Murder Unmentioned (9781921997440)

by Gentill, Sulari

  The News, 1935

  Elisabeth Sinclair had been entertaining her nephew and his fiancée while they waited. Lucy looked distressed and quite frightened by the sounds of childbirth which intermittently reached the drawing room. It was an awkward time to visit.

  “Should I look in on Kate?” Elisabeth asked as she stood to leave. The nurse, now her shadow, stood also.

  “No.” Wilfred was firm. “The doctor has it all in hand. You should try to get some sleep, Mother.”

  “I’m not sure I will be able to, with the noise.” She reached up and stroked Rowland’s cheek warmly. “I remember when you were born,” she said. “Wilfred burst in with a stick because he thought I was being murdered in my bed. How it made me laugh. He was always so protective.”

  She said goodnight and left them to it.

  “I expect she was talking about Aubrey’s birth,” Rowland murmured. He had not heard the story before.

  “No, it was yours,” Wilfred said, frowning. “It was Aubrey who charged in with the stick though, not me.”

  Arthur Sinclair began. “Look, Wilfred, can I start by saying how distressed Lucy and I genuinely were when the police told us about Ernest being missing. We came straight back to see if we could help. Whatever’s gone on between us, we were—are—very fond of the little dickens!”

  “The police questioned us like common criminals,” Lucy said tearfully. “I can’t believe you thought for a moment that we would be involved in a kidnapping like that. I’m Ewan’s godmother!”

  “Templeton indicated he’d seen you talking to the nanny. At the time we had no idea of his involvement,” Wilfred said brusquely.

  “She congratulated us on our engagement,” Lucy said. “Said she was getting married too, and introduced us to Mr. Templeton. It was rather unusual to have servants be so familiar.”

  “You spoke to Templeton?”

  “He gave me an envelope,” Arthur replied. “Said it was something he found that belonged to me. I put it in my pocket for later. I assumed I’d dropped something in the garden.”

  “What was it?” Rowland asked.

  Arthur hesitated. “To be honest, I only thought to look in it when we heard that Templeton was involved in Ernest’s disappearance. It was the last payment I’d made to Hayden. I gave it to him the morning after the fire.”

  “I see,” Wilfred said coldly. “You are aware, I hope, that Hayden was Jack Templeton’s father, and that Templeton killed him that day.”

  “Yes,” Arthur replied.

  “Perhaps you’re also aware that your duplicity, your headlong pursuit of what you consider your birthright may have ended in a tragedy much greater than the death of my father.”

  Arthur glanced at Lucy. He took her hand. “A couple of days after I went back to Sydney, I received a message from a barrister I briefed occasionally when I was in practice in Melbourne. I had other things on my mind, so I didn’t think to return the call until Lucy and I had come back to Yass, and were waiting for news of Ernest. I telephoned him from the Royal. I believe you gentlemen both know him… Dag—that is, Robert—Menzies.”

  “Yes,” Wilfred’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I am acquainted with the man.”

  “He told me he’d recently had a visit from my cousin.”

  Both Rowland and Wilfred stiffened, aware that this breach of bail could see Rowland sent back to Long Bay until trial.

  “Bob told me what you’d discussed,” Arthur continued. “Whatever you may think of me now, Wilfred, let me say that I acted on a conviction that you’d killed Uncle Henry.”

  “I see. And what Menzies told you has led you to doubt that conviction?” Wilfred posed impassively.

  “He was with you when the gun was fired. I don’t know how I could not doubt it. He also told me about his conversation with Aunt Libby that evening.”

  “Did he? And what do you plan to do with this information?”

  Arthur Sinclair paused. “I intend to withdraw any allegations I’ve made against you and Rowland, both formally and informally. Now that Templeton has confessed to murdering his father, the case against Rowland will fall apart anyway. There is nothing to be gained for anyone by pursuing this matter any further and I believe we shall all have to be happy with calling Uncle Henry’s murder an unsolvable mystery.”

  “What do you want in return, Arthur?” Wilfred asked bluntly.

  “I presume there’s too much water under the bridge for us ever to be friends again?”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “Then let us settle this like gentlemen at least. I’m getting married. I would like to be able to afford to do so.”

  Wilfred glared at his cousin. “Very well,” he said in the end. “We have property in Northern Queensland. Its value is equivalent to what you might have hoped to receive from your father’s estate had he not disinherited you. I’ll sign it over to you on the condition that you and Lucy go and never darken my doorstep again.”

  “Haven’t you had enough of exiling people, Wilfred?”

  “The offer is fair, Arthur. My son may have died as a result of the events you put into train.”

  “Those events were put into train long before I came upon the scene. What if we refuse?”

  “Then you will get nothing.”

  “I know things, Wilfred.”

  “Indeed. May I remind you, Arthur, that your beloved fiancée tried to shoot my brother in a fit of pique and passion? You may recall I took her gun from her that night? Do not test me. I am being more than fair.”

  Rowland watched the exchange uneasily. Wilfred was almost emotionless as he negotiated with Arthur Sinclair. There was a ruthlessness about him, but it was tempered. The offer was fair. Arthur vacillated. Lucy cried. She appealed to Rowland, first apologising for shooting at him, then accusing him of jealousy, of exacting revenge by banishing them to the wilds of Queensland. Wilfred would not be moved.

  In the end, Arthur accepted. The deal was struck and Wilfred escorted his cousin and Lucy Bennett to the door.

  He returned to the drawing room to find Rowland waiting. Both men winced as Kate screamed again. Wilfred glanced anxiously behind him and left the door open. “I thought you might have gone back to your party,” he said, clearly distracted.

  Rowland shook his head. “We should talk about Mother, Wil.”

  “What about Mother?”

  “I think she should come and reside with me at Woodlands.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Rowland took a deep breath. He had fully expected his brother to resist, he was prepared to make his case. “Wil, it’s safer for everybody if Mother comes with me.”

  “Safer? Good Lord, Rowly, Mother isn’t a danger to anyone.”

  “Let’s make sure. You have two little boys and soon there’ll be a new baby. Mother has always made Kate nervous. Now that we know, let’s just be sure.”

  “You’re not suggesting Mother would hurt Kate? That’s—”

  “No, of course not. I just mean that the anxiety can’t be good for either of them. Besides, I think Kate’s entitled to be mistress of her own house. That’ll always be difficult with Mother playing empress dowager here.”

  Wilfred sat down opposite his brother. “Rowly, Woodlands is not an appropriate residence for a lady—”

  Rowland smiled. “It’ll be fine, Wil. I’ll make sure she’s gone to bed before we do anything particularly debauched.”

  “This is not a joke, Rowly!”

  “Look, Wil, let’s just try it for a while. She can always come back if it doesn’t work out.”

  Kate screamed again. Rowland could see the perspiration beading on Wilfred’s brow. This evening was his best chance of changing his brother’s mind. “I’ll have the south wing made ready for her and the nurses. She’ll have her own part of the house—privacy if she wants it. The people who live with me may be Communists but they are adults. They understand about Mother, and I don’t keep any weapons in the house.”

 
Wilfred reared. “Mother is not some crazed gun-wielding lunatic!”

  “I’m not saying that, Wil. But we don’t know what caused her to shoot Father. We can’t ask her, we can’t be sure what exactly happened. So let’s be careful. You’ve got to allow me to do my bit.”

  Wilfred wavered.

  “You can’t possibly think that I’d neglect or be unkind to our mother?” Rowland pressed.

  “No. No, I don’t think that.”

  “Then, let’s try it. It’s got to be preferable to a sanatorium.”

  A particularly long and agonised cry. Wilfred stood, pacing now. “Perhaps having Mother with you will help you settle down… grow up a little, finally take responsibility,” he said gruffly.

  Rowland shrugged. He didn’t want to trick Wilfred into relenting. “I’ll still be me, Wil. But Mother can call me Aubrey or whatever else she wishes. I believe coming back to Sydney might do her good. She can lunch at the Queens’ Club, have a day at the races, visit the beach at Thirroul. I think being occupied might suit her.”

  “I don’t think you realise how difficult Mother can be, Rowly.”

  “All the more reason she should come with me, I think. If it doesn’t work, Wil, we’ll figure something else out, but we should try.”

  Wilfred groaned. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Perhaps I’m the one who should be committed!”

  Rowland watched amused as Edna held his new nephew. She and Kate sat in one of the newly installed garden seats. The sculptress’s face was set determinedly as she cradled the child stiffly in her arms. Milton nudged Rowland, grinning. They both knew Edna was afraid of babies. She was fine with children, though she tended to treat them like cats—plying them with milk when in doubt—but babies terrified her.

  On that score Rowland could sympathise. Newborns were odd, fragile creatures—quite slippery if you weren’t careful. Fortunately nobody expected men to hold babies, so he had been spared the awkwardness of it all.

  Gilbert Ambrose Baird Sinclair had come into the world in the early hours of the morning after his brother had been feared dead. And so he arrived at a time when grief and joy had already visited his parents in close succession.

  Wilfred Sinclair was as besotted with young Gilbert as he was with each of his sons. The child’s head had been wetted with champagne and the silver spoon placed firmly in his mouth. In the wake of recent events, Wilfred had retained two new nannies, both middle-aged, hefty, severe-faced women who would be unlikely to elope with gardeners. They rarely allowed the children out of their sights, hovering, ready to pounce on any would-be abductor. Milton swore they were carrying pistols in their garters.

  Gilbert was ten days old now.

  Clyde closed and secured the bonnet of the Mercedes, satisfied that everything was in order for the journey to Woodlands House. He and Milton were taking the motorcar while Edna flew back with Rowland in the Rule Britannia. Wilfred insisted upon escorting Elisabeth Sinclair to Sydney himself a week hence, giving his brother time to prepare for her arrival. For her part, Elisabeth seemed quite pleased to be moving back to Woollahra with Aubrey.

  Wilfred came out with Ernest and Ewan in tow. He and the boys would take Rowland and Edna to Emoh Ruo once Milton and Clyde were on their way. They all waited patiently as twenty-month-old Ewan navigated the steps, refusing any sort of assistance.

  Then Wilfred shook hands with the Communists. He had always been polite, but there was, on this occasion, a restrained and cautious warmth to his farewell. Even so, he was unlikely to ever entirely approve of Rowland’s left-wing friends.

  Being a practical rather than effusive man, not given to expansive expressions of gratitude, he had instead commissioned Clyde Watson Jones to produce a series of paintings depicting the gardens Edna Walling had created at Oaklea. Wilfred wanted a detailed record of the grounds as they matured, and of course, his brother refused to paint trees. Edna too, had been commissioned to create a bronze sculpture for the pond with the stipulation that nakedness be avoided at all costs. For Milton, there was little Wilfred could do as the poet seemed to do so little, but Wilfred Sinclair was a man with a long memory and his debts were always settled in the end.

  “Righto, Rowly,” Milton called as he opened the driver’s side door. “We’ll leave you and Ed to Heaven’s ebon vault, studded with stars unutterably bright, through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls!”

  “You and Shelley can rest assured we’ll be back in Sydney well before nightfall,” Rowland said, laughing.

  The poet waved and Clyde pressed the horn as they set off.

  Young Ernest chased the Mercedes down the drive and the nannies chased him.

  37

  THE CLARK ART EXHIBITION

  NOTES ON THE ARTISTS

  The following are additional notes on the artists represented at the exhibition of pictures in the possession of Mr. E.M. Clarke, now being exhibited in Hobart:

  WILLIAM BECKWITH McINNES

  William B. McInnes was born at Malvern in 1889. He began his art studies at the early age of 14 at the Melbourne Gallery, where he worked first under Fred McCubbin, and afterwards under Bernard Hall. In 1912 he went to Europe and stayed for two years during which time he devoted himself almost entirely to landscape. This was new ground for young McInnes as hitherto he had been trained chiefly as a portrait painter. McInnes has a fine sense of colour and a keen eye for the essential in a landscape, and is extraordinarily dexterous in his handling. McInnes has had the distinction of winning the Archibald Prize for three consecutive years. He has had many commissions as a portrait painter and has painted several notable “group” pictures.

  The Mercury, 1926

  Rowland poured drinks from the pitcher of chilled punch that Mary Brown had left on the sideboard. He and his friends had spent a good part of the day painting the black walls of the dining room, using white pigment to inscribe dense, detailed figures and patterns. Milton had contributed borrowed verse along the line where the wall joined the skirting boards and cornices. The result was dramatic, somewhat Beardsleyesque, and quite breathtaking.

  The exercise had been a whim, begun in jest, but had quickly consumed them all. The residents of Woodlands House had never before applied their art together, blending their styles and ideas into a single, quite extraordinary piece upon the four walls of the room.

  While they’d worked, they had discussed the issue of Rosalina Martinelli and her determination to marry Clyde with what they all considered an unseemly haste. Strategies were postulated, debated and eventually dismissed for one reason or another. Keeping Rowland out of gaol, it seemed, was less problematic than keeping Clyde out of wedlock.

  Eventually they withdrew to Rowland’s studio with their drinks. Rowland’s paintings had been returned to the walls and it once again looked familiar, if somewhat tidier than usual.

  Mary Brown brought in a platter of sandwiches and cakes since the dining room could not be used for eating. She communicated her disapproval of the unusual redecoration through a series of world-weary sighs.

  Rowland grinned. His housekeeper’s disapprobation felt comfortingly normal after the past weeks.

  Despite Wilfred’s misgivings about the manner in which his brother ran Woodlands, Rowland had directed that they should carry on as usual. He was certain that his mother, when she arrived, would simply get used to them, ignoring anything that did not match the world in her mind. She appeared not to notice, after all, that everybody else called him Rowland in her determination that he was Aubrey. It was only when the fantasy was directly challenged by him that she seemed to break down.

  His friends were unperturbed about the impending addition to the household. Indeed Milton declared openly that his grandmother was madder than Rowland’s mother any day. “It’s not just pistols you have to keep from my granny, mate,” he confided. “We’ve been hiding the knives for years. Upper class lunacy has nothing on the proletariat variety!”

  “What’s that?” Edna ask
ed as Clyde lugged in a large flat box which had just been delivered to the door. The sculptress wore overalls, and a shirt belonging to one or another of the gentlemen she lived with. Her hair was pulled back under a scarf and yet the only indication that she’d been painting was the faint smear of white on cheek. Rowland’s unprotected suit was, on the other hand, completely splattered. Lenin too, had, in solidarity with his master, collected several drips of white paint on his brindle coat.

  “This,” Milton said, gleefully cutting open the box, “is the portrait that Rowly and I had done at Central Police Station.”

  “You don’t sit for portraits in a prison!”

  Milton made space and sat the large framed photograph on the mantel, stepping back to admire it.

  “You can’t put that up here!” Clyde exclaimed.

  “Why not? It’s an excellent photograph,” Milton said. “Captures a certain camaraderie, a joie de vivre in the face of injustice!”

  “There’s a height scale on the wall… it’s a police mugshot!”

  “I like it,” Rowland said, tilting his head to consider the image. “It’s a very fitting memento.”

  “Wilfred won’t like it.”

  “Wil never looks too closely at what’s on my walls. I think it frightens him.”

  Edna sat cross-legged on the armchair with a sandwich. Henry Sinclair’s portrait stared thunderously down from the wall. Now that she knew, she could make out William McInnes’ signature. “Rowly, do you keep that painting because it’s a McInnes?” she asked. Rowland was a portrait painter after all. The quality of McInnes’ work might well have overridden the subject of it.

  Rowland glanced up from his notebook. He had been sketching the sculptress, but that was not unusual. “In a manner of speaking.” He closed the notebook and stood to examine the oil painting. “I was about twelve when my father sat for McInnes. He came to the house. When Father wasn’t actually sitting, I’d watch McInnes work. It was my first experience of portraiture.”