“Wil, hello… Do come in.”
Wilfred shook his head as Milton called Edna the “surviving member of the Kelly gang” and she threatened to despatch him accordingly. “Perhaps it might be better if you come with me, Rowly,” he said, turning on his heel.
“One moment.” Rowland ducked back into the suite to retrieve his hat and jacket. “Wil,” he said to Clyde’s enquiring glance. “I shan’t be long.”
“Good luck,” Clyde said quietly.
Rowland followed Wilfred outside the hotel. “Where’s your automobile?” Wilfred asked.
“Just out the back in the car park.”
“Good. I’d rather not have this conversation with my driver present. Shall we?”
“Yes, if you wish.” Rowland took his brother past gleaming Rolls Royces, Armstrong Siddeleys, Vauxhalls and Oldsmobiles, stopping finally by the yellow Airflow.
Wilfred stepped back. “This… This is yours?”
“Yes.”
“It’s American.”
“I believe it is.”
“For pity’s sake, Rowly, how did you get stuck with this hideous jalopy? Did you lose a bet?”
Rowland ignored him, opening the front passenger door. Wilfred got in. Rowland walked around and slipped in behind the wheel. “Where did you want to go?”
“We don’t need to go anywhere, I just wanted to have a word in private.”
“I see.” Rowland presumed that Wilfred expected to shout or else the bar would have done as well for the purpose.
Wilfred didn’t waste any time. “What are you doing in Canberra?”
“I’ve told you—visiting.”
“Bunkum! Do not treat me like a fool. A Communist is murdered on the steps of Parliament House, the weapon is delivered to the prime minister, and, in both instances, by some uncanny coincidence, you’re there!”
“Wait a moment—the weapon is delivered to the prime minister? I say, is that what was going on today?” Rowland asked.
“Yes.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“A razor.”
“Well, we were all in King’s Hall nowhere near the prime minister’s suite—how could any of us have delivered anything to him? Unless Lyons was lurking about King’s Hall.”
“Don’t be daft, Rowly! The weapon was placed in a Lamson tube and delivered onto the prime minister’s desk where it was opened by his secretary. She was understandably shaken and alerted Broinowski, the Usher of the Blackrod, who immediately called Jones.”
“A Lamson tube? Where did it originate?” Rowland was aware that Parliament House was serviced by a network of copper pipes which used pneumatic pressure to move cylinders of documents around the building. He’d always thought it an ingenious system. If the razor had arrived on the prime minister’s desk it must have been sent from somewhere within the building.
“It’s hard to tell. There are several routes by which it might have ended up in the prime minister’s office.” Wilfred pulled off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief, before replacing them to look intently at Rowland. “What do you and your Communist hangers-on have to do with it?”
Rowland met his brother’s eye, wondering what Wilfred had hoped cleaning his spectacles would help him see. “Absolutely nothing. None of us had ever seen Kelly before Milton found the body. Nor have we been sending murder weapons to the prime minister.”
“I want you to go back to Sydney tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Wil.”
“Why not?”
“Major Jones has all but mandated that we are not to leave town.”
“And why, if you have no involvement in this, would the chief of police be making such a request?”
“For God’s sake, Wil, surely you don’t honestly believe I… any of us… would cut a man’s throat.”
“Kelly was, from what I gather, a Communist. An active fifth columnist.”
“Precisely. You’d be far more likely to kill him than any of us.”
Wilfred Sinclair wasn’t finished. “What were you doing at Willowview?”
“Willowview? Oh Ley’s place. It was a tennis party. We were collecting Miss Higgins. Unfortunately, she and her doubles partner kept winning so we were compelled to wait for the finals.”
“So you have no other relationship with anyone at Willowview?”
“No… actually yes. Jemima Fairweather was there.”
“Fairweather?”
“Old Mrs. Fairweather’s granddaughter… you won’t remember her. You were in Sydney most of the summer she spent in Yass.”
“I do recall Mother mentioning her once or twice. What was she doing there?”
“Ley’s undertaking some legal work for her, I believe.” Rowland chose not to mention Jemima’s relationship with Thomas Ley’s mistress.
Wilfred’s face was unreadable. “I believe you and Miss Fairweather were quite the item.”
Rowland laughed. “We were very young, Wil.”
“The Fairweathers are a good family. The property adjoins Oaklea… excellent sheltered pastures.”
Rowland regarded his brother, amused.
“I presume Father disapproved of her,” Wilfred murmured.
“Yes, he considered her a girl of modern taste and easy virtue. Did Father tell you—”
“Didn’t say a word. I just know that you’re inexplicably drawn to the inappropriate.”
Rowland chose not to be offended. There was probably some truth to it. “As I said, Wil, that was a long time ago. I believe Jemima is back in Yass with her grandmother at the moment.”
“I’ll let Kate know. Perhaps we should invite them both to dine at Oaklea.”
Rowland’s brow rose. He wasn’t sure how his respectable, gentle sister-in-law would find Jemima. He used the thaw in the conversation to question his brother. “What’s Stanley Bruce doing here?”
“It’s an unofficial visit.”
“Is there something going on, Wil? What are you doing in Canberra?”
Wilfred sighed. “It’s to do with the report of the New States Commission. Nothing you’d be interested in, more’s the pity. There’s a lot more to the business of government than your infantile Communist friends would have you believe. It’s a bit more complicated than impassioned rhetoric and red flags.”
“Leave it, Wil,” Rowland warned.
“Rowly, listen to me. Be careful. Do not give me any reason to doubt your loyalty.”
“My loyalty? What the devil—”
“Do not give me any reason.”
Rowland’s voice became hard. “You have no reason. But I am not you, and I answer to my own conscience.”
“Regrettably after your last stunt, my faith in your conscience is not what it once was.”
Rowland exhaled. This again. “I truly didn’t intend to embarrass you, Wil.”
“Well you most certainly did, and worse, you humiliated Kate. She personally rang everybody she knew to make sure they came to your exhibition. You used her. I never thought you’d sink to that.”
Rowland flinched. He hadn’t set out to exploit his sister-in-law, or to hurt her in any way, but he couldn’t deny he’d done so. He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, Wil, it’s not what I meant to do,” he said for the hundredth time.
“What did you mean to do?” Wilfred demanded. “I can’t for the life of me fathom what you could possibly have hoped to achieve with an exhibition of Communist propaganda.”
“It wasn’t propaganda. It was what I saw in Germany, what I felt.”
“Then why did you need to deceive people as to the content of your blasted exhibition?”
“It’s the people who turn their faces away who I wanted to see—”
“Why? Why do you feel the need to inflict your radical politics on decent, patriotic citizens?”
Rowland dropped his head back against the seat. “I admit it, Wil. It was a bad idea and I didn’t achieve anything aside from destroying my professional reputation
and offending my family. I don’t know what more you want me to say!”
“I want you to say you’ll never do anything like that again, that you’ll never work with the bloody Communists again and you’ll not again bring our family’s good name into disrepute. I want you to tell me that you’ll abandon this ridiculous obsession with Eric Campbell—the man is a spent force! You’re the only person in the country who believes he’s any kind of threat! I want you to realise that nothing good can be achieved with radical ideas and dangerous language. Most of all I want you to grow up and stop behaving like a petulant brat!” Wilfred slammed his fist on the dash. “I’m sick of having to rescue you, Rowly. You’re becoming a perpetual disgrace to the name of Sinclair!”
In the closed quarters of the Airflow the tirade was loud and bitter and it did not miss its mark. Rowland bore it in silence. Then he waited because he was unsure if Wilfred was finished. The silence extended, the air was brittle. “I wasn’t working with the Communists, Wil,” he said finally. “I’m not a Communist. The dangerous language you speak of is the truth. As for growing up, if you mean that I should forget what I know, deny my friends and join the ruddy Country Party… I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Rowland braced himself for a second dressing-down.
Wilfred shook his head. He opened the passenger door and got out.
“Wil… where are you—”
“It doesn’t sound as though we have anything more to say to each other.” Wilfred closed the door.
11
QUEER COLLECTORS AND COLLECTIONS
By URBAN L. BROWNE
IN New York one Philatelist murdered another in order to possess himself of a certain rare stamp. The history of rare gems is full of drama and tragedy. The real collector will risk death and disease while on the trail of some rare specimen…
…The collection of toy soldiers is not an occupation only of the nursery, as some may imagine. It is a well-recognised grownup hobby nowadays, and there is an international association of such collectors, many of them distinguished men, who have some wonderful specimens of historic uniforms among their tin, wooden, and lead soldiers. Dolls are another interesting hobby, and they possess historic value.
Cumberland Argus and Fruitgrowers Advocate, 8 March 1934
“Rowly?” Edna peered into the Airflow. “What are you doing out here?”
Rowland opened the door and stepped out. The afternoon had cooled sharply into the evening. “Wil wanted a word in private.”
“Oh, I see.” Edna had observed Wilfred Sinclair’s Rolls Royce drive out over twenty minutes before, but she didn’t mention that. Instead she took Rowland’s hand. “Was Wilfred very cross?”
“Yes. But that’s not unusual.” He removed his jacket and wrapped her in it. “It’s still too cold of an evening to step out without a coat, Ed.”
“What did Wilfred say to you?” she asked, carefully studying his face. As much as they battled, Edna knew Rowland admired his brother deeply. Indeed there was probably no one who could truly wound Rowland as Wilfred could… as he had.
“Nothing I didn’t already know.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better fetch Clyde and Milt, not to mention your coat, before we’re late.”
She reached up and embraced him. “I’m sorry things are so difficult between you and Wilfred. He’ll come round.”
“I’m not sure he will, Ed.”
“Darling, for thirteen years your brother believed you’d shot your father. He stood by you then. Surely this pales by comparison.”
Rowland smiled. “Our father was a common enemy. I’m not sure Wil believes we’re on the same side anymore.”
“Well you are. He’ll realise that eventually.”
Once they had collected overcoats and the rest of their party, they returned to the Airflow. They spoke no more of Wilfred on the short drive to Ainslie where Bertram Middleton boarded. The writer was a little flustered to open the door to Edna and three gentlemen.
“Don’t worry, Middleton, we’re not staying,” Clyde said. “Just escorting the lady to your threshold.”
“We would, however, thank you not to disappear with her again,” Milton added.
Middleton stuttered nervously about misunderstandings in a manner that was barely coherent.
“He doesn’t seem that clever with words,” Rowland whispered in Edna’s ear.
She smiled but went to Middleton’s defence nevertheless. “Stop bullying Bertie!”
The writer kissed her hand. He spoke with barely contained emotion. “You look exquisite, Eddie, I can barely believe I’ll have the privilege of escorting so beautiful a creature.”
Rowland cleared his throat. “We’ll get on then. When should we come back for you, Ed?”
“No need for that,” Middleton said quickly. “I’ll see the lady to her digs when we’re finished. I give you my word as a gentleman that I’ll not leave her side until I return her safely, though parting will be such sweet sorrow. ”
“Shakespeare!” Milton said. “The man’s stealing from Shakespeare. I’m on to you Middleton—you can’t just steal poetry…”
Mortified, Middleton was reduced to incoherence again. Edna pushed Milton out of the door. “Stay out of trouble,” she warned as she waved them away.
“All right, Rowly, fill us in.” Milton rested his elbows on the backrest between Rowland and Clyde as the Airflow’s unusual grille was nosed towards Queanbeyan. “What did Wilfred have to say?”
Rowland told them about the murder weapon surreptitiously delivered to Prime Minister Lyons’ office via the Lamson tube system.
“’Struth! So it could have been sent from anywhere in the House?” Clyde asked.
“The tube system is pretty extensive,” Rowland replied. “I understand there’s also a line that goes out to the Government Printing Office in Eastlake.”
“And they have no way of establishing exactly where the razor came from?”
“Apparently not. They can’t even tell precisely when it was sent.”
“Why would any sane murderer send the weapon to the prime minister?”
“Perhaps it was meant as some kind of threat?” Clyde suggested.
“I suppose.”
“Is that all Wilfred had to say?” Clyde asked. “You were gone for a month of Sundays.”
Rowland smiled. He assumed Edna had been despatched to the Airflow on behalf of all his friends. “Wilfred is still less than pleased with me. He was making sure I understood that.”
“The exhibition?”
“Among other things. He’s right—”
“Like hell he is!” Milton snapped. “Wilfred doesn’t know what he’s bloody well talking about.”
“The exhibition was not received as well as it could have been,” Clyde said more reasonably, “but that doesn’t mean—”
“Wilfred told me a long time ago that Eric Campbell and the New Guard were a spent force. He’s probably right about that.”
Clyde sighed. “Nobody thanks the bloke who prevents disaster from happening, mate.”
“The Fascists may not be having parades anymore,” said Milton, “but I wouldn’t write them off. They’re just trying more socially acceptable routes to dictatorship. Campbell is a determined bastard—he may yet find himself in parliament.”
“Perhaps.” Rowland frowned.
“Rowly, maybe the three of you should head back to Sydney,” Milton suggested. “I’m perfectly able to do what I said I would on my own… and while it’s occasionally amusing, there’s no point upsetting Wilfred if you don’t have to.”
Rowland glanced back at the poet. “I’m not having second thoughts, Milt. Just preparing myself for what’s going to happen when Wil finds out I’m involved with Egon Kisch.”
Clyde whistled. He had not thought of that. Despite their divergent ideologies, the Sinclairs were fiercely loyal to one another. This could finally shatter that. “Oh damn.”
Even Milton put his enthusiasm for the cause aside
for a moment. “Oh bugger, Rowly. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have got you involved. I wasn’t thinking about Wilfred. We could find someone else…”
“I volunteered my services,” Rowland said firmly. “I don’t regret it… just how Wil’s going to see my involvement.”
“But—”
“If not for Egon I’d probably be rotting in some German prison, or dead. It’s important that people have a chance to hear what he has to say.” Rowland would not countenance withdrawing to appease Wilfred. “I am very happy to be involved in this.”
The wide main street of Queanbeyan was divided by a row of parked vehicles down its centre.
For the gentlemen from Sydney there was a relief in crossing the border into New South Wales. There was a constraint about the national capital, a tidiness and method, which pervaded everything. In contrast, Queanbeyan was a bustling agricultural centre, with buildings old enough to sport rust and peeling paint. It was faded, worn in and, for that reason, somehow more comfortable. Unconsciously, they all let out their breath a little.
The boarding house in which Kelly had lived was, from the street, a less than salubrious establishment. The verandahs had been curtained off with old blankets to create accommodation. The weatherboards had not seen paint in at least a generation and someone had used empty beer bottles to build a pyramid on the lawn.
“It’s not quite the Hotel Canberra,” Milton muttered.
Rowland parked the Airflow directly outside the old bungalow and they preceded up the crumbling steps to the front door. It took several knocks to raise a response. A middle-aged woman, attired in a pinafore apron, her hair caught up in a floral scarf, answered the door.
Milton introduced himself and his companions. “We’re old mates of Jim Kelly and we happened to be in town. We were hoping to grab him for a beer.”
“I think you have the wrong address, there’s no Jim Kelly here.”
Milton pulled some opened envelopes from his pocket. “Are you sure, Miss?” He looked at the envelope. “He used this address whenever he wrote to me… said he was boarding with a lovely lady who cooked better than his old mum.”
A Dangerous Language Page 10