Under normal circumstances Rowland would not have tolerated such directives from Wilfred or anyone else—but Delaney had already advised him to keep a low profile and Ewan’s christening was the next day. Still, he did not agree graciously.
He stormed out of the library gladly, and took the stairs two at a time to his own rooms. The prattle of relatives gathered in conversation on the landing faded as he approached. Rowland nodded but otherwise ignored them. His house had become a hotel of sorts and he had no doubt that the guests found the warring Sinclair brothers entertaining, if nothing else.
He had showered and changed, and was in the process of searching for a suitable tie, when Clyde came in.
“If you’re looking for your navy tie, Milt borrowed it,” he said, as he closed the door.
“Oh…” Rowland pulled a green one from the rack instead, and slung it around his neck.
Clyde cleared a space before one of the easels placed in front of the bay window, and began rummaging through his paintbox for colours.
“How did it go?” he asked, as he set out a basic palette. Wilfred had summoned Rowland as soon as they had walked in the door.
“It appears I’m under house arrest.”
“Delaney?” Clyde asked, surprised. “He doesn’t seriously suspect…?”
Rowland smiled. “No, it’s Wil.”
“Well at least Woodlands is a bit more comfortable than the central lock-up.”
“There is that… where are Milt and Ed?”
“Milt’s taking some girl out to the pictures—he just left. Ed is showing your Aunt Mildred the photos from our trip abroad.”
“Aunt Mildred?” Was there no one the sculptress could not charm? “I’d better go down, in case she needs rescuing,” he murmured.
Clyde laughed. “Mate, you can’t rescue Ed.”
“Nevertheless,” he replied, adjusting the knot of his tie, “a man’s obliged to try.”
Edna was in the drawing room that had been his studio, with Mildred and Kate. Boxes of photographs sat on the coffee table and the three women were on the couch chatting over a selection that Edna had taken in London. Mildred was expounding on how aspects of the city had changed since she had last been home to England.
“Rowly, hello.” Edna greeted him brightly. “You’re all cleaned up then?”
“Cleaned up?” Mildred’s ears were sharp. “What have you been doing that you need cleaning up in the middle of the day?”
“Artists!” Edna replied without missing a beat. “They’re always covered in paint.”
Mildred sniffed. Clearly, artists did not warrant her good opinion. Rowland smiled. His aunt might have preferred to know he was covered in blood.
“I didn’t realise you’d taken so many pictures, Ed.”
“Oh there were more… these are just the ones that came out properly… I was just sorting them into boxes… I’m thinking of having an exhibition.”
“Of photographs? Surely not?”
“Oh Rowly, don’t be so territorial. I’m sure there’ll always be some sort of place for you painters.”
“How comforting.”
“I’m sure your brother could find you an appropriate position, Rowland,” Mildred Sinclair intoned from the couch. “Something with prospects.”
Rowland chose to ignore her. He sat down and shuffled through a pile of photos from the Aquitania as he listened to a surprisingly amiable conversation between his Aunt Mildred and the younger women. He’d always found her an old dragon. Clyde was right. Edna didn’t need rescuing.
He glanced through photos of their staterooms, the decks, various members of the crew. Milton, Clyde and himself posing in front of lifeboats, playing shuffleboard, and at the swimming bath. Annie Besant with Krishnamurti and Urquhart. He studied a photo of Isobel with Fathers Bryan and Murphy. There was something about that photo that caught his particular attention, but exactly why, he wasn’t sure.
“Katie… oh, Aunt Mildred, Miss Higgins. What are you ladies doing?”
Rowland looked up as Wilfred came in.
“Edna’s just showing us the pictures from abroad,” Kate replied. “Come and have a look, Wil.” She glanced anxiously from her husband to his brother. It was in her nature to make peace where she could.
Wilfred took the armchair beside Rowland’s. There was a small box of photos on the floor near Edna’s feet. He took those.
Edna started. “Mr. Sinclair, those are…”
She left it. Wilfred was already looking through them—the pictures she’d taken in France. Rowland hadn’t seen them yet.
Wilfred worked through the sheaf engrossed—Ypres. The Menin Gate. The grave of Aubrey Sinclair.
“My God, Ypres,” he said quietly. “You didn’t tell me you…”
“Of course I did,” Rowland replied, glancing uneasily at the photograph his brother held. He hadn’t been aware that Edna had taken it.
Wilfred stared at a picture of Rowland standing by the white cross that bore the name of Lieutenant Sinclair. “I’m glad you did.” He smiled faintly. “Aubrey would have got a shock—you were just a lad when we sailed.” Wilfred shook his head as if he had only just realised. “You do look like Aubrey, you know. It’s uncanny.”
Rowland said nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being his brother’s physical twin.
They talked for a while of the war cemetery at Ypres, the town and the people. Rowland wondered what Wilfred was really thinking. His brother never spoke of the war, what he had seen, what he had done. He never spoke of Aubrey as a soldier though, for time at least, the Sinclairs had served together.
Eventually Wilfred stood. “Come on, Rowly, Ernie’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“We’re going to William Street. Ernie’s so taken with that Fritz monstrosity of yours that I thought it’s about time we updated.”
“And you want me to come? It’ll mean leaving the house you know.”
“Don’t be smart, Rowly,” Wilfred said, irritably. “You seem to know a bit about motors—you may as well make yourself useful.”
Rowland stood. He recognised the olive branch. “Of course.”
Wilfred still held the photograph of Rowland at Aubrey’s grave in Ypres. “Miss Higgins, would you mind if I kept this?”
“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair.”
“What picture is that, Wilfred?” Mildred asked. Her hearing was not the best and distracted by Kate and Edna, she had not caught the conversation of her nephews. “Why do you want it?”
Wilfred slid the photograph into his jacket. “It’s just a photograph of Rowly, Aunt Mildred.”
“I should think we’ve seen quite enough pictures of Rowland in the papers,” Mildred said haughtily. “It’s altogether unseemly—your father would certainly have had something to say about it.”
“But Rowly takes such a lovely picture,” Edna said smiling impishly at Rowland, who had become resigned to this kind of open censure. “He’s really rather photogenic.”
“The Sinclairs once knew what it was to be respectable. It’s a shame poor Henry didn’t live long enough to show you a firmer hand, Rowland—our good name has suffered for it!” Mildred continued regardless. “Of course, that’s just my opinion, but we are all entitled to an opinion.”
“You were telling us about your time in Italy, Aunt Mildred,” Kate intervened.
“We should be off,” Wilfred decided. “Let’s go, Rowly.”
And so the Sinclair brothers spent the afternoon in the luxury motor showrooms of William Street. Rowland tried valiantly to interest Wilfred in the latest Buicks and Cadillacs, even the celebrated Hispano-Suiza, but the elder Sinclair remained determined that only the British could build cars. There was a moment of tension when Rowland informed his brother that the Armstrong Siddeley did not amount to “updating”. Wilfred dismissed the supercharged “Blower” Bentley as a racecar designed for “young louts”, and inevitably they found themselves back in the more staid Rolls-
Royce dealership, in which the Sinclairs were well known.
In the end, Wilfred Sinclair purchased a Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental. As a somewhat reluctant concession to the modern tastes of his brother and son, he did take the unprecedented step of buying the floor model, which was British Racing Green. The car was a bargain of sorts, having been originally ordered and commissioned by a Sydney surgeon called Waterman, who had since fallen on hard times.
36
OLD MAN PLATYPUS
Far from the trouble and toil of town,
Where the reed-beds sweep and shiver,
Look at a fragment of velvet brown—
Old Man Platypus drifting down,
Drifting along the river.
A.B. Paterson, The Animals Noah Forgot
Ernest Sinclair giggled. The child was normally so solemn that Rowland was almost startled. They were reading Paterson’s The Animals Noah Forgot. The book would not be published for a few months, but Rowland had procured a signed, advance copy from Norman Lindsay who had illustrated the volume. It was to be a christening gift for his youngest nephew but, as was often the way with such things, it was Ewan’s elder brother who was getting the benefit of the book.
“Read another one, Uncle Rowly. The one about the Pladipus.”
“Platypus. I think we’ll be going soon, mate.”
“Oh.” Ernest frowned. “Will it take long?”
“I’m afraid so, Ernie, but it’s got to be done.”
“Why?”
Kate saved him from what was getting dangerously close to a theological question by arriving with Ewan in her arms. The child was dressed in the long, linen christening gown that had now been worn by three generations of Sinclairs. A piece of shortbread was pinned by a ribbon to the heavily smocked bodice—apparently a Scottish tradition.
Lucy Bennett flounced in behind them, wearing a pink dress printed with some kind of large swirling floral. Rowland wondered if it was chintz.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Doesn’t Ewan look just delectable?”
Rowland glanced at Ewan who was drooling on his frills.
“Quite.”
Kate smiled. “All the Sinclair men are frightfully handsome—don’t you think so, Lucy?”
Lucy blushed and laughed. Rowland cringed. Why was Lucy Bennett the only person in Sydney who didn’t read the Truth?
In her way, Kate Sinclair organised for her eligible brother-in-law and the marriageable Lucy to travel to the church together. Consequently Rowland arrived at St Mark’s, Darling Point, in a state of amused irritation. For the first time in his life, the church was a refuge. Once inside the gothic chapel they could go about the business of getting Ewan christened and he would no longer have to listen to the tedious adventures of Lucy Bennett.
The church was already full of Sinclairs, Bairds and their related families. Kate’s people had chosen a more conventional attire for this occasion, but they had compensated by installing a lone piper near the font. They clutched their Presbyterian bibles in front of them like some sort of shield against the corrupting extravagances of the Church of England.
Rowland shifted uncomfortably under disapproving austere gazes from pews of Bairds. It was as if he had sprouted horns. He glanced up at the triptych of arched, stained-glass windows at the head of the church and thanked the Lord that they weren’t his in-laws.
Despite the dubious reputation of his uncle and godfather, young Ewan Dougal Baird Sinclair was quite adequately christened into the Church of England, without incident.
The families both returned to Woodlands House for a celebratory luncheon. By two in the afternoon, Ewan, and the more elderly members of the Sinclair family, were having afternoon naps. The remainder gathered in various parlours and sunrooms, playing cards, drinking tea and reminiscing. The garden became a sanctuary, free of relatives.
“The Bairds left rather early,” Edna whispered as she lined up the wooden ball with her mallet. “Is it because of you?”
Rowland shook his head. “No—they’re going to church.”
Edna took her shot, knocking Rowland’s ball into the roses. “Wasn’t that where you were all morning?”
Rowland smiled. “They don’t feel like they’ve been to church apparently—they’ve gone to the Presbyterian chapel in Edgecliff.”
“Oh, they’re very pious.”
“More belligerent than pious, I think.” Rowland retrieved his ball. “It’s rather a team sport, this religion thing.”
“Colin Delaney called,” Edna said, changing the subject. “Mr. Leadbeater is still unconscious but he’s alive.”
“Have they found Hu?”
“No—they think that the Theosophists may be hiding him. He wants you to be careful until they arrest him.”
Rowland frowned. He still couldn’t believe Hubert Van Hook wished him dead—it didn’t make sense.
Edna laughed, poking him playfully with the handle of her mallet. “You look a bit like Wilfred when you scowl.”
It was midnight. Woodlands was quiet. Even the servants were asleep. Rowland closed the door of his bedroom quietly behind him. He had dressed hurriedly and in the dark after tossing sleeplessly for the few hours since he retired. It had been just a thought, but it plagued him. He had not wished to wake Milton and Clyde on what might be a fruitless fancy.
Under normal circumstances, he may have wandered down in his robe—it was his house after all. He was, however, unsure of the nocturnal habits of his houseguests. The sight of a man in pyjamas and a robe could well shock his Aunt Mildred into a heart attack, or at least a scene.
He knocked gently on Edna’s door. There was no answer. Turning the handle carefully, he went in. The bed was still made and the sculptress was not there. Rowland did not stop to wonder who she was with. Edna did not belong to him, and she would walk away if he ever let her suspect how deeply he loved her. He’d learned to shut his mind to her lovers. Somehow he’d accepted that Edna was not his, though not that she might never be.
He found her boxes of photographs. Stacking them atop one another, he carried them downstairs.
Rowland went through the boxes, quickly finding the collection he was after. There was something there—he was sure. The pictures from the Aquitania—the photograph of Isobel and the deacons, and the other of Annie and Urquhart which had caught his attention before he had been distracted by Wilfred.
He stared at them under the light and laughed. It seemed obvious now.
Lenin whined and nudged his leg insistently.
“Len, go away… What? Do you need to go outside, mate?”
He put the photographs into his pocket and moved into the hallway. “Come on then, I’ll open the back door—just don’t start barking or Wil will have us both.”
He let the dog out through the conservatory. Insistently eager to get away, Lenin bolted into the grounds as soon as the door was opened.
Rowland cursed. He would have to go out and find Lenin now, or the dog would start barking as soon as he lost interest in the rabbit or whatever it was that he was currently chasing.
He ducked back into the kitchen to find a torch and shortly thereafter emerged into the grounds in search of his hound. Faintly, he could hear the high-pitched squealing sound Lenin made when he was particularly excited and happy. Rowland was surprised. He didn’t think his ungainly, track-rejected dog would actually ever catch a rabbit.
He headed off towards the sound.
“Len, Lenin—here boy,” he called softly. Just more joyous squeals in response.
He was coming towards the old tack shed that Edna used as a studio. It was a fair way from the main building and, at the moment, crammed with the sculptures that had been removed from the garden and the paintings banished as unsuitable, during the transformation of Woodlands back into a house of repute.
The beam which lit his way had not yet revealed the dog, or the source of Lenin’s happiness. He reached the tack shed—where the hell was…?
Someone
grabbed him from behind. A thick wad of material pressed against his face. Rowland reacted fiercely, twisting to get himself free. The assailant had the advantage, pulling him backwards till he fell heavily onto the cobblestone path. Still the material was clamped against his face. He couldn’t shout, he couldn’t breathe. Lenin was growling but the dog was obviously restrained. Rowland’s lungs felt ready to burst. His attacker was saying something but now there was a roaring in his ears as he struggled for breath… and then the sounds grew faint and he knew nothing more.
37
SUSPECT AT LARGE
Women and Children Warned
SYDNEY
The primary suspect in the shooting of Mr. Charles Leadbeater, at Mosman, remains at large. Women and children have been warned not to go out unaccompanied. The man, an American, is believed to be in hiding and may try to escape by fleeing the country. A police cordon now surrounds the district in which the fugitive is hiding. It is hoped that he will be forced to surrender through hunger.
The Sydney Morning Herald
“Rowly, Rowly… come on, pal, wake up.”
Rowland groaned. Someone was slapping his face. He opened his eyes.
“Stop hitting me, you idiot!”
Hubert Van Hook sat back, relieved.
“Whew… I was beginning to sweat.”
“What happened?”
“I was trying to make sure you didn’t holler when you saw me, and then you fainted I think.”
Rowland sat up. “I couldn’t breathe,” he said curtly. “That happens when some blasted fool covers your nose and your mouth.”
“Shoot, sorry, pal—I got carried away. I thought you’d panic if you saw me and scream bloody murder.”
Rowland rubbed his face. “No—I’m pretty sure you didn’t try to kill anybody… though you might have smothered me by mistake.”
He looked around. Van Hook had dragged him into the tack shed—it looked like the American had been holed up there for a couple of days. “What have you done with my dog, Hu?”
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