“Yes.”
“And I was explicitly disinherited. To whom would the estate revert then?”
Wilfred stared at him for a moment. He swore. “Why the hell didn’t I see it?”
“Steady on, I’m not sure I see it yet.”
“The residual clause. In Father’s will, if the gift fails, the estate reverts to his brothers, or, if they are deceased, their male progeny. It was a similar clause that saw our father inherit Arthur’s father’s estate.”
“But Arthur was disinherited.”
“By his father. It doesn’t affect our father’s will.”
“And Arthur would know this?”
“He’s a solicitor, Rowly. We can probably assume he’s as underhanded, mean-spirited and amoral as the best of his profession!”
“Which means we have to be more concerned about proving your innocence than mine.”
“Possibly not. The solicitors have already warned me that if you’re convicted I could easily be prosecuted as an accessory after the fact.”
“And would that preclude you from inheriting?”
Wilfred paused. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask them.” He sighed. “Now to the other matter at hand. Tell me what precipitated mother becoming so suddenly unwell.”
Rowland frowned, confessing his reckless demands on his mother’s memory. “I’m so sorry, Wil. For a moment I really thought she might remember me.”
Wilfred removed his glasses and polished them vigorously as he studied his brother. “It probably wasn’t you, Rowly. Mother is getting worse, more fragile and difficult to deal with. She’s lashed out at the servants and even Kate on a couple of occasions now. I was consulting doctors about Mother, not you.”
Rowland regarded his brother with both sympathy and horror. “God, Wil, you’re not considering—?”
“A sanatorium? I don’t know, Rowly. Perhaps engaging the services of a private nurse will suffice.”
“What did the doctors say?”
“Nothing particularly useful.” Wilfred regarded Rowland gravely. “Look, Rowly, the immediate issue is that your presence is upsetting Mother. Perhaps she is finally beginning to realise you’re not Aubrey.”
Rowland stared moodily at his drink.
Wilfred continued. “I thought it might be a good time for you to take a little sojourn.”
Rowland looked up. “Where?”
“To Melbourne. Kew to be exact.” Wilfred handed Rowland a sealed envelope. “A letter of introduction to The Honourable Robert Menzies, KC, with a reminder that he is unlikely to move into federal politics without my support.”
“You want me to personally deliver a… threat?” Rowland asked. “Don’t you think that’s a trifle—”
“I want you to find out exactly what he was doing on the night of Father’s death, in the time I left him unattended in the drawing room.”
“Gilbey and Angel call in every second day, Wil. If they find I’m not here…”
“What if you take the plane? Could you fly there and back in twenty-four hours?”
“Yes, of course, if I could find a place to land Doris. I can’t exactly park her in front of his house.”
“Leave that to me.”
Rowland opened the shed doors on Emoh Ruo half an hour after Gilbey and Angel left the property, having once again confirmed he had not fled. Clyde insisted on checking over the Rule Britannia, his caution justified by the discovery of an issue with the push rods.
“This might have brought down the aeroplane,” Clyde grumbled as he attended to the problem which, fortunately, was relatively simple to remedy.
“We checked the push rods after I took her up last time,” Rowland said, perplexed.
“Do you suppose someone’s been tampering with the plane?” Clyde asked, wiping the grease off his hands.
Rowland shrugged. “It’s more likely we missed something.”
“Perhaps.” Clyde’s manner made it clear that he did not think it more likely at all.
Rowland climbed up onto the wing and pulled the extra cap and goggles from the cockpit. Though he had initially resisted involving his friend in the current escapade, Clyde had insisted. With Milton and Edna backing Clyde, Rowland had given in.
No one had come to see them off. Indeed, very few people knew they were going. Rowland had taken to his bed the day before, with what the helpful Maguire proclaimed was flu. Kate, in her delicate condition, was banned from that part of the house, as were the servants and the rest of the household. Rowland was purportedly being tended by a specialist nurse and Maguire himself. Edna and Milton, who might otherwise have been likely to risk contagion, were party to the ruse, and so did nothing to challenge or breach the quarantine.
When the detectives had arrived that morning, Rowland had spoken to them from his sick bed, coughing and spluttering in what was quite a reasonable impersonation of a man who was seriously unwell.
Clyde had left the house on the pretext of catching the train to Batlow via Cootamundra. Wilfred allowed him to take one of the farm vehicles. Rowland had been secreted on the payload.
And so to everyone whom the police might question, Rowland Sinclair lay ill in his bed while Clyde Watson Jones was visiting his mother.
They parked the Chevrolet Capital in the shed and taxied the Rule Britannia out into the paddock. The weather was fair, the sky clear and the winds ideal in both strength and direction. The Gipsy Moth took off into the nor’-easterly without incident and turned south for the hop to Melbourne with a refuelling stop at Wangaratta.
Finding Eldonvale, where Wilfred had arranged for them to land, was not difficult from the air. Both Rowland and Clyde had charted their route carefully, following the railway lines and then the Yarra River. The house was distinctive, boasting turrets and spires in the style of a European castle. A short runway had been cut into the natural bushland behind the tennis courts. Rule Britannia approached from the south, touching down surprisingly softly before slowing to a gentle stop.
“Hello, it’s the cavalry,” Clyde said as several riders on horseback charged towards them.
He and Rowland climbed out of the cockpit and dropped onto the tarred ground.
“Well, well, you must be young Rowly Sinclair!” A gentleman in hunting pinks slipped down from the lead horse to shake Rowland’s hand. He spoke with a distinct highland brogue.
“Colonel Mouat?” Rowland regarded his brother’s old friend and comrade curiously. Gregory Mouat had apparently been Wilfred’s commanding officer during the War. He was a compact, affable sort of chap who grinned broadly at them both through a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. Rowland wasn’t entirely sure how much Mouat knew about their current purpose.
“Colonel? Good heavens, laddie, nobody’s called me that since the war!” He reached up and slapped Rowland heartily on the back. “I canna’ know who you mean unless you call me Haggis!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Haggis, all the lads call me Haggis.” He laughed loudly to demonstrate his approval of the joke.
“Yes, of course… Haggis.”
The other riders dismounted now, and Mouat introduced his wife, a tall blonde he called “Apples” for some reason he did not specify. Rowland elected to call her Mrs. Mouat.
“Wilf was at pains to point out that you’ll be in a tearing hurry, so I have a car waiting. There’s a driver too—if you want him—but I see you’ve brought your own,” Mouat said, nodding at Clyde. The Mouats left their horses with the other riders and walked Rowland and Clyde past the tennis courts to a gleaming Cadillac parked in the drive.
“We had hoped to be slightly less conspicuous, sir,” Clyde ventured hesitantly.
“My good man, you’re going to Kew. Anything but the latest limousine will be highly conspicuous, I can tell you that!”
“We do wish we could stop to take a drink with you before you go,” Mrs. Mouat apologised. “But if we don’t get back into the chase, we’ll never catch the hounds and the lads w
ill get away.”
“The lads?” Rowland couldn’t help but ask. It seemed rather a friendly term by which to refer to foxes.
“Young Tom and Samuel,” Mrs. Mouat said. “Our eldest is abroad, so it’s just the bairns.”
“You’re hunting your sons?”
“Oh aye, Haggis, daft as he is, won’t kill anything but Germans. But the hounds will follow the lads you see. You would’na know it wasn’t a real hunt.”
Mouat concurred with his wife. “Our Tom’s become quite swift. Could run for Australia, that lad!”
Rowland glanced at Clyde who was clearly bemused. “We’d best not keep you, then. Thank you kindly for your help and your hospitality, Mrs. Mouat, Mr… Haggis.”
“Not at all, laddie. Only too glad to do old Wilf a good turn.” Mouat checked his watch. “I’ve made an appointment for you with Dag Menzies. He may be under the impression you’re a delegate from the Graziers’ Association—plenty of votes in that. I’ll see that your bird’s refuelled and ready to go, once we catch the lads.”
29
The Presbyterian Church, Cotham Road, looked beautiful with its decorations of arum lilies and white roses, done by the ladies of the congregation in honour of the marriage of Miss Pattie Maie Leckie, oldest daughter of Mr. John W. Leckie (ex M.H.R. for Indi), “Indi,” Manningtree Road, Hawthorn, to Mr. Robert Gordon Menzies, third son of Mr. James Menzies, M.L.A., which was celebrated on Monday evening, Sept. 27th, by the Rev J.H. Anderson.
The graceful bride, who was given away by her father, wore a beautiful gown of ivory satin, made with pannier draperies, held with clusters of exquisite handmade silver flowers, and a softly folded corsage with georgette sleeves. The bridesmaids were the Misses Coryn and Gwenyth Leckie, sisters of the bride, and Miss Ruth Gosman. The reception was held at the Grand Hotel, the guests being received by Mr. and Mrs. Leckie (stepmother of the bride).
Alexandra and Yea Standard, 22 October 1920
Not yet forty, the Deputy Premier of Victoria was still a young man but already he looked every inch a statesman. He moved and spoke with a careful gravity and received Rowland with the friendly formality of the political stage.
Clyde, as Rowland’s driver, had remained with the car. They had decided on the journey from Eldonvale that Menzies may be more forthcoming to Rowland alone.
Rowland waited until they were in Menzies’ study with the door closed before he informed the Deputy Premier that he had nothing to do with the Graziers’ Association.
Menzies stood, alarmed.
Rowland handed him Wilfred’s letter before Menzies called for help. He scanned it hastily and then sat down in the leather upholstered captain’s chair behind his desk.
“Please, do sit down, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland took the armchair facing the desk. The study was not much different in style from Wilfred’s—conservative, ordered and quietly opulent.
“Your brother, with whom I have had a long-standing acquaintance, believes there is a matter with which I can help you. I’ll do my best, of course, but I must tell you I don’t often meet with clients personally at this stage of proceedings. It is more usual that a barrister is briefed by advising solicitors.”
“It’s not your professional assistance I require, Mr. Menzies.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know if you recall, sir, but you visited my family property, Oaklea, in early 1920, to meet with my brother.”
“To be precise, Mr. Sinclair, I stopped in for a quick drink after I’d met with your brother at his club in town.”
“You remember it then?”
“I may.” Menzies remained cautious.
“Wil tells me that he was forced to leave you alone in the drawing room whilst he dealt with an incident demanding his immediate attention.”
Menzies’ eyes glinted suspiciously from beneath dark, upswept brows. “Yes, yes. I believe he might have, but I wasn’t alone.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Wilfred was gone for quite a long time as I recall. Mrs. Sinclair, your charming mother, kept me company.”
“My mother! She was in the drawing room?”
“She came down shortly after Wilfred left to attend whatever business called him away. I’m afraid Mrs. Sinclair was rather cross that Wilfred would have abandoned a guest in her house and insisted on keeping me company.”
“You were with my mother all that time?” Rowland asked, surprised. “Wil said he was gone for hours.”
“Perhaps two,” Menzies agreed. “Mrs. Sinclair was fortunately a gracious and vibrant conversationalist. At her insistence, we shared a bottle of your father’s finest cognac and talked about your late brother.”
“Aubrey?”
Menzies sighed. “It seems your brother and I were the same age. Your dear mother did not want him to go to war. Like my own mother, she felt her elder son was sacrifice enough.”
“Both my brothers served,” Rowland said. “Aubrey died in France.”
“My brothers served also. Fortunately they both came back. My mother was successful in keeping me out of service, a fact which my political enemies have always been eager to exploit, but it seems your father insisted that Aubrey do his duty.”
Rowland frowned. He remembered only that his brothers had all enlisted. He had not thought about whether they wanted to go—he’d always assumed they did. “I see. But Wil didn’t see Mother there with you when he—”
“I’m afraid she became distressed… the talk of Aubrey, I suppose. She excused herself shortly before your brother returned. I was about to leave when Wilfred appeared and offered me another drink.”
“And then you heard the gunshot which killed my father.” A cold realisation spread from the pit of Rowland’s stomach.
“At the time I was aware only that it was a gunshot,” Menzies said, his posture defensive. “For all I knew it might have been one of the workmen shooting at a fox.”
“That would be unusual inside the house, don’t you think?”
“I suppose, in hindsight. Wilfred left for a couple of minutes and then returned to suggest it might be politic to leave before I became unwittingly embroiled in an unsavoury affair that might be used, by my legal adversaries of the time, to discredit me.”
“I don’t suppose you recall seeing anyone else in the house while you were there, sir?”
“The housekeeper when we first came in, but otherwise no.”
Rowland bit his lip uneasily.
“I understand,” Menzies said hesitantly into the silence, “that your father was murdered by an intruder that evening.”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid the culprit was never found.”
“My sympathies, Mr. Sinclair, and to your good mother. May I ask, sir, why you are looking into this tragic matter now?”
“The gun used to kill my father has only recently been found and retrieved,” Rowland replied. “We hoped it might lead to some resolution.” He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Menzies. I do appreciate your time.”
Menzies walked Rowland to the door. It was as they shook hands in the vestibule that Mrs. Menzies came out in search of her husband. Bob Menzies introduced Rowland to his wife.
“Rowland is Wilfred Sinclair’s younger brother, Pattie.”
“Of course. I’d have recognised those glorious blue Sinclair eyes anywhere,” Pattie Menzies said, smiling. “How is Wilfred?”
“He’s well, Mrs. Menzies. About to become a father again.”
Pattie Menzies laughed. “It’s hard to imagine Wilfred as a father. He was such a rogue!”
Rowland’s brow rose. Rogue was not a word he would ever have associated with Wilfred.
“Now my dear,” Menzies said sternly, “we mustn’t slander the man to his own brother.”
With not a little curiosity, Rowland regarded the woman Wilfred had once sought to marry. She stood by Menzies with a kind of complementary confidence he’d never seen in shy Kate Sinclair. His sister-in-law had always seemed uncer
tain of her place.
Pattie asked after Kate, whom, it seemed, she looked forward to meeting when “Bob made the move to Canberra.” The Deputy Premier’s wife was a perfect hostess, warm and charming with not a word or gesture out of place. The ideal partner for a man in pursuit of power.
And yet Wilfred had fallen in love with a slip of a girl. Rowland was glad. He was very fond of Kate and always charmed by how unreservedly beguiled Wilfred was with his young wife.
After a courteous sufficiency of pleasantries had been exchanged, Rowland took his leave of Mr. and Mrs. Menzies and returned to the Cadillac which awaited him in the drive.
“Well?” Clyde asked once the Menzies’ house was well behind them.
Rowland stared silently at the road ahead.
“Did you discover anything?” Clyde persisted.
Rowland groaned. “Yes.”
“Brilliant!”
“Actually no. It isn’t.”
Clyde glanced at his friend. Rowland looked wretched. “Rowly, are you all right, mate?”
Rowland dropped his head back against the seat. He rubbed his face and spoke candidly, trusting Clyde to guard his confidence. “I think my mother might have shot him, Clyde.”
“What? Why?”
Rowland recounted his conversation with Robert Menzies.
“But your mother, Rowly.” Clyde pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. “Why would she want to kill your father? It doesn’t make sense.”
Rowland closed his eyes. “She was terrified of him, Clyde.”
“Did he—?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t ever see him raise a hand against her, but I was at school during the term.”
“And when he’d lay into you… or get Hayden to?”
“She’d lock herself in her room. The next morning we’d both pretend it hadn’t happened.” Rowland spoke quietly. He felt strangely ashamed. “Mother didn’t have a lot to do with me after Aubrey died anyway. Not until I returned from England, when she decided I was Aubrey.”
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