A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

“If you marry her—quickly and quietly—then this becomes an invasion of privacy as opposed to an exposure of vice. Eloping with a divorcee is scandalous, but in comparison—”

  “It seems she’s widowed, not divorced.”

  “Really? Even better. Nothing to see at all.”

  Rowland was silent. He tried desperately not to think of Edna. This was the honourable thing to do. The only thing to do. “Would you stand up for me, Clyde?”

  The question startled Clyde. He hadn’t really expected… “Yes, of course, mate.”

  Rowland turned over the engine. “I’d better change. One shouldn’t propose marriage in yesterday’s shirt.”

  Rowland put down his razor and wiped his face. He did not look long enough at his own reflection in the shaving mirror to see the growing panic in his eyes. Knotting the tie he’d slung around his collar, he stepped out of the ensuite to join Clyde. “It’s too early for a drink, I expect?”

  In his Sunday suit, Clyde stood ready for whatever was required of a best man. “Not today.” He opened the cocktail cabinet built in to a corner of the room, and poured gin and tonic water into two tumblers. “To your happiness, old mate,” he said, raising his glass.

  Rowland drank. He did love Jemima Roche. He did.

  Clyde swirled his drink. “One detail puzzles me, Rowly. How did the photographers know where you were?”

  Rowland considered the question. “I’ve no idea. There were two or three photographers taking pictures for the society pages at the restaurant, but I’m sure they weren’t the same bastards who burst into Jem’s suite.” He fiddled nervously with the knot in his tie. “Perhaps someone from the hotel noticed us go up and informed a contact at the papers in return for some sort of gratuity.”

  “Do you want to call Woodlands before we do this?”

  “No.” Rowland was definite. He could not bear Edna being happy for him. “Let’s go get Jemima and find a clergyman.”

  Knowing the number and location of Jemima’s suite, Rowland did not need to call at the reception desk. He and Clyde went up directly.

  He was a little surprised when Thomas Ley opened the door. “Mr. Sinclair! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Roche.”

  “About what happened this morning? Don’t look so alarmed, my boy. I’m Jemima’s solicitor, you know.”

  Rowland and Clyde walked into the suite. Ley closed the door behind them. Jemima was seated in the club chair, fully dressed, smoking a cigarette held in a thin Bakelite holder. She was still pale.

  “Jem, could we possibly have a word alone?” Rowland asked, his misgivings allayed by a sudden desperation to put things right.

  “Under no circumstances!” Ley said. “Being alone in this suite with Mrs. Roche is what has led us to your current predicament. That and the devil’s drink.”

  Rowland glared at Ley.

  Clyde intervened. “We may have a solution… a way out of this situation.”

  Ley folded his arms. “Let’s have it then?”

  “Mr. Ley, would you kindly get out?”

  Perhaps it was the flint in Rowland’s tone that made the ex-politician reconsider the wisdom of pushing him. “Mr. Watson Jones and I shall wait in the bedroom—with the door open.”

  Rowland held off until they were at least out of sight. He tried to ignore the fact he and Jemima were not alone. They didn’t have time for anything else.

  He knelt and took her hand. “Marry me, Jem. The scandal won’t exist if you’re Mrs. Rowland Sinclair.”

  For a moment Jemima was overcome. She put her hand to his cheek. “Oh God, you’re so sweet… but I simply can’t…”

  “Jem, I realise there’s nothing remotely romantic about this proposal, but I do love you. I have loved you since I was fifteen.”

  She smiled, though her lips were unsteady. “But not the way you loved me when you were fifteen. I know you, Rowly. And I told you all I wanted was an affair.”

  “But this is the only way—”

  “I can’t marry you, Rowly. I’m already married.”

  Rowland dropped her hand. “What?”

  “Oswald isn’t dead. And we’re not divorced.”

  “You lied—”

  “No. Never. Not to you. I didn’t ever say I was divorced… you assumed that… until you decided that I was widowed.”

  “Semantics!” Rowland said angrily. “You deceived me, Jem, and you jolly well know it.”

  She paused. “Yes, I suppose I did. I had good reason, Rowly.”

  “What possible reason could you have?”

  “Oswald won’t grant me a divorce unless I assume the blame. Unless I am the adulterer of record. You said your reputation was already destroyed, Rowly… you said you’d help me.”

  “For God’s sake, Jem, why me, why now?”

  “I can probably best answer that.” Thomas Ley walked back into the room. Rowland stood.

  “What you must understand is that Mrs. Fairweather is a grand old lady—nearly ninety years old, and she’s not as well as she used to be. If she passes away while Jemima is still married, then Oswald Roche will be entitled to at least half of the estate.”

  “He’s already squandered everything I had from Papa. I will not let Oswald do the same with Grandmama’s estate!” Jemima said hotly.

  “I don’t understand.” Rowland stepped away from her.

  “Unfortunately, your picnic in Canberra wasn’t witnessed by anyone.” Ley sighed. “I informed Mrs. Roche that she would be far better creating the requisite evidence in an establishment such as this, where the staff could attest to a gentleman’s presence, his breakfast order and so forth.”

  Rowland turned back to Jemima in horror. “You called the papers?”

  “No! This was supposed to be discreet. Being the latest scandal in the Truth will destroy everything. And what’s more, it’ll destroy Grandmama.”

  “Yes,” Ley agreed. “The papers are going to cause a number of problems.”

  “You see, darling,” Jemima pleaded with Rowland. “I was simply planning to name you in the divorce proceedings… it would have been relatively quiet. It would have been the truth. It’s how it’s done.”

  Rowland was reminded that Jemima Fairweather had never let anything stand in her way. He admired that once. “Why didn’t you simply tell me, Jem? Why did you have to trick me into this?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d perjure yourself, or knowingly take a married woman to bed. I didn’t have time to take the risk that you had become morally upstanding since I knew you last. I couldn’t see the harm, Rowly… your Miss Higgins doesn’t look like the type who’d be overly sanctimonious about where you’d spent your nights. I thought perhaps it might make her jealous, and then we’d all do well out of this.”

  Rowland shook his head. He had thought to marry this woman. He noticed the bags near the door for the first time. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Yass. Perhaps I can prevent Grandmama disinheriting me, or dying of shame when she learns of the Truth’s little exposé. Either would be unfortunate. If I ever find out who called the newspapers, I’ll kill them myself.” She put out her cigarette and stood. “Please don’t hate me, Rowly. I honestly didn’t believe I was at risk of breaking your heart… not really.”

  “You’ve made a complete fool of me, Jem.”

  “I do adore you, Rowly. I wasn’t pretending about that… and we had fun, didn’t we?”

  “Jem, do you not realise the consequences of this?”

  “You said your reputation was already destroyed, that you wanted to help me.”

  “I would have helped you if you’d just asked me.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Sinclair,” Ley said almost proudly, “this little charade was my idea. We had intended to just hire a gentleman to play the ‘evidence’ but when you happened upon my little tennis soiree at Willowview and Jemima told me about your past affection, I realised you would do so much better.”

/>   “Why?” Rowland demanded frostily.

  “Oswald Roche is fully aware that Jemima is Mrs. Fairweather’s heiress. Consequently he’s exceptionally reluctant to co-operate with divorce proceedings. I thought the involvement of a name like Sinclair might help him amend his attitude.”

  Rowland struggled to keep his temper. “What the devil are you talking about, Ley? Why would the Sinclair name make a jot of difference?”

  “Aside from the fact that Wilfred Sinclair is a powerful man, your name, Rowland, has come up in connection to a number of suspicious deaths: your father; Isobel Hanrahan; Orville Urquhart; Lord Alfred Dawe; Charles Hayden; and the list goes on. It was only your brother’s influence and intervention that prevented you from being charged with the attempted assassination of Eric Campbell.” Ley smiled about the room, a man pleased with his own cleverness. “I hoped the thought that you—a potentially dangerous and volatile man—being involved with Mrs. Roche might dissuade Oswald Roche from trying to make life difficult.”

  Speechless, Rowland stared at Ley.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Ley, the poor chap might have been more frightened if, instead, you were involved with Mrs. Roche,” Clyde said casually.

  To this, Ley’s reaction was quite extraordinary, given the circumstances and the accusations he had just levelled at Rowland. “How dare you, sir. I’ll have you know I have prosecuted men for less defamatory and scurrilous insinuations. I demand you retract immediately!”

  Rowland addressed Jemima. “I believe this man is dangerous, Jem. He is at the very least a fool. All you had to do was ask me. I would have found a way to help you.”

  “By despatching Oswald as you have others, I suppose,” Ley said imperiously. “We didn’t want to resort to that.”

  Jemima wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Rowly…”

  “Jemima,” Ley said sternly. “Do not be taken in by this man. He’s ruthless. I’m told he killed a woman once. A Miss Isobel Hanrahan who was in fact carrying his child—”

  Rowland punched him then. Ley went over, his arms windmilling as he fell. He landed on the floor between the settee and the smoking stand.

  Clyde did not move. The blow was inevitable. If anything, too long in coming, but he’d always considered Rowland more restrained than most men.

  Without another glance at Ley, Rowland moved to grab one of Jemima Roche’s suitcases. “When are you heading back to Yass, Jem?”

  “My train leaves in an hour.”

  “Good. We’ll take you.”

  “But Tommy—”

  “I’m not leaving you here with him. Either you let me take you to the station or I’ll have to call the police and we’ll have to explain this whole sordid mess to them.”

  Clyde picked up the second bag and opened the door. With a tentative glance over her shoulder at Ley, who sat nursing a bloody nose, she stepped out into the corridor. “You’ll pay for this, Sinclair!” Ley promised as Rowland and Clyde followed her out.

  Jemima Roche checked out of the Windsor. Rowland Sinclair settled her account.

  They did not speak to each other until they reached the station, and then only as Jemima’s train was boarding.

  “If the court asks me, I will not deny that I spent last night in your bed,” he said quietly.

  Jemima looked up into his face and, though she smiled, her eyes were moist. “I didn’t warn the newspapers, Rowly. You have to believe me. Grandmama will be furious.”

  “I’ll see if anything can be done about the Truth,” Rowland replied. He had no desire to be the rag’s tawdry headline either.

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m not going to kill anyone, Jem, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Rowland said irritably. A whistle for last boarding. “You’d better go. Good luck, Mrs. Roche.”

  “I am sorry, Rowly.”

  “Yes, so am I.”

  24

  BACKER OF COMET PLANE LOST MONEY, BUT IS SATISFIED

  EXPECTS CHANGES BEFORE

  S.A. CENTENARY

  While C.W.A. Scott and Campbell Black are objects of hero worship in Adelaide equally with the rest of Australia, the man who made their success in the air race possible arrived unheralded in the express from Melbourne today. He is Mr. A.O. Edwards, the owner of Grosvenor House, London, and the nominator of the red Comet plane in which the epoch-making flight to Australia was made. The race was as much an adventure to Mr. Edwards as it was to his pilots. He left London with no more tangible evidence that he was the owner of an aeroplane than a photograph of the factory drawings of the design, and an agreement with two aviators, who were almost strangers to him, to fly it to Australia. “To win success in such circumstances was a wonderful thrill—one that could be expected only once in a lifetime,” said Mr. Edwards today. “My confidence received a jolt only once, and that was when they telegraphed me from Darwin to have a mechanic waiting at Charleville.”

  Mr. Edwards said he lost money over the venture, but he was well content. The gold cup for the air race would have a place of honour in his hotel, where it would be a constant reminder of Australia and the event. In spite of his outlay on the venture Mr. Edwards has not had a ride in the Comet. He is not a pilot, but likes air travel.

  News, 5 November 1934

  Clyde returned to the suite and opened the door tentatively. He’d left Rowland to telephone Wilfred in private, and stayed away for more than an hour to be sure. He wasn’t certain how Rowland would come out of the conversation.

  Rowland was standing by the window, staring out.

  “How was it?” Clyde asked.

  “Humiliating.” Rowland folded his arms and leant back against the architrave. “Wil’s setting our solicitors upon the Truth, and pulling what strings he can with the paper’s editors.”

  “Will it work, do you think?”

  “We’ll know tomorrow morning when the papers come out.”

  “Was Wilfred livid?”

  “Incandescent.”

  Clyde winced. Rowland’s frayed relationship with his brother had only just begun to recover. “I’m sorry to hear that, mate.”

  Rowland frowned thoughtfully. “To be honest, he was not as incensed with me as he was with the Truth.”

  “Really?” Clyde scratched his head. “Did you tell him everything?”

  “Yes, I thought I owed him that since I was asking him to clean up the mess. He’s been a lot angrier about my paintings than he was about this.”

  “Perhaps he’s mellowing.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Well, perhaps he’s just relieved you didn’t marry her.”

  Rowland smiled, as he considered how Jemima’s penchant for misbehaviour would sit in the polite and proper pastoral and polo society of his brother. “Could be.”

  Clyde regarded Rowland critically. “Are you all right, Rowly?”

  “Yes.” Rowland moved to take his hat from the rack by the door.

  “Are you sure? It would have been a shock to discover Mrs. Roche was—”

  “It shouldn’t have been,” Rowland said. “A shock, I mean. Not with Jem involved. I’d just forgotten to expect it.”

  “How could you possibly expect this?”

  Rowland tried to explain. “Jem was never one to contemplate consequences. She was never there to see them. When we first met, she gave my father one helluva dressing-down.” He shook his head, still a little awestruck by the memory of it. “She was magnificent! I loved her for it. But I also paid for it.”

  “I see.” Clyde knew how brutal Henry Sinclair had been towards his son. He could only imagine what Jemima’s stance had cost Rowland. “Did you tell her?”

  “God no—I was in love with her, Clyde.” Rowland adjusted the band of his hat distractedly. “Or I thought I was.”

  Clyde nodded sympathetically. “We all thought we were in love at fifteen, mate. It’s the age for it.”

  Rowland smiled. “You probably chose better than I did.”
r />   “If you think Sister Benedict Michael sounds like a good choice.”

  “Good Lord! You are joking.”

  “Sadly not,” Clyde said gravely. “I was ready to fight the Almighty for her.”

  Rowland’s smile broadened. “What happened?”

  “My old mum found out and dragged me to confession by the ear.” Clyde grimaced. “I reckon I wasn’t the first boy to confess about Sister Benedict Michael because Father Murphy was quite understanding. He dished out a few Hail Marys as penance and Mum barged into the confessional booth to complain that it was not enough.”

  Laughing now, Rowland opened the door.

  “Where are we going?” Clyde asked.

  “I think it’s high time I introduced you to the Grosvenor House. You can tell me more about Sister Benedict Michael on the way.”

  Edwards’ mechanics had been through the engines of the Grosvenor House searching for the fault that had caused the loss in pressure which had necessitated flying the Comet at half throttle. They’d found nothing.

  “She seems to be in perfect order, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Are you sure?” Clyde said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let me have a butcher’s.”

  Knowing that Clyde Watson Jones was to be Rowland Sinclair’s co-pilot, the engineers took him through the workings of the plane. Clyde listened intently and asked questions which demonstrated his affinity with motors. Rowland had been given a similar orientation. If there was an emergency, they would have only their own know-how with which to extract themselves.

  While Clyde wasn’t technically licensed to fly a plane, he had flown the Rule Britannia often with Rowland in the second cockpit. The paperwork was simply a formality.

  They spent an hour poring over the engines, examining and reexamining anything that might have caused the problem experienced by Scott and Black.

  “I don’t suppose we could take her up, Rowly?”

  Rowland pointed at the small crowd of reporters at the edge of the aerodrome. “It’ll be news if she does anything other than taxi, Clyde. I was hoping to keep a low profile. I don’t want to chance Edwards reneging on our agreement.”

  “Fair enough. You sure you can fly this thing, mate?”

  “I’m sure we can fly her.”