“Mr. Sinclair…” Momentarily startled, Clyde admitted Wilfred Sinclair and Dr. Frederick Maguire to the suite.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Watson Jones. Freddie and I thought we might drop in and check on Rowly,” Wilfred said brusquely. He removed his bowler and cast his eyes about the suite.
“Yes… of course…” Clyde stuttered, folding up the map spread out on the card table, from which he had been plotting their route to Fremantle. It was a ten-hour drive from Yass. Wilfred must have set off not long after he’d last spoken to Rowland. “Rowly’s in the bedroom. Can I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
“We’d best look in on Rowly first.” Wilfred opened the door to the bedroom and Maguire stepped in ahead of him.
Rowland was as surprised as Clyde had been by his brother’s arrival. Wilfred had always produced Maguire like some kind of medical genie he kept in his fob pocket, but both men would have needed to come from Yass at least. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked as he tried to sit up.
“Stay where you are, Rowland,” Maguire instructed, opening his medical bag.
“I just so happened to have some business matters to attend to in Melbourne,” Wilfred said. “We thought we’d make sure that your newfound fear of hospitals wasn’t going to see you end up in the morgue.”
“I’m not afraid of—”
“And if you’re well enough to travel—then you can come back with me.” Wilfred kept his eyes on Rowland’s face.
Maguire placed a thermometer under Rowland’s tongue and removed Featherstone’s dressings to inspect the wound. He pressed on Rowland’s stomach. “I’ll thank you not to bite my thermometer,” he said as Rowland tensed against his touch.
The doctor removed the instrument and held it up to the light to see the reading. “You’ve a temperature,” he murmured. “How much pain are you in?”
“It’s tolerable as long as I don’t move.” Rowland had no intention of returning with Wilfred. And now he wondered how much Wilfred knew or suspected.
Maguire felt around the wound.
Rowland gasped and tried to pull away. Wilfred watched on.
“Did Dr. Featherstone check that the blade hadn’t broken off?” Maguire posed, still prodding at the wound.
“Yes, sir, he did,” Clyde said quickly. “He made absolutely sure.”
“I suspect you have a mild infection.” The surgeon reached into his bag. “I’ll need to irrigate and clean the wound. It should be done twice a day from here on in.”
“I’ll make arrangements for a nurse to attend to you at Oaklea,” Wilfred said. “Bloody ridiculous to be hiding out in a hotel like some criminal.”
“Wil, I can’t—” Rowland said.
“I could give him some morphine,” Maguire offered. “It should make him more comfortable for the journey.”
“Absolutely not!” Wilfred replied.
“You’re not drugging me just so you can drag me back to Oaklea,” Rowland growled. “I’m staying here, Wil.”
“Why? Why are you so determined to stay? After this fiasco with the Roche woman, I would have thought you’d be happy to leave!”
“Why are you so determined to confine me to Yass? What are you afraid I’ll do?”
“Don’t be absurd, Rowly! You’re seriously ill.”
Rowland sighed. “Look, Wil, I’m all right… but it hurts like the devil when I move. Being rattled along in the back of your Rolls for ten hours will be pure torture.”
“I believe you’ll find a Rolls Royce does not rattle,” Wilfred said coldly.
“You know what I mean. If I feel able in a few days, Clyde and I might attend the Melbourne Cup. But for the moment, I’m just going to lie here and feel sorry for myself.”
“If I could have a quiet word…” Maguire beckoned Wilfred to follow him into the sitting room. They spoke in hushed tones for several moments.
“Very well, Rowly,” Wilfred said returning to the room. “Freddie seems to agree that it would be ill-advised to move you at present. I’m due back in Melbourne on the ninth. In the meantime, he’ll speak with this chap Featherstone to ensure you’re being looked after properly.”
“For God’s sake, try not to offend him,” Rowland muttered, expecting that Maguire would do just that. He coughed, cursing as the movement seemed to tear open the wound anew.
Wilfred contemplated his brother. He hesitated. “Perhaps something for the pain is warranted…”
Rowland shook his head. “No. I’ll manage.”
Wilfred nodded. “Good man.”
Maguire and Wilfred departed not long after, with warnings about infection and over-exertion. Clyde pulled a bridge chair up beside Rowland’s bed once they’d gone. “What the hell was that about?”
“Wilfred suspects we’re up to something, I expect. He came down to lock me up in Oaklea until Armistice Day.”
“Are you all right?”
Rowland smiled. “I was playing it up a bit. Had to make sure Wil wouldn’t insist I go back with him.”
“Crikey, mate, I was getting worried that I’d let you lie here in agony for a day and a half.”
Rowland held his side gingerly as he sat up. “Don’t get me wrong—it hurts, but not as much as I made out,” he said slowly.
“What now?”
“I’m going to have to lie low until we leave.” Rowland grimaced as he contemplated a week in the hotel room. “I wouldn’t put it past Wil to have me watched. No doubt he’ll have Featherstone on his payroll by the end of the day.”
It was barely light at the Laverton aerodrome. Clyde and Rowland had arranged to take off in the early hours to ensure they attracted as little attention as possible. Now six days after the stabbing, they had decided they couldn’t delay any longer. The daybreak drizzle ensured that even the most dedicated reporters had not thought to stake out the Comet in the hope of an impromptu visit by Scott or Black. Despite their best efforts, however, a small crowd had gathered to see them off: Arthur Howells, John Fisher, and Nettie and Vance Palmer represented the Movement Against War and Fascism. A young woman and a man leaning heavily on a walking stick also stood on the edge of the tarmac.
Edna Higgins and Milton Isaacs had come down on the train the day before. Milton had been determined to be at the MAWF congress in any case, and Edna had wanted to see for herself that Rowland was fit to fly. They found both Rowland and Clyde in the hotel suite going over flight plans and memorising routes. Rowland’s wound appeared to be substantially healed and clearly the arrival of the sculptress was a tonic in itself. And so they’d all spent the previous evening exchanging news and playing cards, and rekindling the excitement of what they were about to do.
Milton had taken the extra bed in Clyde’s room. Refusing to deprive Rowland of his bed, on the account of his recent injury and the impending flight, Edna had settled on the couch with pillows and blankets. Even so, she’d padded into Rowland’s room in the middle of the night. Rowland was not particularly surprised by the intrusion. Edna had a habit of visiting in the dead of night when she had something on her mind. And he’d sensed she had something on her mind.
“Rowly… Rowly, wake up.”
He’d opened his eyes to her face as she knelt beside his bed. “Ed…” It was not so dark that he could not see the familiar planes of her countenance and, for a moment, he’d allowed himself to simply look at her. Then he’d sat up and moved over so she could sit beside him.
“I have to know, are you dreadfully upset about Mrs. Roche?”
He smiled, touched that she was so concerned. “No. Not anymore. Jem and I were more a memory than anything else.”
“It was Bertie,” she blurted. “Bertie called the papers.”
“Middleton… How did he—”
“I told him you were in Melbourne, Rowly. I’m so sorry.”
“Good Lord, Ed—it’s not your fault.” Rowland shook his head, perplexed. “Knowing I was in Melbourne doesn’t explain how he knew I’d be with…” He faltered.<
br />
Edna smiled. She could sense his embarrassment. “I suspect Mrs. Roche might have told him of her intentions, Rowly. Bertie spoke to some of his journalist friends about it.”
“But why?”
“He’s an idiot and it seems he’s frightfully angry with you.”
Rowland sat up. “Rather lousy thing to do to Jemima, just because he was cross with me.”
“As I said, he’s an idiot.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“I’m so sorry, Rowly.”
“It’s certainly not your fault he’s an idiot.”
“But I am sorry, especially if what he did came between you and—”
“Ed, sweetheart, Jemima simply used me to establish grounds to petition for a divorce. That was all.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. “That’s… are you all right?”
“Perfectly well. I was quite relieved when she refused my proposal, if truth be told.”
“Well marriage is a rather drastic solution,” Edna nudged him. “What were you thinking?”
“It was Clyde’s idea.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Honestly, Ed, my pride’s a little bruised, but my heart is perfectly intact.”
Her eyes moved to the place under his ribs where she knew the stab wound to be. “And what about the rest of you?”
“Never better. Healed.”
“Show me,” she said, unwilling to take his word on this. In Edna’s experience the men she lived with were wont to complain excessively about head colds and dismiss the life-threatening.
He turned on the lamp beside the bed, and lifted his singlet so she could see for herself. At Rowland’s insistence, Featherstone had removed the stitches that day, earlier than he would otherwise have done so. The area was quite bruised, a little inflamed, and if Rowland was honest, very tender, but the wound was closed.
Edna touched the still livid scar. “Gosh, Rowly, you were frightfully lucky. If the blade had been angled upwards, it would have punctured your lung. You wouldn’t have been able to make a sound.”
“Perhaps that was their plan,” Rowland said, mildly distracted by her touch. Her hand was cool on his skin.
“I stepped out with a soldier a couple of years ago. Special operations or so he claimed,” Edna said thoughtfully. “He told me once that if you wanted to kill a man silently, you stabbed him in the lungs from behind so he couldn’t scream, and then cut his throat.”
“He told you that?”
“It sounds macabre out of context. I suspect he was using the demonstration as an elaborate if rather transparent ploy to get his arms around me.” Edna smiled at Rowland’s obvious alarm. “He was quite sweet really. What I mean to say is that the men who attacked you might have been in the army at some point.”
Rowland nodded slowly. There had been a kind of efficient order to the way he’d been corralled and restrained. If the blade had hit his lung, he probably would not have been able to fight back as he had. Still, there were many men who’d seen service, who would be trained in the rigours of hand-to-hand combat. The observation did not really narrow the field. Despite returning with a detective inspector on two occasions, Meggit and Brown had not made any progress on the identity of his attackers either, though they had at least abandoned their ridiculous suspicions of Clyde.
Edna frowned. “Are you sure you’re well enough, Rowly? Perhaps—”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t risk the Grosvenor House, let alone Clyde’s life, if I wasn’t able to fly. Whoever those mongrels were, they’re not going to be able to reach me at 19,000 feet.”
A letter from Oswald Roche delivered to the hotel had made Rowland wonder if the attack had, in fact, nothing to do with anti-Communist thugs or Ley. The missive was outraged and vitriolic, pledging to reveal Rowland as a blackguard of the worst kind to make him understand the consequences of dealing immorally with another man’s wife. Reminded of how desperate Jemima had appeared to be rid of her husband, he’d telephoned Wilfred and asked him to check on her. It seemed to him that Jemima Roche had become involved with at least two very dangerous men.
But now, as they were about to climb into the cockpit of the fastest aeroplane in the world, Rowland forgot about murderers and husbands. Exhilarated, he kissed Edna’s cheek. “Isn’t she beautiful, Ed?”
Edna laughed, quite accustomed to his tendency to become besotted with machines and gadgetry. She reached up and wrapped a white scarf around his neck, tucking its ends into the front of his leather aviator’s jacket. “For luck,” she said. “Fly safely, Rowly, and come back to us.”
“Our Rowly’s the type of the wise who soar but never roam,” Milton said sagely as he hobbled up to shake Rowland’s hand. “True to the kindred points of heaven and home.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but it’s Wordsworth.” Rowland took Milton’s hand, warmly. “You’re sure you can drive?” he asked, frowning. The sculptress and the poet would stay with Max Meldrum in Olinda. The artist’s home in the Dandenong mountains, it had been decided, was safer than a city hotel with Rowland’s attackers still unidentified and at large. Milton and Edna would take the Chrysler Airflow with them.
“Without a second thought, Rowly.” Milton twirled his walking stick, using the handle to push his hat into a more jaunty angle. “I just keep this to look distinguished. It’s a rather stylish accessory, don’t you think? Gives one a rather well-heeled air… it seems only the working classes are content to limp.”
Rowland and Clyde farewelled the Kisch Reception Committee, thanking Meldrum particularly for welcoming their friends into his home. The illustrious artist waved off their gratitude in his way. Edna demanded they all pose for photographs. There was a momentous air about the endeavour that precluded any recognition of risk, any contemplation of failure.
Edna kissed Clyde goodbye, and ceremoniously wrapped a second silk scarf over the top of the woollen one he was already wearing. She stood back to inspect them, snapping another picture. “You both look so very dashing.”
The small crowd applauded as Clyde climbed onto the wing and opened the cockpit canopy.
Rowland lingered. There was something about farewells at dawn. It seemed to suspend propriety for just a moment. The drizzle had formed tiny auburn ringlets around Edna’s face. Her eyes were bright and, even in the rain, he could smell the faint rose of her perfume. She embraced him one final time and, gently, he kissed her in a way that was possibly inappropriate. The representatives from MAWF applauded once more. Edna laughed. “Whoever said you weren’t a showman, Rowland Sinclair?”
Rowland pulled on his flying helmet and climbed into the first cockpit. Perhaps it was because Milton had just stolen from Wordsworth that the words of the bard came to him now. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven.
The Grosvenor House took off from Laverton aerodrome just after five o’clock on the morning of 4 November. The R.M.S. Strathaird was due to deliver Egon Kisch to Fremantle on Tuesday the sixth, Melbourne Cup Day 1934, and Rowland would fly him back to Melbourne by the eighth.
They’d plotted a flight plan which took them over land rather than the more direct route over water, so that they would have more options if there were problems. As it was, they were flying via Mildura, Port Augusta, Forrest, Kalgoorlie and Merredin. They would land only in Forrest to break the seven-hour flight. Capable of flying 2500 nautical miles without stopping, the Grosvenor House would not require refuelling and the break would be only for the comfort of her pilots.
In the cockpit the noise of the engines was such that Rowland and Clyde could only communicate with each other by shouting. Initially, they were excited enough that the requirement was no great chore, but after an hour or so they fell into silence, each privately revelling in the Comet’s speed.
It was over Mildura that the Grosvenor House’s port engine lost pressure and began seizing. Clyde cursed. Rowland reacted quickly. Given Scott and Black’s experience, he’d been prepare
d for the possibility. He recited Scott’s instructions out loud as he throttled down the port engine and manually pressed the rudder with his foot to equalise the power levels. The aircraft settled.
“Good show, Rowly!” Clyde shouted, crossing himself thankfully.
Rowland bit his lip. He hadn’t anticipated how the consequent position of his leg would impact the injured muscles in his side. The pain began sharply but gradually eased to a dull burn. He dismissed the discomfort, sure that it would abate as he became accustomed to the strain.
They approached Forrest, a little behind time due to throttling back the engines. Rowland signalled to Clyde that he would fly around the airport first as the Comet’s design left it with almost no forward view. Briefly he pressed his hand to his side trying to ignore the ache. He’d deal with the wound shortly, but first they’d have to land. He brought the Grosvenor House down gradually, locking his eyes on a peripheral view of the runway’s edge as he reduced speed. The scorching conditions combined with a light crosswind to make keeping wings level a challenge. Rowland felt for the runway, and the plane touched down with a jolt. A cold sweat dampened his forehead as he worked the throttles and the stick to bring her to a controlled, if less than perfect, halt.
Clyde popped the canopy and got out first. He stared at Rowland. “What’s wrong? You look like hell.”
Rowland took the hand Clyde offered him and dragged himself out. “I’m still a little sore,” he said, not wanting to alarm his friend. “I think I may have pulled a muscle trying to keep pressure on the rudder.”
“We’ll swap places for the next leg.” Clyde watched carefully as Rowland hobbled down from the wing. He looked pointedly at Rowland’s side. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Rowland nodded, his hand over the site of the wound. “It’s holding. I just need a breather.”
A settlement rather than a town, Forrest was located on the longest stretch of straight railway in the world. It was flat country just inside the border of Western Australia. The hostel at the airstrip provided accommodation and meals for passengers stopping overnight on the passenger air service between Perth and Adelaide. Its restaurant boasted cuisine “worthy of any city hotel”. It was here that Clyde and Rowland stopped for luncheon.
A Dangerous Language Page 24