“Why I never and they never!” Frances put her sturdy arms indignantly upon her hips. “Nobody said nothing about any tiepin!”
“You said Mrs. Bocquet wasn’t a lady,” Rowland ventured. “May I ask what you meant by that?”
“She were stepping out on him. Waiting till he were at the track and then she’d powder herself up and go out. A couple of times he got back before her and then it were on… not so lord and lady then! But it didn’t stop her. Alley cat that one!”
“When Dr. Stuart Jones called,” Rowland asked, “did Mr. Bocquet know?”
“Of course—he called him, told him to come.”
Rowland thanked Frances Webb for her assistance, slipping her a couple of pounds to help until she found work.
“That’s real decent of you, sir,” she said. “I’m a good worker, and I didn’t say nothing the whole time I were with the Bocquets. It weren’t right them sacking me.”
“What do you think?” Clyde asked as they made their way back to the Rolls Royce.
“I think I’d better stay on the good side of Mary Brown,” Rowland replied.
“Bloody oath! For all our sakes,” Milton muttered.
“I was talking about Stuart Jones’ visit,” Clyde chuckled. “Why would a married couple need his services?”
“Well clearly Lesley Bocquet was not the father,” Edna said.
“How could they be sure of that?” Rowland asked.
“Perhaps Mr. Bocquet knows he can’t father children. Perhaps he’s just sure he didn’t father this one, or perhaps knowing that someone else may have was enough.”
“Crispin White was Mrs. Bocquet’s lover.” Milton opened the door for Edna. “Lesley Bocquet was cuckolded and took his revenge by killing White.”
Rowland agreed. “But how on earth do we prove it? Delaney can’t do anything officially and Hartley isn’t going to listen to our theories on the crime.”
“Mrs. Bocquet,” Edna suggested as she climbed into the vehicle. “She loved Crispin White. Perhaps she’ll turn on her husband.” Milton shrugged. “If she didn’t kill White herself. It’s worth a shot.”
And so it was decided. Clyde slipped behind the wheel of the Rolls Royce, which they’d taken out that day without its chauffeur. Rowland’s conscience smarted a little on that account. Johnston had been deeply offended by the unintended slight. It occurred to Rowland that he would have to either acquire another car or become accustomed to being chauffeured. The thought of replacing the Mercedes, however, was not one he was yet able to face. Clyde drove them to Lindfield and parked a street away from the Bocquet residence.
“What if Les Bocquet is home?” Milton asked, frowning. “I could knock on the door and ask for the gentleman of the house first,” Clyde suggested. “If he’s home, I tell him I want to place a bet and if he isn’t there, then we’ll be free to speak to his wife.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Rowland said. “Neither of them has met Clyde.”
“Perhaps I ought to go in to speak to Mrs. Bocquet,” Edna proposed. “If what we think happened, did in fact happen, then it’s all terribly personal. She mightn’t be keen to talk of it to three gentlemen she’s barely met.”
Rowland objected immediately. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Why?”
“There is a possibility that Mrs. Bocquet and not her husband is the murderer, Ed, or that they were in it together. We’re not going to let you invite yourself to tea and cakes with a woman who might have cut Crispin White’s throat.”
Edna took Rowland’s hand. She found his gallantry quaint— archaic, excessive and entirely unnecessary, but sweet in its way. Even so, the sculptress might have spoken less gently if Rowland had not only days ago been so close to death. That knowledge tempered her response. “I’m not an idiot, Rowly. I’ll speak to her about Mr. White on her threshold. I won’t go into the house. That way, if she does produce a shotgun or a knife or a bottle of arsenic, the three of you can rush in and save the day!”
Rowland was not convinced. He tried to persuade her to stay in the car.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rowly. If anyone should stay in the car, it’s you. You probably shouldn’t be out of bed!”
Rowland’s argument faltered under her offensive. He looked to Clyde and Milton for support, but he found little.
“She has a point, mate,” Clyde said regretfully.
“When has Ed ever stayed in the car, Rowly?” Milton said laughing.
“This is not a fight you can win.”
“We’ll be nearby,” Clyde added more sympathetically. “She’ll be safe this time.”
Beryl Bocquet had obviously been cooking when she answered the door. Her hair was tied up in a scarf and she wore a brown pinafore apron over a floral printed dress and still held a kitchen knife in one hand. Before Clyde could say a word she apologised for the dishevelled state in which she had answered the door, explaining that she was temporarily without staff.
Clyde stood on the portico with his hat in his hand. When she’d finished telling him that she wasn’t ordinarily expected to cook, he told her he’d like to see Mr. Bocquet about a financial matter. He tapped his finger to his nose.
“I’m afraid Lesley isn’t here,” she said wearily. “He’s out of town for a couple of days. If you’re here for winnings you’ll need to come back next week for your money.”
Clyde thanked her and returned to his friends. “I reckon he’s taken losses on the Red Cross Invitational and skedaddled.”
It was Edna’s turn. The men waited at a distance beyond likely notice.
“Mrs. Bocquet?” Edna asked putting out her hand. “Beryl Bocquet? I hoped I might talk to you. I’m Edna Higgins… Crispin White was a friend of mine.”
“What kind of friend…” Beryl Bocquet’s voice was almost inaudible. She moved the kitchen knife to her left hand so she could shake Edna’s.
“A good friend. I must say you’re just as beautiful as Crispin said you were.”
“He said that?” Beryl’s face crumpled. “That wretched man! Why would he say that? It’s too late now…”
Edna stuttered, confused. She took a guess. “He was sorry—that’s what he wanted to tell you.”
“Oh god, he didn’t have a chance.” Beryl’s hand tightened on the handle of the knife until her knuckles were white. “What have I done?”
Edna stepped back her eyes on the knife. Could it have been used to slay a man? “Perhaps I should come back some other time…”
Beryl Bocquet glanced behind her. She started to cry. “Please…”
“Did I hear you say you were a chum of Crispy White’s?” The voice was congenial and male. Lesley Bocquet came to the door and stood behind his young wife. “We knew your Crispin very well, didn’t we, Beryl?”
“Mr. Bocquet? I thought you were out of town.”
Beryl looked up sharply. “I didn’t tell you that. Who are you?”
Edna turned to go. Lesley Bocquet reached out suddenly and grabbed her elbow, dragging her into the generous foyer.
“Get your bloody hands off her!” Milton roared.
Rowland, Clyde and Milton had run for the house the moment they realised that Bocquet was at home. Clyde pushed his foot into the doorway as the bookmaker tried to slam shut the door. Edna screamed and fought to escape his grasp. Milton added his shoulder to Clyde’s and they forced the door.
Clyde pulled Edna behind him as Bocquet flicked out his razor. Beryl Bocquet held up the knife sobbing hysterically. Rowland stepped between them, unsure now on which Bocquet he could turn his back.
Then Beryl let the knife fall and moved behind Rowland screaming, “No Les, don’t!”
“Beryl…” Lesley Bocquet looked wounded. “What the hell are you playing at, Sinclair? That’s my bloody missus!”
“Put down the razor, Bocquet.”
“That’d be right!” He shouted at his wife. “You’ve been whoring around with Sinclair as well! There’ll be hell to pay if you hav
e! You know I won’t be made a fool of! I won’t have it! My God, Beryl, haven’t you learned? He won’t stand by you.”
Beryl huddled behind Rowland, sobbing and terrified. “No, Les, we never…”
Rowland jerked back as the razor slashed wildly at his throat, following instinctively with a right hook which found its mark.
For a second, Bocquet was stunned. Milton used that moment to rush the man, locking his hand around Bocquet’s wrist as he brought him to the ground. Clyde lodged his knee against the bookmaker’s back as Milton forced the blade out of his hand.
Pinned and disarmed, Bocquet could only respond with profanity and threats, and he did so with volume and vigour. And then he appealed to his wife. “I did it for you, Beryl. After what that bastard did to us… What would you have had me do?”
Edna took the distraught lady of the house into the drawing room, calming her as best she could and telephoning the police on one of the lines Bocquet used to take bets. It took only a few minutes for the local constables to attend. Rowland was trying his best to explain their presence, when both Hartley and Delaney arrived. The detectives began to argue over who would take charge of the scene.
“I think this is more about Detective Hartley’s murder investigation than your SP bookmaker, Detective Delaney,” Rowland said apologetically.
Delaney looked him up and down, grinning openly. “The papers said you were dead.”
“I may have to sue them.” Rowland shook the detective’s hand.
Between them, Rowland, Milton and Clyde clarified how they had found themselves forced to subdue Lesley Bocquet in his own house.
“One of the Bocquets killed White,” Rowland said. “I’m not sure which.”
“My money’s on Les,” Milton said. “Stace saw a man drop the notebook, remember.”
“So this Lesley Bocquet killed White over gambling debts?” Hartley asked jostling in front of Delaney.
“No. From what I can gather, Mrs. Bocquet was having an affair with White,” Rowland said. “I expect she gave him the horseshoe tiepin.”
“Bocquet reported it stolen.”
“He might have believed that initially. Talk to Mrs. Bocquet. I’m not really sure who did what, to be honest.”
Edna came in from the drawing room where she’d been sitting with Beryl under the watchful eye of a constable.
“Miss Higgins. What are you doing here?” Hartley demanded.
“Talking to Mrs. Bocquet,” Edna said frostily. “When you interview her, Detective Hartley, you will discover that Mr. Bocquet was Crispin White’s bookmaker. That’s how Beryl and Crispin met. Apparently they fell in love, as one does. It was their custom to meet at Magdalene’s at midnight. Unfortunately, Mr. Bocquet found out about the affair, but only after Mr. White had ended it. On the night in question, Mr. Bocquet had his wife summon Mr. White to Magdalene’s. He met Mr. White instead, and returned with the tiepin.”
Rowland noticed that she’d left out the intervention of Reginald Stuart Jones in the sordid affair. It was not relevant—they could leave that to the poor woman to reveal herself if she so chose. “Did Mrs. Bocquet know that her husband killed White to get the tiepin?” he asked.
“Beryl swears she only realised when she read about Crispin’s death in the paper. She’s been living in terror that her husband would kill her, too.”
Hartley blustered for a moment before he could speak clearly. “This is all nonsense. How would Lesley or Beryl Bocquet get into Magdalene’s?”
Rowland paused to listen to Bocquet who was making threats and demanding his rights without pause. Of course. The bear. “I suspect he had a key. I’m fairly certain Mr. Bocquet was one of the gentlemen in masks. You might find his bear disguise on the premises somewhere. Perhaps Mrs. Bocquet was there too,” he added, remembering the woman’s shoes.
As it was, a search proved unnecessary. Desperate to demonstrate somehow that she had not been involved in the murder, Beryl handed over her husband’s mask and robes as well as the tiepin he had taken from Crispin White’s body. She denied any part in the bookmakers’ coven. Lesley was so visibly shocked and crushed by her betrayal that Rowland felt almost sorry for him. Bocquet did not deny his wife’s account, begging her to remember that he loved her, that he’d taken care of White for her.
“So I suppose Bocquet’s the chap who took a shot at you, Rowly,” Delaney said, grinning broadly. He was enjoying Hartley’s humiliation and looking forward to the detective explaining it all to Superintendent Mackay.
“No. I think that might have been the Honourable Charlotte Linklater.”
“What? Why?”
“Something she said about me hiding behind my red easel… I had thought she was just calling me a Communist, but I realise now she was talking about the actual colour.”
“It’s not a great leap to assume an artist has an easel, Rowly.”
“They’re not often red though. Mine only is because I knocked over a pot of vermillion and then inadvertently rubbed the pigment into the wood when I tried to stop it dripping… Anyway, I can’t imagine how she’d know my easel was red unless she saw it, and from what I understand she’s a champion shot.”
Delaney sighed and scribbled the facts down in his notebook. “I don’t disbelieve you, mate, but it might be hard to prove… and charging the daughter of a peer will be one hell of a job. I’m afraid she might already be on a ship back to England.”
“That’s the third woman who’s tried to shoot you and escaped, Rowly,” Milton observed.
“I wasn’t trying to shoot Rowly!” Edna clarified haughtily.
Delaney shook his head. “You know, Sinclair, I still can’t work out if you’re the unluckiest or the luckiest man alive.”
“I suspect the fact that I am still alive argues for the latter.”
MR. LYONS’ OBSERVATIONS
SYDNEY, April 8
“The cultural side of a nation is extremely important. If there is no art, there is no culture; if there is no culture, there is no nation,” said the Prime Minister, Mr. Lyons, to-day…
Western Argus, 1938
____________________________________
There was no doubt that the exhibition opening at Frasier’s gallery was one of considerable import. The street outside the building was congested with Rolls Royces and the occasional Cadillac. Chauffeurs congregated between vehicles to smoke and chat as they waited to be summoned for the journey home. Dark-suited security men were a visible presence at the entrance to the gallery. Gentlemen in evening dress and ladies in fur stoles filed in, collecting programs from the reception and murmuring appreciatively at the glorious landscapes scattered along the corridors to the main hall like a tempting trail of crumbs that promised a journey’s end of exquisite and ample cake.
The main gallery hall was, for the moment, still closed pending the arrival of the prime minister, who would officially open the exhibition. It was there that Rowland stood alone, with a large glass of gin. The hall had come up as he intended. It was uncomfortable to be in.
Copies of the books banned and burned by the Nazis—which they had mostly sourced from the bookshelves at Woodlands House— had been used in an extraordinary display. Edna had created life-size figures out of papiermâché and trapped them, with the books, in a cage of barbed wire. Once more, Rowland read over the explanatory plaques beside each painting, which spoke bluntly of what he’d seen in Germany. He was, here, nailing his colours publicly and quite literally to the wall. Still, it surprised him that he was quite so anxious. Rowland suspected the critics would be brutal, that many would be offended and he might never again hold such an eminently attended exhibition. What he was doing was probably professional and social suicide.
Edna came to fetch him. “The prime minister is here, Rowly. Wilfred says you have to come and meet him.” She slipped her hand into his and looked searchingly into his face. “Are you having second thoughts?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m just a trifle nervous,
Ed. I hope this works.”
Edna’s eyes softened. Rowland always seemed so quietly selfassured. Moved by his sudden uncertainty, she embraced him. “It may not work, Rowly, but at least we will have not said nothing while the world went mad. We will have tried to make them see.”
“And if they won’t see?”
She reached up and clasped his face between her hands. “We’re still young,” she said. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll simply try something else. We have years before we’re too old to fight.”
He smiled. He could easily have remained forever with the sculptress in his arms—God, he wanted to.
“Come along,” Edna said, smoothing down his lapel. “There are some rather important people waiting for you.”
To a glittering assembly, Prime Minister Joseph Lyons spoke warmly of the place of art in bringing the world to Australia, in allowing those unable to travel and experience the wonders and beauty of Europe to understand the landscape of countries like Germany. He apologised that the opening was three weeks later than originally planned, delayed because the artist had, by all accounts, been killed in a car race. The gathering chuckled politely, tittering at the folly of the newspapers. Buoyed by the laughter, the prime minister continued, pointing out that most artists were lauded only after their deaths. “It seems that Rowland Sinclair was not inclined to wait!” he finished, looking around for confirmation that he was indeed a man of rare and extraordinary jest. He was the prime minister, so he got just that.
When invited to say a few words, Rowland thanked everybody for their attendance, and mentioned with grateful admiration the friends who had helped him put the exhibition together. “It is my fervent hope,” he said in conclusion, “that on these walls you might see what we saw in Germany. And that you will respond accordingly.” Most people put the simplicity of his ambition down to the charming humility one would expect from a well-bred young man.
Then Lyons launched the exhibition with a toast to the artist, and the main gallery was opened.
A strange silence fell over the invited guests as the stark uncompromising depictions of a rising oppression were viewed. Rowland’s paintings were sobering and unequivocally confronting. And they were not what the social art-lovers had expected.
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