A Few Right Thinking Men (3 page)

“Come on, let's go.” Edna adjusted her own hat, which had been knocked awry in the brawl. “Milt will turn up.”

Even as she spoke, the poet emerged from the crowd, looking dishevelled but cheerful.

“That was a hoot!”

“For heaven's sake, Milt.” Edna rolled her eyes.

“Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows grace in his quarrel,” Milton proclaimed to the world at large, throwing his arms wide into the air in exhilaration.

“Keats,” Rowland added. Milton's reputation, as a poet, came from his ability to quote the great bards, and his propensity to do so without attribution. Of course, Rowland Sinclair's traditional British education made such blatant appropriation a little difficult when he was around.

With many others, they spilled out of the Domain, leaving the violence behind. It was now early evening and the shadows had started to lengthen. Most businesses were closed, and as the trams were not running, they began the long walk back toward Woollahra.

Milton threw an arm about Rowland's shoulder. “What do you say, Rowly? Shall we go to the pub? If we hurry we may make it before closing time.”

“What would we do with Ed?” Edna was unlikely to wait quietly in the ladies' bar while they drank.

Milton looked at Edna, “Damn.”

“You and Clyde go,” Rowland offered. “I'll take Ed home.”

“No, she'll be right,” said Clyde. “We'll come with you.”

“We needed you to pay for the drinks, anyway,” admitted Milton. “We're both a bit skint.”

“You're shameless!” Edna slapped his arm. She was not, however, particularly concerned. Milton was a genuine friend; he just dealt with economic realities pragmatically. She would not have allowed him to simply use Rowland.

Braced by the cold wind, they arrived at Woodlands House. Milton and Clyde availed themselves of the contents of various decanters and bottles in the main drawing room, while Rowland picked up his notebook and sketched, from memory, the figures from the battle at the Domain. His drawings were quick and rough, but they captured the essence of their subjects in just a few strokes. He began with Patrick Ryan, and moved on to a study of Morris. And then he drew the blond man who had both struck, and defended him.

“Do you want a drink, Rowly?” Milton poured Scotch. Rowland glanced at the bottle the poet held aloft.

“No,” he said thinking briefly of Wilfred. His brother had often accused him of drinking like a woman. Whisky was a man's drink, Wilfred insisted. Rowland hated the taste of whisky, but he'd drunk it with Wilfred, in the hope that they could be friends once again. In the end the spirit had made him sick and their relationship was still uneasy.

Clyde walked over to see what Rowland was doing, and rested his brawny arms on the back of the armchair. “Who's that?”

Edna looked over his shoulder. “That's the man who hit you,” she exclaimed. “I think he recognised you—looked as though he'd seen a ghost.”

“He probably thought he had.”

“What do you mean?” Milton fell into an armchair with his drink, careful not to let any escape his glass. He slung his leg up over the arm and pulled a slim dog-eared book from out of his pocket.

“This is Henry Alcott.” Rowland marked in the scar. “I've not seen him in years. He was Aubrey's best friend.” Rowland looked up at the framed photograph which had adorned the mantelpiece since he was a child. The young man was in uniform, about to go to war. Even in sepia tones, his eyes were arresting. His hair was dark, and his mouth hinted at a smile despite the austere formality of the pose. It could easily have been a photograph of Rowland who, it appeared, had grown to be the image of his brother.

Edna took the picture down and ran her finger over the handsome face in the frame. She had never taken the time to scrutinise it before.

She knew that Rowland had lost a brother in the war. He had once mentioned that his mother had never recovered from Aubrey's death, but that was all. He spoke very little of the Sinclairs.

“Do you think he thought you were Aubrey?”

Rowland shrugged. “Maybe for a moment…but he knows Aubrey's dead—they were in the same regiment. I remember him at the memorial service.”

Milton put down his book and took the photograph. He looked from it, to Rowland. “Still, it would have given him a shock.” He passed the frame to Clyde.

“I rather think he worked it out in the end,” Rowland said on reflection. “I really should look him up. I'm sure he tried to help us out.”

“Good of him,” Clyde agreed. “And handy. Those thugs weren't playing games.”

Edna nodded. “They were New Guardsmen.”

Rowland hadn't thought of that, but he wasn't surprised to hear it. The ranks of the New Guard had swelled of late, and they were no friends of the Communists.

“They've been breaking up all the meetings, lately,” Milton said as he sipped his scotch. “There's rarely a Party meeting or a union rally that doesn't end in some sort of dustup.”

As the popularity of the Communist Party had risen through the Depression, so, too, had patriotic organisations at the other extreme. The daily papers often carried the severe images of the Fascist leaders in ascendancy in Europe. In Italy there was Mussolini and, in Germany, Hitler was becoming ever more powerful. Mosley was pushing the Fascist cause in Britain. In New South Wales, Eric Campbell had come to prominence. Rowland was aware of the popularity of the New Guard, chiefly among the wealthy, but he was not particularly interested in politics. He had in any case always regarded Campbell and his followers as a bit of a joke.

Edna was less blasée, making her position clear with frequent anti-Fascist rants. Clyde, too, was concerned about the New Guard movement, but he had always been the most earnest among them. Only Milton shared Rowland's tendency to dismiss the New Guard as ridiculous.

“I'm surprised you weren't recognised by a Guardsman, Rowly,” Clyde said replacing Aubrey's picture onto the mantelpiece. “I'll wager most of your neighbours are in the movement.”

“Well, since the neighbours don't call by anymore, I wouldn't recognise them either.”

“You,” Clyde pointed at Rowland with his cigarette, “should take them seriously. They're dangerous.”

Rowland laughed. “I'll tell Mary to be on the lookout for an imminent attack by the neighbours, then.”

Chapter Three

Filth and Hate

In Communist's Home
Stones Thrown At Mother At Father's Order

SYDNEY, Monday

The police proceeded to Punchbowl yesterday and found a woman with a baby in her arms who alleged that her husband, a Communist, assaulted her and used filthy language toward her because she would not join the Communist Party.

The man declared that his wife's story was untrue, but sang “The Red Flag” in the presence of the police.

The Sydney Morning Herald
,
December 8, 1931

Rowland sat at the mahogany bar of the Australian Club, scanning the paper as he waited. Behind him, the pick of Sydney's gentlemanly elite reclined in leather-studded armchairs, engaging in polite conversation as they drank and smoked. A large portrait of George V gazed imperiously, but benevolently, over his loyal colonial subjects. The adjacent wall held a gallery of smaller portraits, the Australian Club's presidents since 1838.

Elderly statesmen in the armchairs closest to the bar discussed the new Sydney Harbour Bridge and its unfinished roadway which grew ever closer from either side of the harbour, under the colossal structure of its arch.

“I tell you it's damned inconvenient. The noise from the locomotives will be intolerable—we wrote to the Authority and Game of course…but it seems Lang is determined to build this infernal bridge and destroy the serenity of the foreshore.”

His companion sighed. “Nothing so civilised as gathering one's thoughts on the ferry crossing—be a thing of the past, I'm afraid, as the populace goes hurtling across that grey atrocity.”

Rowland checked his watch, and returned to his paper. There was an account of the previous Sunday's violence in the Domain. Apparently a police officer had been injured when he fell under the wheels of a buggy trying to escape the fracas.

“Sinclair.”

Rowland turned as Henry Alcott extended his hand. “Rowland Sinclair. Good Lord, I haven't seen you since I came back from the war. It seems you've grown up. You were still at Kings when…”

Rowland shook the man's hand. “How are you, Henry?”

Alcott smiled broadly, the wide scar on his jawline highlighting the stretch of his mouth. “I can't complain.”

“What's your poison, then?”

“Scotch.”

Rowland motioned to the barman, and Alcott took the stool beside him.

“I didn't get a chance to thank you for your assistance on Sunday…” Rowland started.

Alcott dismissed his thanks with a wave. “Glad to help, old man.” He looked intently at Rowland. “How did you get caught up in that anyway?”

“Usual way—followed a mate.”

Alcott said nothing for a moment, and then, “I say, Rowly, I'm sorry I haven't been in touch since Aubrey passed on. We were such chums, Aubrey and I…it was difficult.”

Rowland sipped his beer. “It's all right, Henry, we didn't expect—”

“My Lord, you look like Aubrey!” Alcott shook his head. “It's like having a drink with Aubrey again.”

Rowland listened as Henry Alcott talked of Aubrey: tales of boyhood larks, schooldays, and the war in which they'd served together. Henry had been injured first, and so had not been with Aubrey when he died. Rowland could see this weighed heavily on Alcott's conscience. Intermittently, Alcott would interrupt himself and say, “My Lord, you could be Aubrey.”

Rowland let him go. He'd been just a child when his brother had fallen and Alcott's memories gave him some he'd never had himself. The pair toasted Aubrey Sinclair many times that afternoon.

It was a couple of hours before Alcott asked about the Domain. “What were you doing at Speakers' Corner, Rowly? Did you know what kind of men speak there?”

Rowland felt a mild rise of annoyance. Alcott spoke to him as if he were a child. “A friend of mine was due to speak next.”

Alcott's face darkened. “What? For the Communists?”

“Yes.”

“You were there to listen to the Communists?”

“I was there to listen to a friend.”

“Do you have many friends among the Communists, then?”

“Quite a few.”

Alcott looked away for a second.

Rowland regretted this turn in the conversation. He did not wish to alienate Henry Alcott, who now seemed unable to return his eye.

Suddenly, the ex-serviceman smiled. “Look, Rowly, what say I introduce you to some chaps? Aubrey would want me to look out for you.”

“What chaps?”

“Right-thinking men, Rowly. Loyalists who love this country. Men like Aubrey. We could have a few drinks…get you back into the right crowd.”

Rowland chose his words carefully. He suspected these men Alcott mentioned would be of the same conservative ilk as his brother, Wilfred. He was being invited to attend hour upon hour of patriotic ranting. “Look, Henry, I don't think I'm your man. But I'm always available if you want to have a drink.”

Unhappy, Alcott drained his glass. And then he laughed. “Aubrey always said you were a pain in the royal…” He laughed again and wagged a finger at Rowland. “I'm not letting this go. Aubrey would want me to straighten you out….Introduce you to the right sort of people. Good Lord, you look like Aubrey.” His voice caught a little.

Rowland drank with him for a while longer.

“Well, I'll keep in touch.” Alcott stood, offering Rowland his hand. “You give my regards to Wilfred, and to your mother.” He smiled. “You'll come round, you know.”

Rowland's brow rose, irritated by Alcott's presumption, but he didn't bother arguing with the man.

Chapter Four

Causes of Crime

SYDNEY, Wednesday

According to Reverend H.S. Craik, chairman of the Congregational Union, the present crime wave is not due only to leniency of punishment, or the educational system, or the lack of home education or moving pictures, but to the four combined, and underlying all are evil thoughts.

The Canberra Times
, 10 December 1931

The elder Rowland Sinclair relaxed in his favourite chair, with his after-dinner pipe and a generous glass of brandy. He closed his eyes, savouring the combination of cherry tobacco and the warming liqueur. When he lifted his lids again it was to gaze, with a familiar satisfaction, at the nude hanging above the fireplace. The woman in the painting stared right back at him, unabashed, uncompromising. And yet there was vulnerability in the set of her lips, a hesitance underlying the strength. It was as if, for a moment, her face had been more naked than her body, and the painter had caught it. He was not a great connoisseur of art, but Rowland enjoyed the painting, and he always surrounded himself with those things he enjoyed.

The aging playboy settled his significant proportions into the well-padded seat. An American jazz orchestra blared from the wireless. Despite his age, he saw himself as a man of modern tastes. A strict rural upbringing and the dual millstones of tradition and obligation were, for him, a distant past. Rowland Sinclair pleased himself now. He sipped his brandy contentedly, stretching his feet toward the fire. To his mind this was a perfect way to see out the evening.

The knock was, at first, barely audible over the music, and then it became more insistent.

“Mrs. Donelly!” Rowland bellowed for his housekeeper. There was no response and the knocking became louder.

“Mrs. Donelly!” Still she did not reply. He put down his glass and dragged himself from the comfort of his chair, cursing the old housekeeper's creeping deafness. Wondering who would be calling so late, he shuffled into the foyer to answer the door. He sighed. Manners, it seemed, had become a thing of the past.

“Steady on!” he called as he fumbled with the bolt. The latch lifted and he stepped back hastily as the heavy door swung in wildly under sudden force.

***

Edna dragged a frock over her head as she dressed hurriedly. She had been asleep only moments before, but something serious was going on downstairs. From her bedroom window she could see police vehicles in the driveway, and the voices carried upstairs. She pulled on stockings and slipped her feet into shoes, wondering if Milton had managed to find some sort of trouble. Not that Milton was a criminal; he was just more reckless than the rest of them. She didn't bother with her hair, merely smoothing out the tresses with her hand as she left the room.

The entire household was up. Edna walked into the main drawing room and stood tentatively by the doorway. No one noticed her at first.

Two police officers sat stiffly on the brocade couch. The elder of the two was speaking quietly, a notebook open on his knee. His partner stared at the easel. Apparently Rowland had been up, working on his painting of the rally at the Domain, when the police arrived. He sat in the armchair in front of them. His elbows rested on his knees and his face was in his hands, his dark hair clenched in his fingers. Milton stood behind him; Clyde leant against the mantelpiece.

Edna hesitated, unsure. Rowland looked up suddenly, as if he sensed her standing there. His face was pale and hurt, and even from across the room, Edna could see the sadness that clouded his eyes.

He motioned her to come in and introduced her to Constables Peters and Delaney. They looked at her with faint disapproval.

“What's happened, Rowly?” she asked, frightened, sensing the answer would be tragedy.

“My Uncle Rowland's been murdered, Ed,” he said calmly.

For a moment Edna's voice was lost. “How?”

“It seems he was attacked in his home, poor old…”

“As I explained, sir,” said Constable Peters, “we have been unable to reach your brother, Mr. Wilfred Sinclair. We'll need you to identify the body, I'm afraid. But it could wait till morning if you prefer?”

Rowland shook his head and stood. “I'll come now.” He glanced down at his paint-spattered waistcoat. He'd always cleaned up before he visited his uncle. As silly as it seemed, he did not think it right to do anything less now. “I'll just get a clean jacket.”

Milton pressed his shoulder. “I'll come with you.”

“Have Johnston bring the car round.” Rowland turned to the policemen. “We will follow you, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Sinclair's body has been transported to the morgue, sir,” the constable replied. “We have left an officer at his house for tonight. His housekeeper,” he consulted his notes, “a Mrs. Donelly, found the body. She was understandably distraught…quite incoherent. The detectives will want to examine the house again in the morning.”

Rowland nodded. The constables waited in the foyer while he took the stairs two at a time, to change.

When he returned shortly thereafter, he looked less like Rowland and more like a Sinclair. He turned to Edna and Clyde and smiled tightly. “Better get this over with. We shouldn't be too long….”

Edna embraced him. “I'm so sorry, Rowly. This is just horrible.”

“Thank you, Ed. He wasn't a bad old chap, you know.”

He felt the grip of Clyde's strong hand on his back. “Do you need us to call anybody, mate?”

Rowland shook his head. “I'll do that when I get back.” He opened the door and followed the policemen out.

In the darkness of the driveway, Johnston, the chauffeur, opened the rear door of the Rolls-Royce saloon. The Sinclairs were in the minority who had kept their cars on the road. Even in Woollahra, many vehicles had been placed on blocks as people waited for better times. The Sinclair fortune was of a scale and kind that made no such measures necessary.

Milton followed Rowland into the backseat.

“Do you know where the Coroner's Court is, Johnston?” Rowland asked his driver.

“Yes, sir, I do.” Johnston put the car into gear and swung it out of the sweeping driveway. For a while there was silence and then the chauffeur spoke again. “My condolences, sir…Terrible business this.”

“Thank you, Johnston. You knew my uncle, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir. The other Mr. Rowland were a young man when I come to work for your late father…'Course it were carriages then. Terrible business this.”

Rowland nodded. It was a terrible business.

The morgue was located in the basement of the Coroner's Court building in The Rocks, near Circular Quay. An unimposing structure, it stood between the Sailors' Home and the Mariners' Church, and was neither austere nor foreboding, despite its unhappy function.

Peters and Delaney guided them to the rear of the building. As they descended the stairs to the morgue, the smell confronted them. Rowland paused, steadying himself against the banister. He gagged, trying to disguise it with a cough.

“You all right, Rowly?” The poet was less affected by the stench. It was hardly pleasant but, unlike Rowland, he had spent his life in far less salubrious haunts than the clean, polished world of Woollahra. Disagreeable odours did not penetrate the better suburbs, but they were a reality of lesser addresses.

“You'll get used to it in a moment, sir,” said Peters, reassuringly.

“God, I hope not!” Rowland straightened and took the stairs slowly.

They entered the central mortuary. The acrid smell was more intense. There were seven tables in the room, with clean white sheets sombrely protecting the dignity of those who lay beneath.

“The coroner will conduct his postmortem on the body tomorrow,” Peters pulled back the sheet on the table nearest them.

Rowland stared, then stepped closer, silently.

“Bloody hell,” he said almost under his breath. His painter's eye took in too much. His uncle's face was swollen, battered. Blood had congealed in his snowy hair and stained the smoking jacket which bore a Cambridge crest. It had seeped into the crevices of the wrinkles in his skin, deepening the purple bruising with etchings of red. Flat on the table, the body looked too small. Rowland Sinclair had been large in life. Milton put a hand on his shoulder.

Rowland felt sick. “Yes…that is…Rowland Sinclair.”

Delaney pulled the sheet back over the body and the older Rowland Sinclair again became little more than a draped mound on a table.

“Thank you, sir.” Peters motioned them to the door. “The detectives will want to talk to you in the morning.”

Rowland nodded. He and Milton followed the constables up the stairs, where they left Peters and Delaney to their paperwork, and returned to the car. Johnston started the engine and Milton opened the drinks compartment built into the back of the front seat. He poured Rowland a drink from one of the crystal decanters.

Rowland choked on the first gulp. “I really hate whisky,” he said, handing the glass back. Milton shrugged and not being a man inclined to waste, he drained the glass himself. Rowland found the port and drank that instead.

“Who would beat an old man to death?” he said, gazing into his empty tumbler.

“Is that what killed him?”

“I don't know.” Rowland rubbed his forehead. “I guess the coroner will figure that out.”

“I'm damned sorry, Rowly,” Milton refilled his friend's glass. “I know you were close.”

Rowland sat back in the seat. “He taught me to play poker, you know—I used to spend school holidays with him during the war…” He smiled faintly. “Until my father found out where he was taking me of an evening. It's hard to believe…” He didn't finish, retreating instead into a silent private grief.

Milton let him be.

***

Edna and Clyde were up waiting for them.

Rowland slumped into the armchair and loosened his tie. “Well, that's done.”

“Was it awful?” Edna asked.

“Yes.”

“What happens now?”

“The coroner has to do his bit.” Milton distributed beverages yet again. He found that most situations could be helped with a stiff drink. Or several.

Rowland took the glass. “The police will want to speak to me tomorrow, Milt. I can't be drunk.”

“You won't be drunk,” the poet insisted. “Perhaps just a little hung over.”

“Why would they want to speak with you?” Edna curled her legs up on the couch as she rolled her glass between her hands.

“Murder investigation.” Rowland said the words slowly, getting used to the reality behind them. “I assume they'll need some sort of background on my uncle—though I don't know how much help I'd be. They'll probably learn a lot more from that housekeeper of his.”

“Poor old thing,” Edna murmured. “It would've been a terrible shock for her.”

Milton raised his brow. “It didn't look as though the old boy went quietly…surely she would have heard something going on….”

“Mrs. Donelly is about a hundred and six.” Rowland blanched as he thought of his uncle's final moments. “I don't think she hears too well.”

Clyde examined the unfinished painting on Rowland's easel. “This is going well, Rowly,” he said. “You've got the light on Ryan's face just right…it makes him look almost biblical.”

Milton laughed. “He'll just love that! Who'd have thought…? Paddy Ryan leading the workers to the Promised Land…Not bad for a godless Communist!”

Rowland tried to smile. “I might get back to it tonight.”

“You should get some sleep.” Edna reached over and rubbed his hand. “There will be things to deal with tomorrow…and not just the police.”

“Talking of which,” Rowland said, putting down his drink, “I really should phone Wilfred. Let him know what's happened.” He stood, and walked into the hallway to ring through to the exchange.

Milton replenished Rowland's glass, and they all listened while he spoke, first to the telephonist and then to his brother.

The conversation between Rowland and Wilfred Sinclair was strangely formal. Direct, but sad. Rowland recounted what the policemen had told him; then after some silences, during which Wilfred must have been pressing for more information, Rowland told his brother what he had seen at the morgue. Clyde and Edna were shocked by his description, and moved by the distress in his words. Then there was another series of silences interrupted only by Rowland saying: “Yes,” or “All right.”

When he came back into the drawing room, Rowland did not resume his seat, but headed straight to his easel. His eyes seemed a greyer shade of their normal blue, and they were distant. Edna recognised the look. He didn't want to talk anymore. She uncurled herself from the couch and said goodnight, squeezing his hand gently as she left. Milton and Clyde stayed a while, watching him work, and drinking in companionable silence. In time, they too retired, leaving Rowland alone with his brushes, his canvas and his thoughts.