Clyde moved to aid his friend, but hesitated. Years of childhood Mass, of doctrinal fear, intervened to render him useless. Rowland too was unsure of how to respond.
“You can be married before we get off this infernal boat!” Hanrahan grabbed Rowland by the collar. “You will not be leaving her with a bastard!”
Now Clyde found the courage to lay hands on the bishop, but Hanrahan twisted and sent Clyde reeling with the closed fist of his free hand.
“I’m not… I didn’t…,” Rowland gasped.
“You would deny your own child? Abandon an innocent girl? Shameless, predatory fornicator. Isobel told me how you took advantage of her.” The bishop hit him again. “God shall judge thee, but the child shall not bear the stain of your sin.”
Shocked by the accusation, Rowland wrested himself free of the bishop’s grip. What the hell had Isobel told her uncle?
“I am not responsible for Isobel’s predicament,” he said tersely, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. “I will not be marrying your niece.”
“You, sir, are a liar and I shall beat God’s truth into thee!” Hanrahan launched himself at Rowland again and proceeded to do just that. Clyde had now stumbled to his feet and tried in vain to pull the incensed clergyman off. The noise was attracting attention. Hanrahan was trying to force Rowland over the balustrade of the deck.
Milton reached them in shirtsleeves and braces, having dressed in haste. Godless spawn of Lenin that he was, he had no compunction about hitting the Catholic bishop. He grabbed Hanrahan by the shoulder and pulled him around, stunning the Irishman with a quick blow to the nose. Clyde dragged Rowland away from the deck’s edge.
It was only then that Bishop Hanrahan pulled the revolver from his jacket. Rowland froze. So too did the crewmen who had finally emerged to sort out the disturbance on the first class deck. Lights came on.
“Isobel! Isobel! Get over here, girl!” Hanrahan bellowed with the gun trained on Rowland.
Isobel approached, tear-stained and disgraced. Even now, Rowland felt sorry for her.
“Now, Sinclair, will you be setting things to right?”
Rowland stared at the gun and then at Isobel. There was no going back, whatever he did.
Voices of support murmured from the crowd that had now gathered.
“Do the right thing, you cad!”
“Marry the girl—take responsibility—what’s wrong with you?”
“Scandalous… just scandalous!”
Rowland glanced at Isobel. She wouldn’t look at him. This was ridiculous. He now had to defend himself to all and sundry.
Edna pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
“Make your decision, Sinclair!” The bishop cocked the gun.
17
REGISTERING A CHILD
Dispute Concerning Fatherhood
An important judgment of the Full Court today defined the duty of the registrar-general in regard to birth registrations. The case was an application for a writ of mandamus to compel the registrar-general to amend an entry respecting the birth of a child, of which the applicant denied being the father, by deleting his name from the register.
Mr. Justice Draper, in concurring in the judgment, said that the registrar had refused to amend the register because he thought that he would illegitimatise the child, but the registrar’s reason and conclusion were both unfounded.
The Argus
Rowland Sinclair glared at the revolver that supported the bishop’s proposal of marriage.
“No…,” he replied, before he had fully considered the advisability of such a response.
“Isobel!” Edna stepped towards the bishop’s fallen niece and shook her furiously. “For pity’s sake, Isobel—that’s a gun… you must put a stop to this… tell your uncle the truth!”
Isobel looked from her uncle to Rowland. Her eyes full and tremulous; a creature trapped.
“He’s speaking the truth, Uncle. Mr. Sinclair has been naught but a gentleman.”
Bishop Hanrahan may have paled—the light was too poor to tell. His righteous fury certainly took a visible blow. “But…”
“I lied to you, Uncle Shaun. I wanted it to be him.”
The clergyman destroyed Isobel with his gaze; she seemed to crumple under it.
“You, my girl, are dead to me,” he said as he dropped his hand.
Now Madding’s men surged to arrest the bishop. Isobel ran weeping from the scene. The curious disapproving spectators were dispersed. Rowland looked on, a little stunned. Clyde stood grimly by him. “That couldn’t possibly have been worse… though I suppose he didn’t shoot you.”
Milton joined them. “What the hell were you two doing? He’s an old man and he had the both of you on the ropes.”
Clyde looked sideways at Rowland. “He’s a man of God.”
Milton snorted, disgusted.
Edna was speaking with Father Bryan. The deacon looked grave and a little lost. Rowland moved towards the pair and put his arm gratefully around the sculptress.
“Arrived in the nick of time, Ed.”
She shoved him. “What are you doing out here? He might have killed you!” She softened as she looked at his face. “Oh Rowly, that’s going to bruise.”
He scanned the deck, frowning. Madding was having words with Bishop Hanrahan. “Look Ed… Isobel… could you… she looked so…”
“I’ll go after Isobel,” Father Bryan volunteered. “She may need more than a friend, given the circumstances.” He turned to Rowland and offered his hand. “Mr. Sinclair, please accept my apologies. His Grace can be rash.”
Rowland took the handshake. He picked his words carefully, now gun-shy of seeming too interested in Isobel Hanrahan. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for Isobel?”
Bryan nodded and set off in search of the bishop’s wayward niece.
Madding walked over to them whilst his staff captain and a couple of officers escorted the clergyman away. Father Murphy followed unobtrusively, as it seemed he always did.
“Mr. Sinclair, what were you doing out here?”
“My rooms were becoming a tad claustrophobic, Captain. I didn’t think there would be anyone about at this time… of course I was mistaken.”
Captain Madding walked them back to the Reynolds Suite. He sent down to the kitchens for ice despite Rowland’s assurances that it was unnecessary. Milton poured generous balloons of brandy.
“What are you going to do with Hanrahan?” he asked as he handed a glass to the Aquitania’s captain.
“We’re holding him in the brig. He denies that he had anything to do with the shots fired at you, Sinclair. Also denies that he intended to shoot you on the deck just now… claims he was just trying to make you do the right thing by Isobel.”
Rowland twirled the brandy slowly in the balloon.
Madding looked at him. “What do you think? It was you he pointed the gun at… would he have used it?”
“He might have,” Rowland replied thoughtfully. “But I don’t know that he planned to. I think he was really trying to… Actually I’m not sure what he was trying to do, but I don’t think killing me would have helped.”
“The bullets, Captain,” Edna asked, “the one that ended up in the deck… did they come from the bishop’s pistol?”
“They were small calibre bullets—fired from a similar gun—but the Webley was standard issue during the last war. Every man on board who saw service probably has one—I have one.”
Rowland smiled at the irony of it—it was a Webley with which Edna had shot him earlier that year. It had been his brother’s service revolver and it was in fact now packed in one of his trunks. Wilfred had arranged a licence and insisted he take the weapon as a precaution. “To be honest,” he said in the end, “I really don’t think Bishop Hanrahan would shoot a man in the back.”
“You’re right,” Milton agreed. “He’s much more likely to empty the barrel into your face.”
“How did His Grace know we were on the
deck tonight?” Clyde asked, applying a cloth of ice gingerly to his blackened eye.
“It seems he came upon you by chance on his way to the infirmary.”
“Was he unwell, then?”
Madding shook his head. “No, it was Mrs. Atkinson—she’s a bit of a hypochondriac, I’m afraid—there’s one every trip. She seems to have taken up residence in the infirmary.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
The sea captain smiled. “Convinced that the end was near, Mrs. Atkinson called for last rites. We sent for Father Bryan initially, but he is apparently unable to administer last rites. He had us send for the bishop instead. As His Grace was coming across, it seems he found you and Mr. Sinclair.”
“Was he planning to finish the old bird off?” Milton asked. “Can’t imagine why else he’d have a gun?”
Clyde laughed.
Madding coughed, poorly disguising a chuckle. “You do have a point, Mr. Isaacs. I’m afraid that didn’t occur to me… but I’ll be sure to ask the bishop.”
“How is Mrs. Atkinson?” Clyde asked, obviously feeling a little ashamed of having found mirth in a dying woman’s last moments.
Madding was solemn. “Well, as His Grace did not arrive, I’m afraid she had to put off dying for the moment.”
18
SYDNEY WELOMES THE RMS AQUITANIA
SYDNEY
Dwarfing the six tugs which manoeuvred her to her berth and the scores of small craft which moved about her in a welcoming procession, the RMS Aquitania arrived at Sydney on Saturday. Every vantage point was lined with sightseers for the huge liner, regarded as the most luxurious ship afloat.
The Sydney Morning Herald
Rowland was shaving when Clyde called out to him.
“Get a move on, Rowly—we’ll be coming into the harbour soon.”
He didn’t reply, concentrating on shaving over the bruises on his jaw without sustaining any further damage. Under normal circumstances, he would have used the barbershop on the Aquitania, but after the previous evening’s encounter he was happy to keep a low profile. Rowland wiped his face with a towel, inspecting the results in the mirror. He didn’t look as rough as Clyde, and at least now he was clean-shaven.
He joined his companions in the sitting room. They would be home soon. The Aquitania would sail into Darling Harbour that morning.
Rowland sat down beside Edna. “I wonder if Bryan found Isobel,” he mused aloud.
Edna poured him a cup of tea.
“You’re still worried about her—after what she did?” Milton shook his head. “Hanrahan might have shot you before she got there to tell him she lied.”
Rowland took his tea. “She’s pretty much alone, Milt. Hanrahan’s disowned her—she doesn’t have anyone here. Maybe we could…”
“Cripes Rowly, you weren’t actually in love with her were you?”
Rowland pictured the bishop’s niece on the night she had first kissed him on the moonlit deck—beautiful and unexpected. He preferred to think of what she’d done afterwards as an act of desperation rather than malice. He glanced at Edna as she spooned a ludicrous amount of sugar into her tea. That was a different thing—a futile comparison.
“No—I wasn’t,” he said finally. “But, given time, I could have been.”
“Probably for the best, mate,” Clyde reflected. “Can’t imagine what Wilfred would have said if you’d brought a Catholic home.”
“Honestly, Clyde,” Edna huffed. “You make her sound like a puppy.”
Rowland smiled. “Isobel isn’t your traditional Catholic.”
“That’s what they all say,” Milton muttered as he drained the teapot, “until after you’ve married them.”
Rowland laughed ruefully. “I’m sure I’ll probably end up disappointing Wilfred one way or another.”
“One can only hope,” the poet agreed.
Edna put down her teacup and gathered her camera. “Shall we go?” She smiled eagerly. “It feels like we’ve been away forever.”
“Had enough of travelling, Ed?” Rowland asked, amused. It was Edna, more than any of them, who had relished the grand adventure of their travels.
“There’s someone trying to kill you, Rowly.”
“Oh, yes.” He stood. “Shall we?”
As it had been when they entered New York, the deck was crowded with both returning and visiting passengers. The Aquitania’s brass band struck up ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as the great liner passed through the harbour’s famous headlands. The crowd cheered periodically, the atmosphere on board becoming progressively more festive and excited.
Edna took pictures. The rejoicing passengers waving at nothing in particular. Sydney emerging on the horizon. Rowland, Clyde, and Milton together against the unadulterated blue of the sky. Her photographs would not capture the colour but they would preserve the easy happiness, the relaxed friendship of the moment.
Hubert Van Hook found them. Rowland gave the Theosophist his card and an open invitation to Woodlands House.
“Swell! That’s a scorching idea. I’ll level with you, Rowly—Old Charlie makes me a bit hot under the collar!”
“Oh!” Edna exclaimed, disappointed as she tried to snap Van Hook. “The roll’s run out.”
“Do you have another?” Rowland asked.
“Yes, but I left it in your suite—I put it down when we were having tea.”
“I’ll go get it,” he volunteered. “I won’t be a moment.”
“Oh no, Rowly, don’t bother…,” Edna began, but he was gone.
Hubert Van Hook grasped her about the waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Well, I’ll be seeing you doll!” he said grinning. “You keep those fellas honest and we might cut the rug in Sydney sometime. I’ll give you a bell at Sinclair’s joint.”
Edna returned his embrace. “Yes, do keep in touch, Hu.”
The American waved and disappeared into the throng. Edna went to stand between Clyde and Milton at the rail. A swarm of smaller boats, tugs, fishing vessels and private yachts were surging out to meet the ocean-liner. The air was crowded with music and laughter and the noise of the harbour.
And yet, Edna heard the scream over it all. It was just a single desperate cry. More chilling in the midst of the homecoming festivity. In the confused silence that followed, she cast her eyes around, searching erratically for an explanation. Then she saw the passengers who were looking over the side.
“My God, someone’s jumped!”
The crowd pitched towards the portside, pressing against the rail and shouting uselessly. Edna gasped as she was crushed against Milton by passengers desperate to view tragedy. Clyde leaned over the guardrail; pale, unable to take his eyes from the water below. He had seen the body hit.
Rowland reached them several minutes later. By then the crew was calming and reassuring the distressed passengers. Smaller boats had gathered in the Aquitania’s wake where the body had sunk beneath the foaming water. The atmosphere was subdued; the more delicate ladies wept politely. Already the horror of the incident was dissipating—the thought of someone jumping to her death was not as shocking as it may once have been. The Depression had seen to that.
“What happened?” Rowland asked, bewildered. He had missed the incident entirely.
“I think someone jumped,” Milton replied.
“Bloody hell.”
Clyde grabbed his arm. He looked sick. “Rowly, I think it was Isobel.”
19
PASSING NOTES
By Mercurius
I have written a long letter of sympathy to Superintendent McKay, of the New South Wales Police Force, expressing my regret that the sword of De Groot should frightened him so badly. For in his evidence the Superintendant said: “De Groot might have slashed at me with his sword. I do not like a man waving a sword at me.” Of course not; who does like it? It is a terrible thing, and suggests danger. I have infinite pity for Superintendent McKay just as I have for James I of England, who used to turn pale at the sight of a sword, or even
a dagger.
The Mercury
Rowland Sinclair gazed vaguely at a scale model of the Aquitania as he sat in the captain’s office on the ship itself. He was alone. The ocean liner had now made port at Darling Harbour and the process of disembarking over two thousand passengers begun. Isobel Hanrahan’s body had been recovered. Detectives from Sydney Police Headquarters had boarded to take charge of the investigation. He’d been waiting for a couple of hours now, with nothing but his own brooding thoughts.
Rowland rubbed the bridge of his nose as he pictured Isobel; beautiful, seductive Isobel, who had fallen from grace and to her death. Could he have helped her? Could he have somehow treated her more kindly and protected her from despair? The thought tormented him.
Madding had said the police wished to speak with him. He had expected as much. Guilt and regret haunted him. Perhaps if he had never left his suite that night, she would not have been forced to reveal her secret. He wished he’d at least gone after her himself. It needn’t have been as hopeless as she saw it.
There was a brief knock on the door and Detective Constable Delaney walked into the room. Rowland stood.
“Sinclair.” Delaney extended his hand and smiled. “Welcome home. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon—on an official basis at least.”
Rowland shook the man’s hand. “It’s a hell of a thing, Col,” he said sadly.
The detective took Madding’s chair and motioned Rowland to sit. “Leg seems to have healed up, Rowly,” he said, glancing down. “You were on crutches when I saw you last.”
Rowland nodded, dragging his hand distractedly through his hair.
Delaney’s mouth twitched, perhaps sympathetically. “Suppose you tell me about this woman, Rowly. The one in the harbour.”
Rowland shrugged. “Miss Hanrahan—formerly of Dublin. Travelling with her uncle, Bishop Hanrahan.”
“A bishop?” Delaney was stopped short by the implications.
“Afraid so.”
“And you were involved with her?”
“Depends what you call involved?”
“She claimed to be expecting your child.”
Rowland shook his head. “Not possible.”
“Are you sure?”
Rowland glared at the detective. “Yes, I’m sure. She admitted it herself—I think she might have known she was in trouble before she ever met me.”
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