“He was a mean, black-hearted mongrel. But what can you do? He was the boy’s father. If he hadn’t died I reckon he might have killed the kid in the end.”
“Look, John,” Simpson said. “Rowly doesn’t want the police to even talk to you if it isn’t necessary.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But we still need to know everything you can remember.”
Barrett looked at Simpson. “Yeah, I can see what you’re saying.” He drew again on his cigarette. “I was in Sydney at the wool sales with Mr. Wainwright when we heard about Mr. Sinclair. We came back straight away.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Wainwright was a mate of Mr. Wilfred Sinclair’s. Had no time for the old man—that’s why he was willing to give me a job, I suppose—but he thought he should show his respects.”
“What about Hayden?” Milton asked.
“If I’d wanted to kill Hayden I’d have done it fifteen years ago. I heard he was back… bragging that he was finally evening the score, being compensated for what Wilfred Sinclair did to him.”
“Compensated? How?”
“Dunno. He was shouting rounds at the Commercial. Certainly wasn’t skint.”
“Do you have any idea as to who might have wanted to kill him, Mr. Barrett?” Clyde asked.
Barrett dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. “Look, not many people liked Hayden. He was a downright bully, a coward, but he picked his targets. You worked for him until Wilfred Sinclair sacked him, Harry—did he give you any grief?”
“No,” Simpson admitted. “He stayed out of my way. I had no idea of what the boss was using him to do.”
Barrett nodded. “He didn’t take on any bloke who could stand up to him.” The shearer folded his arms. “I wish I could help you. I liked the kid… used to think he had it made… and then that day in the shed.” Barrett cursed. “My old man used to clip me round the ear too, and I’d come out and kick the dog. But I never saw Rowland do anything like that.”
“No,” Simpson said. “Rowly likes dogs.”
Barrett snorted, shoving Simpson good-naturedly.
They took their leave of John Barrett then and sprinted through the rain, back to the Mercedes. Clyde started the engine, noting with not a small measure of trepidation that the dirt road was quickly turning to mud in the deluge. He drove slowly because visibility was poor.
“So what do you think?” Milton asked from the back seat.
“Rowly’s right, Barrett didn’t shoot anybody,” Clyde replied, craning his head out of the window to see more clearly.
“No, I know that. I meant what he said about Hayden having money.”
“What do you mean?” Simpson asked.
“Well, when Hayden first emerged we thought it odd that he should appear just when the gun was found. I’m starting to suspect we were right. It’s more than coincidence.”
Clyde nodded. “You may have a point. Delaney’s been telling us from the beginning that the police have an anonymous informant.”
“So who’s behind this?” Simpson looked back at Milton.
“Do you suppose it might be Campbell and his Boo Guard?” Milton posed.
“Maybe,” Clyde kept his eyes glued to what little road he could see. “Campbell’s a solicitor. He’d certainly know how to stir up this kind of trouble. He’d probably also know how to access the original records on Henry’s murder.”
Milton frowned. “But how would he even know to look?”
“It was widely reported in the newspapers when it happened, as a burglary-cum-murder of course,” Simpson informed them. “Lot of features on Wil taking over the reins of the Sinclair empire.”
“So perhaps we’re talking about Wilfred’s enemies, not Rowly’s,” Milton suggested.
“But they’re pointing at Rowly for murder, not Wil.”
“Did you blokes see anybody the night Lenin was shot?” Milton asked suddenly.
“No. Why?”
“Just think we let that go too easily. Someone might have been trying to shoot Rowly.”
“Wil’s convinced it was just some fool shooting rabbits.” Simpson’s misgivings were apparent in his voice.
“Watch it, Clyde!” Milton warned as the Mercedes slid sideways in the mud.
Clyde reacted quickly, using the steering to bring the car back to the road and under control. “I worked in a gang of shearers once,” he muttered, clearly brooding over what Barrett had described. “They were tough blokes—pretty bloody hard to shock, I’d say. God, poor Rowly. How could you do that to your own boy?”
“When Aubrey died, I gather the boss thought the Good Lord took him as atonement,” Simpson said.
“Atonement for what exactly?”
Simpson raised his thick dark brow. “Past indiscretions. Aubrey and I were about the same age.” He frowned thoughtfully. “As boys, we were all wary of the boss’s walking cane,” he confessed. “But I think the bible reading business must’ve started after Aubrey died. Perhaps he was flogging himself as much as Rowly.”
“I dunno, Harry. It sounds to me like Henry Sinclair was just a mean, sadistic mongrel—what the hell?”
The car jolted as it collected a rut in the road.
Clyde swore. The wheels began to spin. He stopped the Mercedes and put it into reverse, but the back wheels didn’t have traction. It seemed they were bogged. He cursed again.
Simpson turned towards Milton. “Looks like you and I are pushing, mate.”
“No point in this rain,” Clyde said. “We’re stuck. We’ll just have to wait till the rain stops and then chock the ruts with something.”
Wilfred was on the back verandah with one of his managers. They spoke loudly over the pounding of the rain upon the tin roof as they discussed wool prices which had apparently recovered to record levels. The Oaklea bales were already in Sydney, safely stored at the Goldsborough Mort Woolstore, ready for auction whenever Wilfred gave the word. Despite the extraordinary prices, Wilfred was holding back most of the Oaklea clip, convinced the market would climb even further.
Ernest left Rowland’s side and stood by his father, listening intently with his hands clasped behind his back. Rowland had no doubt that his nephew already knew far more than he did about wool. There was a solemn perspicacity about Ernest that more than anything else identified him as Wilfred’s son.
Rowland, on the other hand, had difficulty even feigning interest in the finer points of wool classing, let alone breeding programs. Generally, he just signed whatever Wilfred put in front of him, repaying his brother’s commitment to expanding the Sinclair fortune by not interfering. Every now and then, Wilfred felt the need to drag him to a meeting or have him appointed to some board or sub-committee, but they both knew their roles.
The conversation moved from the wool clip to the weather, which had turned rather dramatically. Fortunately, the last of the cereal harvest was in and so the deluges of the past day would cause the property very little trouble. In time the manager tipped his hat and wished them all a good night.
Wilfred ruffled his son’s hair. “And what have you two been up to?”
Ernest clammed up, clasping his hands over his mouth.
Rowland smiled. Clearly the boy was not a poker player.
Wilfred glanced at the presentation club in Rowland’s hand. His brow arched. “What do you want with that?” he asked.
“I’m going to work on my chip shot.”
Wilfred started to say something and then elected to stop. “I take it you were in Father’s study?” he said instead.
Rowland nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you go in?” Wilfred asked his son.
“Only to tell Uncle Rowly that he wasn’t allowed in there.” Ernest glanced nervously at Rowland. “Uncle Rowly didn’t make the mess—it was like that when he got there.”
“Just as well,” Wilfred said, allowing Ernest’s clumsy attempt to cover up for his uncle to pass without comment. “Did you find anyth
ing?” he asked, turning to Rowland.
“Perhaps… but Ernie told me something much more interesting.”
On cue, Ernest told his father about the ghost.
Wilfred listened grimly. “I expect we should have a chat, Ernie. You have a few things backwards, old chap.”
“Oh.” Ernest’s face fell. “So there’s no ghost?”
“I very much doubt it.”
Rowland leaned against a verandah post, listening. He was more than a little intrigued as to how his brother would handle Ernest’s guileless curiosity.
Wilfred invited his son to sit, and took the squatters’ chair opposite. “Your grandfather Sinclair died in that room, Ernie.”
“When?”
“A long time ago, son. Before you were born. We don’t talk about it because it upsets your grandmother.”
“Doesn’t it upset you?”
“Of course, but I’m a man. So are you. It’s important that we are considerate of the ladies.”
“Would Grandma cry if we talked about it?”
“Possibly.”
“She doesn’t cry when we talk about Uncle Aubrey, and he died. She thinks he’s Uncle Rowly.”
Wilfred sighed. “Your uncles look very much alike so your grandmother gets mixed up sometimes.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“Which one’s which.”
Rowland couldn’t help but smile as Wilfred began to look somewhat flustered.
“It’s more complicated than that, Ernie, you’ll understand when you’re older.”
“Grandma’s older, and she’s all mixed up.”
“Now you’re being cheeky, young man,” Wilfred said sternly.
“Mr. Sinclair, excuse me, sir.” Jack Templeton interrupted them, appearing quite suddenly from the deluge. He removed his hat and wiped the water from his eyes with muddy hands. “Miss Walling sent me to tell you, sir, that the rain is causing problems. We’re just going to dig a trench to divert the overflow and minimise the damage until this is over.”
“Yes, very good, Templeton. Carry on.”
Templeton twisted his hat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m afraid Miss Walling is having a few difficulties with Mr. McNair. He seems quite agitated, sir.”
“McNair? What the dickens is he belly-aching about now?”
“I’m afraid, sir, that we haven’t been able to work that out.”
Rowland laughed. McNair, Wilfred’s permanent gardener, had a particular mumbling manner of speaking which seemed to render only the random profanity comprehensible. Wilfred was the only person who understood the man.
Wilfred stood. “I best go out with you. If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch a raincoat.”
“Can I come too, Mr. Templeton?” Ernest asked, once his father had stepped inside.
Templeton squatted to speak with the boy face to face. “No, you’d best stop here in the dry like a good boy.” He ruffled Ernest’s hair. “When the rain stops, Vic and I will hang a swing for you in that elm tree, if you like.”
27
YASS RIVER RISING
The Yass River was running high at 6 p.m. last night, but had not reached dangerous proportions. However, very heavy rain commenced to fall shortly after 8 o’clock, and it was feared that a sudden rise was imminent.
Campers on the river bank have all shifted to higher ground, and it is thought that sufficient warning has been given to enable stock and property to be safeguarded.
The Canberra Times, 8 January 1934
It was quite late in the day when Milton arrived back at Oaklea. He was dripping, muddy and his green velvet jacket had clearly seen better days.
“Oh, Mr. Isaacs! What in heaven’s name are you doing out in this rain?” Mrs. Kendall exclaimed as she opened the door.
“I drew the short straw, I’m afraid.”
“Milt!” Edna joined the housekeeper in the vestibule. “Where have you been?”
“We got bogged,” Milton said, stopping on the verandah. He removed his sodden jacket, wringing the water from the sleeves and muttering. “Thought we’d wait for the rain to stop, but it doesn’t seem inclined to break any time soon.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Isaacs, come in before you catch your death,” Mrs. Kendall ordered.
Milton paused to shake his head like a wet dog, before crossing the threshold. “Harry Simpson said I should tell Mr. Sinclair to send one of his Caterpillars for them.”
“Caterpillar?” Edna asked.
“It’s a tractor,” Rowland said from the hallway. “Good Lord, how long have you been stuck?”
“We gave up on the rain letting up an hour ago and they sent me for help.”
“I’ll drive out and get them,” Rowland said, grabbing his hat from the hallstand.
“I’m afraid we took your car, Rowly.”
“Oh.” The alarm was evident on Rowland’s face. “We’d better organise that Caterpillar and some tow chains then.”
The available Caterpillar was stored in the same shed on Emoh Ruo in which the Rule Britannia was housed. It was, as luck would have it, not far from where the yellow Mercedes had become hopelessly bogged.
Jack Templeton volunteered to undertake the rescue. Wilfred sent the gardener out to collect the tractor on horseback, to avoid bogging another car, dismissing out of hand any notion that Rowland accompany him.
“I’m sure Templeton can manage to pull that Fritz monstrosity out on his own,” he muttered.
Reluctantly Rowland conceded, giving Templeton instructions on where and how to attach the tow chain.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Sinclair,” Templeton said as he set off in the rain yet again. “I’ll be real gentle with her.”
Wilfred snorted. He’d never quite reconciled his brother’s insistence on keeping the German automobile. “Just let the man do his job,” he growled. “Templeton’s a good hand. I’m thinking about keeping him on once Miss Walling has finished up.”
“Won’t she need him?”
“Apparently he and the other one—Bates—are just filling in for one of her usual contractors. They asked me if I’d consider giving them jobs as gardeners. I don’t need two, but I’m inclined to take Templeton on.”
“What about McNair?” Rowland asked. He imagined the taciturn gardener might have something to say on the subject.
Wilfred sighed. “I’ll talk to him. He could doubtless use some more help about the place. These blasted gardens will take some upkeep and I’m afraid poor old McNair just wants to plant pumpkins.”
Rowland was waiting in the garage when Clyde brought in the Mercedes. Edna had come out to keep him company while Milton was recovering with a generous balloon of Wilfred’s finest brandy. Harry Simpson had, of course, been dropped off at his cottage and Templeton was returning the Caterpillar and picking up his horse.
Clyde chuckled as Rowland fussed over the mud-splattered automobile. “She’s fine, Rowly, just a bit wet.”
Rowland patted the grille. “She does seem to have survived the indignity of it all.”
“Perhaps you could draw her a hot bath!” Edna suggested, rolling her eyes. “It might calm her nerves.”
“I’m glad you came out to check on her, actually,” Clyde said as Rowland stood, satisfied his beloved car was none the worse for the experience. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“How did you fair with John Barrett?” Rowland asked.
Clyde recounted the conversation. “It got us thinking again that perhaps Charlie Hayden appearing out of the blue wasn’t just an inconvenient coincidence.”
“You believe someone paid him to come back?”
“It makes sense, Rowly. Harry and I went over it while we were waiting for help to arrive.”
“Harry believes there’s someone behind all this too?” Rowland asked.
Clyde nodded. “What’s more, Rowly, we don’t think you should dismiss the fact that someone shot at you. It may not have been an accident.”
Rowland leaned back on the bonnet of his car, his arms folded, and laughed ruefully. “That. No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“You know who shot Lenin?” Edna asked, aghast.
“As Clyde said, they were shooting at me—got Len by mistake. At first I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Wil was so adamant it was some near-sighted rabbit hunter. I worked it out eventually.”
“Not Wil?” Edna stepped back, appalled.
“No, of course not. Wil wouldn’t have missed, for one thing. It was Lucy Bennett.”
“Lucy Bennett shot at you?”
“I’m fairly sure. The colonel probably gave her a pistol to fend off Communists. She has a car, she knew I’d be walking back and she was rather vexed with me.”
“But why would Wilfred want to—”
“Lucy is his wife’s dearest friend. I expect Kate appealed to Wil on Lucy’s behalf.”
“And Wilfred… both of you… are willing to let it go at that?” Clyde joined Edna in her horror.
Rowland replied calmly. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, but it appears shooting a dog is not actually a crime in New South Wales. I don’t know that making a fuss would have achieved anything.”
“She tried to kill you!” It was hard to tell if Edna was angrier with Lucy Bennett or Rowland.
He grimaced. “Perhaps Miss Bennett just wished to let me know she was displeased. She was rather distraught.”
“Before or after she tried to shoot you?”
Rowland smiled apologetically. “I’m convinced she’s not dangerous. I expect Miss Bennett gave herself rather more of a shock than she did me.”
“So you said nothing?”
“All things considered, it seemed like letting it go was the decent thing to do. I only bring it up so you know it’s got nothing to do with the murders.”
Silence.
Then Clyde sighed heavily, and pointed sternly at Rowland. “You, mate,” he said, glancing sideways at Edna, “would be well advised to stop associating with women who shoot at you. The next one might not miss!”
The unrelenting rain ensured they were more or less confined to barracks for the next few days. It might not have been such an issue if the mix of guests at Oaklea were not so volatile. Arthur Sinclair made it clear that he believed his cousin Rowland’s friends had no business imposing on the family yet again. He was polite, but hostile nonetheless, expressing his antipathy within the bounds of civility.
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