A Few Right Thinking Men (30 page)

“It was rather…though it looks like my cover's blown.”

“Probably,” Delaney agreed. “De Groot won't be telling tales for a while, though; MacKay's going to have him committed.” He laughed. “Campbell will have his hands full, trying to get his Irish mate out of a straitjacket!” He looked at Rowland, his face suddenly pensive. “You'll need to be even more careful now, Sinclair. Dynon's dangerous and there were Guardsmen in the crowd. I'll organise a detail for your house tomorrow.”

Rowland shrugged. In the bright light of day, among the crowds, the Legion seemed more silly than threatening.

The pageant parade which followed the official opening was over a mile in length, a vast cavalcade of floats and bands and marching groups. Rowland lifted Ernest onto his shoulders as Wilfred's regiment passed, so the boy could see his father as the war hero he was. Once the pageant had crossed the bridge, the public followed, and Rowland walked with his sister-in-law and nephew across the length of the deck. At the other end, they met Wilfred as arranged and enjoyed Colonel Bruxner's hospitality for lunch, an elaborate sit-down affair in a marquee on the harbour foreshore.

It was past six when Rowland finally parted company with his brother's young family. It took him well over an hour to battle the traffic and so he returned to Woodlands House long after the others had left for the Carnival Ball. He showered quickly and struggled into the eighteenth-century costume that Edna had left for him. He checked his reflection before donning the mask. He might have felt silly, but only a day ago he was wearing a black hood and robes and waving a playing card around—it was all relative.

Johnston drove Rowland to the ball before he, too, went to some opening celebration. The foreshore had been decked out with lanterns and decorated tables, transforming the area into a magical glittering setting. Hundreds of softly lit boats floated nearby, creating an ethereal backdrop for the masquerade.

Despite appearances, this was not a party hosted and funded by the wealthy, but by the arts community. The decoration, the costumes, and the atmosphere had been conjured by the resourceful talents of artists, poets, and performers and a few of their benefactors, who had united to celebrate the opening in a style that defied the economic times.

Rowland felt easy here, not just for the fact that everybody present was as ludicrioiusly dressed as he, though it helped. Milton had been custodian of the tickets, but Rowland was recognised and waved through. The party area was not enormous, but as he tried to find his friends, he encountered many people he knew, who were already well-lubricated and all keen to discuss De Groot's display. When he reached Edna, he'd found a glass himself. She and Clyde were on the dance floor.

“Rowly!” Clyde shouted when he saw him. “For God's sake, cut in.”

Rowland obliged. “Where's Milt?” He took the sculptress in his arms.

“He went back to get the tickets,” Edna replied. “He left them behind…they let us in anyway, but he'd already gone.”

“I must have just missed him,” Rowland said as he and Edna cut across the floor.

Chapter Thirty-five

Get Out of the Way

Hitler to Hindenburg

BERLIN, Wednesday

Addressing 70,000 followers by means of loud speakers, Hitler deplored the loss of the pre-war system of government, which had made Germany the world's greatest nation. The post-war system had destroyed everything.

He honoured President Hindenburg as a field marshall, but was now compelled to say: “Worthy old man that you are, get out of my way.”

The Canberra Times
, March 20, 1932

It was Edna who first thought to be concerned by Milton's prolonged absence. Both Rowland and Clyde were initially inclined to believe he'd simply become distracted, as Milton was often.

“Where could he go, dressed like that?” Edna argued. Milton had been gone three hours.

“I'll go back and find him,” Rowland volunteered.

Clyde drained his glass. “We might as well call it a night and come with you. Otherwise, Ed's only going to start worrying about you five minutes after you go.”

When they got to Woodlands House, it looked deserted. The staff had all been given the day off for the bridge opening. Wilfred would probably have kept at least one person on duty, but Rowland tended to be more relaxed in the management of his servants.

Clyde unlocked the door. “Milt! Where the dickens are you?” There was no response.

They made a quick search of the house, and found the tickets to the Carnival Ball still on the sideboard. It seemed Milton had not made it back at all.

Lenin was barking incessantly out the back—Milton never left him outside. Rowland walked out to the rear verandah and called out to the dog. Lenin continued to bark. Though it was late, there was enough moonlight for Rowland to make out the hound at the farthest end of the hedgerow. Obviously the neighbours were all out enjoying the festivities, or else the din would have brought complaints by now.

He called again, but it made no difference. “Clyde, grab a torch and get out here!” Rowland was suddenly suspicious.

Clyde emerged with torch in hand. “What's wrong with the dog?”

“Let's find out,” Rowland glanced back at the sculptress as she came out onto the veranda. “Ed you stay here.”

She nodded, too worried to quarrel.

Rowland and Clyde moved quickly toward Lenin. As they neared, the dog came to them, but he kept barking. Clyde scanned the torch beam across the hedges and garden beds.

And then they heard it. A groan. “Aah! Shut up you useless bloody mongrel!”

Clyde moved the beam toward the voice. Milton lay facedown on the ground, almost completely obscured by English box and dahlias.

“Milt, are you all right, mate?” They turned him over gently, tentatively.

Slowly, Milton sat up. “Bastards jumped me.” Gingerly, he wiped his bleeding lip.

“Come on, we'll get you back to the house.” Rowland put his arm around Milton's back and helped him stand. They took him in through the French doors. Once in the light, they could see the shocking state of the poet.

“Clyde, send for a doctor,” Rowland said grimly. Edna ran to fetch a basin of water and cloths from the kitchen.

“Lock the doors,” Milton closed his swollen eyes.

“Why?

“They might come back.” Rowland bolted both doors.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Milton grimaced as tried to sit up. “I've had plenty of fat lips and bloody noses before this.”

“Milt, your forehead…” Edna put down the basin.

Milton put his hand to his brow. “Oh that…queer bastards held me down and painted something on my face.”

Clyde came back in. “The doctor will be here in…” He stopped mid-sentence, then swore. He stepped forward and peered at the poet's forehead and swore again.

“What!” said Milton. “What the hell is the problem?”

The poet's forehead was blazoned with the word “Red” in purplish black letters. They told him.

Milton was not particularly concerned. “Bloody gutless,” he muttered. He grabbed a wet cloth from Edna and wiped it across his face. The cloth took off nothing but blood. The word “Red” remained.

Now Rowland started to curse. He knew what this was, so did Clyde and Edna. As artists, they had worked with photography. They recognised the effect of the developing chemical that turned the skin purplish-black on contact. Milton had been effectively branded.

“What?” demanded Milton again.

“The bastards have used silver nitrate, Milt. It's not going to come off.”

Milton was silent. Edna sat next to him, stroking his arm. Clyde poured him a large brandy and put the glass into his friend's hands. “What happened?”

“Rowly's Legion mates,” he said finally. “They jumped me as I got back to the house—they were on the verandah.” He looked at Rowland. “They thought I was Rowland Sinclair.”

“Me? Why didn't you tell them?” Rowland felt sick.

“I didn't know whether you'd already come back,” Milton replied. “I thought you could turn up any moment. They did this to me just because to them I was Rowland Sinclair. Hell, if they knew you were also Clyde Watson Jones…” He shook his head.

“They thought they were attacking Rowly?” Edna's sympathies were now for both men. She could almost feel Rowland's horror, and guilt, over the beating Milton had taken for him.

“I'm afraid they know I'm not you now.” Milton gulped his brandy, sputtering a little as it went down. “After they did this,” he touched his forehead, “another couple of cars pulled up and more hooded idiots piled out. One of them took a look at me and started screaming they'd got the wrong man again.”

“He recognised you?” Clyde asked.

“He recognised that I wasn't Rowly.”

Rowland spoke, stricken. “Again? He said ‘they'd got the wrong man…again'?”

Milton nodded.

Rowland rubbed his face in his hands, “God, Milt, I am so sorry.”

Milton looked at him. “None of this is down to you, mate. Not this, nor your old uncle.”

“They killed your uncle because they got the wrong Rowland Sinclair?” Edna was aghast.

“I doubt they meant to kill him, Ed…just teach him a lesson.” Milton's concern furrowed the brand on his forehead. Rowland had always been slow to anger, but he was truly livid now. The poet could see it in his eyes—it worried him.

“But why?” Edna asked. “You hadn't done anything.”

Rowland stood. “I'll just go ask Campbell, shall I?” The ice in his voice chilled the entire room. “I'm going to change into something more suitable for visiting. Clyde, would you call the police?”

Edna picked up the voluminous skirt of her costume and followed him out.

“Where are you going?” Clyde asked her.

“I'll get changed and go with him,” she replied. “Rowly won't do anything stupid if I'm with him. You look after Milt, and call the police.”

“Well, maybe I should come…”

“No, Clyde.” Edna was adamant. “Rowly needs someone to calm him down now, not another set of fists to help him get into real trouble. These men are dangerous—they've already killed one man and attacked Milt, just to get to Rowly.”

“Let her go, Clyde,” said Milton, shifting himself painfully on the couch. “Rowly might listen to her.”

It took neither Rowland Sinclair nor Edna Higgins long to change. They argued for a while. Rowland did not want her to come, but she wouldn't give him any option. With Clyde and Milton backing her up, Rowland relented. He wasn't really sure what he planned to do, anyway. He wanted to shout at Campbell—to tell him what his insane followers had done. He wanted to hunt down Henry Alcott and break his neck.

They left just as the doctor arrived to see Milton. Edna whispered to Clyde as she walked out, “Call Wilfred.”

Rowland had barely driven out of the gate when Edna started to harass him to leave it to the police. On some level, he knew she was right. Still, for the most part, he ignored her. He hardly noticed this first time to drive his car over the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

“Rowly, you can't just barge in and attack Campbell,” Edna pressed, wondering if he was even listening.

“I'm not going to do that Ed,” he said, smiling faintly. “The man carries a gun.”

“How do you know that?”

“He showed me—he's quite proud of it.”

“Then what are we doing, Rowly?”

“I just want him to know, Ed. To know. He's so bloody convinced he's right; he doesn't care what he's unleashed. These men—Alcott, Poynton, De Groot—they all talk about him like he's God. They do all this in his name. I want the names of the men who killed Uncle Rowland and attacked Milt, but frankly he's as guilty as they are!”

“Couldn't the police do this, Rowly?”

“Probably,” he replied. “But I need to get my paint box.”

He pulled into the driveway at Boongala and the guards posted at the gate waved them through, recognising Rowland as the Colonel's artist.

The house was quiet.

“Rowly, it's nearly midnight—they'll be asleep.”

“Campbell will have been out celebrating De Groot's efforts on the bridge. If he's in bed, it won't have been for long—and, honestly, I don't care.”

Edna hurried after him as he stalked to the front door and knocked loudly. The housekeeper answered.

“Mr. Watson Jones!” she said, surprised, tying her dressing gown around her waist. “Was Colonel Campbell expecting you this late?”

“I'm afraid not, but I must see him on a matter of some urgency.”

“I'm afraid he and Mrs. Campbell are not back yet, sir.” Rowland's face did not show his disappointment. He was starting to calm down a little now, to think more clearly. He was still angry, but it was becoming a more thoughtful anger. “I've left some equipment in the studio,” he said smiling sweetly, as if it was perfectly normal to bang down a man's door at midnight to collect some paints as if your life depended on it. “I might just retrieve it while I'm here.”

The housekeeper seemed happy to admit them. The young artist was trusted by the Colonel, and she was anxious to return to bed.

“We'll let ourselves out,” Rowland assured her. “I'm sorry to have got you up.”

The housekeeper let them make their own way to the studio. Rowland found his belongings were exactly as he had left them. He opened the paint box and rummaged under the tubes of paint. The revolver was still there. Double-checking that the safety catch was still on, he returned it to the paint box and closed the lid.

Edna was staring at him. “Rowly, we didn't come here to get that, did we?”

He looked up. “No…God, no! I'm not planning to use it, Ed. I remembered it the other day, that's all, and I didn't want to leave it here. Who knows what these lunatics could do with Wil's gun. It could get him in all sorts of trouble.”

They heard voices outside the room. Perhaps Campbell had returned. Rowland stuck his head out and looked down the corridor. The housekeeper was again at the front door, not with Campbell, but with Henry Alcott and several other men who Rowland had not seen before. She gestured back toward the studio and Alcott looked his way.

Rowland pulled his head back and moved quickly. He pushed Edna behind the couch. “Stay here. Don't make a sound! Don't let them know you're here. I'll be all right.”

Edna nodded, frightened. She could already hear the heavy footfalls in the corridor. The door flung open. Flanked by four others, Henry Alcott walked in. Rowland stood his ground. “Hello, Henry.”

“If it isn't the elusive Rowland Sinclair.”

“Have you been looking for me?”

The scarred right side of Alcott's face twitched. “So Dynon was right…we do have a spy in our midst. Reporting to your filthy Communist mates—you're a disgrace to your brother's memory, Sinclair.”

“Go to hell, Henry! Aubrey loved Uncle Rowland. If he knew what you've done…”

“How was I to know those idiots would get the wrong Rowland Sinclair?” Alcott's eyes bulged as he stepped toward his best friend's brother. At that moment, Rowland understood that Alcott's mind was no longer right. “They were only meant to teach you a lesson, Sinclair, to get you to walk the right line…Don't you see…? I had to turn you around…for Aubrey. But it's too late for all that now. Turning up to a Red rally at the Domain's one thing, but now…now you're a damn spy for them!”

One of the men behind Alcott quietly sidled up to the fireplace and took a fire iron. Rowland cursed himself for not thinking to take the weapon first. “This is Campbell's home, Henry,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.

“We'll clean up the mess.” Alcott shook his head slowly, suddenly tearful. “Good Lord, you look like Aubrey—you could have been Aubrey.” He motioned, and two men leapt forward and seized Rowland by the arms.