Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  He offered Edna his arm and though she giggled and told him he was pretentious, she took it. They proceeded into the dining room.

  The current residents of Woodlands House did not usually dine so formally, but Mary Brown had obviously decided that this was an occasion on which they should. The table was covered with crisp white linen and each place set with enough cutlery for at least five courses. A pair of grand Victorian candelabra graced the centre of the long oak table and three service maids stood in line against the papered wall, waiting discreetly until they were required. Rowland assumed Mary Brown was practising for Wilfred’s arrival. His brother liked things done properly.

  Milton pulled a chair out for Edna, bowing ridiculously. “So with a world, thy gentle ways, thy grace, thy more than beauty…”

  “I think you’ll find that’s Poe,” Rowland said as he took a seat.

  Clyde looked at the table, and then surreptitiously back at the maids, who were now busy at the sideboard. “I feel like we should have dressed for dinner.” He might have been inclined to whisper, but the length of the table and the consequent distance between the four places necessitated a reasonable volume.

  “Yes, about that,” Rowland said, grimacing. “I’m afraid that we are about to face an inundation of Sinclairs.”

  “A what?”

  “The family’s coming up to Sydney for a christening—Wilfred’s younger boy—I’m afraid they’re all staying here.”

  There was a short silence as the words were absorbed.

  “Of course they’re staying here,” Clyde said finally. “This is their house. When are they coming?”

  “Not till after the New Year,” Rowland replied as he started his soup. He looked apologetically at Clyde and Milton. “We may need to bunk together for a while.”

  Clyde laughed. “I’m from a family of twelve, Rowly. There was always at least three to a bed—sharing a room with you two is still an opulent use of space by Jones standards.”

  “Don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Milton murmured. “People will talk.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to move our easels and gear somewhere,” Rowland went on as Clyde shot Milton a withering glare. “Wil wants Woodlands to look like a mausoleum again.”

  Edna smiled. “It might be fun pretending to be a lady.”

  “I have never thought you were anything else, Ed,” Rowland replied calmly. He squinted at Milton down the candlelit table. The letters emblazoned by silver nitrate had faded considerably, but they were still just discernible. “Maybe we should do something about Milt’s forehead…”

  Edna studied the poet’s face. “I could cover that up with a bit of rouge and powder.”

  Clyde chuckled.

  Milton put down his spoon and stared at the sculptress. “I rather think the Sinclairs might find a man in rouge and powder as alarming as one labelled Red.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Rowland agreed. “Let’s just not mention it, and hope for the best.”

  Mary Brown came into the dining room with a platter bearing the second course. Those seated at the table shared their plans for Christmas as the maids served roast potatoes, steamed carrots and snap peas to accompany the individual beef and kidney pies. Rowland and his house guests usually scattered to their own families for the holiday. Edna’s father and Milton’s grandmother both lived in Burwood. Clyde’s large family still lived in the Snowy Mountains, west of Canberra.

  “When are you heading home, Rowly?” Clyde asked as he cut into the golden pastry of his pie.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “We’ll catch the train together, then,” Clyde suggested. He would have to travel through Yass Junction in any case.

  Rowland nodded. “I’ll be glad of the company. I’m just making a lightning visit—have to get back and organise things here—but you needn’t. I can pack up your studio if you like.”

  Clyde shook his head. “Mum goes to town with the fancy food whenever I come home. They can’t afford for me to stay more than a couple of days.”

  Rowland didn’t pursue the matter. Clyde was from very humble circumstances, but they were proud people. Though he had never met them, he had a vague suspicion that the Joneses did not quite approve of their eldest son’s association with Rowland Sinclair.

  “It’s settled then,” Milton declared, waving his fork at them. “We’ll see 1933 in, in style, and then we’ll try not to disgrace Rowly for the rest of January.”

  “Just January, then?” Rowland asked, amused.

  “Yes, January is more than enough.”

  Rowland reached inside his pocket, remembering suddenly, the envelope that Madding had given him. He tossed it to Edna, with enough height to clear the candles. Mary Brown sighed audibly.

  Edna caught the envelope and opened it.

  “My locket! Rowly, how…”

  “Captain Madding—they were packing up Isobel’s things to send back to Dublin. He thought you might like your locket back.”

  “Oh the dear, dear man…” she hesitated. “Rowly, do you think it’s wrong to…”

  “I don’t think either Urquhart or the locket had a lasting place in Isobel’s affections,” he said firmly. There was nothing to be gained by Edna looking at the jewel with sadness or guilt. “Besides,” he added as he watched her hold it, “I gave it to you long before Isobel ever saw it. It was always meant to be yours.”

  The sculptress smiled, slipping the chain over her head and pressing the locket to her breast.

  Rowland looked thoughtfully at Edna. “Ed, you don’t know where Father Bryan is living in Sydney, do you?”

  “Staying, not living,” Edna replied. “Matthew’s just here for three months, and then he’s going to India as a missionary of some sort.”

  “So, where is he staying, then?”

  “I believe he and Father Murphy will be at the seminary.”

  “Why do you care, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “I thought I’d call on him.”

  Edna looked at him, sympathetically. “You’re thinking about Isobel.”

  “I just wondered if he found her, after she ran off,” Rowland replied. “And if he did, where?” He put down his knife and fork. It occurred to him that Isobel Hanrahan had been alive that morning. The murderous act, which had taken her life, was only a few hours old.

  “Bryan might also be able to tell us what the bishop did, once he’d been released from the brig,” Milton added darkly. “Frankly, mate, I think you’ve been far too trusting of both the Hanrahans.”

  Rowland did not respond. Milton was probably right. But still.

  “You’re taking a direct interest in this investigation then, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “Yes, I daresay I am.”

  “Getting to be a bit of a habit,” Clyde muttered.

  Rowland grinned. Clyde could be an old woman sometimes. “Just asking a couple of questions… don’t worry, Bryan’s a priest.”

  “A Catholic priest, mate,” Clyde reminded him.. “Abstinence makes a man bad-tempered. You’ll find they’re more formidable than your poncy Proddie ministers.”

  21

  CHURCH COLLEGE

  NOT LIABLE FOR RATES

  SUCCESSFUL APPEAL

  SYDNEY

  Six Justices of the High Court were unanimous today in allowing the appeal of the Roman Catholic Archbishop against the judgment of the Chief Judge in Equity, declaring that the Archbishop “was liable for rates on land occupied directly in connection with the building known as St Patrick’s College Manly.”

  The question at issue was whether the college was used solely for religious uses. The Judges said they could not agree with the Chief Judge in Equity that the college building was used as a sort of estate.

  The Canberra Times

  St Patrick’s Seminary was a building from an era past. A truly massive Gothic structure, its stone facades were raised high upon the rugged hills behind Manly Beach. The six storeys of its central bellto
wer loomed like the mast of some vast flagship of faith.

  Rowland wondered whether his Protestantism was visible. It felt uncomfortably so. He had known Catholics before, but generally they had been fallen, or at the very least, lapsed. The residents of St Patrick’s were a different thing altogether. Edna, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in this enclave of men. But that was her particular talent—she was entirely at ease in her own skin, and in any other place really.

  Matthew Bryan was waiting by the majestic staircase in the reception. He greeted them warmly, informally.

  “Edna, Rowland, how delightful to see you so soon. I was so glad to get your call.”

  “Matthew, this is charming.” Edna smiled wickedly. “It might even be bigger than Rowly’s place.”

  Bryan laughed. “It is rather grand. I must say I’m jolly glad I’m here in the summer, though.”

  Rowland looked up to the twenty-foot ceilings. “I daresay it would be hard to heat,” he agreed.

  “This time of year, however,” Bryan said, as he led them up the staircase, “you can stand on the parapets, cooled by the ocean breeze, and taste the salt on your lips. You can look out upon the glorious, uncontainable, unknowable sea and understand the nature of God.”

  “Or you might see a whale,” Edna added helpfully.

  Rowland smiled. The sculptress had a way of blithely finding the ridiculous in the most earnest of situations.

  Matthew Bryan showed them around the seminary, or at least those parts to which they were allowed access. They were in the belltower taking in the vista of beach and ocean, when Rowland finally broached the subject of Isobel Hanrahan.

  “I wanted to ask you, Father,” he said quietly, “did you find Isobel, that night on the boat?”

  Matthew Bryan bit his lip and paused to gather himself before he replied. “Yes. I found the poor girl in the chapel.”

  “Oh.” Rowland wasn’t sure what he had hoped to hear. This told him nothing. “Did she…?”

  “I heard Isobel’s last confession,” Bryan said, grasping Rowland’s shoulder in a show of sympathy. “The confessional is sacred confidence, but I can say that the public humiliation to which she had just been subjected was more than Isobel could bear.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rowland looked towards the waves.

  Edna slipped her hand into his. “It was Bishop Hanrahan who chose to make a scene, Rowly,” she reminded him gently. “You would never have done that to her.”

  “I’m afraid Isobel felt very abandoned and illused,” the clergyman continued with an audible note of reproach.

  Edna stepped between Rowland and Matthew Bryan. She turned her back on the deacon and did not release Rowland’s hand.

  “In the end,” Bryan went on, “she ran out of the chapel. If I’d known what she intended, I’d have never let her go.”

  Rowland tensed. Matthew Bryan still thought Isobel had taken her own life.

  “Someone killed Isobel, Father.”

  The clergyman was clearly startled. “But I thought…”

  “The police are sure. Some bastard threw her from the deck.”

  Bryan leant back against the wall and crossed himself. “Well, this changes things somewhat.”

  “Why?” Rowland asked.

  Matthew Bryan was flustered, distressed. “Well, she did not die by her own hand—the bishop will want to know. For that at least, her soul will not be damned.”

  Rowland bristled, but he said nothing. The belltower of St Patrick’s Seminary was not the place to challenge Bryan on theological dogma.

  Bryan looked at him and seemed to soften. “I’m sorry—I’m being insensitive.” He glanced at Edna’s hand in Rowland’s. “I can see that Isobel meant a great deal to you.”

  “Did you see Isobel again after she left the chapel?” Rowland asked, uncomfortable with Bryan’s scrutiny. “Did you go after her?”

  “No,” Bryan replied, perhaps regretfully. “I thought she wanted time alone. I hoped that she had gone to make peace with His Grace.”

  “Bishop Hanrahan? She went to see her uncle?” Rowland asked sharply.

  “I don’t know what made me think she might have,” Bryan said carefully. “Perhaps it was just hope.” He checked his wristwatch. “I’m afraid I must be getting back.”

  Rowland shook the clergyman’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “It was lovely to catch up with you, Matthew,” said Edna. “You must come out and see us sometime.”

  “I should be delighted,” Bryan replied warmly. His eyes lingered on the locket, which hung over the neckline of her blouse.

  Edna closed her hand over the pendant uneasily.

  Again Rowland was irritated. No doubt Bryan had recognised the locket as the one Isobel had worn, but however it looked, Rowland would not tolerate anyone judging Edna.

  Bryan turned back to Rowland. “You will let me know if the police make any progress?”

  Rowland nodded.

  “I must write to Isobel’s parents…” Bryan shook his head. “She came from a righteous, God-fearing home—how could she have strayed so far?”

  Rowland did not respond. There was no point.

  They let Bryan return to whatever it was that required his attendance and walked the steep road away from St Patrick’s.

  “Come on, Rowly.” Edna dragged on his hand. “Shall we take a walk on the beach before we go home? Papa wants some cuttlebone for his pigeons.”

  It was clear any resistance to Edna’s decision to collect cuttlebone would be futile, so Rowland removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and allowed the sculptress to lead him down to the sand. The beach was full of holiday makers, locals and those who had caught the ferry across to enjoy the white sand and sheltered beaches of Manly. Children dug in the sand and played with balls whilst their parents indulged the recent passion for lying in the sun on deckchairs. Young men paddled out into the foaming surf on long boards under the watchful eye of the surf rescue volunteers.

  Rowland watched as Edna scoured the wet sand collecting cuttlebone, the breeze whipping her copper tresses in all directions. She returned to him with the hair of a madwoman, her hands full. She smiled triumphantly, as if she had gathered gems.

  “I’ll just put these in your pockets, Rowly,” she said, slipping the salt-encrusted shells into the pockets of the jacket he carried over his shoulder. “They’ll make my handbag smelly.”

  Even if Rowland Sinclair had been capable of denying the sculptress anything, it was too late to protest.

  They stopped by the kiosk to take tea. Edna tried to smooth her windblown hair whilst Rowland poured. She smiled happily at him. “It’s rather nice to be home isn’t it, Rowly?”

  He nodded, pushing the sugar basin towards her. “It’s rather nice we made it home, the way things were going.”

  Edna stirred her tea pensively. “Where do you think Isobel went after she left the chapel?”

  “The poor wretch could have gone anywhere, Ed.”

  Edna heaped strawberry jam and cream on a scone and passed it to him. “Do you think she might have gone to see Bishop Hanrahan?”

  “We could ask him, I suppose,” Rowland muttered, grimacing at the very thought.

  “I have a better idea,” Edna replied. “We’ll ask Father Murphy. I’ve not seen him more than two feet from His Grace.”

  Rowland smiled. “You’ve got a point.” He looked back up the hill toward the alma mater of the Catholic priesthood. The bells were calling the seminarians to prayer, or perhaps lunch. It was probably a busy time of year for priests in training. “We’ll get Christmas over with,” he said as he bit into a scone. “And then we’ll go see him.”

  Clyde thumbed through his well-worn volume on the life and work of Max Meldrum, whose theory of art as a science had been controversial for over a decade. Unlike Rowland, Clyde was not formally trained—the Ashton School had always been beyond his financial reach. He learned his craft by reading and through other artists. Nowadays, Row
land dragged him along to workshops and classes, but he still found inspiration in the books he’d acquired when his life was hard.

  Rowland sat across from him in the first class compartment, behind his Sydney Morning Herald.

  “Apparently Bradman will be right for the next Test,” Rowland murmured. “Might turn things around.”

  The touring English cricket team had won the first match of the series, whilst they’d been abroad. They had returned to find Sydney in the grip of outrage over the tactics employed by the visitors.

  “Do you think they’ll continue with this bodyline thing?” Clyde asked. He’d never played cricket—he wasn’t sure about the rights and wrongs of the English strategy.

  Rowland shrugged. “Why wouldn’t they? It appears to be working. The English seem more interested in winning than playing cricket.”

  “Bradman better learn to duck, then.”

  “That’s exactly what we don’t want.” Rowland checked his watch. “We’ll be in Yass soon.”

  Clyde closed his book. “Better get ready to rejoin the proletariat.”

  Rowland shook his head. Clyde insisted on travelling in the second class carriages from Yass, adamant that he couldn’t be seen alighting from the front of the train. To Rowland it was mad.

  Clyde looked at him. “You have no idea of the grief my old mum will give me if she thinks I’m getting above myself.” His voice rose in an imitation of his mother’s. “The Joneses are working people and working people’s carriages is good enough for us.”

  Rowland laughed. He’d noticed that Clyde had put on his oldest suit for the trip home. “You’ll have to introduce me to your mother one day.”

  Clyde chuckled. “Oh mate, you know not what you ask.”

  The train pulled into Yass Junction. Rowland wished his friend a Happy Christmas and stepped out onto the platform. Midday in Yass, at this time of year, was stifling. Sydney summers were alleviated by sea breezes, but Yass was a long way inland.

  Wilfred’s chauffeur found him and had his trunk loaded into the gleaming black Rolls-Royce. The driver opened the rear door.

  “Wil!” Rowland was surprised. It was not Wilfred’s practice to meet him at the station.