Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  Templeton shook his head. Rowland lunged for him again.

  Milton helped Clyde hold Rowland back this time, and it took the both of them. Detective Gilbey arrested Jack Templeton. Delaney uncuffed Wilfred, but held him back, in an effort to ensure that he, too, did not attack the prisoner.

  “Rowly, you’re bleeding,” Clyde said, noticing the wound.

  Rowland staggered, a little light-headed now. Milton steadied him.

  “How did you—” Rowland began.

  “We found Miss de Waring… the nanny,” Delaney replied.

  “Thank God,” Wilfred said quietly. “She and Ernest are unhurt?”

  Delaney flinched. “Ernest wasn’t with her, Mr. Sinclair. We located Miss de Waring at the railway station waiting for Mr. Templeton. She said he was coming out to meet her as soon as he’d taken Ernest back to the house. They were planning to elope.”

  Nobody spoke as Wilfred Sinclair approached Templeton; nobody tried to stop him. “I understand, Templeton. I understand my part in all this. I swear I will do what I can for you, but for the love of God, man, tell me where my son is.”

  Rowland watched Templeton’s face. First surprise and then the return of suspicion. His eyes hardened. “Drag the dams,” he said.

  35

  CHILDBIRTH AT HOME

  Possible Hospital Danger

  OPINION OF DOCTOR

  Is Dr. H.G. Dain (chairman of the British Medical Association Committee on the National Maternity Service Scheme) right in stating that women are safer in childbirth at their own homes than they are in maternity hospitals? Dr. Dain declares that the danger from puerperal fever is great in hospitals, and that freedom from it in the home outweighs other disadvantages.

  The News, 1930

  Silently, Maguire stitched and dressed the lesion in Rowland’s arm. Having passed cleanly through the flesh, the bullet, at least, had done no lasting damage. The rest of it was the worst kind of mess.

  Wilfred sat behind the desk staring at a glass of whisky and smoking. Periodically he retrieved the watch from his pocket and checked the time, monitoring the hours since he’d last seen his son. Maguire finished with Rowland, and, pausing only to press Wilfred’s shoulder, left them alone.

  “He was lying, Wil, I know he was lying.” Rowland said vehemently, pulling his blood-stained shirt back on. He slung the tie angrily around his neck.

  “Then where is Ernie?” Wilfred’s voice was brittle, ravaged with the enormity of his tragedy. “Every skerrick of the property’s been systematically searched, every building, every shed, every flaming hollow log…”

  “What about Bates? He and Templeton were friends. Perhaps—”

  “The police have questioned him. Bates didn’t know Templeton before they were both hired here. He doesn’t know anything.”

  Rowland closed his eyes. This was unbearable. “There must be places we’ve not yet looked.”

  “There are,” Wilfred replied. “The dams.”

  “Wil, no.” Rowland turned away. He could not bring himself to think of his nephew as gone. It was incomprehensible. “Templeton liked him. He wouldn’t have hurt him.”

  “You say that because that’s what you want to believe!” Wilfred lashed out. “You and your set see only what you wish to see—good when it suits you, evil when it doesn’t. Why the hell didn’t you tell me Templeton was having an affair with Ernest’s nanny?”

  Rowland faltered. He was flogging himself for that already. “It didn’t seem to be any of our business…”

  “None of our business!” Wilfred stood and came after his brother. “Since when is the immoral conduct of the woman I have entrusted with the care of my children not my business, Rowly?” He exploded, grabbing Rowland by the collar. “If I’d known… but no—you decide that it’s perfectly acceptable for my staff to engage in the kind of debauchery to which you and your Communist ne’er-do-wells devote your miserable lives!”

  “Wil, I’m sorry—”

  “You’re always sorry. It’s never your fault.” Wilfred seized Rowland’s arms, shaking him. “Bloody hell, Rowly! That bastard’s murdered my son and all you can offer is that he liked him!”

  Rowland felt each of his brother’s words more keenly than any blow. He knew that Wilfred was near crazed with grief, but that did little to shield him.

  “I don’t know that I can forgive you for this, Rowly.” Wilfred couldn’t stop. “If you’d said something we would have at least been wary—”

  “I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself, Wil. I’m sorry. I know that’s worth nothing now. Oh God, if I could change it…”

  Wilfred stopped, aware suddenly that his hand was wet. He looked down at his grip on Rowland’s arm. The stitches had broken, the wound had reopened. Blood now seeped anew through the gauze and fabric and Wilfred’s fingers. He stepped back, jarred, recognising the damage in Rowland’s eyes and, even in the blackness of his own sorrow, regretting that he’d inflicted it.

  “God, Rowly,” Wilfred’s voice broke now. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Kate.”

  In time the Sinclair brothers emerged from Wilfred’s study together. They didn’t speak. What resemblance they bore to each other was accentuated by a wretched grief, and yet they were both contained, rigid with the grim need to carry on. The sleeve of Rowland’s jacket was torn, but the blood stains were less visible on the dark wool fabric and his tie was straight. Maguire had repaired the stitches on his arm without once asking how they’d come to be disturbed. Wilfred started up the stairs to speak with his wife.

  Rowland wandered into the drawing room, unsure what to do. He extracted his notebook more out of habit than any idea of sketching. Folded in its pages, he found the drawing that Ernest had presented to him so solemnly.

  It was some while later that his friends found him there, staring at the picture, unable to move away from it. Edna simply curled up on the couch beside him. Absently he put his arm around her.

  “How’s Kate?” he asked.

  “She was holding up… terrified but… Wilfred’s with her now… She refuses to believe the worst.”

  Rowland blanched. Unsure whether he could say anything without swearing, he said nothing.

  Edna rested her head on his shoulder. “We’re so sorry, Rowly.” Her tears were hot and wet as they soaked through his shirt. He held onto her. It was easier to comfort Edna.

  Clyde and Milton sat opposite. Milton broke. “I’m sorry we pulled you off the scheming bastard, Rowly. We should have let you beat the useless life out of him. We should have helped!”

  “Milt…” Clyde cautioned, unsure that Rowland was ready to discuss the man who killed his nephew.

  But the poet saw the guilt in Rowland’s anguish. “He fooled us all, Rowly. He seemed like a good bloke. God, the mongrel even joined the search, knowing…”

  Rowland looked sharply at the poet. “That’s right… Templeton joined the search from the very beginning…” he said slowly. Wilfred’s words came back. Every part of the property has been systematically searched. “What part of Oaklea did Templeton search?” Rowland asked, straightening. “Did he go anywhere in particular?”

  Milton glanced at Clyde. “Not Oaklea. Templeton headed out with one of the first groups to Emoh Ruo.”

  “Dammit!” Rowland closed the notebook. “Dammit! How could I…?” He stood. “I’m a flaming idiot!”

  “Rowly, what is it?” Edna asked.

  “I think I know where he took Ernie.” Rowland cursed, furious that he had not seen it before. “Of course, Ernie wouldn’t be found if Templeton made sure he was the one that searched there, if he reported back that there was nothing there…”

  Clyde stood. “What do you—it doesn’t matter. I’ll get Wilfred.”

  “No!” Rowland grabbed his arm. “Wil’s barely hanging on. If I’m wrong…”

  “Let’s go,” Edna said, standing. “It’s dark.”

  For the second time that day the yellow Mercedes pulled up ou
tside the shed at Emoh Ruo. They took torches for they would go on foot from there.

  Setting out across the paddock they headed towards the creek in search of the folly which Rowland had recommended to the young lovers in Oaklea’s kitchen. It was not difficult to find once you knew it was there. A crumbling concrete structure built to resemble a classical temple, it was a folly in more senses than one. Erected before the war when Jefferies had been fascinated with ancient architecture, it became a symbol of the whimsical self-indulgent expenditure that saw him lose everything in the end.

  The dark outline of the faux relic became visible as they reached the top of the gully in which it was hidden.

  Rowland broke into a run. “Ernie! Ernest! Can you hear me?”

  There was no response.

  Almost completely hidden among a thicket of willows, the building was much larger than it had seemed at first—cement columns on a parapet and large stone blocks arranged to look like ruins.

  “Rowly—over here.” Clyde shone the beam of his torch on a new padlock which secured a wooden door to the only walled part of the folly. The blackberry which had started to engulf the building was disturbed here, recently removed.

  Rowland banged on the door and called Ernest’s name again. Still no reply. “We’ll force the door,” he said.

  “You’ve just been stitched back together,” Milton reminded him. “Clyde and I will do it.”

  The padlock may have been new, but the latch itself was old and rusted. It gave way almost immediately and the door moved in. Then came the blast, a boom that seemed to shake the walls of the folly. Clyde and Milton recoiled, dropping to the ground, and Rowland turned to shield Edna. But the explosion seemed contained, confined within the building. Nobody came out.

  Rowland moved first. “Ernie!”

  Milton grabbed him before he reached the door. “Rowly—stop! You don’t know what else he’s rigged up in there.”

  “Ernie could be hurt…”

  “Just be careful, Rowly. Go slowly.”

  Rowland nodded. “You chaps and Ed stand back.” Gently, very gradually, he pushed open the door. Plaster showered down from the ceiling. Clyde handed him a torch.

  Rowland played the beam of light around what was a windowless cabin. A shotgun lay smoking on the floor, the gardener’s twine which had been used to rig it, a tangled mess. The bullets had hit the wall above the door—perhaps the Enfield had jerked up when it discharged.

  They all stepped in now, adding their torches to the search to find Ernest motionless on what seemed to be a sheepskin in the far corner.

  Rowland reached him first and bent to lift the boy into his arms, terrified that his body would be cold and rigid.

  “He’s breathing,” he said, leaning back against the wall, suddenly weak. But his grip on Ernest was sure.

  “Oh Ernie…” Edna stroked the boy’s head. “Why won’t he wake up? Oh God, was he hurt when the gun went off?”

  Milton swung his torch back to the shotgun and the place where the bullets had impacted. The damage seemed fairly contained to the door’s side of the room. “Can you find an injury? Is he bleeding?”

  Edna checked the child quickly. “No.”

  Clyde retrieved an enamelled tin cup from the floor and sniffed it. “Templeton must have given him something.”

  “Probably Laudanum,” Rowland said, remembering his mother’s missing medication. Perhaps Templeton had asked Nanny de Waring to procure it for him somehow.

  Milton removed his jacket and placed it over Ernest as he lay in Rowland’s arms. Though the boy’s eyes remained closed, he murmured and sighed.

  “Come on, mate,” Rowland said as he carried his nephew out. “There are some people at Oaklea who desperately need to see you.”

  Clyde raced the Mercedes back to Oaklea, blasting the horn with Milton singing the Internationale in full voice out of the window so that by the time they pulled into the driveway, half the household had emerged to investigate the commotion.

  Rowland handed Ernest to his father.

  There was a moment when Wilfred simply stared at his brother and the band of grinning Communists who had ensconced themselves in his home.

  “Templeton must have given him a sedative of some sort, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, beaming, unable to contain her joy, “but he’s already starting to stir.”

  “How—” Wilfred began.

  “We’ll explain later,” Rowland said. “Take him to Kate.”

  The kitchen at Oaklea had rarely been so festive. Rowland and his friends had felt the need to celebrate Ernest’s return, but aware that Oaklea was not theirs they had abandoned the more formal parts of the house for Mrs. Kendall’s kitchen. There they celebrated with the servants of the grand house, toasting young Ernest and drinking heartily to his health. Milton brought down the gramophone and Wilfred’s record collection, and they danced to Crosby, Armstrong and Duke Ellington. In time, the party spilled out onto the back lawn, and Edna Walling and her workers and even Harry Simpson joined the impromptu celebrations. Alice Kendall opened her pantry, feeding all comers.

  It was past midnight when Wilfred came down to find his brother. He watched quietly for a while as Rowland danced with Edna, and Milton led yet another toast to Ernest Aubrey Baird Sinclair who, he announced, would one day be Prime Minister of the Workers’ Republic of Australia.

  Rowland was a little merry when Wilfred approached them on the verandah which had become a dance floor. “Good Lord, Wil!” he said, catching Edna around the waist as she came out of a twirl. “You’re the last person I’d expect to cut in!”

  “I think it’s you Mr. Sinclair wants, Rowly,” Edna said, laughing.

  Rowland’s brow rose. “You can’t dance with me, Wil… I’m a man.”

  Wilfred rolled his eyes, but he smiled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Higgins, but I would like to speak to Rowly while he’s just vaguely sober.”

  Milton overheard from the tabletop from which he had been making toasts and raised his glass yet again, declaring defiantly, “Fill all the glasses there for why, should every creature drink but I, why, Man of Morals, tell me why?”

  “Cowley,” Rowland responded.

  “Of course, you may speak with Rowly, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, removing Rowland’s hand from her waist. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you and Mrs. Sinclair. We are all just so happy that Ernest is home and safe.”

  Wilfred nodded. “It’s not at all inappropriate, Miss Higgins. If Mr. Isaacs has not already ransacked my cellar, please let him know that he’s very welcome to do so.”

  Wilfred beckoned his brother to follow, pausing only to ask Mrs. Kendall to bring a pot of coffee to his study as soon as possible.

  It was in the hallway that Rowland first heard the screams. Wilfred only just grabbed him before he ran upstairs.

  “Wil, that’s Kate!” he said. Clearly, she was being attacked.

  “I know, Rowly,” Wilfred said calmly. “The baby’s coming. It is a couple of weeks early but, with all that’s happened…”

  Another blood-curdling scream.

  “For God’s sake, Wil, that can’t be right,” Rowland said, glancing up to the staircase. “We can’t just allow…”

  “Her doctor and the midwives are with her, Rowly, don’t worry—it’s all well in hand.”

  Rowland blanched as Kate screamed again. “What the hell are they doing to her?”

  “I’m afraid this part of the business can be rather grim,” Wilfred said. “Let me assure you, Rowly, this is one occasion on which you cannot charge in to save the day.”

  Rowland clenched his hands in his hair, horrified. “God Wil, how do you stand it?”

  Wilfred sighed. “Usually, I drink. But right now I need you to sober up a little.”

  He took Rowland into his study and, when the pot of coffee arrived, poured him a cup. “How’s your arm?” he asked.

  “It stopped hurting a couple of drinks ago,” Row
land replied, hoping the coffee wasn’t going to reverse that particular effect. He told his brother where they had found Ernest and why he had thought to look there. Rowland braced himself for Wilfred’s fury, but he was honest about his part in it. “I’m sorry, Wil. I told Templeton about the folly to give him and Miss de Waring somewhere private to… meet.”

  Wilfred blinked. “Look, Rowly,” he said finally. “I’m not thrilled that you felt the need to assist in the corruption of a young woman, but perhaps if Templeton hadn’t known about the folly, Ernie would, in fact, have ended up in the dam.” He closed his eyes. The thought was still too recently real. “I intend to say this again when you are not compromised by drink, but thank you. If Ernie had woken before you got there, he may have tried the door himself. Thank you for not despairing, as I had.”

  Rowland flinched as another agonised scream penetrated the door of Wilfred’s study. It was by far, more sobering than the coffee. “How long does—?”

  “Hard to say, but each of the boys took several hours.”

  “Good Lord… I think I might need another drink.”

  “Not yet. There are some people we need to talk to.”

  “Now? Who?”

  “Arthur and Lucy are waiting for us in the drawing room.”

  36

  ANOTHER PRINCE IN THE BRITISH ROYAL FAMILY

  It is an interesting piece of news, especially to women. The arrival of a baby in any home—or should it be a private hospital?—is an item of conversation among the women in the neighbourhood. They must see the infant. Of course, it is cute—all babies are cute—and so, like its mother or father, even though it might not resemble either parent. This interest in other people’s children is a feminine characteristic. Father celebrates the arrival of a baby in a different way. He invites his friends to the bar counter for a drink, the ceremony being known as wetting the baby’s head. It is worthy of note that this enthusiasm on the part of father cools off as later children come to share his pay roll and add to his anxieties.