“And if he can’t?”
“If he can’t, I’m not going to offer up my brother to save myself.”
“It’s not fair, Rowly.”
Rowland took the sculptress’s hands. They were small in his, but her grip was strong. “You’re underestimating Wilfred Sinclair.”
“I hope so. God, I hope so.”
Edna wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Rowland handed her a handkerchief. She stared at it blankly for a while, and then she laughed through her tears. “Oh, Rowly. You carry a monogrammed handkerchief in your pyjamas… how would you possibly cope in prison?”
“I don’t expect I’ll encounter quite so many weeping women there,” he said as she giggled helplessly now.
He smiled, enjoying the respite. They talked for a while then about nothing in particular… Lucy and Arthur, the Sane Democracy League, Edna Walling, Senator Charles Hardy and his many sisters. Aware that Lucy Bennett slept in the guestroom just across the hall, they whispered, and when Edna laughed, she buried her face in Rowland’s shoulder to muffle the sound.
He might well have declared himself then, if his own future had not been so uncertain.
“I should go back to my room before we both fall asleep,” Edna said climbing out of his bed.
“I say, Ed, did Clyde and Milt—” Rowland began drowsily, fighting the impulse to pull her back into his arms.
“They’re worried about you, Rowly.”
“Did they ask you to talk to me?”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Milt told me to seduce the truth out of you if I had to.”
Rowland groaned. “I wish I’d known. I wouldn’t have been so blasted forthcoming.”
The partners of Kent, Beswick and Associates were at Oaklea before breakfast. The police arrived soon after.
As the matter was no longer merely a thirteen-year-old murder, Gilbey and Angel were accompanied by a third detective, an investigative specialist, despatched from Sydney’s Criminal Investigation Bureau.
“Colin! What are you doing here?” Rowland said as Detective Delaney presented himself.
“The commissioner sent me down to keep an eye on things,” he said quietly as he shook Rowland’s hand. “Gilbey and Angel are still calling the shots.” He glanced over his shoulder to see that his colleagues were beginning the process of questioning the staff once again. “You’re in trouble, Rowly.”
“I gathered.”
Delaney walked towards the stairs motioning for Rowland to follow. “Let them assume you’re showing me where you were on the night of your father’s death,” he instructed under his breath.
Gilbey glanced up as they climbed the stairs, but returned to the dining room where Angel was already interviewing Lucy Bennett.
“Hell, Rowly,” Delaney said when he was sure they were alone. “This is one unbelievable bloody mess.”
“You’re talking about Hayden?”
“That bastard and your father.” Delaney glanced at his watch and got straight to the point. “Listen mate, I’ve read Hayden’s statement. By themselves, there’s not enough to arrest you for either murder. But together, it’s a different matter. There are only two people who would want to kill both Henry Sinclair and Charles Hayden. And only one who has the reputation you do.” Delaney shook his head. “Your brother has influential friends, but Eric Campbell and the New Guard are not without connections and, to top it all off, you’ve been making a habit of harassing and embarrassing members of parliament about what’s happening in Germany, where it is rumoured you killed a man!”
Rowland grimaced. “I can see your point.”
Delaney just looked at him.
“I didn’t kill anybody, Colin.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you had.”
“So what now?”
Delaney sighed. “I’ll do what I can. You say nothing. There’d be nobody in prison if criminals weren’t stupid enough to confess.”
“I haven’t anything to confess, Col.”
“A few of the boys know how to help you find something, Rowly.”
“Splendid.”
Wilfred stormed into the drawing room and picked up Ernest who was sobbing inconsolably. “What the devil have you done to my son?”
“Ernest has been assisting us with our enquiries, Mr. Sinclair.” Detective Angel smiled at the child. “Thank you, Ernest. You’ve been a good and very helpful boy.”
Ernest hid his face in his father’s shoulder.
“What did you say to him?” Rowland demanded, entering the room to stand with Wilfred.
“It’s not so much what we said to him, but what he told us, Mr. Sinclair.” Angel read from his notebook. “Your nephew claims that two days ago he saw Rowland Sinclair strike the deceased, Charles Hayden, and threaten to kill him.”
For several moments Rowland’s young nephew wept into an otherwise stunned silence.
Maurice Kent, KC, of Kent, Beswick and Associates, spoke first. “Preposterous! You don’t propose to use the allegation of an imaginative six-year-old to—”
“Are you saying the boy is lying, Mr. Kent?”
“He isn’t,” Rowland said. “He isn’t lying.” He reached over Wilfred’s shoulder to tousle his nephew’s hair. “It’s all right, Ernie. That’s exactly what happened.”
Wilfred stared at his brother in dismay.
Delaney cursed under his breath.
Gilbey spoke to Wilfred. “Perhaps you’d like to take the boy out before we arrest your brother, sir?”
Rowland placed his hand on Wilfred’s shoulder. “Go,” he said quietly.
Gilbey triumphantly tapped a cigarette from his case and lit it, while he waited for Ernest to leave with his father. He was not the only one waiting. Clyde and Milton exploded.
“Are you out of your tiny mind?” Milton demanded of Gilbey.
“You can’t arrest him for an outburst made in the heat of the moment,” Clyde said with a warning glance at the poet.
“We’re not arresting Mr. Sinclair for what he said, gentlemen; we’re arresting him for the murders of Henry Sinclair and Charles Hayden,” Gilbey replied coldly while Angel dealt with Rowland.
Edna appealed to Delaney. “Do something.”
“There isn’t anything I can do, Miss Higgins, even if it were appropriate. We’ll have to take Mr. Sinclair back to Sydney.”
“I’m going with you,” Milton said defiantly. “We’re not leaving Rowly alone with you jokers.”
Delaney looked at Milton strangely. “I’m afraid you will not be able to accompany Mr. Sinclair unless, Mr. Isaacs, I had cause to arrest you, too.”
Delaney’s words needed only a breath to sink in. Milton took a generous swing at the detective making contact with Colin Delaney’s jaw.
Delaney reacted quickly, seizing and pinning Milton in a movement that seemed far too easy. By the time Wilfred returned to the drawing room, both his brother and Milton Isaacs had been handcuffed.
18
WHEN BEING PHOTOGRAPHED
Some people photograph well, but others do not look their best in a photograph. Probably one reason for an unsatisfactory portrait is that the sitter is too self-conscious. Another common fault is that the wrong kind of clothes are worn. To be a success, a photograph should be as natural as possible. Therefore, choose a natural pose and avoid an expression that is not familiar to you.
The Western Mail, 1932
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rowland whispered angrily as he and Milton were escorted out of the house to the waiting police cars, amidst a melee of argument and protest.
“I’m watching your back, Rowly… as much as possible anyway,” Milton replied.
“What?”
Milton spoke quickly while the detectives were dealing with Wilfred and the Sinclair lawyers, not to mention Clyde, Edna and Arthur Sinclair all of whom were protesting the arrests in no uncertain terms. “Colin will ensure we’re processed together. You haven’t been to prison before, Rowly
. I’m not letting you go alone.”
“So, you hit Colin to get yourself arrested?”
“Believe me, I would much rather have hit that fool Gilbey, but he might not drop the charges against me when they finally realise you’re completely innocent.”
Rowland swore. “Whose idiotic idea was this?”
“Look, mate, I know the Sinclairs have all sorts of toffee-nosed, powerful friends, but inside Long Bay Prison my unsavoury connections are precisely what you’ll need.”
“Milt, you can’t—”
One of the constables shoved Rowland away from the poet. “Enough chatter, Sinclair!”
With his hands cuffed behind his back, Rowland overbalanced. Another constable dragged him up while the first restrained Milton. Harry Simpson broke away from the watching workers.
“Hey!” he bellowed.
“I’m all right,” Rowland said quickly, alarmed that Simpson, too, might want to join him in prison. “I tripped, that’s all.”
The scuffle may have ended then and there if Lenin hadn’t rushed forth to protect his master.
Gilbey and Angel turned as the greyhound bounded towards their prisoners. Angel drew his weapon.
Edna screamed.
“For God’s sake, he’s harmless,” Rowland shouted, trying to get to his dog. “Len, it’s all right, mate. Lay down!”
Lenin continued to bark and snarl.
“Call off your mongrel or I’ll shoot him, Sinclair.”
“Lenin!” Edna grabbed the dog’s collar. “Don’t you dare shoot him,” she said, furiously fronting the detective. “Don’t you dare!”
Angel lowered his gun.
Elisabeth Sinclair walked out of the entrance doors. “Aubrey?” she said, confused when she saw her son in the grip of two constables. Her face drained of colour as she sighted the gun.
“Put that away you blasted fool!” Delaney barked at Angel.
Slowly, Angel returned his weapon to its holster.
“Aubrey?” Elisabeth said again. “Where are you going? What are the police doing here?”
Wilfred tried to calm his mother, but she would not be calmed. “Wilfred, you tell your brother to come in right now! Your father would never have allowed the police to come to the house.” Then she caught sight of Harry Simpson. She stepped back in horror, trembling as jumbled memories surged. “What is that… that boy doing here, Wilfred? Your father wouldn’t have allowed this.”
Wilfred put his arm around their mother and turned her firmly back towards the door. He walked with her into the house.
Simpson grabbed Rowland’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gagamin. We’ll fix this.”
“Harry,” Rowland whispered urgently. “Make sure Wil doesn’t do anything daft.”
Angel grabbed Rowland before Harry Simpson could respond, and shoved him into the back of a waiting police car. Milton was pushed in beside him.
“I understand that you are upset, Miss Higgins, as are we all.” Wilfred Sinclair did not look up as he waited for his call to Sir Adrian Knox to be connected. “But I really don’t have the time to talk to you right now. Perhaps Kate might—”
“Mr. Sinclair, you are going to be able to sort this out, aren’t you?” Edna said walking into the study regardless.
Wilfred put his hand over the receiver and barked at the sculptress. “Miss Higgins, I am endeavouring to keep my brother from the noose. I do not have time or patience for your histrionics.”
Edna paled.
“Now, I would thank you to leave me to get on with it!” Wilfred returned to his telephone call and turned away from Edna. “Adrian. Wilfred Sinclair. How are you, old man?”
The sculptress left him alone, numbed by the implication of his words. She stopped in the hallway outside the study door and settled herself to wait.
She would let Wilfred Sinclair call his friends to Rowland’s aid first, but she would talk to him.
The grandfather clock in the hall ticked away each moment that Edna waited, locked out of whatever it was Wilfred was doing. She felt sick. It was not until Wilfred had mentioned it that she’d contemplated the possibility that Rowland could hang over this.
Clyde was preparing the Federal for a trip to Sydney. They would leave Rowland’s Mercedes at Oaklea and drive back in the old truck so that it could be returned to Milton’s cousin. Edna watched the clock. An hour had passed since Wilfred had asked her to leave his office.
Arthur Sinclair walked down the hallway towards the study. “Miss Higgins, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting to speak to Mr. Sinclair.”
“Wilfred’s very busy. Perhaps I can take in a message for you?”
Edna took a step back. “I’d rather speak to him directly.”
“Miss Higgins, do you really think it’s good form to impose on the family right now?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The legal and social ramifications of this scandal are significant for the Sinclairs, for us. I understand that you have been supported by my cousin for some time now, and it’s natural that you are concerned about your own interests, but I really think—”
Edna glared at him. “I will speak to Rowland’s brother,” she said coldly.
Arthur fished inside his breast pocket. He pulled out a chequebook. “If it’s money you’re after—”
“Mr. Sinclair, I don’t want your money,” Edna said, her voice shaking with fury and horror.
The door to the study opened and suddenly Wilfred Sinclair was standing there. His eyes fell first on the chequebook before he looked from Arthur to Edna. “Miss Higgins, you’re still here.”
“I must speak to you, Mr. Sinclair. Alone.”
Arthur frowned. “In the circumstances Miss Higgins, your demands are quite inappropriate.”
Clyde cleared his throat as he walked down the hallway towards them. “The truck’s ready, Ed. I’m just going upstairs to fetch our luggage.”
“You’re leaving?” Arthur said, clearly not grieved by the thought. “That’s probably best. This is, after all, really none of your affair.”
“You know, Mr. Sinclair,” Clyde said, fronting Arthur angrily. “Rowly would have decked you for the way you just spoke to Miss Higgins. In his absence, I just might do that myself.”
“The influence of you and your fellow ruffians on my poor cousin is clear, Mr. Watson Jones!” Arthur bit back.
Edna grabbed Clyde’s arm before he could react.
Wilfred watched them thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’d best come in, Miss Higgins,” he said.
“Wilfred—” Arthur began to protest.
Wilfred put up his hand for silence. “I won’t be long, Arthur,” he said stepping aside for Edna to pass and closing the door behind her.
He offered the sculptress a seat and took his place on the opposite side of his expansive desk. “What can I do for you, Miss Higgins?”
Edna gathered herself. She would not allow herself to be afraid of Wilfred, but what she had to say was difficult… not least because she knew that Rowland loved his brother.
“Mr. Sinclair, sir, I want you to give me your word that Rowland will not be convicted.”
Wilfred sighed. “I will do my best, Miss Higgins.”
“Not your best, Mr. Sinclair, your word.”
“I am not God, Miss Higgins.”
Edna bit her lip, steadying herself. “After everything Rowly went through at the hands of your father, how can you allow him to take the blame for you, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I understand why you killed your father, Mr. Sinclair—you shot him to save Rowly—which is why I can’t understand why you’d let him go to gaol now!”
Wilfred stared at her. “I’m not sure what insane theories you—”
“They’ve arrested Rowly, Mr. Sinclair!”
“I’m aware of that, Miss Higgins.”
“But he’s innocent. You know that, too! And he won’t defend himself
properly because he won’t say anything that might incriminate you!”
“Me?”
“Rowly saw you with your father’s body. He knows.”
Wilfred’s voice was icy. “Exactly what does he know, Miss Higgins?”
“That you… you killed your father,” Edna said, unsure now whether she was doing the right thing. She’d always known Wilfred Sinclair was ruthless. Was she just making things worse for Rowland? She stood.
Wilfred wasn’t looking at her. “Rowly, you bloody fool!” he muttered.
Edna backed towards the door.
“For pity’s sake, Miss Higgins, sit down! I’m not going to hurt you!” Wilfred glanced up at the sculptress. On another day he might have been amused by how frightened she looked. “I thank you for bringing this to me. I can assure you that I will handle it.”
“You’ll tell the police it was you?”
“No.” Wilfred stood. “If you’ll forgive me, Miss Higgins, I must say goodbye to Kate and the boys before I, too, set off for Sydney.”
By the time Rowland and Milton were delivered to Central Police Station, the Sinclair family’s solicitors in Sydney were briefed and waiting for the arrival of their client. So too were the newspaper journalists and a jostling bevy of photographers.
“Head down, Rowly!” Milton warned, lunging in front of his friend.
The first flash exploded. Delaney closed in to obstruct the photographers as the prisoners were bustled inside the station.
They were taken to be processed, divested of all personal effects other than their clothes. The young constable raised a brow when Rowland handed over his watch. Still, he was not unduly impressed. Many of the more successful criminals had flash timepieces. Rumour had it that Tilly Devine’s wristwatch was encrusted with rubies. More intriguing was the leather bound artist’s sketchbook. The policeman flicked through its pages, telling himself that there might be a weapon concealed between the leaves. He checked page after page of intimate sketches, women in various stages of undress, studies that brought the blood to his cheeks. From Milton, he took a small volume of verse and a pocketknife.
The constable then took them into a grimy cell, where the wall had been clearly marked with heights. It was against this wall that a humourless police photographer took their mugshots. Milton complained bitterly that any image in right profile made his nose look large and demanded that a second shot be taken from the left.
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