pulled a face. “It appears Digby Cossington Smythe is rather an oracle of doom.”

  “What’s an ora… cul?”

  Rowland handed Ewan to Milton and bent down to speak to Ernest. “Never mind, Ernie. And never you mind about the racetrack. It’s just a track and it doesn’t have anything against me or the other racers.”

  “Daddy says you’re safer on the track than you are anywhere else. He told Mummy that you’re determined to get yourself killed. You’re not are you, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest’s face was both fearful and stern; a little boy trying to emulate his father, but with real dread that his uncle would in fact die.

  Rowland smiled. “I’m sure your father didn’t know you were listening. If he had, he would have told you he was speaking in jest. I quite like being alive.”

  “Daddy says you have a talent for making enemies.”

  “Nonsense, I’m thoroughly charming!”

  “Then you won’t get killed?”

  Rowland was tempted to assure his nephew that absolutely, he would not. But the question was familiar. He’d asked it himself when he was not much older than Ernest, as his brothers prepared to go to war—a momentary panic amongst the celebration of impending adventure. He had believed them when they’d said they wouldn’t die, that they’d be back before Christmas. Then Aubrey had been killed in France, and mixed into the overwhelming grief, the destruction of life as it had been, was the feeling that he’d been tricked. “Look at it this way, Ernie,” he said in the end. “I’ve had quite a lot of practice at not being killed. I’m getting quite good at it now.”

  Ernest thought about it. The logic seemed to appeal to him.

  “Very well, Uncle Rowly. I really do wish you’d settle down though. Daddy believes you ought to stand for parl’ment. He says you’re tall enough to be Premier.”

  Milton laughed for a number of reasons.

  “Your father told you that?” Rowland asked, bemused.

  “He told Mummy. I was listening.”

  Rowland wasn’t sure what exactly his brother might have said, but he was pretty sure Wilfred didn’t believe height was the deciding factor in the race for public office. However, it was not something he could ever clarify without revealing his nephew had been eavesdropping. So he let it be.

  Ewan’s demands for “scream” had in any case now become quite vociferous and immediate appeasement seemed the most advisable strategy.

  The much-anticipated Royal Easter Show Ball was being held on the evening before the race. Joan Richmond was unhappy with the timing of the lavish affair. The racers were all expected to attend, though Joan was adamant her team should be home and tucked up in bed by half past ten. That, in addition to Clyde
’s insistence he not drink, meant Rowland was anticipating a very wholesome evening.

  He collected Joan from her hotel. Clyde had declined the evening’s invitation to sit with the Mercedes, lest an intruder get past Wilfred’s security to interfere with the vehicle. Rowland suspected that, in truth, Clyde couldn’t bring himself to attend a ball to which he might once have taken Rosalina Martinelli. He understood—in fact he would happily have kept his friend company in the stables if the Red Cross’ organising committee had not insisted he make an appearance. Instead, Milton had decided to guard the Mercedes with Clyde, much to Elisabeth Sinclair’s disappointment.

  Errol Flynn had invited Edna, leaving Rowland to escort “the cap’n” as Flynn insisted upon calling Joan Richmond.

  “He makes me feel like I ought to have an eye-patch and a wooden leg,” Joan complained as she took Rowland’s arm into the Town Hall.

  Rowland glanced down at the racer’s crimson gown. “I like what you’re wearing better,” he said.

  Joan laughed. “Well let’s get this over with then.”

  The Town Hall had been bedecked with bunting and festoons of blue hydrangea. Supper had been laid out on linen-draped tables and an orchestra played from the stage. The gentlemen presented a consistent elegance in white tie and tails whilst the ladies were given the privilege and responsibility of appropriate individuality. Even amongst the competitive spectacle of gowns and jewellery and poise, Rowland’s eyes found Edna immediately, and rested there a while. The sculptress seemed to sense his gaze and turned towards him to smile and wave. She grabbed Flynn’s hand and pulled him through the crowd towards Joan and Rowland.

  “Hello you two. Isn’t the hall just lovely?”

  “It is terribly swish,” Joan agreed. “Have you been here long?”

  “No, we just arrived.”

  “Sinclair! I’m glad to see Wilfred found you in the end. Last I heard you were absent without leave!”

  Rowland turned stiffly towards the greeting. “Colonel Campbell, Mrs. Campbell,” he said with painstakingly conscious civility. “May I introduce Miss Joan Richmond and Mr. Errol Flynn? I believe you know Miss Higgins.”

  “Oh yes,” the leader of the New Guard said, glancing at his wife. “You remember, my dear. This is the young lady who purported to be Mr. Sinclair’s fiancée and then shot him in my study. Ruined the Axminster.” Campbell laughed loudly.

  Mrs. Campbell looked mortified. “It was such an ugly carpet, Eric. I was glad of the excuse to replace it,” she said nervously.

  Rowland met Campbell’s eye, wondering what the man was up to. “Then we are both glad of Miss Higgins’ actions, Mrs. Campbell. You were able to replace the carpet and I was able to avoid being beaten to death.”

  “Yes, well I’m afraid the chaps can be a little zealous when they feel I’m in danger. They’re a jolly decent and loyal bunch.”

  “I hear you’ve become a politician, Colonel Campbell,” Rowland said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I’m so glad to see democracy has finally won you over.”

  “Sometimes it’s necessary to effect change from within,” Campbell replied smoothly. “And what are you doing with your time these days, Sinclair? By the time I was your age, I’d fought a war, progressed in business, married and founded a thriving legal firm.”

  “Not to mention a militia,” Rowland said brightly. “Actually, I’m thinking about standing for parliament myself, since it seems to be the thing to do these days.”

  Edna beamed and rubbed Rowland’s arm in a show of pride. “I don’t believe Lane Cove will have ever had so handsome a member.” If she had exhibited the slightest surprise, Campbell might have realised that Rowland Sinclair was fabricating his intended candidacy, that his interest in the seat of Lane Cove was being feigned to irritate the man who hoped to win it. But Edna Higgins was a convincing actress, and having been offended by his reference to the shooting incident she carried on. “The publicity surrounding the race has been just wonderful for raising Rowly’s public profile!”

  Campbell was noticeably shaken. “You haven’t announced…”

  “Well, I didn’t want to take attention away from the race—the car race, that is,” Rowland said unfazed. “It’s for charity, after all. Time and place, you know.”

  Campbell’s smile looked more like a barring of teeth. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ve promised Nancy a turn on the dance floor.”

  Edna giggled as the Campbells flounced away. “Now we’ve done it,” she said, delighted.

  “I didn’t realise you were standing for parliament, Rowly,” Joan ventured.

  “I’m not,” Rowland whispered. “Ed and I were just playing the fool, to be honest.”

  “I sense you may have upset Colonel Campbell,” Joan observed.

  “Yes, it’s a terrible pity,” Edna said blithely.

  A pause in the music signalled that the formalities were about to begin. Various dignitaries took the stage to acknowledge other dignitaries and to deliver words of welcome and thanks. When the music started again, Rowland danced with Joan, discussing race strategy through the slides of a Gypsy Tap and two waltzes. Then he took Edna on to the floor while Joan gave the same instructions to Errol.

  Rowland saw that Campbell had abandoned any pretence of dancing, spending the evening instead in earnest conversations with various gentlemen and the Honourable Charlotte Linklater who’d attended the ball wearing a black gown in remembrance of her brother.

  “Are you all right, Rowly?” Edna asked as she sensed him become distant and tense.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I just wish Miss Linklater would allow me to—”

  “The accident wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. But it seems callous that we’re all just carrying on as if nothing happened.”

  “That wasn’t your decision, darling. Miss Linklater wanted to race in her brother’s place.” Edna glanced over her shoulder at the bereaved motorist. Charlotte Linklater was watching them from beside the punch bowl. She looked more wistful than anything else. “Why don’t you try speaking to her again? Put all this nonsense to rest before tomorrow’s race.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Edna squeezed his hand. “Just so long as you remember you don’t need absolution.”

  He brought her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  Rowland relinquished the sculptress to one of the many admirers circling hopefully for a chance to cut in, and made his way to Charlotte Linklater.

  “Miss Linklater?”

  “Yes?”

  Suddenly Rowland was unsure what exactly he wanted to say and so he asked her for that dance. She accepted without any sign of enthusiasm whatsoever. He led her onto the floor and for a while they waltzed without exchanging words. Rowland’s height meant that by keeping her eyes straight ahead she could avoid looking at his face. Even so, the fact that Charlotte had accepted gave Rowland some hope. Finally he broke the silence between them.

  “Miss Linklater, I know our dealings have been difficult to date, but I hope you’ll believe me when I say I do not wish for us to be enemies.”

  She said nothing.

  Rowland continued. “I know that you’re racing in your late brother’s memory and if there’s anything I can do to help you honour that memory—”

  “Yes, there is,” she said, raising her eyes. Rowland pulled back, startled by the seething hostility in them. “Stay out of my way,” Charlotte hissed. “Because on the track I shall drive as ruthlessly as you did when you forced Charles into the fence. Dear Charles had only toured before, but I’ve raced in bowls. I understand the peculiarities of speedways and I will show you no measure of mercy. I suggest you withdraw Mr. Sinclair and retreat behind that red easel of yours because I have not forgiven you!”

  Rowland stayed in step. “It’s regrettable that you feel that way and whether you believe me or not, I am sorry for what happened to your brother.”

  “Have you
ever lost a brother, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Yes. Aubrey was killed in the war.”

  “And how do you feel about the people who killed him? Mr. Campbell told me about your ongoing animosity against the German government.”

  “That has nothing to do with Aubrey.”

  “Are you sure? How else do you explain your opposition to a government that has returned Germany to its former greatness?”

  The bracket finished. Rowland thanked Charlotte Linklater for the dance and abandoned his attempts at a pre-race reconciliation. But he wished her luck, quite sincerely, as she turned her back on him.

  Wilfred found him before he could re-join Joan and Flynn. Kate Sinclair was on her husband’s arm. The pale blue sheath suited her porcelain complexion. She was, as always, a picture of understated elegance.

  “Rowly. Best of British for tomorrow, old boy.” Wilfred shook his brother’s hand. “Don’t get carried away. The Red Cross will make plenty of money whether or not you win.”

  “Thank you, Wil. Are you bringing the boys?”

  Wilfred nodded. “Ernie and Ewan, anyway. Gilbert’s a bit young to enjoy the finer points of motor racing. I understand the organisers are expecting quite a crowd, so let’s hope that Fritz jalopy of yours lives up to expectations.”

  Kate turned to her husband. “For heaven’s sake, Wil. You’re not going to quarrel about Rowly’s motorcar now!”

  Rowland laughed. “No we’re not.” Joan Richmond caught his eye from across the room and tapped her watch. He sighed. “I’m afraid I must be going. Joan’s imposed a strict curfew.” His kissed Kate’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be the one in the Fritz jalopy at the front.”

  Popularity Increasing

  Judging by the record number of visitors to Cowes for the 100-mile race on New Year’s Day motor racing is at last becoming as popular in Australia as it has been for many years overseas. The 6 ½ miles rectangular course on Phillip Island is very suitable for motor racing, and it can be closed to ordinary traffic while races are being decided. It is hoped that later other good roads on the island will be used to form a much longer course, making a complete circuit of the island. By facilitating the holding of races the shire council and residents have materially increased the popularity of the island as a holiday resort, and have greatly assisted the motoring clubs. This year promises to be a record one for motor sport. It is hoped that several overseas drivers will compete in a special Centenary programme of racing.