Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  The party at Bon Accord was a fancy dress affair with guests directed to come as pagan gods and goddesses. Though only Milton had been particularly keen, they had all managed to procure costumes.

  Milton had come as Pan, the goat-legged Greek god of the woodlands. He’d managed somehow to secure a set of short horns to his forehead in a manner that looked more demonic than anything else, and wore a toga long enough to hide the fact that his legs were inconveniently human. Costumes on George had turned Clyde into a gladiator, as Mars the Roman god of war. Rowland had chosen a Norse deity, mainly because their costumes involved trousers. Consequently he was attired in the leather vest and horned helmet of a Viking, while he purported to be dark-haired Loki.

  Edna, like Milton, had chosen to be Greek. She wore a sheer white gown which was draped over one shoulder. Her hair was woven with a wreath of laurel and she carried both a bow and a golden apple. Rowland wasn’t sure whether she was meant to be Athena or Aphrodite, but he was in no doubt that she was a goddess.

  The celebration had well begun by the time the borrowed Rolls Royce joined the scores of vehicles parked in the drive and adjoining road. The way to the grand ballroom of Bon Accord was lined with lanterns shaped like birds in flight and suspended from wires strung between the trees.

  Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand as she stumbled. “Be careful Ed—the path’s quite uneven here. You may need to watch your step.”

  “Just look up there, Rowly,” she said, her eyes bright, and fixed upon the glowing flock which seemed to hover over them. “It’s so utterly enchanting… How can you tell me to watch my feet instead?”

  He laughed and offered Edna his arm to secure her balance while she took in the decorations. They made way for an Egyptian pantheon, and a man painted blue in the style of some Asiatic deity.

  When they finally reached the entrance to the ballroom, they were received just inside the door by a gentleman who managed to be dapper despite being dressed as Neptune, complete with silver trident.

  “Rowly Sinclair!” boomed the god of the sea. “How are you, slugger?”

  “Hello, Mac,” Rowland replied, shaking Neptune’s hand. He introduced Hugh McIntosh to his friends, drawing them close to do so, as the room rang with the sounds of revelry backed by a twenty-piece orchestra.

  McIntosh summoned a waiter and distributed glasses of French champagne while demanding Rowland and his friends enjoy themselves. He directed them to the buffet where a feast was presented in oversized horns of plenty and attended by staff dressed in togas.

  Leaving Clyde and Milton to partake of the supper, Rowland took Edna onto the dance floor, where they quick-stepped and jazz-waltzed with Celtic immortals and elephant-headed divinities.

  The party built momentum, fuelled intermittently by the infusion of some new spectacle to spur the merriments. Dancing girls, magicians, flaming delicacies and showers of glittering confetti cast from the upper floors—the guests were kept breathless by the sheer extravagance and energy of the event.

  McIntosh had summoned his guests from the heights of society, from the world of professional boxing, politics and the theatre. They all had stories to tell about the fortunes, the schemes and the generosity of their host—accounts of commercial daring and financial courage. Tales which, lubricated by the champagne provided by their subject, were invariably affectionate and acclamatory.

  At the stroke of midnight, the band played Auld Lang Syne and in a flurry of handshaking and new year’s greetings, Rowland found the sculptress in his arms.

  “Happy 1934, Rowly,” she said, kissing him with slightly intoxicated abandon, before she was danced away in the cheering crowd and he was left with the lingering scent of roses and the taste of her on his lips.

  Midnight did not signal any abatement of the celebrations, though as the first hours of the year passed the dancing slowed and the conversations became more sedate.

  Rowland had not seen the Honourable Hugh Lygon since his first years at Oxford, though he did vaguely remember recent mention that the Englishman was in Australia. He’d faced the young aristocrat in the boxing ring once—a surprisingly brutal encounter considering that his opponent had been in the peculiar habit of carrying a large teddy bear about. It had sat in Lygon’s corner throughout the match, watching the violence with sad glass eyes. On this occasion, Lygon was accompanied instead by his father—the disgraced Earl of Beauchamp—who had fled Britain after being charged with homosexuality. For some reason that defied usual social segregations, Milton and the Earl were acquainted, and though Lygon had no recollection of Rowland, Earl Beauchamp recognised Milton immediately. He asked after the poet’s grandmother with whom he apparently shared a love of embroidery and needlework.

  It was from the midst of this unexpectedly mundane conversation that Hugh McIntosh pulled Rowland aside. “I wouldn’t mind a word, Rowly.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rowland said, allowing his host to guide him into a quieter part of the house.

  McIntosh looked over his shoulder to check they were more or less alone. “Rowland,” he began, “I like you. You’ve always struck me as a man of vision.”

  Rowland regarded him quizzically, wondering if McIntosh was just slightly intoxicated.

  “A simply extraordinary opportunity has recently come my way and I would like to give you an opportunity to invest!”

  “Me?”

  “As I said, my boy, I like you, and this is my way of making amends, I suppose.”

  “Amends? For what?”

  “For the amount your cousin lost on the Al Foreman bout.”

  “Arthur bet on a boxing match?” Rowland tried to follow.

  “No, no, the bout didn’t take place. Foreman pulled out. Arthur was one of the gentlemen who financed me to bring him out. What happened could not have been foreseen. It was disastrous for us all, but I’ve always felt bad.”

  “Well then, shouldn’t you be offering this opportunity to Arthur?”

  McIntosh stroked his meticulously trimmed moustache. “I’m afraid Arthur will not take my calls, Rowly. Your cousin is not a forgiving man and he blames me for the disappointing outcome of our enterprise.”

  “Just how much did Arthur lose?”

  “Quite a significant sum. He was forced to sell his legal firm, I believe. As I said, I feel bad.”

  “So you want me to financially back another fight?” Rowland asked.

  “No—fight promotions are old hat! I’ve another idea, and slugger, I think this might be the best idea I ever had! It’s simply inspired!” He put his arm around Rowland’s shoulders. “Have you noticed the Black and White Milk Bar in Martin Place?”

  “The Milk Bar?”

  “Always a line clamouring at its door. Rowly, I am going to open Black and White Milk Bars all over England! I’ve some excellent business and political connections there, and on the Continent. We’ll make a fortune. There’s money in milk, my friend!”

  They talked for a while after that, McIntosh outlining his proposal, building an empire with words and belief. Rowland listened, amused, intrigued and not entirely pessimistic about the idea’s potential.

  “Look, Mac, how about I speak to my brother about this?”

  “Your brother? Why? Excuse me if this is a vulgar question, Rowly, but don’t you have your own fortune?”

  “Yes, of course, but business is Wil’s talent. I’m just a painter.”

  “Painter… nonsense, you’re an artist! Why Norman Lindsay claims you as his protégé, and Norman does not do that lightly! I was a humble pie maker once, but I have made fortunes, for myself and many others. They love me in England! I was invited to the royal wedding, you know!”

  McIntosh was persuasive, but Rowland was steadfast. “You don’t really expect me to commit that amount of money tonight, do you, Mac? I’m not sure I’ve drunk enough champagne to make that kind of investment!”

  “Perhaps not,” McIntosh conceded, slapping Rowland on the back. “I suppose I should be glad that m
y new partner is not a fool.”

  “Partner?”

  “It’s inevitable, Rowly, inevitable. This is too good a deal to pass up!”

  It was only Milton’s determination to wear plus fours that ensured they emerged the next morning after ringing in 1934 in such grand style. The poet roused his companions, and was clearly disappointed that Rowland and Clyde intended to golf in ordinary suits. Rowland was adamant that he’d had enough of fancy dress and Clyde was less polite.

  The golfing party was surprisingly large, a merry, good-natured gaggle of tired, not entirely sober partygoers with thankfully few serious golfers. Out of the elaborate costumes of the night before, many guests became recognisable—actors, politicians, and celebrities of one kind or another. They all broke into smaller groups to play the eighteen hole course made up by the combination of McIntosh’s nine holes with that of the Springwood Country Club. Eager caddies, assured of generous gratuities, lined up to carry custom golf bags.

  Rowland and his companions formed a foursome on their own, carried their own clubs and spent the day playing a less than orthodox game of golf. Edna cheated, blatantly kicking her ball into more playable positions. Milton changed the rules and Clyde dug more divots than he hit balls. The game, such as it was, was punctuated with laughter and the frank conversation of people completely at ease in each other’s company.

  At some point during the pleasant amble, Rowland told his friends about the previous evening’s conversation with Hugh McIntosh, omitting Arthur Sinclair’s financial difficulties which were, after all, Arthur’s business alone.

  Milton frowned. “It’ll be a sad day indeed when bars serve milk! What is the man thinking? I’ll wager those crones from the Temperance League are behind this!”

  Clyde swiped at the poet with his golf club. “I dunno, Rowly, everybody needs milk. It might just work. The Sinclairs could become dairymen.”

  “I suppose so.” Rowland had never really considered how milk was procured before. He took his putt. “I wouldn’t mind painting Mac, you know. There’s something about his eyes, a distinct glint of insanity.”

  “Sounds like the perfect choice of business partner,” Milton observed.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time they returned to the Bon Accord to thank their host and take their leave. McIntosh would not allow them to depart without gifts of champagne, chocolates and a biography of the erstwhile premier of New South Wales. It seemed that Premier Lang had commissioned McIntosh to write the volume and, unhappy with its scandalous contents, had refused to pay him… which of course recommended the book in itself. He inscribed a volume for each of them with the same theatrical flourish with which he appeared to do everything. In Rowland’s he wrote “To a fellow fighter… Milk Bars!”

  Rowland smiled. “I won’t forget, Mac.”

  24

  A DARK ROOM

  Making It Cheerful

  It is often thought that it is necessary only to decorate a dark room in light colours to make it appear much lighter. This is not the case always, because colour values are usually distorted in a room where there is not sufficient light to bring out their qualities. White and cream, for example, sometimes appear grey near a ceiling. Light blues look cold, and pale greens can take on a dirty tinge. One of the best shades is yellow, the more golden in tone the better, while pink, if it has a certain amount of yellow in it, is also good.

  Examiner, 1934

  The Sinclairs and other residents of Woodlands House remained in Sydney for just another day. With the frivolities of the festive season behind them, there were matters of homicide to be resolved in order to clear Rowland’s name. For that it seemed appropriate to return to the place where the murders had been committed.

  For Rowland, it was almost a relief to be returning to Oaklea. The hierarchy there was established and unchallenged. The grand mansion was the ancestral home of the Sinclairs, but Wilfred was undeniably its current master.

  At Woodlands it had always been less clear. Rowland’s staff had never stopped deferring to Wilfred, and now Arthur Sinclair was adding a further complication to the lines of authority, and with it, a predictable tension.

  As they left Woodlands House, Rowland gave his housekeeper explicit instructions that the painters, when they arrived, were not even to enter his drawing room.

  “Tell them to paint the dining room if they must paint something.”

  “The colours Miss Bennett chose…” Mary Brown asked hesitantly.

  Rowland grimaced as he recalled the swatches of lavender and pink that Lucy Bennett had selected. “God, no! Tell them to paint it red, or black. Yes, tell them to paint it black.”

  “Oh, you can’t mean that, sir!”

  “I do.” Rowland was aware that he was being a little childish, but his cousin’s presumption irritated him. As much as he was loathe to carry on like some lord of the manor, Woodlands was his house.

  With the Mercedes still garaged in Yass, Rowland and his friends caught the train from Central Station. Lenin travelled with them in the private first class compartment. It was not exactly within the rules of carriage but Rowland had paid the greyhound’s fare several times over in gratuities intended to induce temporary blindness.

  They played cards as they planned what they would do next.

  “We’re going to have to really look into your old man, Rowly,” Milton said as he shuffled. “Try and find out who else hated him.”

  “How could we possibly do that?” Edna asked, taking up the cards he’d dealt her.

  “Journals, diaries, letters, that sort of thing,” Milton replied, turning to Rowland. “Do you know where we’d—”

  Rowland glanced at his cards. “The lawyers… Wilfred perhaps.” He frowned. “I don’t know that anybody has used Father’s study since he died. There may be some papers in there.”

  “We’ll have a gander,” Milton decided. “What about this bloke your brother was meeting?”

  “Menzies?” Rowland shrugged. “Wil might know what happened to him, though I’m not sure how Wil will feel about your conspiracy theory, Milt.”

  “I shall just have to dazzle him with my razor sharp logic,” Milton replied unperturbed.

  “There’s also Hayden,” Clyde reminded them. “The police obviously assume whoever killed Henry Sinclair killed Charlie Hayden too.”

  “The police assume it’s Rowly,” Edna corrected.

  “Perhaps the two murders aren’t connected,” Rowland said, tapping the window absently. He showed his cards and took the hand.

  “I don’t know, Rowly, they were both at Oaklea. It seems too coincidental to be unrelated.”

  “I suppose, but there were some thirteen years between the killings.”

  “We need to ascertain who, other than Rowly and Wilfred, was connected to both men.” Milton abandoned the card game.

  “That’s everybody who worked at Oaklea, I suppose,” Edna mused.

  “Hayden was my father’s manager,” Rowland offered. “There are probably a few people that dealt with both of them in relation to the property.”

  “That shearer your father sacked… for teaching you to shear,” Clyde raised the man tentatively. “He’d hate them both. Do you know what happened to him, Rowly?”

  Rowland said nothing for a while. “John Barrett’s a good bloke, Clyde.”

  Milton stiffened. “We talked about this, Rowly,” he warned. “We can’t just look at the people you don’t like.”

  Rowland sighed. “He works on Wainwright’s, the neighbouring property. Has done since Father sacked him.”

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “He called by the day of Father’s funeral. I saw him speaking to Harry.” Rowland’s eyes darkened. “I expect he was just expressing condolences or something of the like.”

  “Harry never told you?”

  “I left for England soon after the funeral and, to be honest, Milt, I haven’t really thought about it since.”

  “And other than that, h
ave you spoken to Barrett?” Milton persisted.

  Rowland shook his head. “We’ve exchanged the usual pleasantries in passing but nothing more than that. We don’t really move in the same circles.”

  Milton conceded. “Fair enough.”

  Edna leaned into Rowland. She could sense his unease. “We won’t say anything about anyone to the police unless we are absolutely sure, Rowly.”

  Rowland’s smile was fleeting and tense. “I know. I’m sorry.” He loosened his tie. “I just detest the idea of suspecting everybody who was ever kind to me.”

  “Of course you do,” Edna said gently. “That’s why we’re here.”

  They changed the subject then—for Rowland’s sake—because they knew that there was a great deal he felt but did not say, and because some things were buried for good reason. The conversation turned instead to art and life and the less consequential.

  Dr. Selwyn Higgins, Edna’s beloved, decidedly eccentric father, had been in Turkey since October, and had sent them each a fez for Christmas. Milton was wearing his despite the protests of his companions.

  “Selwyn has excellent taste,” he said, admiring his reflection in the window.

  “You look like a flaming organ-grinder’s monkey,” Clyde muttered. “Just remember to take it off before we get to Yass Junction! You can’t expect us to be seen with you wearing that!”

  Rowland laughed and nudged Clyde. “Perhaps you should wear yours next time you step out with Miss Martinelli.”

  Clyde groaned. “If I thought it would work, mate, if I thought it would work…” He sighed. “Rosie wants to meet my mother and she’s decided I have to speak to her father before Easter.”

  “Oh, Clyde.” Edna rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. “That soon?”

  “Your mother could well scare her off,” Milton suggested optimistically.

  “I don’t want to do that. Well, not entirely. Rosie is a great girl. I just don’t want to get married, not yet.” Clyde discarded his cards miserably. “Anyway, it’s far more likely that she and my mother will join forces, and then I’m doomed.”