A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “Of course. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Rowland stepped out of hearing with Bruce.

  For a moment, Bruce didn’t seem to know how to begin. That alone aroused Rowland’s curiosity. In the end, Bruce opened with a question that quite surprised him.

  “When exactly did you return to Australia after completing your studies in Oxford?”

  “Late in 1927.”

  “I must say, I find it extraordinary you don’t seem to be aware of Mr. Ley as a Member of Parliament.”

  Rowland’s brow rose. “I must confess I didn’t really have any interest in politics then.” He was almost wistful. Life was definitely simpler when he’d been able to ignore politics. “Did Mr. Ley do something of particular note?”

  Bruce hesitated. “Men who stood against Mr. Ley, politically or otherwise, had an unfortunate habit of either dying or disappearing mysteriously. There are those who believe Mr. Ley was somehow involved in their fates.”

  Rowland stared at the diplomat. “You’re not serious!”

  “If I were to jest, Rowland, I assure you, it would not be about Thomas Ley.”

  In truth Rowland could not imagine Stanley Melbourne Bruce would jest about anything at all. “So you’re saying Mr. Ley is a murderer?”

  “Not at all. I am simply saying that I had very good reason to suggest that he was no longer welcome on the coalition benches.”

  “I see.”

  “Tell me, Rowland, are you aware of a speaker by the name of Egon Kisch?”

  Rowland regarded Bruce thoughtfully. So this was the transaction. Information for information. “Yes. He’s a capital fellow.”

  “You know him?”

  “I met him in Germany.”

  “Are you aware that he intends to come here?”

  “Why, that’s excellent news. I look forward to meeting him again.”

  “What do you know about Kisch, Rowland?”

  Well aware that Bruce was no fool, Rowland replied carefully. “He’s a journalist, I believe.”

  “What do you know about his politics?”

  “I know the Nazis didn’t like them.”

  Bruce maintained his gaze and then he seemed to relent. “How is Mr. Isaacs today?”

  “On the mend, I believe.”

  They returned to the stilted conversation that Menzies and Clyde had been trying valiantly to maintain in their absence. It appeared the artist and the attorney-general had little to discuss. With reason now to end the interaction politely, they took their leave of one another thankfully.

  Rowland told Clyde of Bruce’s revelations and probing questions as they walked down the main stairs to the road.

  “Ley’s a murderer?” Clyde was astonished.

  “Bruce didn’t say that exactly, but clearly he believes there are definite grounds to suggest he is.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… he doesn’t even drink!”

  “Probably explains it then.”

  “Rowly, does it occur you that—”

  “Willowview where we met Ley is just off the Howlong road where that poor girl was found? Yes, I did wonder about that.”

  “And Ley was in Canberra when Jim Kelly was killed. One helluva coincidence?”

  “We were in both places at relevant times too,” Rowland reminded him. “Why would Thomas Ley wish to kill either of them?”

  “We have no idea who the Pyjama Girl was… perhaps he had a reason. Has anyone seen Mrs. Ley? She seems to be conveniently absent while the Honourable Mr. Ley swans about with his mistress.”

  Rowland paused and considered the possibility. He shook his head. “No, the girl I saw was young… no older than Ed. She wasn’t Mrs. Ley.”

  “Even so, Rowly.”

  “And Jim Kelly? Why would Ley kill him?” Rowland asked, resolving in any case to speak to Delaney about the erstwhile politician.

  “Ley was the New South Wales Minister for Justice in the twenties—while you were still abroad. He had a harsh reputation—sent an insane man to the gallows if I remember correctly.”

  “It’s a bit of a long bow between refusing to grant mercy and cutting a man’s throat, Clyde.” Even as he said it, Rowland recalled that Ley had taken his dining companions on a tour of the Federal House after hours.

  “Ley was an arch-conservative, Rowly. Anti-Communist, anti-Catholic and anti-alcohol.” Communist, Catholic, occasionally intemperate Clyde warmed to his subject. “If what Bruce suggests is true…” He shook his head. “Perhaps he’s become more direct since leaving parliament… expanded his selection of victims beyond his political enemies.”

  “Middleton seems quite enamoured of the man.” Rowland frowned and he thought of how much time Edna had been spending with Ley and his mistress through the writer. “We may need to have a quiet word with Bertie.”

  The hill upon which St. Andrew’s had been constructed was being grazed by sheep. Rowland was glad they’d left the Airflow in the relative safety of the Parliament House parking lot. In his experience, rams occasionally took exception to motorcars. Every now and then a carelessly parked automobile fell foul of a belligerent ram on Oaklea.

  Workmen were installing stained-glass windows in to the sanctuary in preparation for the Gothic-styled church’s opening in September.

  One of the stonemasons broke away when he spotted the two gentlemen in suits walking up the hill, and proceeded down to meet them. And so it was in the shadow of St. Andrew’s spire, among a flock of milling sheep, that Rowland and Clyde shook hands with Bill Dwyer. The meeting with the aggrieved husband of May Dwyer had been arranged by Bluey Howells who had already informed the man that Jim Kelly had not been seducing his wife.

  “I never killed him,” Dwyer said at the outset. “I sure wanted to break his nose, but I never killed him.”

  “We’re not here to accuse you, Mr. Dwyer,” Rowland assured him. “We just want to work out what exactly happened. What made you suspect Jim Kelly was having an affair with your wife?”

  “Because of the photograph.” Dwyer’s remorse was obvious. “He had her picture. We’d just had them taken at a studio a couple of months before. I thought my May must’ve given it to him as a memento.”

  “But how did you know he had a photograph of your wife? Did he tell you?”

  “No.” Dwyer flinched. “I got this letter… from someone who called themselves a ‘concerned friend’.”

  “What precisely did the letter say?”

  “In a nutshell, that May was meeting Jim Kelly while I was at work… that she’d given him a photograph.” Dwyer shook his head. “I don’t mind saying I was played for a fool. I didn’t believe it, I didn’t want to believe it… but I went over to Jim’s and looked.”

  “Miss Curtis let you in?”

  “No, Jim slept on the sleepout off the back verandah. I knew he stowed his bag under the bed. I found the photograph and one of Jake Burton’s wife and Robert O’Brien’s. I figured Kelly must have been doing the rounds.”

  “Surely your wife—”

  “I didn’t say nothing to her.” Dwyer blanched. “I didn’t want to tell May that Kelly was using her like some common trollop. I figured my May must’ve been in love with him or something. She likes novels, you know. Whatever she’d done, I didn’t want to humiliate her. I blamed Kelly.”

  “And Burton and O’Brien?”

  “Poor old Burton cried like a baby when I told him. He’d got a letter too.”

  “Did he speak to his wife?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s afraid of her. We were both hell-bent on blaming Kelly for all of it.”

  “What about O’Brien?”

  “Now he was real mad. Don’t know whether he confronted his wife—he left the Party, hates Communists now.”

  Clyde took the drawings of the men from the Royal from inside his jacket. “I spoke to your wife. She’d never heard of Kelly… but a picture of this bloke,” he pointed to a single portrait, “was on your mantle.”

  Dwyer nodded.
“That’s Bobby O’Brien—my brother-in-law… the wife’s brother.” He glanced at the other sketches. “These blokes used to be New Guard, but now they’re just Commie-bashers at large.”

  Clyde pressed the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, comrade. We know this can’t have been an easy matter to talk about.”

  “I’m a bloody fool. I made sure Jim’s name was mud. Poor bastard. We were played like violins.”

  19

  CANBERRA HOSPITAL

  Built on the most modern lines in accordance with the ideals of the Federal Capital, the Canberra Hospital has been condemned in the Commonwealth Parliament as badly and unhygienically administered. Comment was so strong from Labour Senators that the Minister for Health has agreed to an investigation of its affairs. The hot water system is alleged to cease functioning in the early evening, preventing adequate washing and sterilisation. In fact, it is said that the instruments are sterilised in the most primitive way in a kerosene tin over a small fuel stove.

  Northern Star, 18 December 1934

  Clyde faltered in his stride as they neared Milton’s room at the hospital. A step or two ahead of Rowland, he saw into the room first, and under his breath he cursed. And so Rowland had been warned that there was some cause for alarm when he first sighted Thomas Ley standing at the foot of Milton’s hospital bed.

  The lawyer turned. “Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Isaacs! You’re back! Well that makes my offer rather redundant, I suppose.”

  “What offer?” Rowland asked, stepping into the crowded room. Maggie Brook stood by the open window smoking. Edna sat on the end of Milton’s bed and Bertram Middleton hovered near her. The patient himself had been released from traction and was sitting upright, propped up by pillows.

  Bertram Middleton explained. “Mr. Ley was very kindly offering to stay with Mr. Isaacs while the rest of us stepped out for a spot of luncheon.”

  Milton rolled his eyes. “I’ve already told them that I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “How are you, Milt?” Rowland removed his hat.

  “Much improved, comrade.”

  Ley’s smile waned for a split second. And then it was back. “Perhaps you and Mr. Jones would care to join the others,” he said congenially. “Maggie has found a wonderful restaurant at Eastlake.”

  “Rowly and I have already eaten,” Clyde lied.

  “Well then,” said Middleton. “You and I can take the ladies to luncheon, Tom.”

  Edna’s eyes were fixed on Rowland’s. “Actually, I’m not feeling quite myself. You’ll forgive me if I don’t come to lunch either.”

  “Nonsense, I’m sure it’s just being cooped up in here that’s making you feel queasy,” Middleton scowled as he noticed the direction of her gaze. “You need to take some fresh air, and indulge in some proper sustenance. I really must insist, Eddie.”

  Edna smiled but there was a flash of green steel in her eyes. “No, you really mustn’t. I’m afraid I couldn’t eat a single morsel right now.”

  “But Eddie…”

  “You go and have a lovely meal, Bertie. Milt isn’t supposed to have more than three visitors at a time anyway.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “No really, darling. Go. I need to talk to Rowly before he leaves for Melbourne anyway.”

  Ley glanced at Rowland. “You’re off to Melbourne?”

  “Yes… business, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t you worry, Sinclair. We’ll look after Mr. Isaacs in your absence.” Ley beckoned Maggie Brook. “Shall we go to luncheon then, my dear? I’m famished.” He hooked his arm through his mistress’ and bid them all a robust farewell.

  The couple had already stepped into the corridor when Middleton began to vacillate about leaving again. Rowland reached the end of his patience. He pulled the writer aside. “For pity’s sake, man, the lady has asked you to go. Don’t tempt me to throw you out.”

  Edna winced.

  “How dare you!” Middleton rose up furiously, his fists clenched. Rowland responded with a look of almost amused derision that served only to further incense him, and for a moment Middleton looked ready to swing.

  “Bertie!” Edna grabbed Middleton’s hand and pulled him away from Rowland. “Don’t be so jolly silly. You should go. This is a hospital.”

  “If that’s what you want, Eddie.” He looked sullenly at Rowland, and then kissed Edna fiercely. “You’re not fooling me, Sinclair,” he said as he stalked out.

  For several moments there was silence in his wake.

  “You’re going to have to do something about that bloke, Ed.” Clyde glanced out of the window to make sure they had in fact gone.

  Milton smiled. “To tell you the truth I was hoping he’d refuse to leave. I’m getting a little desperate for entertainment.”

  “Bertie doesn’t mean it. He’s just…” Edna sighed. She sat back on Milton’s bed, being careful not to disturb his leg. “All right, you two, what’s going on? I hope it was worth sacrificing lunch. I’m famished!”

  Rowland closed the door before recounting the conversations with Broinowski and Bruce.

  “He killed them?” Edna said horrified. “Why isn’t he in prison?”

  “I presume he wasn’t caught.”

  “Physically or legally?” Milton asked.

  “Both, I expect. He left the country at the height of the speculation, but Bruce was at pains to point out that it was nothing more than speculation. There’s no proof Ley killed anyone—it could just be that the good Lord likes him and helpfully strikes down anyone who gets in his way.”

  Clyde snorted. “I doubt very much that the Almighty would aid and abet a politician… let alone a Protestant.”

  “What if he’s innocent of all the murders?” Edna said quietly. She looked at Rowland. “He could well be. You were.”

  “He might be,” Rowland conceded. He had, as Edna alluded, been falsely accused in the past. Perhaps Ley too had an unfortunate habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “What are we going to do?” Edna asked.

  “Let’s be cautious. It might be best if we proceed as if Ley is a killer,” Rowland said carefully, “at least until we know he’s not.”

  Edna nodded.

  “Ley seemed to be pretty keen to get Milt on his own when we arrived,” Clyde pointed out.

  “Yes, I thought that was a bit odd at first too,” Milton said. “But then I put it down to my natural charm. Mostly it’s women that want to get me alone but—”

  “Ley may just have to get in line to cut your throat,” Clyde murmured.

  “How soon do you think you’ll be fit to travel, Milt?”

  The poet smiled. “Let me show you something.” He rolled gingerly onto his side and gradually swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He held up his hand as Rowland moved to help him. “Just give me a second, comrade,” he said as he paused to gather himself. Then he grabbed the iron bedhead and very slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  Edna clapped and Milton accepted the applause with his customary aplomb. “I think I could get out of here tomorrow.”

  Rowland moved to lend Milton his shoulder. “I’d have Johnston fetch you in the Rolls but you might be more comfortable if I book you a private sleeping compartment on the train. You can recuperate properly at Woodlands.”

  With his weight on Rowland’s shoulder, Milton took a couple of tentative steps. “I’m game.”

  “We’ll organise a wheelchair,” Rowland said, frowning, unsure if he was pushing Milton too hard. He feared sitting upright would prove quite painful for the poet.

  “Stop fussing, Rowly.” Milton read the concern in his face. “It might be a bit soon for footraces, but I’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t think it’s just Milt we should be worrying about.” Clyde folded his arms. “Did you see Ley’s face when Milt called you comrade?”

  “Milt calls everyone comrade.”

  “Ley doesn’t know that.”

  “I’ll be leaving for Melbourne as soon
as I put you all on the train to Sydney, in any case,” Rowland said, though he didn’t for a moment believe he was in any danger.

  Edna’s brow furrowed slightly. “What about your Mrs. Roche, Rowly? She seems to spend a great deal of time with Mr. Ley and Maggie. Shouldn’t you—”

  “I’ll warn Jemima when I’m in Yass.” He dragged a hand through his hair as he contemplated the conversation. “She’s going to suspect I’m mad.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant,” Edna said.

  “Jemima’s not involved in this, Ed.”

  “Are you sure, Rowly?”

  Milton laughed. “Don’t listen to Ed, she’s jealous!”

  Rowland stopped, surprised.

  “I am not!” Edna said furiously.

  Milton grinned. “Of course you are. You’ve become used to being the most beautiful, outrageous woman in the room… and then Jemima Roche comes along and makes you look positively conventional.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Edna glared at the poet.

  Rowland observed their interaction. The sculptress seemed more genuinely upset by the accusation than she’d ever been by such teasing. But surely Milton could not have struck a chord. Edna wore her beauty easily, carelessly. She was not vain, or insecure. And to Rowland’s mind, she remained the most beautiful woman in any room. “What do you mean, Ed?” he asked gently.

  “Just that…” She faltered. “Nothing. I don’t mean anything.”

  Clyde remained at hospital that night while Rowland returned to the hotel to pack all their belongings for the following day’s departure. Rowland made telephone calls and sent telegrams to ensure his friends would travel as comfortably as possible and be met at Central Station. He rang through to Woodlands to arrange for a room to be prepared on the ground floor for Milton’s use and a nurse to be engaged for his ongoing care. Finally, he telephoned Delaney and informed him about Sunshine Studios, the letters Dwyer, Burton and O’Brien had received, and Thomas Ley.

  “Lemonade Ley!” Delaney exclaimed at the last. “He’s back in the country? Bloody hell… I had no idea.”

  “I take it that what Bruce told me has legs.”

  “Big hairy legs, Rowly. If I recall, a politician called McDonald—Fred or Frank—disappeared after alleging Ley tried to bribe him. Then Hyman Goldstein was found dead on the cliffs off Coogee after campaigning against Ley in the wake of the Prickly Pear Poisons fiasco, and then some chap appointed to investigate the matter mysteriously, not to mention conveniently, fell overboard and drowned.”