Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Wilfred Sinclair pulled his brother aside, clearly livid. “What is the meaning of this, Rowly? You didn’t tell me this so-called exhibition was some kind of propaganda campaign for the Communists.”

  “You know this isn’t propaganda, Wilfred. It’s what I saw.”

  Wilfred gritted his teeth. “You’re losing perspective, Rowly.”

  The exchange was interrupted by a raised voice from among the guests. “Why, this is outrageous! Preposterous! I was in Germany last year and can assure you that this is not what I saw. Clearly Sinclair is a disturbed young man, being influenced by his Bolshevik connections no doubt.”

  Rowland turned. Campbell stood before the painting of the book burning. Other guests, who had been unsure how to respond to the confronting images, took Campbell’s lead, tittering.

  “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “I invited him!” Wilfred replied fiercely. “You wanted me to offer an olive branch. I thought this would be a good forum to do it in. Of course I had no bloody idea what you were really doing.”

  “It’s quite worrying that Mr. Sinclair intends on standing for parliament.” Campbell’s voice was loud, his intent clear. “Corrupt as the party politic machine is, he may succeed.”

  But Milton Isaacs had also invited guests, who had been until now, quiet, a little uncomfortable in the elite surroundings. It was they who spoke in Rowland’s defence, deriding Campbell as an apologist for the Nazis.

  Wilfred cursed as hostility caught and spread. “I must get the prime minister out of here, not to mention Kate and Mother!” He turned on his brother fiercely. “Congratulations Rowly, you’ve succeeded in not only humiliating me and Kate, but have publicly demonstrated that you have lost all sense of proportion. You’re a bloody fool!”

  Rowland didn’t try to defend himself. There would be time to reason with Wilfred later. For now there was Campbell and his cohorts to sort out.

  A further disturbance at the entrance as more of Campbell’s supporters tried to enter the gallery. There was panic now, fear that the elegant opening would become a riot. Gallery staff opened up the back doors to let people out. Dignitaries were ushered discreetly to their cars.

  Campbell had embarked on a speech, decrying what he considered the “defamation of the German government by a servant of Bolshevik interests”. He wasn’t without sympathy.

  “There are many good men in New South Wales who would consider that subversives who cloak themselves in the mantle of high art ought to be dragged out and taught a lesson,” he declared. “I venture that those good men would be applauded!”

  “Sod off, you Fascist mongrel!” Milton shouted. Someone swung at the poet. A scream. Then several. A painting was pulled off the wall and smashed underfoot. The opening to Rowland Sinclair’s exhibition deteriorated rapidly. The artist himself might have been in serious danger if it were not for the fact there were many members of Sydney’s artistic community in the gathering, who had attended for the sake of art, and who stayed to defend their colleague and their beliefs. Even so, the police presence which came with the prime minister was possibly all that saved the gallery being damaged and the exhibition completely destroyed.

  It was in the early hours of the next morning that Rowland and his companions returned to Woodlands House after cleaning up what they could. The mansion was quiet, the servants all long since retired to their beds. Milton poured drinks as they sat a little stunned in Rowland’s studio. Lenin, who’d been asleep by the hearth beside his cats, yawned in greeting and closed his eyes again. The one ginger kitten, that Edna had named Mercedes in memory of Rowland’s late automobile, peered out from beneath the greyhound’s long muzzle.

  Edna curled up on the couch beside Rowland. “I’m sorry it all went so wrong, Rowly,” she said, stifling a yawn.

  Rowland slipped his arm around the sculptress as she closed her eyes and relaxed against him. They were all tired. The exhibition had not gone as expected, but he wasn’t sure what he’d expected in the first place. Rowland tried not to catastrophise. “They saw what I wanted them to see,” he said. “And they’ll probably not forget this evening in a hurry.”

  “They will certainly not,” Clyde agreed.

  “It’s lucky we’re still young,” Edna murmured.

  Rowland pulled his arm tighter, reminded.

  “I expect you might get a bit of a thrashing in the papers, Rowly,” Milton sighed.

  “Wilfred was cross,” Edna said softly.

  “Yes,” Rowland said. He suspected that it would take some time for Wilfred to forgive him for this transgression. He hadn’t thought through how the exhibition might embarrass his brother, and although he regretted that, he couldn’t spend his life politely ignoring what he believed.

  “Perhaps tonight was the monster Miss Norton predicted you’d release with that painting, Rowly.” Milton handed him a glass of sherry. “Some of those blokes looked like they wanted to tear you limb from limb.”

  Rowland laughed. “Let’s not make Rosaleen Norton a prophet, Milt.”

  “One dance in the moonlight and he’s joined the devil,” Clyde muttered.

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here,” Milton declared quite sadly.

  “Shakespeare,” Rowland said. “I’m afraid he might be right.”

  Lesley Bocquet was charged with illegal bookmaking and the murder of Crispin White. The charges against Milton Isaacs were dropped.

  As Milton Isaacs predicted, the conservative newspapers were scathing of Rowland Sinclair’s exhibition. The Sydney Morning Herald, Truth, Telegraph and Canberra Times all lamented the gullibility of the artistic community which seemed to be so easily swayed by the propaganda of Bolshevik interests. The dignitaries who had attended were at pains to distance themselves from the renegade artist and his fanciful paintings. Arts editors dismissed the exhibition as sensationalist nonsense. Smith’s Weekly was a notable exception. It concentrated its criticism on Eric Campbell and the violent thugs who seemed at his beck and call, and commended Rowland Sinclair for his dogged pursuit of the truth. Perhaps it did so in memory of Crispin White.

  While the Red Cross raised significant funds through staging the Maroubra Invitational, the bookmakers did not. The ultimate victory of the favourites was quite the financial blow. The Maroubra Speedway continued to claim lives through the 1930s and was eventually demolished in 1947.

  Errol Flynn departed Australia for England shortly after the Maroubra Invitational. Flynn was cast as the lead in Murder at Monte Carlo, during the filming of which he was offered a contract with Warner Bros. Studios. He emigrated to America and, quickly thereafter, became a Hollywood sensation. Edna Higgins genuinely wished him the best, and wrote him a letter of introduction to Archibald Leach whom she believed had done quite well for himself since last she’d seen him.

  Rosaleen Norton’s short story, Moon Madness, was published in July 1934. She left the employ of Smith’s Weekly at the end of that year, determined to pursue a career as an artist. Her increasingly bizarre, sexually charged pictures would provoke controversy throughout her career, as would her connection with early European witchcraft and the occult. In time the press would brand her the “Witch of Kings Cross”.

  Percy Reginald “Inky” Stephensen shifted his allegiances from the left to the far right sometime in the mid 1930s. In 1936, he wrote and published The Foundations of Culture in Australia, which was credited with influencing the formation of the Jindyworobak poetry movement. That same year, he launched the monthly Publicist which had a strongly anti-British, anti-Semitic and anti-democratic flavour. In 1941, he founded the Australia First Movement, a political pressure group based on the program advocated by the Publicist.

  Joan Richmond returned to Europe in time for the 1934 Munich Alpine Rally, after which she was selected to meet the German Chancellor at an entirely different kind of rally. Later, despite not liking what she’d seen of the Nazis, she would recount a strange irresistible urge to cheer Adolf Hitler, a
long with all masses in attendance.

  Dr. Reginald Stuart Jones was never charged over the incident involving Edna Higgins, though it was an episode that Rowland Sinclair would, in time, give him cause to regret. His relationship with John Hartley, while never officially investigated, would eventually end the detective’s career.

  Wilfred Sinclair was for some time quite furious with his brother. Indeed, he may have insisted their mother cease residence at Woodlands House with “Rowly’s band of godless Communists” if it weren’t for the fact that Elisabeth Sinclair would not hear of it. She quite liked living in Sydney with Aubrey and his friends, and was adamant that at thirty-five she was quite old enough to choose where she lived.

  For over thirty years after he met Rowland Sinclair, Arthur Stace would write the word “Eternity” in copperplate style on footpaths and walls all over Sydney, where he became something of a legend. Rowland would see the epigraph, freshly drawn from time to time, and wonder if it might have had anything to do with the fact that he survived the Maroubra Invitational.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I find myself preparing to thank a number of people for the tenth time. It seems those who were instrumental in my first book remain so in my tenth. For the sake of not repeating myself, I’m tempted to truncate this acknowledgment with the words “to all those who I’ve mentioned before and will mention again”, but that seems a poor way to honour the extraordinary individuals who have travelled with me as navigators, mechanics and passengers on this continuing road trip, and without whose company and skill, I would have long ago been stopped by the side of the road with my bonnet up. I hope you’ll indulge me then while I repeat myself and forgive me for the rather trite motoring theme I’ve used to do so. I am deeply grateful to:

  My husband, Michael, who first suggested this route and kept me from getting lost. My boys, Edmund and Atticus, who shout advice from the backseat.

  My Dad, who refuels my car from time to time, and who will still drive out to get me when I break down.

  My sister Devini who comes along for every ride in the very latest designer racing-gear.

  My mother, for whom I can think of no appropriate car-related analogy, but who, at the very beginning, taught me to read.

  The Greens and the wonderful team at Pantera Press who are my talented and generous pit crew.

  My brilliant agent, Jo Butler, who keeps me headed in the right direction.

  Glenda Downing, my editor, who serviced this novel and ensured it was roadworthy. Luke Causby, my cover designer whose genius gives my work a showroom finish; Desanka Vukelich and Graeme Jones who made sure the interior was perfectly detailed.

  Leith Henry who knows Rowly so well she could take the wheel at any time… if something happens to me, she’ll tell you how it all ends.

  Sarah Kynaston who creates detours with ludicrous projects because she knows that I write best when I’m also trying to sculpt a life-size cow out of granny smith apples. Lesley Bocquet (whose name I misappropriated for this novel) and Cheryl Bousfield, who have both worn my team colours since the very first book.

  My comrades in the writing community who have always been generous with their knowledge of the road ahead.

  The reviewers, bloggers, booksellers and readers whose support has allowed me to be in the position of repeating myself. Thank you for riding with me.

  If you enjoyed

  Give the Devil His Due

  then look out for the next book in the

  Rowland Sinclair series

  (For Release 2016)

  Who would you be in 1934?

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  SULARI GENTILL

  Award-winning author Sulari Gentill set out to study astrophysics, ended up graduating in law, and later abandoned her legal career to write books instead of contracts. When the mood takes her, she paints, although she maintains that she does so only well enough to know that she should write.

  She grows French black truffles on a farm in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains of NSW, which she shares with her young family and several animals.

  Sulari is the author of the award-winning Rowland Sinclair Mysteries, a series of historical crime novels set in the 1930s about Rowland Sinclair, the gentleman artist-cum-amateur-detective.

  The first in the series, A Few Right Thinking Men, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book. A Decline in Prophets, the second in the series, won the Davitt Award for Best Adult Crime Fiction. Miles Off Course was released in early 2012, Paving the New Road was released later that year and was shortlisted for the Davitt Award for Best Crime Fiction 2013. Gentlemen Formerly Dressed was released in November 2013. The sixth book in the series, A Murder Unmentioned, was Highly Commended for the Davitt Award for Best Adult Crime Fiction 2015, and was shortlisted for the ABIA Small Publisher Adult Book of the Year 2015, and the Ned Kelly Award 2015. A Murder Unmentioned also received the 2015 APPA Platinum Award for Excellence. Give the Devil His Due is the seventh book in the series.

  Under the name S.D. Gentill, Sulari also writes fantasy adventure, including The Hero Trilogy. All three books in the trilogy, Chasing Odysseus, Trying War and The Blood of Wolves, are out now, and available in paperback, in a trilogy pack, and eBook.

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  A Few Right Thinking Men

  A Decline in Prophets

  Miles Off Course

  Paving the New Road

  Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

  A Murder Unmentioned

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