Rose Lindsay rolled her eyes and moved next to her husband.
Norman Lindsay’s wide, expressive mouth broke unexpectedly out of its angry line, and he laughed. He put his arm around Milton. “A drink?”
“Just one? You’re becoming a bit Ike, Norman…”
The conversation returned to its merry boil as if it had never been interrupted. Rowland glanced at Clyde and shook his head. Milton and Lindsay had always maintained a peculiar relationship, from which had developed this rather alarming manner of greeting. It had become custom between them; good-natured, though Rowland suspected that neither spoke entirely in jest.
The jazz band resumed its music and soon their glasses were charged as they milled amongst the glittering personalities and creative minds about the pool. When the sun set for the last time in 1932, lanterns were lit and a picnic supper brought out. Milton lay indolently by the pool pouring champagne for the thirsty young things in the water, enjoying their attempts to entice him in. Regrettably, the poet could not swim. Edna had disappeared into the moonlight, in the arms of one of Lindsay’s sons. Even Clyde was enjoying the amorous attentions of a young lady who was probably not Catholic. Rowland sat talking with Norman Lindsay, who reclined with his head in the soft lap of Mrs. Lindsay. The great artist gazed admiringly at the slightly inebriated woman who danced seductively by the pool dressed only in Rowland’s jacket.
“We’ve missed you all in Sydney,” their host said, locking his hands contently over his chest. “How was your time in New York? I’ve always found Americans rather odd myself.”
Rowland smiled as he remembered the séance. Wryly, he recounted the story to the couple.
Lindsay sat up, attentive. “Did you speak to him yourself—Houdini, I mean?”
Rowland regarded Lindsay uncertainly. “No.” He did not add that he doubted that anyone had actually spoken to Houdini that night.
“I have conversed with Shakespeare and Apollo, and of course my brother Reginald—he died at the Somme you know—but not Houdini. Tell me, did she use the ouija board?”
“No… I don’t think so. She was channelling him I believe?”
Lindsay nodded knowingly. “It is a superb talent if one can master it. She was with the Theosophical movement you say?”
Rowland shook his head. “Not anymore. She left over some scandal—just before the war, I think.”
“Oh, Leadbeater.”
“You’re acquainted?”
“Yes. Eccentric chap.”
“Quite mad, I’d say.”
“Perhaps.” Lindsay lay back into his wife’s lap. “Might well send a fellow barmy, being disappointed by two World Prophets.”
“Two?” Rowland’s interest intensified. “I thought it was just Krishnamurti…”
“Before him,” Lindsay said. “Leadbeater found a prophet in America of all places. He didn’t last long.”
“What happened to him—this first prophet?”
“Not really sure. They say he accused Leadbeater of all sorts of things—publicity nightmare for the Society. I suppose he couldn’t really remain as the Theosophical messiah after that—so Leadbeater found a replacement in India.” Lindsay looked sharply at him. “You’re not thinking of joining the movement are you, Rowly?”
“No, not at all.”
“Pity. Might help you shake that unfortunate respectability of yours.”
Rowland laughed, noting the sheer number of uninhibited young women churning up the water like some kind of exhibitionist whirlpool. “There are much more pleasant ways of doing that, Norman.”
He turned his eyes to the girl who still danced alone by the pool. It was about time he retrieved his jacket.
28
The Book of Constitutions of the Ancient Grand Lodge of England
…if Secrecy and Silence be duly considered, they will be found most necessary to qualify a Man for any Business of Importance: If this be granted I am confident that no Man will dare to dispute that Freemasons are superior to all other Men in concealing their secrets from Times immemorial: which the Power of Gold, that often has betrayed Kings and Princes, and sometimes overturned whole empires, nor the most cruel punishments could ever extort the secret (even) from the weakest member of the whole Fraternity.
(Ahiman Rezon) 1756
The yellow Mercedes roared into the driveway of Woodlands House. Its passengers were in good spirits; two days at Springwood had infused them with a kind of contagious bohemian abandon. Norman Lindsay’s genius, the creative force of his personality, had inspired ideas for their own work. They talked of art and literature, of technique and passion and of Lindsay’s mastery of the female form.
Rowland allowed the car to idle.
“Have you noticed that men are rarely painted as nudes,” Edna mused, thinking of the hundreds of naked women in Lindsay’s work. She looked at Rowland who was guilty of the same bias. “Why is that?”
“Men look better in suits,” Rowland replied simply, and quite honestly.
Clyde laughed. “I think you’ll find, Ed, that it has more to do with the preferences of the man holding the brush.”
“Small mercies,” Milton muttered as he opened the door and pushed Lenin out.
Rowland walked round to open the boot.
“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair tore down the stairs and came to a stop before his uncle. “Good afternoon, Uncle Rowly. I trust you are well.” The boy put out his hand.
Rowland shook the small hand. “Ernie… hello. I didn’t think you were arriving till tomorrow.”
“Can I sit in your motorcar, Uncle Rowly?”
“Of course.” He lifted his nephew into the driver’s seat and reintroduced his friends. Ernest had met them before, but the year that had passed since was a significant period in the boy’s short life.
“Oh Rowly, you’re back.” Kate Sinclair appeared at the doorway of Woodlands House.
Rowland ran up the steps to greet her. “Hello Kate. I’m sorry we weren’t here when you arrived… where’s Wil?”
“He just popped out to check on Roburvale.” She smiled warmly at Clyde who was climbing the stairs with Ernest on his shoulders. Perhaps it was a result of having so many younger siblings—Clyde had a way with children.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” the artist said almost shyly, as he swung Ernest to the ground with a single brawny arm.
Milton dropped their bags onto the verandah.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Terribly remiss of us not to be here to welcome you, marm.” He kissed Kate’s hand, bowing as he did so. “I can only hope you allow us to redeem the transgression.”
“It appears Milt has mistaken you for Queen Mary,” Rowland muttered as Edna shoved the poet.
The sculptress kissed Rowland’s bewildered sister-in-law. “Hello Kate—you mustn’t mind Milt, he’s an idiot.”
“Really… he is,” Clyde added, nodding sincerely.
Kate smiled nervously. She had always found Rowland’s friends charming though they frightened her a little.
“Shall we go in?” Rowland asked standing aside for the ladies. “I trust Mary’s taken care of you.”
“Yes, of course,” Kate replied. She smiled uncertainly. “She and Mrs. Kendall are just getting reacquainted.”
Rowland grinned. Both Mary Brown and Mrs. Kendall were accustomed to running things. Both had worked for the Sinclairs since before he was born; Mary at Woodlands and Mrs. Kendall at Oaklea. Neither was likely to concede.
They walked into the main drawing room, whilst Kate called for tea. Elisabeth Sinclair sat in the armchair with a book. She clasped it rather than read, looking about her uneasily, without any real recognition of the house that had once been hers.
Rowland bent down to kiss her cheek and her face softened with relief.
“Aubrey darling, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been feeling apprehensive since we came to this house. I was worried about you.”
“No need, Mother,” Rowland said calmly. “I’m fine. How
was your trip?”
“Oh, very comfortable. Your father took care of everything—you know how particular he is.”
“You mean Wil, don’t you, Mother?” Henry Sinclair had died more than a decade hence.
“Yes, of course, Wilfred.” She laughed at her own mistake.
Rowland was relieved. To date it had been only he that Elisabeth Sinclair had forgotten, though her memory seemed to become a little more tenuous each time he saw her.
Milton eyed the sideboard with its various decanters regretfully, but he did not venture near it. Rowland reintroduced them all to his mother and they sat to partake of a civilised repast from awkwardly fine Royal Doulton.
Rowland noted that Kate purposely chose a seat facing away from the austere portrait of his father. Having no longer to compete with the work of his youngest son, the image of Henry Sinclair was once again the master of Woodlands House. Rowland smiled at his brother’s gentle, timid wife. His father would probably have scared the wits out of her.
Edna sat down beside Kate, chatting easily as she sipped tea and passed sandwiches. Young Ernest demonstrated his proficiency with the yo-yo to Clyde and Milton. Rowland took out his notebook and drafted ideas inspired by Lindsay. It was into this agreeable gathering that Wilfred Sinclair eventually arrived. He seemed put out.
“Rowly, I’d like a word. Would you be so good as to follow me?”
“Certainly,” Rowland stood and followed his brother out.
Wilfred took him out to the verandah. The Rolls-Royce was stopped in the driveway. Johnston polished the bonnet as he waited.
“I thought I told you to do something about your flaming paintings,” Wilfred accused.
“I did. Woodlands looks like a nunnery.”
“I’m talking about Roburvale.”
Rowland grimaced. He’d forgotten. A large nude of Edna hung in the drawing room at Roburvale. He’d always considered it his best work, but it was undeniably naked. “Sorry.”
“The Bairds are Presbyterian, Rowly.”
Rowland stifled a laugh. “Sorry… I’ll have it taken down.”
“I’ve already seen to it,” Wilfred replied. “It’s in the car—just put it somewhere where no one will see it… bury it if you have to.”
Rowland sighed. “You’re dashed lucky I’m not easily offended, Wil.”
Wilfred smiled faintly. “You do take offence a lot less than you give it.” He checked his pocket watch. “You’d better get changed—Lodge is at seven. I’m assuming you have a clean dinner suit.”
Rowland groaned.
“Don’t be difficult, Rowly. They’re a number of chaps I want to introduce you to. They’ll help you settle in at Dangar’s.” He glanced at Rowland. “I’m having an airstrip built at Oaklea,” he said casually, skilfully quelling any rebellion.
Thus reminded of their bargain, Rowland left to have the offending painting taken up to his room and to change.
He showered and dressed, rummaging for cufflinks and gloves. With Clyde and Milton now sharing his room, things were somewhat disordered. Rowland tied his bow tie with the ease and speed of a man who did it often. He found the small black case that held his Masonic regalia. Shoving the white gloves grudgingly into his pocket, he ran his fingers, rather than a comb, through his hair, and went back to the drawing room to wait for Wilfred.
“Are we dressing for dinner?” Clyde looked distinctly panicked.
“No, you’re fine,” Rowland replied. “Wil’s dragging me to Lodge.”
“Why?”
“It appears I made a bargain with the devil,” Rowland muttered, as he poured a glass of sherry.
“Oh, Rowly,” Kate chided. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. I know Wil will enjoy having you with him. He’s the District Grand Inspector of Workings now, you know.”
“Good Lord… does he get a cape?” Milton asked
“Milt!” Edna glared pointedly at him, but Kate smiled.
“I’m not really sure—does he, Rowly?”
“I think he gets his own goat,” Rowland replied.
Wilfred cleared his throat. Rowland winced and turned to see his brother had entered the room, resplendent in white tie and tailcoat. The attire was symbolic of his office. Even within Masonry, Wilfred Sinclair was an important man, and he was clearly not amused.
“I suppose we should be going,” Rowland said with appropriate chagrin.
“Quite.” Wilfred farewelled his wife and wished them all a terse good night. Rowland winked at Edna and fell into step beside him.
The ride into the city was short and, in that time, Wilfred apprised Rowland of the names of the Dangar Gedye Board members that he would meet that night. Rowland struck a pose of attention, whilst he searched his mind uneasily for recollection of the Masonic ritual he would need to get through the meeting. It had been well over a year since he had last attended. Standing at the back of the membership at his home Lodge in Yass, he could follow the man in front of him. Tonight he would be visiting Brother—they were seated in the front row. This could be awkward.
“North, South, East, West…,” he recited mentally, trying to remember what came next.
All too soon, they were standing in the antechamber to the Inner Lodge. Visiting brethren were called to enter only after the ordinary business of the Lodge was done. Rowland placed his case beside Wilfred’s and they donned their regalia.
Both the Sinclair brothers wore aprons that had been passed down through the generations. Freemasonry had long been a family tradition. They were from a long line of Worshipful Masters and Grand Lodge members. Of course, Rowland Sinclair was neither of these.
Rowland glanced at the door to the Inner Lodge room, intricately carved oak with a heavy brass knocker at its centre. Seated beside it, ready to test every man who sought entry, was the ceremonial Outer Guard. Rowland’s spirits sunk further as he met the elderly man’s piercing eye, the stony defensive set of his mouth. This was clearly a man who would die to protect the secrets of the Craft from the uninitiated—the test was not going to be easy.
It was possibly because of his preoccupation that he did not notice the other visitors who had entered the room.
Rowland decided he’d better prepare Wilfred for the fact that his Masonic ritual was exceedingly rusty. “I say, Wil, I’m afraid it’s been a while since…”
At that point they heard a voice, they both recognised. Wilfred put a steadying hand on Rowland’s shoulder as they turned. Rowland’s eyes were stormy before they were even laid on Colonel Eric Campbell.
The leader of the New Guard stood before them adjusting his regalia. He looked a great deal older than Rowland remembered, but then Campbell’s fascist revolutionaries had fallen from grace in the time he had been abroad. Still, Rowland did not think the fall far enough.
Eric Campbell looked up, obviously as surprised as they were by the chance encounter. His eyes narrowed and grew steely. He was not a man to retreat.
“Sinclair,” he said, nodding curtly at Wilfred. To Rowland, “I’d heard you were back. What exactly are you calling yourself these days?”
Rowland felt the pressure of Wilfred’s hand on his shoulder as he bristled. The room was beginning to fill with other visiting brethren arriving to don regalia.
“Remember where you are, Rowly,” Wilfred cautioned calmly.
“I guess the regional Lodges are not so particular about their membership,” Campbell’s voice was cold, derisive.
“It’s been a long time, Brother Campbell,” Rowland virtually spat. “Have you seen Poynton lately? I always thought him a capital fellow…”
Wilfred pulled Rowland back before he could continue. “I believe we are being called,” he said.
He took Rowland aside as the brethren stepped forward, one by one, to be questioned by the Outer Guard and admitted to the Inner Lodge.
“Rowly, you don’t need any more enemies.”
Rowland looked at him incredulously. “You can’t possibly expect me to greet
Campbell with goodwill and brotherhood?”
Wilfred almost smiled. “No. Just don’t give him a reason to declare war.”
For a moment Rowland resisted, but in the end he nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll try to avoid him.” He glanced towards the door. There were now only a few visiting Masons left in the anteroom. He knew that as a member of the Grand Lodge, Wilfred would be called last.
“Brother Rowland Sinclair.”
He stepped up for interrogation by the Outer Guard. The old man looked him up and down, sizing him up, deciding what test to put.
Rowland’s face relaxed visibly as the first was asked. He remembered how to respond. The second question came as soon as the first was answered. Rowland recognised the ritual but, this time, he had no idea how to answer. He rubbed his forehead and looked frantically for his brother.
Wilfred looked briefly to the ceiling, and interceded to the rescue. He spoke quietly to the Outer Guard. “I’m afraid Brother Rowland’s been abroad for a while… I can vouch for him.”
The Outer Guard glanced at the jewels of office that hung from Wilfred’s collar. He nodded. “Happy to take your assurance, Most Worshipful Brother Sinclair,” he said respectfully. The door to the Inner Lodge was opened and the younger brother of the District Grand Inspector of Workings announced.
Rowland followed the Master of Ceremonies across the rule and compass inlaid in the timber floor. The raised stage at the opposite end of the hall was burgeoning with Masonic officialdom. The Lodge’s Worshipful Master sat on a wooden throne at centre-stage. Other office bearers were seated to either side. Immediately to the right of the Worshipful Master was an empty chair—presumably to be filled by Wilfred.
Rowland Sinclair was guided to a place on the front bench, just beside the chair of the Senior Deacon. Campbell was on the front bench opposite. Rowland took stock. He could vaguely remember the ritual of the third degree but he knew that either the first or second degree would see him undone. He could follow the Masons across the hall or on the stage, but he would have to remember to reverse the movements.
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