Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  “Well if she was so scared of your father, and so indifferent to what was happening to you, why would she suddenly find the courage to brandish a gun and shoot the bastard?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed,” Rowland said wistfully. “Or perhaps she blamed my father for insisting Aubrey enlist.” He smiled sadly. “Most likely it was the bottle of cognac she shared with Menzies. The thing is, Clyde, it makes more sense than anything else.”

  “But what about Hayden?” Clyde said. “You don’t believe your mother made her way to Emoh Ruo and beat him to death, do you?”

  “Well no. That would be utterly absurd. Someone else killed Hayden.”

  Clyde watched Rowland carefully. “Do you know who?”

  “No but…” He bit his lip anxiously. “We should get back. I need to talk to Wil.”

  Clyde started the car. If what Rowland suspected proved correct, it was the worst possible news for many reasons. Aside from the tragedy of it, Rowland’s best chance of clearing his own name was to find and expose the actual killer. But he was unlikely to offer his mother to the detectives, as an alternative. “Don’t worry, mate,” Clyde said, glancing sideways at Rowland. “We’ll think of something.”

  By the time they returned to Eldonvale, the Mouats had managed to hunt down their sons.

  “This has to be the oddest bloody thing I’ve seen your lot get up to,” Clyde whispered as Mouat recounted the number of fences they’d needed to jump to be there at the “kill”.

  Rowland smiled. “It’s the same as a drag hunt in principle, I guess. It’s the fact that they don’t want to actually kill things that’s unusual.”

  True to his word, Mouat had refuelled the Rule Britannia. Given the earlier trouble with the push rods, Clyde and Rowland ran a particularly careful check on the workings of the Gipsy Moth. Finding nothing untoward, they prepared to leave.

  Mrs. Mouat presented them with a large basket containing sandwiches, an apple pie, a flask of tea, a white linen tablecloth, napery and two silver candlesticks. Rowland thanked her though he was unsure why and where she thought he and Clyde would stop for so elegant a picnic. He helped himself to a corned beef sandwich before he climbed into the cockpit and left the remainder of the basket to his passenger.

  The day was still relatively clear though wispy cloud was accumulating to the north. Rowland switched on the fuel and waited while Clyde swung the propeller until the engine kicked over, removed the chocks and climbed into the passenger seat. The Mouats stood by the runway to wave them off.

  By the time they took off from Wangaratta, after refuelling, the weather had come in. The valiant Gipsy Moth fought strong headwinds all the way back to Yass. Rowland had never before flown in such difficult conditions. The ply and canvas body of the Rule Britannia creaked and strained against the battering squalls. They did not make good time at all and it was nearly completely dark by the time they reached the Yass shire.

  Rowland cursed, trying to keep calm. He did not see how he could land at Oaklea in the dark, but they were very low on fuel now, and diverting was not an option. The weather was only making the situation more grim.

  It was then he saw the lights—two rows distinctly visible through the rain, marking a runway of sorts. He throttled back the engine and began his descent. They landed hard, bouncing as Rowland struggled to keep the wheels even and the nose up. The Rule Britannia slipped and fishtailed dangerously. Someone pressed a car horn. And then, finally, she stopped.

  Rowland took his hand off the joystick, gasping, relieved. He turned to check that his passenger was all right. Clyde looked shaken and wet but otherwise he seemed intact.

  “Rowly!” Harry Simpson ran up to the plane.

  Rowland climbed out, dragging off his cap and goggles. “Harry! What are you doing here?”

  “When the weather turned, Wil thought you might need some help,” Simpson shouted over the engines of the dozen vehicles—an assortment of trucks and even Wilfred’s Rolls Royce Continental—which idled in the paddock with their headlamps on. “We rounded up all the motors on the property and a few hurricane lamps and hoped you’d land before too long.”

  “We may have to fire up the Caterpillar to get everyone out,” Rowland said as he and Clyde trudged through the mud after Simpson.

  Simpson opened the door of one of the trucks and indicated they should get in. “That’s not the worst of our problems, Rowly. Delaney rang. Some bastard tipped off the police that you’d breached your bail conditions. Gilbey and Angel are on their way to Oaklea—they may be there already. We’ve got to get you back.”

  Rowland swore. A breach would see him returned to Long Bay until trial. “Who tipped off the police?” he asked as Simpson put the truck into gear.

  “Anonymous apparently.”

  The police cars were already parked in the drive when they reached Oaklea. Simpson took the farm truck to the back of the house.

  “We’ll just say I was out inspecting sheep with you,” Rowland said to Simpson.

  “Rowly, nobody inspects sheep in the rain.”

  “They won’t know that. We’ve been inspecting sheep all day and got caught in the rain.”

  “What exactly were you inspecting them for?” Simpson asked, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know, condition, colour, the length of their skirts… make something up.”

  “I can’t go in,” Simpson said, stopping. “Tell them where to find me and I’ll tell them about sheep.”

  Rowland didn’t argue.

  “Oh Rowly, thank goodness you’re here.” Edna ran out of the door to intercept them. “You can’t come in. The police are here.”

  “I know.”

  “Wilfred and Dr. Maguire have already told them you’re in your room dangerously ill—they’re arguing on the staircase right now—you can’t just walk in from outside.”

  “Is there any way of getting to your room without using the main staircase?” Clyde asked.

  Rowland sighed. “Not through the house. I’ll have to climb up through the window.”

  “Are you mad? It’s on the second storey!”

  “I had that room when I was a boy.” Rowland smiled. “Believe me, I’ve climbed in and out that way often.” He loosened his tie. “I’ll need a couple of minutes.”

  Edna nodded. “I’ll see if I can help Wilfred and Dr. Maguire convince them you’re contagious.” She turned to Clyde and Simpson. “Can you gentlemen please see that he doesn’t break his neck?”

  Rowland was already on his way to the window. He assessed the task. The tree and the drainpipe he’d always used as a boy were still there, the lattice looked distinctly more rickety than he remembered but he presumed the wisteria vine had strengthened to compensate. He was lucky, he supposed, that Edna Walling had not decided to remove it.

  He handed his jacket to Clyde, rolled up his sleeves and began. The apricot tree helped him scale the ground floor quite easily. The next storey was more difficult. The drainpipe was wet, as was the vine. Still, somehow, he made it to the ledge of his window. He’d disabled the latch himself when he was twelve and to his relief it had not been repaired. Even so, opening the window was tricky as it required him to take all his weight with one arm whilst he pushed the window up. The trellis cracked beneath his right foot and, for a moment, he slipped. Clyde swore. Rowland scrambled, regaining his footing on the wisteria and dragging himself up through the open window. He was reminded that he had grown a fair bit since he’d last tried this.

  He could hear Wil and Maguire arguing with the detectives in the hallway. Rowland ripped off his clothes and bundled them into the cupboard, before throwing on his robe. He opened the door to the room and stepped out. “What is going on out here? How’s a man to get any sleep?” he demanded.

  The four men quarrelling in the hallway fell silent and stared at him.

  “Mr. Sinclair, how are you feeling?” Maguire asked eventually.

  “Bloody awful,” Rowland replied, coughi
ng violently.

  “He’s wet!” Gilbey said suspiciously. “He’s soaking wet.”

  “That, you fool, would be the fever,” Maguire said curtly. “Come on, Mr. Sinclair, we’d best get you back to bed before you have a complete relapse.” He turned to Gilbey and Angel. “If you’re satisfied, gentlemen, Mr. Sinclair is a very unwell man and should not be on his feet!” He ushered Rowland back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  30

  GOOD MANNERS AT HOME

  Practical jokes are rarely indulged in by persons of nice perceptions, and teasing passes the bounds of good taste when it ceases to be a matter of pure fun from all sides. Inquisitiveness is always bad form. “Whom is your letter from?” “What makes your eyes so red?” are interferences with one’s rightful privacy. A closed door should be respected and give assurance of seclusion.

  Camperdown Chronicle, 1933

  Rowland inspected his jaw in the shaving mirror before finally rinsing his razor in the porcelain basin of his washstand. He glanced out of the window and saw that the police cars were no longer parked in the drive. Towelling off his face he selected a tie, relieved he no longer had to feign being mortally ill. He tied the Windsor knot with expert and practised speed and grabbed a clean jacket from the wardrobe.

  Ernest was outside his door when he opened it to go down. “Uncle Rowly, you’re back!”

  “I was never away, just a mite unwell.”

  “Yes, you were away!” Ernest accused. “You weren’t here!”

  Rowland knelt to look his nephew in the face. “You’re right, Ernie, but that was a secret. How did you know I wasn’t here?”

  “I came to see you, and I waited and waited and waited… and then I let myself into your room.”

  “Did you indeed?” Wilfred said reprovingly, as he entered the hallway.

  Ernest stepped back and bit his lip.

  “Ernie, what have I told you about respecting people’s privacy?” Wilfred said, folding his arms as he looked down at his son. “You were told to stay out of your uncle’s room!”

  Ernest’s lower lip wobbled under his father’s censorious gaze. “I wanted to give him the picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “I made Uncle Rowly a picture of Lenin and me to help him feel better, but he wasn’t there!”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, mate,” Rowland said, still kneeling. “I had an errand to run.”

  “When you were sick?”

  “I felt a bit better so I ducked out. Ernie, did you tell anyone I wasn’t here?”

  “I told Mr. Isaacs. He said that sometimes you like to sleep under the bed, but that he was sure you were there and would I like to play cricket.”

  “I see. Did you tell anyone else?”

  “Only Aunt Lucy.”

  At this, the Sinclair brothers exchanged a glance.

  “She telephoned and I spoke to her while Mrs. Kendall fetched Mummy. Aunt Lucy asked about you, Uncle Rowly, and where you were and I told her you weren’t under the bed because I went back and checked.” Ernest looked very much like he was about to cry now.

  Rowland smiled. “I don’t sleep under the bed, Ernie. I don’t know where Mr. Isaacs gets such preposterous ideas. Perhaps we should go have words with him for pulling your leg so abominably!”

  Ernest nodded.

  “I think that first you and I need to have a word about obedience and discretion, Ernest.” Wilfred said taking his son by the shoulders and turning him firmly in the opposite direction. “You go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be there directly.”

  Rowland stood as they watched Ernest dawdle away, his shoulders slumped and his head hung as if he were walking to the gallows.

  Rowland looked at his brother uneasily. “Wil, he didn’t mean—”

  “If you’d really been sick, Rowly, he might have endangered himself by going into your room when he’d been told not to.”

  “But Wil, you’re not planning to—”

  “Rowly,” Wilfred interrupted, sighing. “I have never had cause, and hope never to have cause, to discipline my sons with anything more severe than a cross talking-to. Ernie has a flair for the dramatic and he’s worked out that you’re a soft touch.” He shook his head. “I shudder to think what lawless brats you’ll raise one day!”

  Nobody commented on Rowland’s sudden and almost miraculous recovery. Even Kate let it pass without comment. She possibly realised that there was more to it, but Kate had always trusted that her husband would tell her what she needed to know about his machinations, and the rest was best left alone.

  Wilfred came down with Ernest a few minutes later. The boy held his father’s hand as he apologised to Rowland. “I’m sorry I invaded your piracy, Uncle Rowly.”

  Rowland smiled. “Privacy, Ernie. I haven’t plundered the coastline in a while.”

  Ernest nodded solemnly. “I’ll never come in without knocking again.”

  “Without knocking and being invited in,” Wilfred corrected, in case Ernest was creating a loophole for himself.

  Rowland winked at his nephew. “That’s good of you, old chap.”

  Ernest handed him a sheet of paper. It was the picture for which he had risked disobeying his father. Rowland smiled as he studied the drawing. Ernest had never drawn for him before, preferring to watch as Rowland sketched. The picture was full of whimsy and vibrance—naive attention to some detail, and the complete disregard of others. Lenin had been faithfully represented with only one ear, and numerous scars, though it seemed he was the size of a pony.

  “Do you like it, Uncle Rowly?”

  “Very much.”

  “Will you put it on your wall?”

  “I will indeed. I’ll hang it proudly alongside the Picasso.”

  “What’s a Car So?”

  “Picasso. He’s a very famous artist who’s devoted his life to trying to draw like this.”

  “Do you think I could be a famous artist too, Uncle Rowly?”

  Wilfred cleared his throat, clearly alarmed by the thought. “I believe that’s Mrs. Kendall calling you for bed, son. You’d best run along now.”

  Ernest beckoned Rowland down and whispered in his ear. “I’m glad you’re not really going to die, Uncle Rowly.”

  Rowland met the child’s wide eyes, startled. Ernest had obviously taken his uncle’s supposed illness more seriously than they’d anticipated. “I’m sorry I worried you, mate.”

  “That’s all right, Uncle Rowly.” Ernest regarded Rowland gravely. “You shouldn’t go out in the rain though. You’ll catch death.”

  “I’m afraid I forgot how impressionable Ernie is,” Wilfred said as the boy trotted off. “He’s become very fond of you, Rowly, and his imagination is, well, six years old. I’m afraid he was convinced you’d contracted some fatal disease.”

  “To be fair, we did go to some lengths to create that impression,” Rowland reminded him.

  “Yes, I suppose we did.” He removed his spectacles and extracted a handkerchief with which to polish them. “So, did you manage to speak to Bob Menzies?”

  Rowland nodded.

  “And?”

  “We should talk.”

  Wilfred frowned. “Come into the library where we won’t be disturbed.”

  In the privacy of the library, Rowland told his brother in some detail of his conversation with Robert Menzies. Wilfred swore, obviously drawing the same conclusion that Rowland had.

  “Did Father insist that Aubrey enlist?” Rowland asked.

  “Yes, but he also insisted I enlist. That was Father. He never spoke without insisting or demanding. Aubrey would have joined anyway. We all thought it would be over by Christmas. He never thought he’d die.”

  “But—”

  “Mother was always particularly protective of Aubrey, and he was only nineteen when we went.” Wilfred was lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “I didn’t even think to wonder where she was that night.”

  “Wil, did Father… did he ever stri
ke Mother?” Rowland struggled with the question because he dreaded the answer.

  Wilfred’s eyes darkened and he spoke candidly. “Yes. They used to quarrel, mostly about Harry. He’d take a belt to her… until Aubrey and I were old enough to intervene.”

  “Did no one else try to do anything?”

  “Uncle Rowland did. He tried to reason with Father on several occasions, but it isn’t the kind of thing people talk about.”

  Rowland clenched his fists, frustrated. “I can’t remember.”

  “You were younger then than Ernie is now, Rowly. Harry’s mother passed away around that time, and after that Mother and Father didn’t quarrel so much.” He sighed. “When we went to war, we really thought it would be all right—for Mother and you. Father had been content to disinherit us now and then for years. We didn’t think he’d… I can’t tell you how sorry, I am.”

  “What could you have done, Wil?” Rowland replied bitterly. “Short of shooting him before you left.” He stared absently into the distance. “Do you suppose he’d started to… to batter her again?”

  “Perhaps she was simply in terror that he would,” Wilfred said gently, “or perhaps she was trying to protect you in her way.”

  Rowland swallowed. “Do you think she remembers, Wil? Do you think she’s starting to remember?”

  Wilfred rubbed his temple wearily. “I’m not certain. How could we ever be certain of what’s going on in Mother’s mind? The nurse informed me this morning that some of the Laudanum Maguire prescribed is missing.”

  “Laudanum? Who would—”

  “I can’t imagine any of the servants would steal Laudanum. The nurse fears it was Mother herself.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Maguire suspects Mother may be more depressed than we know. If she’s remembering… realising… We’re just keeping a very close eye on her.”

  Rowland stared at his brother. “My God, what are we going to do, Wil?”

  “If this gets worse we may be forced to consider a sanatorium. I wouldn’t make that decision without you, Rowly, but you should be prepared for the fact that we may have no other option.”