A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “But there was nothing to sustain a prosecution?”

  “I’m afraid Ley’s rather too clever for that. There was nothing we could pin on him… but there was talk.”

  “His wife lives in Melbourne, doesn’t she?”

  “I know what you’re getting at, Rowly, but Mrs. Ley is too old to be the poor girl we’ve got in formalin. Still, we’ll look into this tennis party old Lemonade hosted… make sure that was not the last place anyone was seen.”

  “Thank you, Col. You will let me know if anything—”

  “Actually, Rowly, I did a little digging after our last conversation. The commissioner has been receiving letters from a group who call themselves the Commonwealth Legion. The letters list the names of people they claim are Communists and who they demand be arrested for treason. They write specifically of the national capital being overrun by a Bolshevik conclave.”

  “Surely that’s just the usual conservative rhetoric?”

  “The commissioner has written it off as that. But the more recent letters have been quite militant in demanding action—the usual allegations of a partisan police force and what may be read as a threat of direct action.”

  “Do you know who this group is?

  “The letters are signed D. King, but the name isn’t known to the police. I don’t suppose you remember a D. King from your time undercover with the New Guard?”

  “No, but I was introduced to only a handful of Campbell’s inner circle. There were fifty thousand men in the New Guard and it was not the only Fascist army.” Rowland was mentally filing through the names he remembered. “I’ll speak to Wil.” Perhaps D. King was from the Old Guard. It would explain why he had not before come to the attention of the police. In contrast to the New Guard, the Old Guard had been astutely clandestine in its dealings, maintaining secrecy with Masonic vigilance and discipline.

  “Do you want to tell me what you’ll be doing in Melbourne, Rowly?”

  Rowland answered carefully. He trusted Delaney but he had no wish to put the detective in an awkward position. “I thought I’d catch the end of the MacRobertson Air Race. I’m thinking of buying a new aeroplane.”

  “I’m surprised that new-fangled contraption you’re driving can’t fly.”

  Rowland laughed. He gathered that the Airflow’s streamlined shape was a little avant garde for Delaney’s traditional tastes. “She’ll grow on you, Col.”

  Edna accompanied Rowland when he went to see Major Jones—given the circumstances, neither was willing to leave the other alone. The Canberra Chief of Police was working late to ensure that the visit of the Duke of Gloucester would be without incident. He was heartily pleased that Rowland Sinclair and his companions were leaving. Jones did not believe they were involved in the murder of the Communist, James Kelly, but they did seem to be the eye of the storm. A Detective Delaney from the Sydney Central Investigation Bureau had telephoned with information about some photographic studio in Eastlake. A few basic enquiries had revealed that this Delaney had long been associated with Sinclair. Jones shook his head. God save the Commonwealth from well-heeled polo players who fancied themselves sleuths.

  Rowland asked about the running down of Milton Isaacs.

  Jones informed him that neither the Ford Tudor nor its occupants had been found. “You must understand, Mr. Sinclair, the population of Canberra is comprised of many transients and the territory border is never far away. I suspect Mr. Isaacs was the victim of an inebriated driver who, on realising he’d run someone down, fled into New South Wales. We’ve informed the authorities in that state, of course, but I’m afraid it’s out of our hands now.”

  “And Mr. Kelly’s murderer?” said Rowland coldly. “Did he flee across the border too?”

  Jones’ face was unreadable. “Quite possibly.”

  “I expect you’re aware that Mr. Thomas Ley is in Canberra.”

  “I most certainly am.” Jones said nothing more.

  Rowland gave up. It was probably optimistic to hope Jones would take them into his confidence.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to contact Mr. Mildenhall about his photographs,” Edna said as Jones stood to show them out.

  “Did you take many yourself, Miss Higgins?”

  “A few, Major Jones, but I’ve come to the realisation that I would need to stay much longer to understand this city and photograph her properly.”

  “Then we shall look forward to your return, Miss Higgins.” Jones showed them to the door of his office. He spoke quietly to Rowland after Edna had stepped through. “I’ll have a man on the train back to Sydney as a precaution, but that’s the best I can do, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland shook Jones’ hand. “Thank you, sir. We’ll manage the rest.”

  20

  CANBERRA

  As it appealed to me on the occasion of my first visit to Australia’s Federal Capital.

  On September 28, 1934

  (By J.F. O’Connor, in the Inverell “Times”)

  …One remarkable feature of the Garden City is its wonderful rosery; it is called the National Rose Garden and is ten acres in extent, with two further sections, which, together, comprise six acres. The main portion of the National Rose Garden contains approximately 5000 rose plants, presented by associations and citizens from far afield, roses having been given from all quarters of the world. In season, this is a wonderful site. Just here, I feel how futile it is to attempt to give a complete description of the beauties of Canberra…

  Glen Innes Examiner, 25 October 1934

  The whistle sounded and Bertram Middleton ran frantically onto the platform just as the train to Sydney departed. He was able to wave farewell to Edna Higgins but that was all. Disappointed and furious, he spotted Rowland Sinclair. The fact that Sinclair had not departed as well only made him more angry.

  “Sinclair!”

  “Mr. Middleton, how are you?”

  “Not well, Sinclair, not well at all! You’ve seen to that!”

  Rowland blinked. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re jealous! That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you sent Miss Higgins away. Banished her like some fallen woman to a nunnery!”

  Rowland smiled. He knew it wouldn’t help the situation, but he couldn’t help it. “Woodlands House is hardly a nunnery.”

  Middleton swore at him.

  Rowland attempted to calm the man. “I didn’t banish Miss Higgins, Middleton, she’s looking after Mr. Isaacs—who you well know is like a brother to her.”

  “She didn’t say goodbye!”

  “I don’t believe she had time.” Rowland tried to be kind despite an urge to see the writer off once and for all. “Her decision to decamp was made rather hastily. I believe Miss Higgins left you a letter…”

  “Indeed!” Middleton pulled the pages of Edna’s missive from his pocket. “She says I should be careful of Tommy Ley! What cock and bull story did you tell her, Sinclair? You’ve said something, libelled Tommy to frighten her away from me.” He pointed at Rowland. “You couldn’t seduce her with your wealth and your fast cars and your flaming blue eyes so you decided to frighten her into your arms! You low, conniving bastard.”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself, Middleton.” Rowland turned to walk away.

  Middleton grabbed Rowland’s shoulder, yanking him back. But Rowland was ready for the punch. He ducked and jabbed reflexively. Middleton’s fist met clean air, Rowland’s didn’t. Someone called for the station master.

  Rowland offered his felled opponent a hand. Cursing, Middleton refused to accept it, scrambling to his feet, wiping a bloody nose. “I won’t forget this, Sinclair. This isn’t over. Eddie will see what a two-face mongrel you are!”

  By the time the ancient station master and his assistant had fought a path through the gathering crowd to investigate the commotion, both men were on their way. Rowland was more disgusted than angry and strangely relieved that he now at least had good reason to dislike Bertram Middleton.
>
  The oak trees which lined the long winding drive of Oaklea were luminescent with the green of new leaves. Lambs bounded after their mothers in the lush surrounding paddocks. The occasional ewe wandered onto the drive, unhurried by the oncoming Chrysler Airflow as it negotiated the stock grids that separated the lambing and grazing paddocks. Rowland was content to slow for each crossing beast. The countryside had always worn Spring well.

  As the homestead came into view, he could see Ernest, who it seemed was home from school, watching for him on the entrance stairs, with two-year-old Ewan. Rowland climbed out and waited by the car for his nephews to run over. Ernest reached him first.

  “Uncle Rowly.” Ernest stuck out his hand. “How d’you do?” He gestured back to Ewan who was scrambling to catch up. “You know my brother, Ewan, of course.”

  Rowland shook Ernest’s hand. “Yes, I believe we’ve met.” He smiled as his godson stumbled towards him with arms outstretched. “How are you, mate?”

  “Up! Rowly, up!”

  Rowland heaved Ewan onto his shoulder.

  “Uncle Rowly,” Ernest told his brother sternly. He sighed, mortified as a seven year old could be by his uncouth relation.

  “Rowly!” Ewan echoed smugly.

  Rowland laughed. “Good thing he has you to apologise for him, Ernie.”

  “Does Daddy apologise for you, Uncle Rowly?”

  “Regularly.”

  Rowland allowed Ernest to lead him into the house and shout an announcement of his arrival. Mrs. Kendall, Oaklea’s longstanding housekeeper, emerged from the parlour. “Goodness me, Master Ernie, you’re in fine voice this morning.” She paused to look at Rowland, her eyes moistening at the sight of him.

  “Oh Mr. Rowland, don’t you look well!”

  Rowland set Ewan down and embraced the motherly servant, aware that he’d not been back to Oaklea since the accident that had been reported as fatal. “I’m fighting fit, Mrs. Kendall.”

  “I was so worried—”

  Rowland wished he’d come back sooner. The tension between him and Wilfred had made it easier to put off any excursion to Yass, at least until he’d purchased an automobile in which to undertake the trip. But he should have known how news of his accident would distress Alice Kendall, who’d treated him like one of her own for as long as he could remember. “Not a scratch on me, Mrs. Kendall… there was nothing to be worried about.”

  “Mr. Sinclair telephoned to tell us, of course… but oh, it’s good to see for myself.” She clasped his face between her hands and beamed.

  “It’s marvellous to see you too,” Rowland replied sincerely. Alice Kendall was what he missed most about his childhood.

  She wiped her eyes and gathered herself. “Look at me, waylaying you like some bandit when you’ll be wanting to see your brother. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are taking tea in the conservatory.”

  “Uncle Rowly!” Ernest said impatiently.

  “Up!” demanded Ewan.

  Alice Kendall straightened his tie and patted down his lapel. “Away with you before Mr. Sinclair dismisses me for keeping you too long.”

  Rowland laughed, convinced Wilfred would sooner get rid of him than Mrs. Kendall, especially now. They’d not parted well, and he was honestly not sure he’d be welcome.

  He threw Ewan over his shoulder once again and followed Ernest down the hall. The conservatory at Oaklea overlooked the extensive rose beds behind the house, and beyond that the less formal structure of the new gardens designed by Edna Walling. In the nine months since Rowland had last been back, the young plants and vines had established and structures had weathered into their surrounds. Also visible from the conservatory was the wing reconstructed after the blaze that had razed it.

  A linen-draped table was burdened with tea, scones and butterfly cakes. Upon a second table, more than two-dozen vases each held a different rose. Wilfred was holding a bloom up to the light as he and Kate scrutinised it.

  “Uncle Rowly’s here!” Ernest declared.

  Kate Sinclair turned before her husband. “Rowly!” She moved to allow her brother-in-law to kiss her cheek. “We are so glad you’re here,” she said meeting his eye. “It’s been too long and the boys have missed you terribly.”

  “Rowly’s just passing through,” Wilfred said curtly.

  “No!” Kate objected. “You must stay. You really must.”

  “I—”

  “Please, Uncle Rowly,” Ernest begged. “Maudie’s had puppies and Gilbert’s got a tooth.”

  Rowland hesitated. “I could leave tomorrow morning, I suppose…”

  “It’s settled then!” Kate said firmly. “We’ll have you for one night at least.”

  Ernest cheered. He pulled Rowland’s hand. “Come on, Maudie’s puppies are in the shed… ”

  “Ernie! For heaven’s sake let your uncle enjoy a cup of tea first.” Kate smiled nervously, as she tried to compensate for the fact that Wilfred had not yet said a word. “Wil and I were just choosing roses for the gardens at Parliament House.”

  “Mr. Broinowski did mention it.”

  “A lovely idea, don’t you think, Rowly? Roses from our garden will be growing at Parliament House. Rose growers from all over the region will be donating cultivars…” Kate looked desperately at her husband.

  Wilfred carried on comparing blooms. “Yes. It’ll be a truly excellent garden, I’m sure.”

  “And how is Mr. Isaacs, Rowly?” Kate asked. “Ethel said he was being very brave.”

  Rowland smiled. “He’s well on the mend—walking on crutches. Clyde and Ed are taking him back to Sydney today.”

  “So soon? Is he well enough to travel?”

  “He says he is.”

  “Oh, Rowly, you could have brought him here to recuperate. We’re a lot closer than Sydney and you are all always welcome.”

  Wilfred cleared his throat.

  “That’s very kind of you, Kate.” Rowland regretted that his sister-in-law was caught between him and Wilfred. Kate was by nature peaceable. She’d always suffered when the Sinclair brothers went to war against each other. “I might head down to inspect these puppies before the day gets away.” Rowland ruffled Ernest’s hair.

  “Harry’s back from the snow leases at the moment,” Kate offered. “You might find him somewhere about the place.”

  “He’s at the cottage.” Wilfred did not look away from his roses. “I will telephone him to expect you.”

  “Thank you, Wil,” Rowland said carefully. He looked down at Ewan.

  “Up!” The child stretched out his arms.

  “I thought so.”

  They took the Airflow to the shed, not because the distance warranted it, but because Rowland’s nephews wanted a ride. Rowland turned on the radio so there was music for the five-minute journey.

  Maudie’s puppies were barely two weeks old, consigned to a large basket in the shade of the machinery shed in the care of their mother. A working dog, Maudie was a tolerant parent, allowing Rowland and the boys to handle her squealing progeny without complaint. Ernest had given each of the six puppies a name, though it was clear to Rowland that the boy couldn’t tell one from another. It didn’t matter. Rowland presumed each dog would claim a name in time.

  When they pulled up beside the accommodations reserved for the Oaklea managers, Harry Simpson was waiting on the verandah of his cottage. He was an arresting figure, taller even than Rowland and broad. His dark skin was almost glossy. An easy wide smile carried into the dark blue of his eyes.

  “Gagamin!” he boomed meeting Rowland on the steps. He shook his hand and slapped his back at the same time.

  “It’s so very good to see you, Harry,” Rowland replied. While Harry Simpson had a permanent home on Oaklea, he did not always remain, and so finding him there was a happy chance. As Wilfred’s most trusted man, Simpson managed the other Sinclair properties from time to time, or went wandering in the custom of his people.

  The Wiradjuri stockman had been raised on Oaklea in the company of the
Sinclair boys. The same age as the late Aubrey Sinclair, his relationship with each of the brothers was close and strong. Rowland would have done anything for him.

  “Hello, Mr. Simpson.” Ernest ran up the steps. “Are you going fishing? Can I come, please?”

  Simpson nodded. “Your father and I might go out tomorrow. We could put up with you, I reckon, but you’d have to bring the sandwiches.”

  Ernest nodded solemnly.

  And so they sat on the squatters’ chairs on Simpson’s verandah with enamel cups of tea, ginger beer for the boys, and a damper which the stockman had proudly baked himself. Simpson entertained them with tales of the high country. Only later, when they stood leaning shoulder to shoulder on the verandah railing, watching Ewan and Ernest picking dandelions in the grass, did Simpson broach the subject of Wilfred. “So what are you and Wil bluing about this time, Rowly?”

  Rowland told him quite honestly about the fiasco of his last art exhibition and the personal offence Wilfred had taken to it.

  Simpson grimaced. “Just keep your head down, Rowly. You know what he’s like. He’ll cool down.”

  “The thing is, Harry, I can’t keep my head down at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m involved in something that I suspect Wil won’t like at all.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “It’s important.”

  Harry Simpson sighed. “In the end you’ve got to be your own man, Gagamin.”

  Rowland said nothing for a moment, and then he asked Harry Simpson for a favour. “When this all comes out, would you tell Wil that I wasn’t trying to defy or embarrass him? It’s just what I had to do.”

  “That bad, is it?” Simpson asked.

  “I don’t think so… but Wil might.”

  21

  BABY’S FIRST TOOTH

  “George,” exclaimed Mrs. Young to her husband, with a radiant smile, “baby has a tooth!”