Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  Wilfred snorted, but otherwise did not object.

  Hayden fidgeted with the brim of the hat he clutched in his lap. He did not look at Rowland.

  “Could you tell us how you knew the deceased, the late Mr. Henry Sinclair, who died on or about the thirteenth of March 1920, Mr. Hayden?” Angel prompted.

  Hayden straightened. He focussed on the detective. “I was in the employ of the late Mr. Henry Sinclair for sixteen years, as the manager here at Oaklea. Mr. Sinclair engaged my services in 1904, before Rowland Sinclair was born.”

  “Are we in agreement thus far?” Gilbey asked Wilfred.

  “Yes.”

  “And what were your duties, Mr. Hayden?” Angel prompted again.

  Hayden recited a long list of managerial responsibilities, including crop and breeding programs, at pains to point out his contribution, Henry Sinclair’s reliance on him and his loyalty to the family.

  “And did you have any duties of a more personal nature, Mr. Hayden?”

  Hayden nodded. “You’ve gotta understand Henry Sinclair was not a young man. He’d always been strict with his boys but Master Rowland was a lot younger than his brothers… and the boy was a handful.”

  The constables took a precautionary step closer to Rowland at this point.

  “What was it Henry Sinclair required of you in relation to his son?”

  “This wasn’t until after the Great War had started, mind,” Hayden said licking his lips. “Mr. Sinclair would call me in to discipline the boy.”

  “Discipline how?”

  “With a belt.”

  “Would you be more specific, Mr. Hayden?”

  Hayden tilted his head to one side. “About two, maybe three inches wide… long enough to go around a girth of a stock horse…”

  Gilbey cleared his throat. “Could you be more specific about how exactly this arrangement worked,” he corrected.

  “Oh. Mr. Sinclair would send word that I was needed at the house. I knew what he meant. I’d go to the tack shed and pull a surcingle from one of the stock saddles and then report to Mr. Sinclair’s study. The boy would take his shirt off, brace himself against the armchair, and I would give him a thrashing.” He looked at Rowland. “I was just doing my job. Mr. Sinclair would’ve sacked me if I refused.”

  “Was it always in the study?”

  “Mostly. Once in the shearing shed.”

  “Why the shearing shed?”

  “One of the shearers, bloke called Barrett—gun shearer—had been teaching the boy to shear, for a lark. Mr. Sinclair didn’t like it. He sacked the man and had me thrash the boy right there in front of the gang.” He shuddered. “If it hadn’t been such a big shed, those blokes might have strung me up for what Mr. Sinclair had me do. As it was, what happened to the boy reminded them of their place.”

  Clyde was unsure if it was the past injury or the humiliation of having this all aired now that made Rowland look so murderously at Hayden. Wilfred’s hand moved to his brother’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, perhaps restraint.

  “And what would Henry Sinclair do while you disciplined his son?”

  “He’d read from the bible, until he’d decided it was enough.”

  “Did you never have pity on the boy, Mr. Hayden?”

  Hayden looked around at the library and snorted. His lip curled. “Hard to pity a boy who’d eventually come into all this. Besides it weren’t my place to feel sorry for Rowland. I was only doing what Mr. Sinclair wanted.”

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with—” Wilfred began.

  “If you’ll bear with us, Mr. Sinclair, you’ll soon see,” Gilbey said.

  “Did Henry Sinclair call you to his study the evening he died?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not sure what the boy had done, but Mr. Sinclair was livid.” Hayden twisted the brim of his hat and licked his lips. “He didn’t want me to stop. I told him twice that I thought the boy had had enough but he ordered me to keep going, to keep laying on cut after cut.” He rubbed his face. “I was just doing my job.”

  “Can you tell us what happened next, Mr. Hayden?”

  “I was about to stop no matter what he said, I was, when Mr. Sinclair—Wilfred Sinclair—came in.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “He walked in and belted me fair in the face. Nearly broke my nose. I was just doing my job.”

  “And then?”

  “He picked up his brother.”

  “Picked up?”

  “The boy had collapsed. Mr. Sinclair had to help him stand. He was in a pretty bad way… shaking, crying like a baby.”

  Rowland stood. “That’s enough.”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Sinclair,” Angel said. “You’ll want to hear the rest of this.”

  Rowland stepped away from the table, seething. Clyde moved to go with him.

  It was Arthur who reasoned with his cousin. “Let’s hear him out, Rowland,” he said quietly. “We’ll deal with him later, once we know what exactly it is we’re contending with.”

  Rowland glanced at Wilfred, who himself seemed in two minds as to whether to stay or walk out. Slowly, Rowland resumed his seat. He glared at Hayden until the man met his eye. “You’d do well to remember, Hayden, that I’m not fifteen anymore.”

  The informant cringed.

  “I must caution you, Mr. Sinclair, that it is a crime to threaten or intimidate a witness,” Gilbey warned.

  Rowland did not respond, but there was nothing in his face to give Hayden any form of comfort.

  “Go on, Mr. Hayden,” Angel prompted as Hayden quailed.

  “There was a row… one helluva row. Mr. Wilfred wanted me sacked. Threatened to rip off my arm if I ever raised it against his brother again. I won’t repeat what he said to his father but he was bloody disrespectful. Mr. Sinclair said he would cut Mr. Wilfred off. Mr. Wilfred said he didn’t care, then Mr. Sinclair said disciplining the boy was his right and duty. He told Mr. Wilfred to get out. Mr. Wilfred said he was not going to leave his brother to the mercy of a tyrannical bastard again. I left then… went home. I always tried not to get involved in the family’s falling outs. You know, I was just doing my job.”

  “And then.” There was a vaguely triumphant note to Angel’s voice which heralded the point of Hayden’s testimonial.

  “I report for work the next morning and find that Mr. Sinclair was shot during the night. Mr. Wilfred tells me he’s in charge five seconds before he sacks me… hands me my wages and another month’s in an envelope and tells me to take my family and get off the property that day. I thought Henry Sinclair was hard but Mr. Wilfred put him in the shade. After he was done, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. My wife took the children to live with her people—she never came back. I was just doing my flaming job!”

  For a time there was silence, and then Angel said, “You can see gentlemen, that this puts a slightly different complexion on the assumption that your father was the victim of some random burglary.”

  8

  “SPARE THE ROD?”

  … “spare the rod and spoil the child,” sometimes to his complete undoing. In the “absence of the birch behind the door,” say some students of criminology, lies the explanation of why so many “young hopefuls” go wrong and end their days in prison… a writer in The New York Herald quotes Judge Alfred J. Talley, of the Court of General Sessions, New York, as saying that “there is just one kind of discipline that does work and that is corporal punishment. Lax parents make boy criminals…” Physical punishment has gone out of fashion; “moral suasion has taken the place of a whipping.” But “what does one of the little fellows care about moral suasion? He would care a good deal about a sound thrashing… old-fashioned ideas of parental authority should be insisted on, and where it is resisted I see no better or surer way to enforce it than by judicious corporal punishment.”

  The Register, 1922

  “So, gentlemen.” Gilbey pressed his fingertips together. “Perhaps you would care to tell us about your move
ments that night.”

  Wilfred replied with a kind of ominous calm. “Delighted to answer your questions, detective, but Mr. Hayden can leave. His business is concluded and I see no reason to suffer his presence any longer.”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Hayden exploded. “It’s been nearly fourteen years. You’ve already destroyed me… replaced me with that bloody blue-eyed Jackie… and don’t think I don’t know why he was elevated above his station! That’d be a fine bloody scandal, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’ll do, Mr. Hayden!” Gilbey said as both Rowland and Wilfred rose from their seats.

  “I was just doing my job,” Hayden whined, cowering as the Sinclair brothers loomed over him.

  “Get off my property!” Wilfred spat.

  Gilbey signalled to one of the constables. “Perhaps you could take Mr. Hayden to the car.”

  “That’s right, get rid of Charlie Hayden. That’d be bloody right!”

  Wilfred turned his back, refusing to acknowledge him any further. Rowland’s wrath was barely contained. The constable grabbed Hayden by the arm and took him out.

  “Do you deny any part of Mr. Hayden’s account, gentlemen?” Angel asked when the door was closed.

  Wilfred retook his seat. “No.”

  Angel waited for Rowland.

  “No.”

  “Let’s begin with you, Mr. Sinclair.” Gilbey looked directly at Wilfred. “What did you do immediately after Mr. Hayden left that evening?”

  “I took Rowly up to his room and sent for Dr. Oliver.”

  “How badly injured was your brother?” Angel asked.

  “Badly enough. He was bleeding and confused.”

  “Did you stay with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “For pity’s sake… to make sure he was all right,” Wilfred said irritably.

  “Did you believe he was in any further danger?”

  “I was determined that he would not be.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “After Rowly fell asleep. Dr. Oliver had given him something, I expect.”

  “And what did you do then, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I telephoned our Uncle Rowland… my father’s brother—he was Rowly’s namesake. I was hoping he might speak to our father.”

  “To dissuade Henry Sinclair from cutting you off?”

  Wilfred bristled. “If you knew my father, Detective Gilbey, you would know that threats of disinheritance were not unusual. No. I was trying to sort something out for Rowly. He and Uncle Rowland were close. I thought… to be honest, I can’t recall what exactly I thought. It was over thirteen years ago.”

  “And what about you, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey said, turning to Rowland. “Perhaps Mr. Hayden has managed to jog your memory. When last we spoke you seemed to have forgotten rather a lot.”

  Rowland’s voice was flat. “I was in my room, asleep, until Wil came in to tell me about the burglary.”

  “You didn’t hear the gunshot?”

  “Not that I can recall. It had been a long day, detective. I was exhausted.”

  “Did you know where your father kept his gun?”

  “It was not a secret. Father stowed the guns in the utility room of the pantry.”

  “Did you know how to use a gun?”

  “I was a cadet during the war.”

  “How did you feel about your father, Mr. Sinclair?”

  A pause—silence strained by expectation. Rowland sat back in his chair. A single bead of sweat glistened on his brow.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It sounds like your father was very hard on you, Mr. Sinclair. Did you resent him for that?”

  “I was fifteen, detective. I hated him.”

  It was nearly midday by the time they all emerged from the library. Wilfred had brought the interview to an abrupt close after Rowland’s rather too honest declaration.

  “For the love of God, Rowly,” he whispered as they watched the police vehicle pull away. “What possessed you to say that? Can’t you see how it looks?”

  Rowland met his brother’s eye. “After what that bastard Hayden told them, if I’d said anything else, Wil, they would have known I was lying.”

  “Yes. I expect you’re right.” Wilfred shook his head. “I should make some calls.”

  “To whom?”

  “It’s been far too long since I had a conversation with the Commissioner of Police. And I think it’s time I spoke to our lawyers.”

  “In case this gets ugly.”

  “To make sure it doesn’t.”

  “Wil.” Kate Sinclair came out of the breakfast room into the hallway. She had Ewan in her arms. “Arthur said you’d finished. Have you eaten? I can have Mrs. Kendall prepare something.”

  Wilfred took Ewan from her. “You shouldn’t still be carrying Ewan about, Katie,” he said.

  “You worry too much,” she said, dusting some speck off his immaculate lapel. “I’m quite capable of hauling your giant son around.”

  Wilfred tapped Ewan on the nose. “Did you hear that, McDuff? Your mother has the strength of a horse.”

  Kate laughed. “Oh you think you’re funny now, but you wait till he starts telling people his name is McDuff Sinclair! You’ll only have yourself to blame!”

  Rowland smiled.

  “Lucy thought that she and Rowly might take the boys on a picnic today,” Kate said. “They’re Ewan’s godparents after all.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve a damaged plane to work on,” Rowland said quickly.

  “But couldn’t you attend to that tomorrow, Rowly?”

  “Clyde needs to get on, and I’m not sure I could repair Doris without his help,” Rowland lied. He was perfectly capable of changing the tyre and patching the canvas body on his own.

  “Well, perhaps early this evening?”

  “Rowly’s had a rough morning, Katie,” Wilfred intervened, hoisting Ewan onto his shoulders. “He might not be in the best mood to deal with this scamp and his brother. Let him go tinker with that aeroplane of his for a while.”

  “Oh dear, Rowly, I am sorry.” Kate was too discreet to enquire what exactly had occurred that morning. She knew the police had called and assumed that Rowland had found himself in some scrape which required Wilfred’s intervention. Her brother-in-law was, in some respects, wild, but Kate was convinced that with the right woman he would settle down.

  Rowland glanced gratefully at Wilfred. “I’d better grab Clyde and get moving before the day is completely wasted,” he said, checking his watch.

  Wilfred nodded. “Go.”

  The day was hot and dry, unremarkable for Yass in December. Sheltered from the warm movement of air which passed locally for a breeze, the heat in the makeshift hangar was stifling. Rowland’s greyhound lay under the plane looking balefully at the master who’d taken him from Oaklea’s cool verandahs to this place. Clyde had stripped down to his cotton singlet, Rowland to shirtsleeves, which he’d rolled to the elbow. Both men were damp with perspiration. Rowland had also managed to acquire quite a large amount of axle grease on his person.

  Smiling, Clyde tossed him a rag. “You work like you paint, Rowly. I’ve never seen anyone make such a mess.”

  “You left all the filthy jobs to me,” Rowland protested, wiping the oily graphite off his hands and neck. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to get grease on his neck.

  They had worked in almost total silence till now. For some reason, Clyde had decided to give the biplane a complete service, checking bungee straps and fuel lines in addition to replacing the tyre and repairing the fuselage. Rowland had been glad of the distraction, and Clyde’s quiet, practical company.

  “We’re nearly done,” Clyde said, ladling a drink out of the bucket they’d collected earlier from the rainwater tank attached to the shed. “Bloody hell, it’s hot.”

  Rowland nodded. He took the ladle from Clyde, splashing the now tepid water on his neck and face.

  “Rowly, can I
ask you something?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That bloke, Hayden, and your father… how long did that go on?”

  Rowland stopped. He leaned against Rule Britannia’s lower wing. “My father was always strict. Wil and Aubrey protected me before the war, kept me out of his way… But then they all enlisted.”

  “And that’s when he…?”

  Rowland swallowed. His words were bitterly frank. “Father was always liberal with his walking cane, though he started really laying into me only when Aubrey died. But he had some kind of turn.” Rowland frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “That was when he decided his own hand was no longer firm enough, I suppose. He began using Hayden then.”

  “And no one knew?”

  “Oh, plenty of people knew, just no one who could do anything about it. He was my father, Clyde, and he was Henry Sinclair.”

  “Did Wilfred know?”

  “No. He was serving. It seemed to get better for a while when Wil returned, at least when he was at Oaklea. But then I was expelled and… well you heard Hayden.”

  “And it was Wilfred who told you about your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  Rowland’s brow rose, but he answered the question.

  “He said that Father was dead, and I was not to worry. He wouldn’t let me go downstairs.”

  “Why did you want to?”

  “To make sure he was really dead, I think.” Rowland’s jaw hardened. “I know people say they hate this and that all the time, Clyde, but I meant it. I truly hated him.”

  Clyde winced. “You know what the police are thinking, don’t you, Rowly?”

  “That I killed him? Don’t worry, old boy. Wil’s handling it.”

  “It wasn’t you I was—” Clyde stopped as one of the Sinclair cars sailed down the road on what appeared to be a tide of red dust. “Who is that?”

  Rowland squinted. He could make out a flash of colour in the back seat. “Kate, I think… better get dressed.”

  Clyde cursed and pulled on his shirt while Rowland tried to find his tie.