Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  An elderly priest appeared then with a portly, red-faced man whom he introduced as Dr. London. Apparently the clergyman had found a physician among the mourners.

  “We should call the police,” Clyde said as the helpful doctor cleaned and dressed the wound on Rowland’s right temple.

  “I’ll phone Delaney when we get back to Woodlands.” Rowland flinched as some sort of liquid was applied to the lesion. The doctor had not had his bag—he wondered briefly if they were cleaning the wound with communion wine. For some reason the thought amused him. It seemed appropriate since he had been battered by an angel. “There’s no point calling them out here… our only suspect is God.” He smiled at Mary Hartman, whose wide-eyed stare had not strayed from him.

  Clyde looked dubious.

  Rowland stood carefully. His head hurt like the blazes, but he was otherwise steady. “I’m fine am I not, Dr. London?”

  “I suggest you consult your own physician as soon as convenient,” advised the good doctor. “That might need stitching, but I don’t think there’ll be any lasting damage.”

  Rowland glanced at his watch. It was getting towards eleven.

  “The family’s probably arrived already,” he said regretfully. “We’d better get back and make sure no one looks too closely at Milt.”

  Hartman handed him his notebook. “You musta dropped this when you were clobbered. Mary picked it up.”

  “He’s been drawing pictures in there,” Mary chirped smugly.

  Rowland was a little alarmed, wondering how thoroughly the little girl had been through his notebook. Mary giggled.

  He flicked quickly through the pages, until he found his most recent drawings. He chose a picture of Mary, calling over her shoulder to the angel as she danced about in the statue’s shadow. He tore it out and gave it to her father, before returning the notebook to his inside pocket.

  Hartman looked long at the sketch, and for a while the grief Rowland had seen in the garden returned to the man’s face. The widower said nothing but he shook the artist’s hand.

  As they made to leave, Rowland thanked Dr. London, and the priest who had found him, and discreetly left a generous donation in the offering plate. They departed for the short walk back to Cemetery Station No. 2.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Rowly?” Clyde was still concerned.

  Rowland squinted in the bright sunlight. “I have a rather tremendous headache, but I’m fine… though I…” He shook his head.

  “What? Do you need to sit down?”

  “Not at all… it’s just that… I could almost swear it was Hu’s voice I heard when I turned.”

  “Hu? Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure.” Rowland frowned. “The blow might have confused my memory… but I thought… I’m probably imagining things.”

  “We’ll have a word with him,” Clyde said thoughtfully.

  They jumped aboard a train, which took them back to Central Station. Clyde hailed a motorcab to take them to Woodlands House. It was now well after noon.

  The wrought-iron gates of the Woollahra mansion were almost completely obscured by a throng of reporters. The motorcab stopped as they waited for the gates to be opened.

  Rowland cursed as the flash of a camera assaulted his throbbing head.

  “What the blazes is going on?” he said, bewildered and uneasy. What had happened in their absence to bring the media to Woodlands?

  “Mr. Sinclair, do you have a statement?”

  “Were you surprised by the announcement, sir?”

  Rowland blanched as another camera flashed in his face.

  The gates were opened and they drove through to the house. The circular drive was crowded with Rolls-Royces, and the occasional Armstrong Siddeley. The arrival of the extended Sinclair clan had begun. They paid the cab driver and walked hastily inside, anxious to find out why the press had gathered.

  Wilfred Sinclair’s furious voice was the first thing they heard. “He can’t seem to go two days without doing something to embarrass the family! Where the hell is he?”

  Rowland walked into the library from where the tirade emanated. Kate was with her husband, trying in vain to soothe him. Wilfred was bent over the large rosewood desk, with a copy of the Truth. He looked up as they entered.

  Wilfred glared at his brother without a word. He picked up the paper and tossed it angrily at Rowland. “What is the meaning of this? What the hell have you been doing?”

  Rowland looked down at the front page; Clyde read over his shoulder.

  The story ran under the headline: Leadbeater discovers another World Prophet. A picture of Rowland Sinclair appeared with the story—it had been taken at a gallery opening the previous year.

  Clyde let out a low, incredulous whistle. Rowland ignored the insistent ache of his head and read on in disbelief. It seemed Leadbeater had decided that the young man sent to him by Annie Besant was the World Prophet for whom the Theosophical Society had been waiting, destined to take the place that Jiddu Krishnamurti had abdicated. The story carried an alarming amount of information about Rowland’s background, his past association with Colonel Eric Campbell of the New Guard and his recent travels. There were quotes from the Bensons, describing the newly discovered prophet as a protégé of Annie Besant. There was a statement from the leaders of the Co-Masonic movement welcoming Rowland Sinclair to their ranks. The light of greatness, the article reported, was apparent to Leadbeater in the Australian’s aura.

  Rowland might have sworn if his sister-in-law were not in the room.

  He looked up at his brother. “Yes, I can see why you might be upset.”

  “Upset! Rowly, have you lost your mind? When did you join Leadbeater’s band of blasphemous crackpots?”

  “I haven’t joined them. Leadbeater’s obviously completely daft.”

  “How does he even know you?”

  “I dropped a friend out at The Manor a week ago.”

  Wilfred snorted. “Of course. Your friends.”

  Rowland frowned. He was quite used to Wilfred’s lectures but he didn’t appreciate being dressed-down publicly.

  “Calm down, Wil. I’ll ring the paper—set them straight.”

  “The damage has been done.” Wilfred paced the room, furious. “Half of Sydney will have seen this by now…”

  Rowland glanced at the article again and shook his head. “I really don’t know what Leadbeater is talking about, Wil. I had no idea…”

  “No, it never is your fault, is it, Rowly?” Wilfred was not ready to let go of his wrath. “Maybe if you didn’t insist on living like some radical libertine with no respect for anything but your own pleasure…”

  Rowland was beginning to flare. Clyde stood back awkwardly. Kate put a hand timidly on her husband’s arm but Wilfred was not interested in being pacified.

  “I suppose I should be grateful that you haven’t invited Leadbeater to move into Woodlands!”

  Rowland fought to respond calmly.

  “I told you, I don’t know Leadbeater—I’ve only met him the once.”

  Wilfred grabbed the paper from him.

  “And the Besant woman? I suppose you didn’t know her either.”

  “Annie is a lady. I’m sure she knows nothing about this.”

  Wilfred grunted and threw the paper into the fireplace in disgust.

  “For God’s sake, Wil,” Rowland said angrily, “Do you think I aspire to being Leadbeater’s latest messiah? The man’s a lunatic—that’s all there is to it!”

  Milton and Edna burst into the library, clearly excited, a little jubilant. Edna had a paper in her hand.

  “Rowly, have you seen… oh you have…” Edna looked from Rowland to Wilfred and back again. “This must have been why Hu was trying to reach you.”

  Milton stood beside Edna, his lips twitching. Rowland gathered he was restraining himself with effort, waiting for Wilfred to be out of earshot before he laughed. Suddenly Rowland wanted to laugh too. The notion was, after all, plainly ridicul
ous.

  “Rowly—what have you done?” Edna reached up to his face, noticing suddenly the damage to his temple.

  Wilfred too, now saw the blood on his collar. “For the love of God, what now?”

  “It’s nothing,” Rowland said dismissively.

  “It’s not nothing,” Edna protested, turning his face so she could see the injury more clearly. “Gosh, does it hurt?”

  Rowland moved her hand away firmly. “Shall we deal with Leadbeater first?”

  “What am I supposed to tell everybody?” Wilfred exploded again. “Ewan’s about to be christened in the Church of England and his godfather is leading some kind of insane cult!”

  “Tell them it’s a mistake.” Rowland said wearily. He could hear voices in the hallway. Remembering that they had a house full of guests, he groaned and closed the door to the library.

  “I’ll go see Leadbeater and demand he retract all this nonsense.”

  Wilfred did not look placated in any way.

  Rowland pulled his brother aside. “Look, Wil, I know this is embarrassing. I’ll understand completely if you and Kate want to choose another godfather for Ewan—honestly.”

  For a moment Wilfred hesitated, but in the end he shook his head irritably. “Just flaming well sort out this Leadbeater character!” he said, opening the library door.

  Rowland nodded. “I’ll go now.”

  “No.” Wilfred regarded his brother coldly. “Katie, would you call Dr. Maguire? Have him come and take a look at Rowly.” He held up his hand as Rowland objected. “I don’t care why you’ve been brawling or with whom, but you’re not going anywhere looking like some common street thug!”

  31

  SHOOTING AFFRAY

  Underworld Vendetta

  SYDNEY

  Phillip Jeffs, 32, known as “Phil the Jew” was shot in the chest and stomach at his home at South Kensington at six o’clock this morning. Only two hours previously he had been released on bail following a sensational trial at Darlinghurst, in which another man was shot in the leg. Jeffs was admitted to St. Vincent’s Hospital in a critical condition, and it is doubtful whether he will recover.

  The wounded man refused to give any information concerning the occurrence. He was conscious when admitted to hospital, and Jennings, the bail magistrate, attended to take his dying depositions, but beyond the statement that he knew the man who shot him, Jeffs refused to speak.

  The Canberra Times

  Rowland fastened his tie over a fresh shirt. Maguire had inserted a couple of stitches to secure the wound above his temple—completely unnecessarily, he thought. Of course, the dour physician had been entirely indifferent to his opinion. Maguire had always appeared at Wilfred’s beck and call, but he was never very happy about it.

  Milton placed a glass of gin on the dresser before him. “This might help your headache, Rowly.”

  Rowland pulled on his jacket before he picked up the glass. “My head’s fine, but thanks. This could help with the relatives.”

  Milton laughed. “Ed and I met a couple of them while you were out.”

  “How exactly did Wil introduce you?” Rowland was curious.

  “I think he called us your business colleagues,” Milton replied. He stopped for a moment and added carefully, “There’s a bloke here to see you… wants to wish you well in your new… appointment.”

  Rowland groaned. “Who?” He could tell by the uneasy tone of Milton’s voice that he was not going to like the answer.

  “Phil Jeffs… the Jew… apparently he likes the idea of knowing a World Prophet. Wants to shake your hand and tell you himself that you’ll be welcome at any of his establishments.”

  Rowland swore. Phil the Jew was one of Sydney’s most notorious criminals. He made a living from vice and violence. Rowland had encountered the gangster the previous year and he had no desire to continue the acquaintance.

  “He’s waiting in the conservatory,” Milton informed him.

  “What! You let him in… if someone sees him…” Rowland made for the door.

  “Steady on, Rowly. I’m not a fool. Your guests are all on the verandah… I sent Ed and Clyde in to make sure they stay away from the conservatory.”

  “I’d better go down and tell Jeffs to sod off then,” Rowland muttered.

  Milton replied quickly, seriously. “Don’t be stupid, Rowly. You don’t want to insult Jeffs. He’ll slash you to pieces in front of your entire family and he’ll still beat the rap.”

  Rowland cursed Leadbeater. The old fool had no idea of the trouble he’d caused. This was an absurd predicament. “Fine, I’ll tell him to sod off politely.”

  Phil Jeffs was not alone in the conservatory. There was a young woman with him. Overtly beautiful, she, like Jeffs, was stylishly attired. Jeffs had made himself comfortable, seated in a wicker armchair with his feet upon another.

  “Sinclair!” he said, a grin spreading across his dark features. “Or should I say Your Majesty.”

  “Sinclair will be just fine,” Rowland replied.

  Jeffs jumped to his feet and offered Rowland his hand. “Just came by to offer yer my congratulations. Don’t want nobody saying that The Jew don’t observe the proprieties.”

  Glancing at Milton, Rowland shook the man’s hand. “Very considerate of you, Mr. Jeffs, but I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake…”

  Jeffs waved off his words. “I’ve brung you something to celebrate yer recent elevation,” he said, smiling smugly. “Come over here, Nellie.”

  The young woman stood and taking a final drag on her cigarette, she walked over to them. The smoke curled softly from her scarlet lips. She moved elegantly, and regarded Rowland with large China blue eyes. .

  “May I present, Miss Nellie Cameron. Yer won’t find a better looking dame in Sydney.”

  Nellie Cameron smiled and put out a gloved hand. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sinclair.” She was soft-spoken, her accent refined… her presence with Jeffs the only sign that she was anything but well bred.

  “Likewise, Miss Cameron,” Rowland replied, giving no indication of his growing alarm. Nellie Cameron had a reputation almost equal to Jeffs’.

  “I knew you’d take to her,” Jeffs sprouted triumphantly. “Nell grew up posh you know. Reckon she knows a few things about how to please a swank gentleman such as yer good self.” He pushed Nellie Cameron into Rowland. “With me compliments, Sinclair.”

  “I’m afraid…,” Rowland started as Jeffs’ gift stroked his shoulder.

  “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” Nellie interrupted. “I can be gentle.”

  Milton choked on a laugh.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” Rowland repeated, glaring at Milton.

  “Yer’ll need to keep this on the quiet though, Sinclair,” Jeffs warned. “Nell’s old man don’t like her making arrangements if he ain’t getting his cut. Frank’s gotta bit of a temper where Nell’s concerned.”

  “Don’t you worry, darling,” Nellie crooned. “Frank’s inside at the moment. We can keep this between ourselves.”

  “We’re going to be late, Rowly,” Milton said pointedly. “I believe His Honour is already in the drawing room… you know the judge doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Rowland accepted the lifeline. “I have a rather pressing engagement, I’m afraid,” he said firmly. “As kind as it is, I’ll have to decline your… invitation.”

  Nellie looked affronted. Despite his part in the offer, Jeffs was clearly delighted by her discomfit. “Been a while since yer were turned down, eh Nell? Losin’ yer edge, I reckon…”

  “Please don’t be offended Miss Cameron.” Rowland tried to keep the encounter pleasant. “Regrettably,, I do have a previous appointment… did you come by taxi? Why don’t I have Johnston drive you home…?”

  Phil Jeffs chuckled. “Fair enough, Sinclair.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Just yer remember to call on The Jew if yer need any devine intervention on yer behalf.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, of course… thank you.”

  Later, Rowland would wonder how on earth he managed to get Phil the Jew and Nellie Cameron out of his house without a scene. It might have been that the idea of arriving back at Darlinghurst in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce pleased her, or maybe she was simply uncomfortable with the magistrate “waiting” in the drawing room. Or perhaps the whole thing had been Jeffs’ idea of a joke. At that particular moment, however, Rowland didn’t especially care why they went, just that they did.

  Milton ushered the pair out of the house by a side entrance so that they slipped anonymously into the black saloon before it passed the gathering of Sinclairs at the front of the house.

  Rowland headed back upstairs to once again change his shirt, the collar of which, he fortuitously noticed, had somehow become smeared with red. Nellie’s scarlet lipstick, no doubt. He was muttering and cursing when Milton checked in on him.

  “It’s all right, Rowly, they’re gone.”

  Rowland shook his head. The day was just getting worse.

  Milton tried to distract him. “Where were you this morning? What happened to you?”

  Rowland told him the events at Rookwood.

  “Bloody hell!” Milton sat down on the bed. “He hit you with an angel? Why would Hu want to kill you?”

  “I don’t know that he did. I could very well be wrong and in any case he might have been trying to warn me.”

  “If that were the case, why didn’t he help you out, or at least check that you weren’t dead?”

  Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll catch up with Hu at Leadbeater’s—I’ll ask him.”

  “We’ll do more than bloody ask him.” Milton stood and, pushing Rowland away from the mirror, began fussing with his cravat. “I think Clyde and I had better go with you. Grab my green velvet jacket from the wardrobe, will you, Rowly.”

  Rowland obliged, looking on dubiously as Milton fitted a feather to the front of his favourite black beret. Now that they were back in Sydney, Milton’s attire had returned to its previous flamboyance. Rowland thought of Charles Leadbeater. At least the poet wasn’t wearing a cape.

  Clyde and Edna were still on the verandah taking tea with the Rowland’s new houseguests, when he and Milton finally emerged. The sculptress seemed perfectly at home, chatting happily with rounded vowels, and pouring tea as Kate handed young Ewan among the ladies. To Rowland, Edna appeared to treat any interactions with the Sinclairs as an opportunity for theatre. Clyde sat uncomfortably, and quietly, with a dainty teacup in his large calloused hands. Ernest peered out from under the table, safe behind the crisp fall of white linen.