“She admitted it?”
“Last night, when the bishop was trying to shoot me.” Rowland rubbed his face. “If I’d known she was going to jump, I—”
“Jump?” Delaney interrupted him. “Rowly, this is a murder investigation. Isobel Hanrahan was thrown from the deck.”
Rowland looked up sharply. “How do you know?”
“By all accounts, there was a delay between the time the scream was heard, and when the young lady’s body hit the water. It’s unusual for a jumper to scream at all, but if they do, it’s usually when they’re actually falling. Rarely is there an intervening period of silence before they hit the water.”
Unsure whether he really wished to know the mechanics of such a thing, Rowland struggled to accept what Delaney was saying. Isobel had been murdered.
“Are you sure?”
“One can never be sure—but it seems likely. There were some injuries to her face, her dress was torn. It looks like there may have been a struggle.”
“Lord, poor Isobel. What kind of monster…?”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.” Delaney studied him. “Where exactly were you when Miss Hanrahan hit the water?”
Rowland’s thoughts were on Isobel’s last moments. Stricken by the violent, desperate images, he did not think to be concerned by the question. “On the deck… no, wait—I believe I went back to the suite, to get a roll of film for Edna.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone? Did you talk to anyone?”
“No—everybody was on deck, I guess.” Rowland looked up, startled. “You don’t think I had anything to do with…?”
The detective sighed. “Here’s the problem, Rowly: you had every reason to be very angry with Isobel Hanrahan and, unfortunately, you are also implicated in the deaths of the other two victims.” Delaney shuffled through the reports in front of him. “You discovered the body of Francesca Waterman and had some kind of altercation with Orville Urquhart.”
Rowland groaned. Put like that… “Have you spoken to Madding?” he asked.
“Yes—he doesn’t believe you had anything to do with any of the deaths. How did he put it?” Delaney smiled. “‘I’m afraid, Sinclair just has a habit of being in the wrong place every possible time. I would think twice about standing next to him.’”
“Oh, smashing,” Rowland muttered. “What can I tell you, Col?”
Delaney took out a marbled pen and his notebook. “Everything. Let’s start with Urquhart.”
They spent the next hour and a half in this way. Rowland told Delaney everything he remembered and answered the detective’s questions as best he could. Delaney prompted, and took notes. He was particularly interested in the attacks on Annie Besant and the possibility of some sort of connection with the Theosophical movement.
“Neither the murder of Isobel Hanrahan nor the attempt on your life fits that theory, however,” he mused. He leaned forward towards Rowland. “What’s your take on Bishop Hanrahan?”
“Your traditional fire and brimstone, scarier than Hell itself, Irish Catholic priest,” Rowland replied. “But he’s been in the brig since last night.”
“Apparently not,” Delaney said, flicking through his reports. “It seems you managed to convince Madding that the bishop had nothing to do with the first attempt on your life and that the second was just a misunderstanding.”
“Oh.” Rowland could remember thinking and saying something to that effect, but now Isobel was dead.
The door flung open and two men walked in. The first in uniform, a tall broad man with a pugnacious jaw on a boyish face. Bill MacKay, Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Bureau. Not a man to be trifled with. He and Rowland Sinclair had already had dealings.
Close behind MacKay, a man in his early forties—impeccably, but conservatively attired. A silver fob chain hung from his waistcoat pocket, and a traditional bowler sat straight on his head. His deep blue eyes regarded Rowland sternly over bifocals.
Rowland stood. “Wil, what are you doing here?”
Wilfred Sinclair shook his brother’s hand, gripping Rowland’s shoulder briefly with his other. It was an unusual display of warmth, which surprised Rowland a little, but then, they had not seen each other in several months. Wilfred’s eyes lingered on the bruises which had now darkened on his brother’s face but he let it pass without comment. “I was in Sydney, so I came to meet your boat,” he said. “That long-haired buffoon told me you’d been arrested.”
Rowland smiled faintly. Milton. Wilfred had never approved of his friends—particularly Milton.
“I have already assured your brother, Mr. Sinclair, that you are simply assisting us with enquiries at this stage,” Bill MacKay said brusquely.
Rowland glanced at Delaney. “Glad to hear it, Superintendent.”
“Well, I think we’re finished here,” Delaney closed his notebook with a snap. He nodded at Rowland. “I’ll be in touch, Sinclair.”
MacKay signalled for Delaney to follow him out of the room, leaving the Sinclair brothers alone in the captain’s office.
Wilfred stood silently for a moment.
“God forbid you should return without some sort of scandal,” he said finally.
Rowland didn’t respond.
“I shall ensure that none of this reaches the papers,” Wilfred went on. “But there’ll be rumours.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “What could you possibly have been thinking, Rowly?”
Rowland assumed his brother was talking about his involvement with Isobel Hanrahan. Wilfred couldn’t believe he killed anyone.
“I wasn’t thinking anything, Wil.”
“That much is clear,” Wilfred replied curtly. “You seem determined to make the most inappropriate, improper associations possible.”
“She’s dead, Wil.” Rowland’s voice caught. He looked at Wilfred searchingly. “Do the police know who killed her? Did MacKay say anything?”
Wilfred’s face became a little less severe. “They’re looking into it, Rowly, but at the moment they don’t know. I guess it’s fortunate that everybody of interest will be in Sydney for the next while.”
Rowland thought of Urquhart, whose death had been lost, unavenged, in a jurisdictional abyss. He would not allow that to happen to Isobel Hanrahan. He grabbed his hat from the desk. “Shall we go, then?”
Wilfred nodded. “I’ve sent your friends back to the house—the police finished with them a couple of hours ago.”
Rowland’s mouth flickered upwards. Wilfred always managed to say “your friends” as if he were talking of some feral plague. He hadn’t seen his brother in a while, so it amused, more than annoyed him.
Godfrey Madding caught them as they were about to head down the gangway. Rowland introduced Wilfred.
“I’m afraid this has been an unfortunate way to end a cruise,” the captain said apologetically. “But then this particular trip seems to have been fraught with unfortunate incidents.”
“I appreciate the way you’ve handled things, Captain,” Rowland replied.
The captain pulled him aside. “Look, Sinclair, we’re just packing up Isobel Hanrahan’s stateroom. I presume the bishop will have her things sent back to Dublin.” He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. “I remembered that this belonged to Miss Higgins—you might like to return it to her.”
Rowland looked inside the envelope. Edna’s locket. He couldn’t recall Isobel wearing it since they had reboarded in New York.
“Thank you. I’ll see that she gets it.”
“Good man. You can also tell Mr. Isaacs that His Grace is in the habit of carrying a gun. Apparently the Lord’s army is equipped with more than just the Good Book. He has a licence for the weapon.”
“I see.”
Madding smiled congenially. “I do hope this unpleasantness doesn’t put you off sailing with us again.”
20
A GAY AND FESTIVE CHRISTMAS
Decorating the home in a festive garb for
the Christmas jollities is just as old a tradition as turkey and plum pudding is for the Christmas feast. It is delightful to plan out a scheme for gaily adorning the entrance hall and living rooms with paper festoons, lanterns, garlands, balloons, streamers, and holly; and the dining-table with masses of crackers. Then there is the Christmas-tree with its dozens of sparkling novelties, and tiny candles, which give it such an exciting appearance.
The Sydney Morning Herald
Wilfred did not take his brother back to Woodlands House, but to the Masonic Club in the city centre. Now, in the lead-up to Christmas, the traditional wood-panelled décor was tastefully accented with wreaths and the odd sign of appropriately understated festivity.
It was not until they were seated in the leather club chairs with drinks that the conversation left the events on Aquitania.
Wilfred raised his glass. “Well, for what it’s worth, Rowly, welcome home.”
Rowland put down the glass of scotch his brother had given him. For some reason, Wilfred seemed unable to accept that he loathed all forms of whisky. It had become something of a ritual for his brother to pour him a drink that he would leave untouched.
“I trust Kate and the boys are well.” Rowland noticed the warmth that invaded his brother’s eyes on mention of his family. It had always been so. “When can I meet this new nephew of mine?” Wilfred’s younger son had been born whilst Rowland was abroad.
Wilfred smiled proudly. “You’re coming home for Christmas, of course. You can meet Ewan Dougal Baird Sinclair then.”
“Ewan Dougal Baird?” Rowland grinned. “I say, didn’t know you were having one for Scotland.”
Wilfred sighed. “Kate’s family,” he muttered by way of explanation. “It’s a flaming miracle they didn’t insist on McDuff McTavish.”
Rowland laughed. Wilfred had written that the name of his new son had become something of a family battle. Obviously he had lost. Wilfred didn’t lose often.
“There’s another matter I should discuss with you. We’re having Ewan christened on the sixth of next month.”
“Yes, of course,” Rowland replied, with a general awareness of what a Sinclair christening would entail. All Sinclairs were baptised at St Mark’s in Darling Point. The family would be rallied to Sydney for the occasion. They would need to be accommodated.
“I thought we’d put up Kate’s people in Roburvale,” Wilfred informed him. Roburvale, once the home of their late uncle, was the Sinclair’s other Sydney residence: a mansion nearly equal to Woodlands House in size and magnificence. “I would rather not risk having any of them at Woodlands in its current state.”
Rowland ignored the implied reproach. The Sinclair family home had, under his stewardship, become somewhat unconventional. It suited him.
“Which means,” Wilfred continued, “our people will have to stay at Woodlands.”
“Oh, I see.” Rowland tried to look unconcerned.
Wilfred checked his pocket watch. “I have already spoken to Mary Brown. I’ve instructed her to retain some extra staff for the next month at least. I expect the family will start to arrive just after the New Year—you shall have to do something about the state of Woodlands before then. Mary understands what I expect.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” Rowland asked, realising that Wilfred envisaged more than a general polish. Mary Brown had been the housekeeper at Woodlands since before the war. She never forgot her place, but Rowland was aware she was unhappy with the way he ran his house. He had no doubt that what Wilfred expected met with her approval.
“Try and recall what the place looked like when you first took up residence, Rowly—before you turned it into a refuge for all manner of unemployed, subversive ne’er-do-wells!”
“You want me to throw my friends out?” Rowland’s tone carried a warning that he would countenance no such thing.
“Just make them less visible, for pity’s sake,” Wilfred said irritably. “Instruct them how to behave in polite company—tell Miss Higgins to keep her jolly clothes on and, for God’s sake, direct them to keep their Leninist principles to themselves.”
Rowland’s eyes flashed. Wilfred could really be insufferable. “Look Wil,” he said tightly. “Let’s not quarrel already. We can all put on whatever airs and graces you require.”
Wilfred let it go, but reluctantly. “You’ll have to take down your paintings,” he said finally. “There’ll be women and children in the house.”
At this, Rowland smiled. “Of course. I’m not planning on corrupting my nephews, let alone the Sinclair women.”
“Your plans are not what worry me,” Wilfred replied tersely.
Rowland changed the subject. “I see you were successful in seeing Lang off.” He knew Wilfred would consider the sacking, and consequent electoral defeat, of the left-wing premier, a triumph for the forces of good. Now that New South Wales was in the control of the conservatives, perhaps Wilfred’s obsession with defending against a Communist revolution had abated.
Apparently not.
Wilfred spent the next hour apprising his brother of the political manoeuvrings which had ensured a “retreat from Moscow”.
“Bertie Stevens is a good man,” Wilfred mused, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “He’ll certainly make a better fist of the Premiership than Red Jack. Many of our own chaps have taken seats—but vigilance is the key, Rowly… uncompromising, eternal vigilance.”
Rowland wondered about his brother’s part in the change of government. The “chaps” who’d taken seats were obviously Wilfred’s compatriots from the Old Guard, the secret army, which less than a year ago had been poised for a coup. And now they sat in parliament, exerting their own brand of insanity on the government of the land. It was Rowland’s theory that the conservative forces operated within degrees of madness. But he knew better than to ask for particulars. Wilfred did not completely trust his allegiances.
Rowland was, in any case, more vested in the fate of Eric Campbell and his New Guard. He had made an enemy of the fascist movement earlier that year. It had ended badly. Though Wilfred had managed to keep him out of gaol, he had sent Rowland abroad to keep him from the New Guard’s vengeance.
“The New Guard’s day is over,” Wilfred said dismissively.
“Why?”
“Campbell’s security guard—some chap called Poynton—turned informant. Confessed to Delaney actually… just walked in and told him everything… no one could really fathom why.” Wilfred maintained a sharp and intent eye on his brother as he spoke.
The smile was in Rowland’s eyes. Good old Poynton—a man to be relied on.
“Campbell and the New Guard never quite recovered from the public outrage.” Wilfred stopped short, suspiciously. “Rowly, you didn’t have anything to do with… I thought I told you—”
Rowland smiled innocently. “Good heavens, Wil, I was abroad.”
Wilfred glared at him. “Quite.”
It was evening when Rowland returned to Woodlands House; still light, but only because the midsummer sun did not set till nearly eight. Externally, the Woollahra mansion was unchanged since the days when his parents had run the house. Perhaps the ivy was a little thicker on its sandstone walls. The garden was dotted with some of Edna’s more experimental works, but to Rowland’s eye they ornamented the clipped formal layout of the grounds.
He let himself out of the Rolls-Royce as soon as it paused in the circular drive, leaving the chauffeur to take the car round to the stables.
“Johnston,” he said, pausing as he climbed out. “The family will be coming up in January. We might need another driver, and another car. Would you see to it, please?”
“Very good, sir.”
Johnston had been at Woodlands House since before Rowland was born. He understood the difference between the expectations of Wilfred and Rowland Sinclair.
Rowland entered his house for the first time in several months. Edna opened the door before he reached it. It appeared his friends had begun to
worry that he may, in fact, have been arrested.
“Rowly, where have you been? We were just about to go back for you.”
“Sorry.” Rowland loosened his tie with the hand that was not holding his jacket. “Did you get everything back all right?”
He followed the sculptress into the main drawing room, which had also served as his studio. His easels still stood by the large windows. The canvases stacked against the walls seemed to have been neatened somewhat, but essentially the room was as he had left it. Rowland smiled, sure that Mary Brown had managed to dust and polish around the jars crammed with paintbrushes and palette knives, the bottles of mineral turpentine and the half-finished works in which he had lost interest. He was sure that she did so whilst sighing repeatedly. Plaintive exhalations were the housekeeper’s anthem, a kind of requiem to Woodlands under his father’s rule.
Rowland threw his jacket over one of the wing-backed armchairs and descended into its seat. He liked the drawing room the way it was, but no doubt Wilfred considered the parlour illused. Rowland glanced at the life-sized portrait of his late father, which glared down at him from the wall. Henry Sinclair, he supposed, would have agreed with the eldest of his sons.
Milton poured him a glass of sherry. “Come on, Rowly, what happened?”
“Nothing really, Delaney just needed to ask some questions.” Rowland told them about the interview and the revelation that Isobel Hanrahan had been murdered.
“Oh, Rowly.” Edna grabbed his hand in both of hers. “I don’t know which is worse.”
Clyde shook his head. “Who’d want to kill the poor girl?”
“Well, the bishop wasn’t too happy with her,” Milton said grimly. “And perhaps the bloke who really got her into trouble was a bit worried when she admitted it wasn’t Rowly… or maybe he was jealous.” He frowned. “Bloody awful what happened to Isobel—but she was playing with fire.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Mary Brown stood by the door. “Are you ready for supper?”
Rowland stood and put his jacket back on. “Thank you, Mary. I’m famished.”
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