Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “I’m sure Miss Bennett doesn’t…”

  “I would be delighted to tour your gracious home, Mr. Sinclair.” She smiled prettily and took his arm, glancing up at him with obvious warmth, a poised flirtation.

  Rowland stopped. Good Lord. It appeared Lucy Bennett was the only person in the room who had not read the Truth that morning.

  A gentleman to the last, he conceded and took Lucy through Woodlands as quickly as he could, only half listening to her empty gushing.

  “This is an impressive house, Mr. Sinclair, quite exquisite. Of course it needs a woman’s touch.” She laughed inexplicably again. “My cousin, Mr. Thomas Beckett—you might know him as Bingo—has a twenty-roomed house in Potts Point… but it was never a home whilst he remained a bachelor… he’s married now and his wife, Martha—we call her Muffy—formerly a Miss Cameron of the Bowral Camerons, has made it entirely elegant. Soft furnishings: they make all the difference. Nothing speaks of taste and good breeding like a well-chosen chintz.”

  “Indeed,” was all Rowland could manage in response. He suspected that Lucy’s pointless monologue was more than a little related to the nervous need to fill what would otherwise be an awkward silence. She’d probably stop babbling if he simply made conversation.

  “Oh my word, this is magnificent!” Lucy moved enthusiastically towards a large painting of irises. “What smashing colours.” She turned back to him. “Oh, of course,” she said with sudden epiphany, “it brings out the blue of your eyes.”

  Rowland blinked. Lucy Bennett thought he chose paintings to match his eyes. What could he possibly say to her?

  And so he stood by as she continued to extol the uncontroversial landscapes and still life paintings, which now adorned his walls, picking out the blue in each piece as if it was some kind of artistic theme. It was unfortunate. His own work, if it had been allowed to remain on his walls, might have scandalised Lucy into retreat. As it was he was defenceless.

  Rowland turned back towards the ballroom. The music had stopped. “I believe they must be sitting down for supper,” he said relieved. “Perhaps we should be getting back.”

  Lucy Bennett’s eyes fell, disappointed. “Certainly, it would not do to be missed.”

  Kate Sinclair had directed the seating arrangements and so the return to the ballroom gave him little reprieve. Still, he was saved from an explanation of how the right chintz could change his life.

  The first course of salmon and roe was served, and then the toasts began. As far as Rowland knew such formalities had not been planned for the evening. The Bairds just liked to make speeches as they drank. Initially they drank to the health of Ewan, then to his parents and his elder brother. Fletcher Baird led a toast to the Sinclairs with a speech that included an extended history of their apparently forgotten Scottish roots. Wilfred responded, as a gentleman should, with a toast to the Bairds. By then the evening was getting quite celebratory. Having saluted all the relevant family, various kilted men stood to quote Burns in what appeared to be a homage to food.

  Rowland was now struggling to understand the Bairds at his table. Individually they had been quite coherent, but the conversation of their kinsmen seemed to thicken their hybrid brogues, until the exchange seemed like an extended growl with the word “lad” thrown in occasionally. Even those who had started the evening without accents of note seemed to absorb them.

  Wilfred was deep in conversation with Kate’s father. Douglas Baird was a champion of the New State movement which sought to secede the New England region from New South Wales. Wilfred Sinclair was politically sympathetic and so the discussion absorbed them both earnestly, despite the geniality around them. It appeared Wilfred had no trouble understanding his father-in-law.

  Lucy sat between him and Kate, and the two women talked as old friends through the evening. It seemed to Rowland that Lucy was a great deal less vacuous when she was not talking to him.

  Rowland turned towards the tap on his shoulder. Edna whispered in his ear. “Isn’t this fun? I have no idea what they’re saying, but it’s like being in Aberdeen again.”

  “Quite,” he replied, noting how enchanting the sculptress looked in green. She had been seated on a table with Milton and Clyde and several of Kate’s cousins. He introduced her to Lucy Bennett. Edna spoke to her cordially, for she had neither cause nor predisposition to be possessive of Rowland. Lucy was less warm. Edna seemed to find that somewhat amusing.

  The final lines of an ode by Robbie Burns were rendered by Archibald McRae, a cousin of Kate’s.

  “… Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

  That jaups in luggies:

  But, if ye wish her grateful prayer,

  Gie her a Haggis!”

  “Gie her a Haggis!” came the enthusiastic reply from the hall.

  Edna giggled. “My goodness, what on earth is a Haggis?”

  Rowland did not respond, his attention caught by the rise of Milton Isaacs from his chair. Milton had taken to combing his hair down over his forehead. The result gave him a somewhat untidy, dissolute air, but fortunately the word “Red” was no longer visible on his brow. Clearly the opportunity to recite was too much for the poet and he could be silent no longer.

  “O, who would be a puddin’,

  A puddin’ in a pot,

  A puddin’ which is stood on

  A fire which is hot?

  O sad indeed the lot

  Of puddin’s in a pot.”

  Edna nearly squealed with delight. “The Magic Pudding!”

  Rowland could feel Wilfred’s glare as Milton launched into the next verse. The ballroom had fallen into a kind of confused silence as the long-haired poet answered Scotland’s greatest bard with Norman Lindsay’s bad-tempered, talking pudding.

  In Rowland’s experience, the Scottish sense of humour was somewhat elusive, and they were a little sensitive about Burns. Most of the Baird men carried some sort of ceremonial dagger in their garters. Rowland’s knowledge of Scottish history was a little hazy, but he did recall that the medieval clans were fond of stabbing each other to death at dinner parties.

  “I’d better get back, in case they try to hit him,” Edna said, still laughing. She returned to take her seat beside Milton who was still on his feet.

  “Rowly!” Wilfred was livid.

  Rowland looked at him innocently. There was really nothing he could do now.

  “… I hope you get a stomachache

  For eatin’ me a lot.

  I hope you get it hot,

  You puddin’-eatin’ lot!”

  For a moment there was silence, whilst the Bairds considered whether they were being mocked, and the Sinclairs were unsure. Into this uncomfortable lull, someone began to clap. Margaret Baird had decided first and, in doing so, ensured Milton’s recitation was at least neutrally received. The poet bowed and as usual failed to attribute the verse.

  Supper continued and at its conclusion, Wilfred took Kate onto the dance floor. Rowland smiled. He was always touched by how much Wilfred obviously adored his young wife. Such romantic notions were not something one would expect from the elder Sinclair. If it wasn’t for the way Wilfred regarded Kate, Rowland might have worried that his brother was always unhappy. Instead it seemed that melancholia was just the natural set of his face

  The Bairds watched on unimpressed. They were Presbyterian. They didn’t dance.

  Because he really couldn’t avoid it, Rowland asked Lucy Bennett to dance and they joined the couples on the floor under the disapproving gaze of the Glen Innes Temperance League.

  Eventually the censorious scrutiny extinguished any enthusiasm for dancing and the floor became empty. The piano was opened and one of Kate’s aunts worked the keys. The Bairds gathered about to sing Scottish ballads which were apparently not as morally perilous as a quickstep.

  And so it was over the background of “I Belong to Glasgow” that the serving maid attempted to make herself heard. She tried to speak discreetly over the noise. She seemed a trifle flu
stered.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sinclair, there’s a man of cloth… a Catholic priest… at the door wishing to see you. He’s most insistent.”

  Rowland stood. What was Bryan doing at Woodlands? “Thank you, I’ll…”

  Wilfred grabbed his elbow.

  “Let the gentleman know that Mr. Sinclair is otherwise engaged,” Wilfred directed the young woman.

  “Wil…,” Rowland began to protest.

  “Go ahead,” Wilfred prompted the servant.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” the woman said anxiously, “But Mrs. Kendall has already told the gentleman that it is not convenient. He refuses to leave—insists that he must see Mr. Sinclair now. It is, he says, a matter of urgency.”

  Wilfred’s face hardened. “Call the police—have him removed.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Wil. I’ll just go determine what the problem is. Father Bryan’s not a bad chap—it must be important.”

  “I don’t want a scene,” Wilfred warned. “This morning’s exhibition was bad enough without the Papists descending upon us as well.”

  “There’ll be more of a scene if you call the police.” Rowland didn’t wait for him to reply, walking quickly out of the ballroom. He was still in the hallway when he heard the furious, intemperate bellow.

  “Sinclair!”

  33

  LEGACY FOR LEADBEATER

  The estate of the late Mr. W.B. Rounsevell, of Glenelg (South Australia), has been valued for probate purposes at £34,000. The Adelaide Theosophical Society is the chief beneficiary. A legacy of £100 is left to the Rev. Charles W. Leadbeater of Sydney, and also to the editor and publisher of the Theosophical paper in Melbourne.

  The Argus

  Rowland realised his mistake the moment he heard the voice. Perhaps he should have let Wilfred call the police after all.

  Bishop Hanrahan stood, flushed and bellicose, in the large tiled vestibule of Woodlands House. Dressed in the black robes of his office, he nevertheless looked more like the fighter he once was, than a man of the cloth. He’d been drinking.

  They were not entirely alone. The haze of blue smoke wafting from the adjoining drawing room gave away the guests who had retreated there to smoke and drink scotch. In the corner of the vestibule, almost cowering, was one of the lower-ranked clergyman who seemed to shadow the bishop. It was not Bryan, and Murphy was now dead, so the deacon remained nameless.

  “You!” Hanrahan pointed at Rowland, waving a copy of the Truth in his other hand. “Viperous predator. It’s all come out now. You were always one of them—not even a Christian man!”

  Rowland sighed. Wilfred didn’t want a scene.

  “Your Grace, would you like to talk in the library?”

  “I would not. Is it not bad enough that you destroy a young girl’s life, but then you stand over the poor child’s grave and gloat as your evil master claims her mortal soul.”

  Rowland was startled. How did Hanrahan know he’d been out to Rookwood?

  The doors to the drawing room were opened. Rowland groaned. Fletcher Baird stood in the doorway with his pipe.

  “She was not a bad girl, Isobel. Spirited, but not wicked. Not till she took up with you!”

  A few more kilted men came to the doorway with their pipes to watch the confrontation. Hanrahan did not seem to notice them at all.

  “I’ll not be letting you get away with this, you know,” the bishop shouted, his voice discernibly slurred. “Your money and your fine position will not be enough to save you from God’s justice.”

  Rowland was wary. He wondered if Madding had returned Hanrahan’s gun.

  “What exactly can I do for you, Your Grace?”

  “You can do nothing for me, Sinclair!” Hanrahan spat. “’Tis your own soul you’d be helping by confessing your sins, by admitting that you have taken a dark path out of the sight of God.”

  Rowland heard the footfall behind him but he didn’t turn, unwilling to take his eyes off the bishop. Wilfred Sinclair stopped behind his brother. He was to the point.

  “I have organised a motorcab for you, sir. I think it is time you left.”

  “I’ll not be leaving before I’ve said my piece. A man should declare the devil as he sees him!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Rowland muttered, exasperated. The devil? This was really too much. It was preposterous.

  The Bairds remained at the doorway watching intently.

  “Rowly,” Wilfred cautioned quietly as the flare of Rowland’s anger became apparent. He walked past the remonstrating cleric and opened the front door.

  “You are trespassing on private property, sir. I’ll thank you to leave my house forthwith.”

  Bishop Hanrahan glared at him.

  Rowland watched the man’s hands in case he reached for a gun.

  “Very well.” He poked at Rowland and spoke to Wilfred. “I shall leave you and your murdering brother to the judgement of God!”

  “Murdering!” Rowland started after the clergyman, outraged.

  “Leave it, Rowly.” Wilfred stepped between them. “The bishop is going.” To Hanrahan he said, “You’ll be hearing from our lawyers, sir.”

  Hanrahan grunted contemptuously and stalked out to wait for the motorcab. The clergyman who had accompanied him, had long since made a run for it. Wilfred closed the door.

  The silence was awkward.

  “Wilfred,” Fletcher Baird said finally. “Could I have a word?”

  Edna carried a laden tray into the conservatory. Rowland sat on the wicker settee with Lenin’s one-eared head in his lap. He was drawing Ernest who was lying on the floor sorting his marbles by colour and size.

  Edna poured a cup of tea and shoved him gently as she came round to put it in his hand.

  “Stop looking so glum, Rowly. This will blow over.”

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  Edna picked up the latest edition of the Truth, which lay discarded on the coffee table. A half-page picture of Rowland Sinclair clutching Leadbeater by the beard whilst Clyde held him back appeared under the headline, “Unholy Row”.

  “Oh no!” Edna looked at him sympathetically. “Has Wilfred seen…?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Daddy’s a bit cross,” Ernest said, without looking up from his marbles. “Can I have a biscuit?”

  “Of course darling.” Edna put a plate of shortbread on the floor next to him. Lenin jumped down from the settee to partake.

  It had been a long night. Whilst he had not been party to the conversations, Rowland gathered that the Bairds no longer considered him an appropriate godfather for Ewan. He couldn’t really blame them and he would have stepped down willingly if Wilfred had allowed it.

  It appeared that whilst Wilfred Sinclair thought his brother a disgrace, he would not tolerate that opinion from anyone else. Rowland would be Ewan’s godfather even if he had summoned the devil and murdered half of Sydney. Wilfred would have it no other way. Kate supported her husband without question but the situation was distressing for her. Rowland did not see how it could have been any worse.

  “How’s your head?” Edna asked, pushing his hair away from the injury to inspect it. “Does it still hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Ed—just feeling a bit sorry for myself.”

  “You have been a little unlucky lately,” she said sitting on the arm of his chair and rubbing his arm.

  “Wil doesn’t seem to think luck has a lot to do with it,” he said grimacing.

  “Of course. He wouldn’t.” Edna smiled. “Where is Wilfred?”

  “Making phone calls. Eric Campbell is moving to have me expelled from Lodge and Dangars is not so keen to have me on the board anymore.” He laughed ruefully. “No wonder Wil thinks I engineered this.”

  “He doesn’t—”

  “No, not really… but he’s not happy.”

  Milton and Clyde came into the conservatory.

  The former was singing some ditty he’d picked up the night before, complete
with Scottish inflection.

  “… Will you stop your tickling Jock!

  Dinna mak’ me laugh saw hairty,

  Or you’ll mak’ me choke.

  Och, I wish you’d stop your nonsense,

  Ye’ll mebbe tear ma frock…”

  “Rather an odd song for a man to sing, Milt,” Rowland interrupted him, testily.

  “My Lord you’re conventional when you’re out of sorts,” Milton replied blithely. But he did stop, looking intently at Rowland. “Cheer up, mate—are they preparing the gallows for you?”

  “Don’t give them any ideas,” Rowland replied.

  Milton sat down. “So, the bishop came a-calling?”

  Rowland glanced uneasily at Ernest. The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. “Very well, Uncle Rowly, I’m going.”

  “Thanks Ernie, you’re a gentleman.”

  “That’s all right, Uncle Rowly,” Ernest replied solemnly. “I know you’d do the same for me… we are nothing, if not in the street.”

  Rowland was momentarily perplexed and then he recognised Wilfred’s dogma in his nephew’s words. He smiled. “I think you mean discreet, Ernie, nothing, if not discreet. You can take Lenin if you like, but don’t go near the street.”

  They waited as Ernest took the misshapen greyhound out onto the lawn.

  “His Grace seems to think I murdered Isobel,” Rowland said finally.

  “His Grace is unhinged,” Clyde replied. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Rowland frowned. “He knew that I went out to Rookwood.”

  “He might have talked to someone at St Michael’s,” Clyde suggested. “He is a bishop.”

  “Or he could have seen you just before he tried to kill you with the garden ornament,” Milton countered.

  The thought had crossed Rowland’s mind.

  “Rowly, have you spoken to Detective Delaney, yet?” Edna asked.

  Rowland flinched. “Damn—I forgot. With all this Leadbeater nonsense, I’ve been a mite distracted.”

  “Right,” Clyde decided. “You’d better get in touch with him.”

  Mary Brown came into the conservatory.

  “A Mr. Van Hook called for you, sir, while you were in with Mr. Sinclair. I didn’t want to disturb you.”