Rowland stood and wandered over to the window. He stared out at the garden. Ernest was watering the new plantings under the supervision of Edna Walling. “Am I under arrest, detectives?”
“No, sir. Not yet. Considering what we have come to know about Henry Sinclair’s treatment of you, we hoped you might take this opportunity to make a statement.”
“Do you mean a statement or a confession, Detective Gilbey?”
“That would be up to you, Mr. Sinclair.”
Wilfred intervened. His face was rigidly controlled but there was no mistaking his displeasure. “I believe this meeting is at an end, gentlemen. I will thank you to direct any future enquiries through our solicitors.”
“It might be in your best interests—”
Wilfred opened the door. “Thank you, detectives. Allow me to show you out.” His manner did not invite argument or even suggested that it was an option.
Gilbey and Angel exchanged a glance, and slowly stood to go. Wilfred accompanied them to the front door himself.
When he returned to the study, Rowland was still gazing out of the window. Edna and Milton had, it seemed, ventured into the garden. The sculptress was admiring the new walkway, and Milton appeared to be making some sort of speech from atop a mound of rocks awaiting incorporation into the dry wall.
“If that blasted fool is inciting my gardeners into some kind of Communist rebellion just days before Christmas—” Wilfred muttered.
“I thought you had finally warmed to my friends,” Rowland said, more amused than surprised.
“What?”
“You invited them to stay here, in fact, you jolly well insisted.”
Wilfred snorted. “It’s no secret that Miss Higgins and that long-haired buffoon are friends of yours. In Yass they would embarrass us publicly. At least here, I can contain the damage.”
Rowland’s laugh was wry. He should have known. “Fair enough. Thank you anyway.”
Wilfred sat down at the desk and waved him away. “You’d best go and supervise them,” he said. “I’ll speak to the solicitors again.”
Arthur Sinclair was waiting for Rowland when he came out of Wilfred’s study. He pulled him aside. “I say, old man, don’t you think it’s a bit much to bring that Miss Higgins here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s bad enough you jilt poor Miss Bennett, but to bring your… her rival… to the house and barely a day later—it’s too bad, if you’ll forgive my saying. It’s not the way a gentleman should behave.”
Rowland stared at his cousin. No one but Wilfred had ever even tried to speak to him this way before.
“This really isn’t any of your business, Arthur.”
“I’m a Sinclair, Rowland. Your behaviour reflects on us all. And may I tell you that you are trading a diamond for a shard of common glass!”
Rowland’s eyes hardened. “Arthur, you are more than welcome to admire Miss Bennett, but you would be well advised to never again insult Miss Higgins in my presence.”
“You are in no position to advise anybody. Do you have any idea of the spot in which you’re putting poor Kate and Wilfred?”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Arthur shook his head. “I can’t believe you’d introduce a woman like that to your mother.”
Rowland grabbed Arthur by the lapel and shoved him up against the wall. Someone screamed behind him. The door to the study flew open. “Rowly! What the devil are you doing?” Wilfred was incredulous.
Rowland glanced at Lucy, who now stood in the hallway, and released his cousin. “Arthur and I are having a minor disagreement.”
Lucy Bennett’s face crumpled into tears and she turned and ran towards the stairs.
“For pity’s sake! Have you no sense of common decency?” Arthur said, shaking Rowland off and setting out after Lucy.
Wilfred glared at his brother. “Just what is going on?”
Rowland unclenched his fist. “I believe that idiot Arthur fancies he’s defending Miss Bennett’s honour or some such thing.”
Wilfred took a deep slow breath. “I suspect that Arthur has become rather fond of Lucy. I’ll speak to him.” He removed his spectacles and squinted at Rowland. “In the meantime perhaps you should stay out of his way.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Rowland replied, fuming quietly. “I might take Ed and the chaps into Yass tonight. We’ll need to cancel Ed and Milt’s reservation at the Royal and pick up their luggage anyway. We could have dinner at the hotel and leave you and Kate in peace for an evening.”
Wilfred nodded. “That’s probably a wise idea. And why don’t you take them over to the race meet in Bungendore tomorrow, as well? Perhaps by then things will have simmered down.”
Rowland nodded. “Look Wil, about Arthur…”
“Don’t worry, he’ll get used to you.”
Edna looked tentatively into the kitchen.
Rowland sat at the scrubbed oak table watching as Mrs. Kendall worked. The soft pale flesh of her ample arms jiggled as she rolled out the pastry. Though she smiled now, her eyes were red and swollen. It was clear she’d been crying. The monogrammed corner of Rowland’s handkerchief protruded from the pocket of her apron.
“Those officers just kept asking and asking,” the faithful servant said as she worked the rolling pin. “Oh my dear, dear boy, I’ll never forgive myself if—”
Rowland stood and put his arm protectively about her shoulders. “You mustn’t upset yourself, Mrs. Kendall. I’m terribly sorry they spoke to you like that. I won’t let it happen again.”
“Oh Mr. Rowland, it’s not me you should be worried about!” She dabbed her eyes with Rowland’s handkerchief.
Edna cleared her throat, to let them know she was there.
Rowland turned. “Oh hello, Ed.” He smiled. “I’ve persuaded Mrs. Kendall to bake us her delicious treacle tart for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’re going across to the picnic races at Bungendore. Unless of course Middleton requires you immediately?”
“No. Bertie can wait,” Edna said absently.
“Well if you want that treacle tart, you best get out of my kitchen!” Mrs. Kendall said, wiping a few specks of pastry flour from Rowland’s lapel.
Rowland smiled, embracing the housekeeper warmly. “Stop worrying about me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Kendall sighed, as she dusted off the flour which had just been transferred to Rowland’s attire from her apron. “Go on with you then.” She shooed them out of her kitchen in a manner that left them feeling more welcomed than expelled.
Rowland elected not to risk any further scenes with Arthur or Lucy. He let Kate know that he was taking his friends into Yass to retrieve their chattels from the Royal. “We might as well stop for dinner there, rather than making you all wait for our return.”
Kate looked relieved.
Inwardly, Rowland flinched, wondering if his relationship with his sister-in-law would ever be restored. He had always thought of Kate as an undeclared ally, tempering Wilfred’s more disapproving moments with her fondness for her husband’s errant brother.
“I’d best head off,” Rowland said into the awkward silence.
“Where are you going, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest Sinclair came into the drawing room and sat on the floor beside Lenin’s basket.
“Into town, Ernie. We won’t be long.”
“Will that man be there? The one you hit?”
“Ernest, your uncle doesn’t go about hitting people,” Kate said sternly.
“Actually Kate…” Rowland began sheepishly. He told her of the incident with Charlie Hayden.
“And you got into a fight? With Ernie there?”
“It wasn’t a fight… but yes, I lost my temper. The man was trespassing,” he offered weakly.
“Oh, Rowly.”
“I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t have let anything happen to Ernie.”
Kate sighed, summoning Ernest and hugging hi
m protectively to her breast. “I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“Ernest mentioned that Charlie Hayden had been round here, to see you,” Rowland said cautiously.
“Oh, him.” Kate made the connection. “I found him on the verandah a couple of days ago, waiting. I asked him what he was doing here and he said he’d come to see me. He was hoping I could influence Wil in some way.”
Silence was the most civil thing Rowland could offer at that point.
“Arthur came out and ordered him to leave,” Kate continued. “I felt rather sorry for him after I got over the initial shock. He seemed almost hurt that we would want him off the property.”
Rowland’s eyes flashed. “You don’t need to feel sorry for him, Kate. Does Wil know he was here?”
“To be honest, with all the excitement… and Lucy… I believe I forgot to mention it to him.”
The subtle reproach hit its mark. “I’d better go. The others will be waiting.” Rowland bent to pat Lenin and talk to his nephew. “Would you keep an eye on Len for me, Ernie?”
Ernest nodded, placing his arm around Lenin as a symbol of his commitment to the task his uncle had assigned.
“Do me a favour, Kate,” Rowland said. “Would you inform Wil that Hayden came here… that he tried to speak to you?”
“Of course,” she replied coldly. “Are you going to tell him that you got into a fight with Mr. Hayden in the presence of our son?”
Rowland looked at her, noticeably startled. Immediately, Kate seemed to regret the sharpness of her words, looking away from him, her hand over her mouth.
Rowland presumed that sometime after her last conversation with Lucy Bennett, his sister-in-law had resolved to be angry with him, to punish him for hurting her friend. But hostility was hard for Kate. It was not in her nature. He smiled. “You can tell Wil if you like. Otherwise I’ll speak to him when I get back.”
“I shall,” she said without looking at him. “It’s something he should know!”
Deciding that the exchange was not going to improve, Rowland bade Kate good night and walked out to his car. Edna handed him his driving gloves as he slipped behind the wheel. “Are you all right, Rowly?” she asked.
“Yes… I’m just beginning to fear that Kate will never forgive me for this debacle with Lucy.”
“Of course she will,” the sculptress replied. “She’s just disappointed, and feels a trifle guilty.”
“Guilty? Why should Kate feel guilty?”
“I suspect she encouraged Lucy to fall in love with you at least as much as she encouraged you to fall in love with Lucy. Sadly, it worked only in the former case. Now Lucy’s heartbroken, or thinks she is, and as a result Kate feels terrible.” Edna rubbed his arm. “She’ll come round, Rowly.”
“I hope so.” He pulled away from the main house and drove the short distance to the manager’s residence where Clyde and Milton had already called in on Harry Simpson. The three men were standing together on the verandah when the yellow Mercedes pulled in.
Harry Simpson removed his hat and took Edna’s hand in his. “Miss Higgins. What a pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Mr. Simpson,” Edna said, smiling warmly at the stockman. “Won’t you come to dinner with us?”
“Thank you, but no.” He took out a battered gold pocket watch to check the time. “I’m expecting Wil as soon as he can get away.”
“Fishing?” Rowland asked.
Simpson nodded. “Full moon tonight. You know I had a dog that loved full moons. Must’ve been part wolf—used to howl like a mad thing. Startled a mob of cattle one night.” He grimaced. “They trampled the noisy blighter… had to shoot him in the end.”
“How simply awful,” Edna exclaimed, though she had become accustomed to Simpson’s stories of unfortunate dogs. “Why on earth are you and Mr. Sinclair fishing at night?”
“It’s impossible for Wilfred to get away during the day what with harvest and a house full of Communists.” Simpson chuckled.
Edna’s brow furrowed gently. “Be careful. Whoever shot Lenin—”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Higgins,” Simpson reassured her. “I’m pretty hard to spot in the dark. Of course, Wil’s a goner!”
For a moment Edna stared at him, unsure. Rowland grinned and shoved the stockman. Then Simpson giggled, his great broad shoulders bouncing, and he winked at Edna. “We’ll be all right,” he said once the paroxysm had passed. “Wil’s pretty sure we won’t have any more trouble.”
14
EDITORIAL
Evidently hoping to put a “smoke screen” to divert attention from the “salary grab,” the Federal members are making bitter attacks on the newspapers which condemned their action, and there was talk of bringing one editor before the bar of the House.
Parliament would be wise not to take this action—it would appear ridiculous in addition to the manner in which it is already regarded following the increase in salaries. The members’ best plan would be to keep quiet in the hope that the “grab” may be forgotten by election time—an air of injured innocence will not be accepted by the people in their present frame of mind.
The Post pays a tribute to Senator Charles Hardy for his whole-hearted opposition to the “grab,” and frankly admits that this is the first time during his political history that he has won our admiration.
Western Champion, 3 November 1933
The publican’s wife was less than pleased to have the two-room booking cancelled so late. Of course Rowland paid for that night’s accommodation and moreover added a generous gratuity for the inconvenience, but the gesture served only to irritate her further. It seemed to Margaret Sedgwick that Rowland Sinclair was still mixing in a bad crowd.
She’d hoped that the youngest of the Sinclair boys might finally have settled down into some semblance of respectability. With the decadent morality of young people, the town needed its better families to set an example. Lord knows, her own Richard could have done with a little virtuous leadership. In Henry Sinclair’s day no one ever had cause to raise an eyebrow, but Wilfred was indulgent of his feckless younger brother. It was a crying shame!
A little grudgingly, Mrs. Sedgwick pointed the party from Sydney towards a dining room already bustling with travellers. It was well past six in the evening and the locals had departed from the public bar.
As Rowland was finalising the account, a couple came out of the dining room and proceeded towards the staircase which led to the Royal’s labyrinth of guest rooms.
“Well, what do you know,” Milton observed.
The gentleman walked past them with the jaunty confidence of a man who was sure of his evening’s pleasure. Milton nudged Rowland. “Isn’t that Senator Hardy?”
Rowland followed the direction of Milton’s gaze. The contented gentleman was indeed Senator Charles Hardy Jnr. with whom they’d had a long, and not always happy, association. In fact, it was Hardy’s speech, at the Yass Memorial Hall nearly two years previously, which had incited the townspeople to kidnap Milton in their enthusiasm to tar and feather a Communist. The young woman on Hardy’s arm was clearly enraptured with his every word and gesture.
“That’s not his wife, is it?” Milton’s grin was sly, his manner quite gleeful.
“No,” Rowland replied. In fact they had all met Mrs. Hardy. “She is not.”
“In that case, I think we’d better say hello,” Milton said, already striding over with his hand outstretched.
Clyde cursed under his breath, and they all followed—more to keep an eye on the poet than the senator.
“Senator Hardy!” Milton said loudly. “How are you, sir?”
Hardy stopped, startled. “Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Sinclair, and Mr. Watson Jones isn’t it?” He shook their hands. “And the unforgettable Miss Higgins. Good Lord! What brings you all to Yass?”
“We’re visiting Rowly,” Milton replied.
Hardy’s companion started up the stairs without him. “Don’t be long, Chas,” she purred.
“
Just passing through myself, en route from Wagga,” Hardy said when she’d gone.
“Oh. You’re not staying?” Milton cast his eyes up the stairs.
“Me? No. I’ll have to head back to Canberra. But I might pop up and say goodnight to… my sister.” He slapped his forehead. “I am sorry, I should have introduced you to my sister. I have six of them you know.”
“My goodness, six!” Milton replied. “You’re a lucky man—I’m an only child myself.”
“Well, we must get on to the dining room,” Clyde said, glaring pointedly at the poet.
“Yes, we must.” Rowland took Clyde’s lead. “Good night, Senator Hardy. Please do give our regards to your sister.”
Hardy grinned. It was more mischievous than embarrassed. “I shall. Indeed, I shall.”
They left Hardy to his family reunion and continued into the dining area, finding a table which afforded a level of seclusion by virtue of its position in the ladies’ bar. Separated from the main dining hall by stained glass concertina doors, it served their needs well.
Rowland was perfectly aware that his friends had questions and so he was not surprised when Edna opened in her customarily direct manner.
“Rowly, why do the police believe you killed your father?”
“Obviously, they’re idiots.”
“You can’t shrug this off, Rowly,” Milton warned. “Why have they suddenly come to the conclusion that you shot your old man?”
Rowland frowned. “There appears to be a barrage of witnesses coming out of the woodwork, who until now have held their peace.”
“You mean Hayden?” Milton prompted.
“Clyde told you?”
“I’m sorry, mate,” Clyde said. “I was worried about you and—”
Rowland waved away his friend’s apology. “It saves me having to go into the whole ugly business again.” He loosened his tie just slightly. “It’s not only him. There’s now a maid who says she remembers I was not in my room when Father was shot, and Dr. Oliver who confirms I wasn’t sedated in any way.”
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