Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “Why?” Anna Milatsky regarded him suspiciously but Rowland’s gaze remained steady.

  “I have a letter of introduction to Charles Leadbeater,” he said evenly. “And the sincere wish of a good friend that I begin an association with the gentleman.”

  The medium shrugged. “There was some ugliness years ago,” she said.

  “And that’s why you left the movement?”

  “There were many reasons.”

  “Come on, Anna,” Milton cajoled. “Rowly’s all right. Can’t you see how pink his aura is?”

  The clairvoyant stared at Rowland, apparently assessing Milton’s claim. “You are difficult to read,” she said. “But there is yellow…”

  “Yellow?” Rowland exclaimed, mildly affronted as he made the usual association with cowardice.

  “Yellow signifies intellect,” Milatsky explained.

  “Must be the light,” Clyde muttered.

  Rowland tried to keep the scepticism from his face.

  “There is also blue,” the medium mused. “It indicates devotion.”

  “That’s got to be wrong,” Clyde exclaimed. “Rowly’s a Protestant.”

  Milatsky fixed Clyde with a chilling glare and he retreated. “Sorry… go ahead…”

  She turned back to Rowland. “There is also a darkness. Your interest is to do with death.” Anna Milatsky sat back smugly.

  Rowland said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  “Orville… poor Orville,” she said. “Perhaps, liebchen, you would like me to call his spirit.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Afraid I didn’t take much to him when he was alive.”

  “And yet it is his death that brings you to me—I see the disturbance in your aura.”

  “Did you know Orville, Madame Milatsky?” Edna asked, deciding Rowland had been subjected to enough scrutiny.

  The old clairvoyant sighed and drank deeply from her glass of ambrosia. “Yes, I knew him as a boy. I knew them all.”

  “All? The Theosophists?”

  “Yes, the Theosophists, too. But I meant his family, liebchen. His Mama and Papa and the other one… Arthur.”

  “Arthur?” Milton asked.

  “The Urquharts had two boys—as different as night and day. Arthur never accepted the wisdom of the Mahatmas… I suspect Orville didn’t either, but he was by nature compliant.” Madame Milatsky drained her glass. “Arthur left to live with relatives when he was still a child—broke his mother’s heart. She took many boys into her care after that, mothering them to close the hole left by the loss.” The old woman shrugged sadly. “Orville found that difficult of course… he did not like sharing his mother. Still, she always hoped Arthur would return—it is why they arranged their affairs as they did.” The clairvoyant paused as the aged gentleman refreshed her drink. The dark liqueur seemed to be overcoming her initial reluctance to speak of the Theosophists.

  “Just how did they arrange their affairs?” Milton was the first to ask.

  “Ahhh, liebchen.” Anna Milatsky sipped again. “The Urquharts were immensely wealthy you know… but those poor boys were orphaned about a year after Arthur went away. Their fortune was held in some special account—administered and controlled by people even now, I believe.”

  “People?” Cartwright broke his polite, somewhat flabbergasted silence. “Do you mean trustees?”

  “Yes, yes, liebchen, that’s it.”

  “Do you know who the trustees of the Urquhart estate are?” Rowland asked hopefully.

  “Of course… it is not a secret,” the medium replied. “Annie Besant, naturally.” Her voice took on a caustic tone. “Madame President got involved in everything. Then there is Charles Leadbeater—the Urquharts never believed the allegations… indeed Orville spoke for him…” Anna Milatsky’s voice was thick with the ambrosia and her eyes had become a little glazed and heavy.

  Edna reached over and nudged Rowland. “We should say goodnight I think, Rowly.” She looked meaningfully at their drowsy hostess.

  “Yes, of course.”

  They stood and thanked the medium for her hospitality. Rowland pressed a roll of bills into her hand as he said goodbye. She slipped the payment into her significant cleavage and then gripped his arm. Her eyes were suddenly clear. “You be careful,” she said.

  11

  CRIME IN NEW YORK

  According to Mr. Flynn, chief of the Secret Service of New York, the American metropolis beats Paris and every other city for organised gangs of criminals, and London by comparison is the most virtuous city in the world.

  The Argus

  Rowland adjusted his tie as he stood before the gilded mirror of the dresser. He ran his hand through his hair as he turned away, making redundant the short time he’d just spent combing it into place. It was their last morning as guests of Daniel Cartwright.

  The gentlemen were waiting for him in Cartwright’s studio—Edna was spending a final few hours with Archibald Leach. Rowland found Cartwright discussing washes with Clyde whilst Milton perused the paper.

  “Tell you what, Rowly,” Clyde murmured, looking wistfully at the piece he was working on. “It’s going to be hard to stop working now that we’ve started again.”

  “I’ve sorted that,” Rowland replied casually. “I’ve taken another suite on the Aquitania so we can use it as a studio. It’s a few weeks to Sydney.”

  “Capital idea, Rowly old boy,” Cartwright approved. He always took multiple staterooms himself.

  “They can do that?”

  “Apparently half the first class accommodations are empty these days—Cunard is more than happy to have me take the suite.” Rowland shrugged.

  Cartwright departed to let Bradford know they were ready for breakfast. Milton followed him to make sure that the American pancakes of which he had become fond would be on the menu.

  Rowland hung back because he noticed Clyde seemed troubled.

  “Problem?”

  Clyde looked embarrassed. “I dunno, Rowly… this trip is already costing you a fortune… another suite…?”

  Rowland laughed. “Oh that. Don’t worry about it, Clyde.”

  Clyde shook his head. “I hate to sound like your bank manager, mate, but we’re in the middle of a financial depression. Wool prices are down… surely even the Sinclairs…?”

  Rowland smiled. He rarely talked about money. He was touched and a little amused by Clyde’s concern. He leant back against an empty easel.

  “The Sinclairs are benefitting from the law of diminishing heirs,” he said solemnly. “I believe I’m technically worth more now than I was before the crash… though you’ll have to ask Wil if you want actual figures…” He grinned at the implausibility of Clyde doing any such thing.

  “Diminishing heirs?” Clyde looked dubious.

  “Really—it’s an established economic theory. Trust me, I was at Oxford.”

  Clyde snorted. “Exactly how are you diminishing?”

  “Sinclairs seem to have a habit of dying without producing heirs,” Rowland replied sagely. He was not speaking entirely in jest. “It means wealth gets consolidated rather than divided with each generation… the more wayward sons live lives of indulgence and scandal, but in the end do their bit by leaving no acknowledged issue to dilute the family fortune.” He laughed. “I believe that’s why we’re tolerated.”

  “No acknowledged issue?” Clyde’s brow lifted askance.

  “Well, we’re not monks.”

  Clyde laughed now. “No, I guess not…”

  Having reassured Clyde that his fortune could withstand his present rate of squandering, they joined Milton and Cartwright for breakfast. The conversation lingered for a while on the previous evening’s séance. Milton now claimed an ability to see auras. Clyde called him an idiot. Rowland was inclined to concur.

  “If you chaps don’t mind,” Rowland said, checking his watch, “I’d quite like to call on Annie before we board.”

  “We’ll have to get moving then, Rowly.” Milton devo
ured his pancakes with more haste. “We board at midday.”

  “You go—take one of the Caddies,” Cartwright directed. “I’ll see that your trunks are loaded, pick up Edna and meet you at the boat… don’t you worry.”

  “Good show, Danny… you’re a gentleman.”

  “I’ll make sure they’ve organised the second suite whilst I’m at it,” Cartwright continued affably as he fussed with the edges of his moustache.

  “Are we just saying goodbye?” Clyde asked, pouring syrup over his own stack of pancakes.

  “Not entirely. I thought I should warn Annie.”

  “Really? You’re that sure someone’s trying to kill off the Theosophists?”

  “No. I’m not sure at all,” Rowland admitted. “But I thought I should say something—just in case.”

  “She’s going to think you’re mad,” Clyde warned.

  “Annie talks to dead people, Clyde,” Rowland reminded him as he glanced through the paper. Edna and Archibald Leach graced the society pages once again.

  “I hope Ed remembers we’re sailing today,” he muttered.

  Once breakfast had been adequately dispatched, they set out to call on Annie Besant. The Plaza was only a short walk from the Warwick and so they refused Cartwright’s offer of a motorcar. The day was sunny, but the brightness held no warmth. Their breath misted before their faces and the sidewalks were glazed with ice. Still the walk was not unpleasant. The vertical magnitude of the city was imposing, unsteadying, with a sort of reverse vertigo.

  Clyde took off his hat and gazed straight up.

  “What are you doing?” Milton demanded as they waited for him to start walking again.

  “Just checking that the sky’s still there.”

  They announced their arrival at the Plaza’s elegant reception and were taken straight up to Annie Besant’s rooms. Rowland noticed the several voices as he knocked—apparently they were not the first to visit. Jiddu Krishnamurti admitted them warmly.

  Annie was holding court in the sitting room with Hubert Van Hook, two uniformed police officers and a man in an ill-fitting, dark brown suit.

  The holy man introduced the Australians to the detective and his colleagues, who as he had suggested were in the process of taking their leave.

  “Okay Annie, what have you done?” Milton asked once they had gone.

  Annie smiled at the long-haired poet. “You really are the most impertinent young man… they were just here about the shooting”

  “Shooting? Who was shot?”

  “Nobody, thank goodness. Some ruffian shot at Jiddu and me in the street yesterday…”

  “Good Lord,” Clyde exclaimed. “Are you all right? Did they catch him?”

  “We’re both quite unharmed, Clyde dear, and no, they didn’t catch him.”

  “Did you see him?” Rowland asked, frowning.

  “I’m afraid not, Rowland… but you mustn’t worry. It was probably some poor desperate vagrant…”

  Rowland said nothing as he leant pensively on the back of an armchair.

  “New York’s a dangerous town,” Van Hook said from where he sat beside Annie. “There’s always some bum trying to bump off big shots for a few clams.”

  Milton looked blankly at the American. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m just saying some sap may have figured Annie and Jiddu for high hats with deep pockets and looked to jump on the gravy train, if you know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I have no idea,’ Milton replied calmly.

  “It may not have been random, Annie,” Rowland interrupted.

  Annie Besant looked sharply at him. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because I am afraid you may be in real danger,” he said regarding the old woman with undisguised concern. “I think someone may be trying to kill the Theosophists—or at least the eminent ones.” He told them of his suspicions—that Urquhart had been killed because of his connection with the movement, and that Annie’s “fall” on the Aquitania was not what it seemed. “And now this latest attempt on your life.”

  Annie Besant reached out and caught his hand. “My dear boy, you are so sweet to worry about me… but I am not new to such threats… I was you know, a suffragette…”

  “Perhaps you should listen to Rowland, Amma.” Jiddu Krishnamurti’s countenance was serious.

  She sighed. “I have decided to go home to India,” she said quietly. “I will accompany Jiddu when he sails next week.” She laughed ruefully. “There is after all no place safer than home.”

  “Perhaps I should tag along,” Hubert Van Hook suggested. “To India, I mean—be your goon so to speak… just to make sure everything’s copacetic.”

  “No, Hubert dear, that won’t be necessary.” Annie Besant seemed to have no trouble understanding Van Hook’s peculiar turn of phrase, but then she was clairvoyant. “I will have Jiddu and Charles is expecting you in Sydney. I will look forward to seeing you in Lahore, in March. We will have plenty of time to organise things then.”

  Van Hook protested and they argued back and forth for a time. Krishnamurti spoke quietly to Rowland.

  “I will arrange for security. I will take Amma home safely.”

  Rowland nodded. “I may be wrong,” he said. “I hope I am—but I’d rather be cautious.”

  Annie had finally prevailed.

  “If you say so, Ma,” Van Hook conceded, scowling. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint old Charlie.”

  To Rowland, it appeared a fleeting discomfort crossed Annie Besant’s face, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get moving or we’ll be left on the docks,” he said. “Are you coming with us, Hu?”

  Van Hook nodded.

  They shook Krishnamurti’s hand and wished him a safe journey. The holy man responded with a short dissertation on friendship and understanding. Annie Besant farewelled them tearfully once more and seemed certain that she would not see them again. Her conviction may have been clairvoyant, or simply because she was eighty-five.

  The Plaza’s concierge arranged a motorcab, ensuring Van Hook’s trunks were loaded, and they proceeded to the docks where the Aquitania had been berthed since she had delivered them from London. They disembarked into an excited press of boarding passengers.

  Van Hook left them to find a porter for his luggage, and they made their way towards the gangway.

  “Rowly, I say, Rowly! Over here!” Daniel Cartwright’s voice rang over the noise of the crowd.

  They spotted Cartwright and Edna standing in a pack of men. As they approached Rowland recognised J.C. Henry, who responded to his salutation by taking a picture. It seemed to set off the others and Rowland blanched as they were greeted by a barrage of exploding camera bulbs. Then, the reason behind the fuss became clear. Archibald Leach had come to see Edna off.

  Leach offered him the hand which was not entwined with Edna’s. Rowland shook it. “Leach. Good to see you again.”

  Cameras flashed. Rowland wondered momentarily what caption would accompany that particular picture.

  The actor was charming, joking with the photographers and journalists with the air of one entirely at ease in the spotlight. He spoke movingly, tragically of the impending parting. Edna said very little, playing absently with the string of pearls Leach had presented her as a parting gift. The cameramen were insatiable, taking photograph after photograph.

  Eventually they turned to make their way onto the gangway, beyond which only passengers were permitted to pass. Leach caught Edna in a dramatic farewell embrace and kissed her passionately. The cameras clicked into action once more.

  “I say, that’s a bit forward,” Cartwright blustered as they watched from the background.

  “Actors!” Milton muttered in disgust.

  Rowland ignored Edna and Leach, and shook Cartwright’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Danny boy.”

  “A pleasure, mon ami,” Cartwright returned. Inevitably he felt the need to express the depth of his amity in French.
Rowland tried not to flinch as the language was desecrated by his old friend. Typically, the American finished by kissing the Australian on each cheek in a way that was vaguely European.

  Clyde and Milton, too, thanked their erstwhile host though they threatened to harm him should he try to kiss them. Cartwright laughed and called them colonial philistines. Edna finally dragged herself away from Leach, to embrace Cartwright and farewell him in the French he so adored, but had never mastered.

  J.C. Henry caught up to them.

  “You’re off then, Sinclair.” He dropped the flashbulb he held into his pocket and shook Rowland’s hand. “Bon voyage, pal.” Rummaging inside his jacket, he produced a card. “Let me know if you want copies of those pictures. They say Leach could be big some day.”

  Rowland smiled. He doubted it. “Good luck J.C. Look me up if you’re ever in Sydney.”

  “I’ll do that, Sinclair. You keep living the dream.”

  Brass bands were in full swing now, a colourful paper rain of streamers fell around them; the atmosphere was festive.

  “Living the what?” Clyde asked once Henry had disappeared into the crowd.

  “The dream apparently,” Rowland replied.

  Milton shook his head. “Americans,” he snorted.

  12

  RMS AQUITANIA

  And to complete her likeness to a splendid home in which the passenger is a distinguished guest, the Aquitania offers service that is perfect. Much of the attendance on the wants of the traveller is so skilfully accomplished that one is unconscious of the means by which his wishes are fulfilled.

  The Cunard Steam Ship Company Ltd

  Rowland and Clyde inspected the Gainsborough Suite which had been set up as a studio. Most of the furniture had been removed, save a couple of armchairs and a chaise lounge. Daniel Cartwright had done an admirable job in seeing it was well-stocked, and in anticipating those painting supplies that were not contained in the trunks brought up from the Aquitania’s hold. He’d even had one of his signature self-portraits hung in the main room for their viewing pleasure.

  Clyde smiled as he studied the painting. “He’s a good bloke, your Danny,” he said eventually.