A Few Right Thinking Men (5 page)

Rowland was a little surprised. He hadn't considered what the death of his uncle meant for the staff he employed, particularly those who lived in.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Donelly,” he said tentatively. “You can stay on here for as long as you want. We won't be selling the house.” Wilfred usually made such decisions, but Rowland resolved to talk to him. If worst came to worst, surely his uncle's staff could be retained at Woodlands House. The Sinclairs had always been good employers.

He finished his tea and wandered back into the foyer where his uncle had died. The police had obviously finished with the scene, for the black and white chequerboard tiles had been scrubbed clean. Rowland felt a sudden surge of anger. Till now, he had crowded his mind with his work and with things more mundane, but as he stood where his uncle had died, he was staggered by a deep sense of loss and outrage.

Rowland had been close to his father's younger brother. The elder Rowland Sinclair had always been a man of grand pleasures and passions. He had travelled the world and enjoyed a life of luxurious adventure. He'd been unrelenting in his pursuit of the interesting and had taken a mischievous pride in corrupting his nephew. In Rowland, he had finally found a kindred Sinclair. Rowland, for his part, had loved the incorrigible old man.

He was still standing in the foyer when Wilfred came in. Now head of the Sinclair dynasty, Wilfred wore the mantle well. In his early forties, he reflected the establishment in his carriage and demeanour. His fair hair was receding, but only slightly. He was stockier than Rowland and his face more stern, but his eyes, which regarded the world over the tops of bifocals, were the same vivid blue.

“Rowly.” He shook his brother's hand.

“Hello, Wil.”

“I see you're still driving that Fritz monstrosity.”

“She's a good car.” Rowland's voice tightened, knowing what was coming.

“The Germans killed our brother.” Wilfred's response was cold. Rowland sighed. This was not a new quarrel, and Wilfred was not alone in seeing the Mercedes as a betrayal of Aubrey. Rowland saw it differently.

“Let's not get into it, Wil.”

For a moment Wilfred Sinclair looked like he might continue, but instead he said, “Shall we go into the sitting room?”

Wilfred turned without waiting for a response, and headed straight to the sideboard where he poured drinks. He handed Rowland a whisky and sat in the armchair closest to the fireplace. Rowland leant against the mantelpiece, holding the whisky, which he had no intention of drinking.

“I trust Kate and Ernest are well.” Rowland spoke into the awkward silence.

“Yes, yes, they're both fine,” Wilfred replied. “Ernest is riding unassisted now…He's only just turned four!”

Rowland smiled. It seemed to him that his brother only softened when he talked of his son.

“I spoke with the police commissioner,” Wilfred said as a matter-of-fact. “Apparently the coroner believes that Uncle Rowland died of a heart attack brought on by the assault. Of course, he hasn't filed his report yet, but that is what it will say.”

“Oh. Do they have any idea who…?”

“They're working on the idea it was someone to whom Uncle Rowland owed money.”

“You told them that was ridiculous?”

“I directed them to our accountants. They'll explain how unlikely that notion is.” Wilfred sipped his whisky and glanced up at the painting of the nude above the mantelpiece, his expression somewhere between appreciation and disapproval. “Anyway,” he went on, “they should be releasing his body in a couple of days, so I'll wait to accompany it back to Oaklea. And you should make plans to come home for the funeral.”

“Of course,” said Rowland, irritated that his brother thought that he needed an instruction to do so.

“In the meantime, I'll be meeting with the old man's solicitor to make sure his affairs are properly settled.”

“Shall I have Mary make up a room for you?”

“I'll stay here.”

Rowland's relief was obvious. Wilfred glanced at him and shook his head, “I take it that Woodlands House is still full of your guests?”

“Not quite full,” Rowland replied, “but I'm not lonely.”

Wilfred's face darkened. He drained his glass. “I've made reservations at the Masonic Club,” he announced, standing. “Finish your drink, Rowly, and let's go…you always did sip your drinks like some kind of debutante!”

Chapter Six

Art or Indecency?

The Nude in Pictures—
Inspector “A Trifle Prudish”

ADELAIDE, Friday

Whether the nude in art is indecent was raised in the Adelaide Police Court on Friday, when Drew Brown, of Rundle Street East, was summoned for exhibiting indecent pictures in a shop window in contravention of the Indecent Advertisements Act.

The Advertiser
, December 12, 1931

They returned first to Woodlands House, so Rowland could dress for dinner. The house was quiet. Wilfred wandered into the main drawing room while his brother ran upstairs.

When Rowland returned, Wilfred was in an armchair smoking, and glaring at the easels and canvases that now crowded what had once been called the most elegant parlour in Sydney.

“Ready to go?” Rowland asked hopefully.

At that inconvenient moment, Edna came home, escorted by a dapper man in a double-breasted white suit. Rowland recognised him as Bertram Middleton, another journalist writing the great Australian novel, and one of the sculptress' many gentlemen callers. Rowland swallowed. Edna was enchanting in the pale green dress that she reserved for the theatre or for gallery showings. The couple came in, deep in conversation and unaware that they were not alone. Rowland felt a familiar rise of ire when Edna placed her hand on Middleton's arm, but he remained unreadable.

“Oh, Rowly, you're back!” she said, finally noticing him.

“Hello Ed…Middleton.” Rowland smiled at her and nodded at her companion.

“You look formal, Rowly!” She beamed at him in a way that told him that she'd been drinking a little. “Are you going out?”

“Yes.” He stepped aside so that she could see into the drawing room. Wilfred stood hastily.

“Ed, this is my brother, Wilfred,” Rowland said awkwardly. “Wil, Miss Edna Higgins…oh…and Mr. Bertram Middleton.”

Edna stepped toward Wilfred, while Middleton stayed by the door looking distinctly uncomfortable. She extended a gloved hand and bestowed him with her most beguiling smile.

“Mr. Sinclair, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Wilfred shook her hand slowly, staring. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Higgins…Though I do have a feeling we have met before.”

Edna giggled. “Possibly.” She looked around her. “I have been living in your house for two years…but I do think I would remember.”

“Indeed,” replied Wilfred, without taking his eyes from her face. “And Mr. Middleton, do you live here too?”

Edna laughed. “Bertie? Oh no…we're all too noisy for him.” She leant conspiratorially toward Wilfred. “He's trying to write a novel…he's very serious about it.”

Middleton looked mortified and Rowland tried to feel sorry for him, but couldn't quite manage it. “Didn't you say we had reservations, Wil?” he said, looking pointedly at his wristwatch.

“Yes, of course.” Wilfred put his glass down on the sideboard and moved to the door.

Wilfred said nothing as Johnston drove them into the city. Rowland couldn't help smiling, certain Wilfred would make the connection eventually. He didn't look forward to the conversation that would inevitably follow, but he could see the amusing side of it.

Realisation came to Wilfred as he was in the process of ordering from the menu. Rowland could see the sudden suspicion in his face. As soon as the waiter had gone, Wilfred spoke. “Miss Higgins…I was wondering why she seemed so familiar…She looks a little like the woman in the painting in Rowland's house. The, er, nude above the mantelpiece.”

“Well that's a good thing, I suppose—it is a painting of her.”

“Oh, my God!” Wilfred pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure?”

“I should be,” Rowland said as the waiter returned with the jug of iced water. “I painted it.”

“You did what?”

Rowland waited until the waiter left before he said again. “I painted it.”

Wilfred's expression lingered somewhere between envy and disgust.

“For the love of God, Wil, people have been painting and sculpting nudes for thousands of years—it's not exactly a dangerous, new art form!”

Wilfred started to reply, but then stopped. He took a sip of water. “Rowly, you've been back for over three years now, don't you think it's about time you stopped this nonsense and settled down?”

“Not dead yet, Wil,” said Rowland curtly. “When I'm dead you can bury me on the property, but until then I'm staying here.”

“It's not about where you are, Rowly,” Wilfred reasoned. “It's about the way you behave, the kind of people with whom you associate. Look at what you're doing to our father's house!”

“I'm living in it,” Rowland snapped, “which is more than any other Sinclair has done for years.”

Wilfred paused, and then tried a different tack. “Lucy Bennett has just returned from her tour of Europe. She's grown into a very handsome young woman. Perhaps we could have her to luncheon when you're home?”

Rowland nearly laughed. “Just what I need, some society belle who's travelled through the great dress shops of Europe. Lovely.”

“Don't you think you should at least meet her before you decide that?” Wilfred demanded, trying valiantly to keep his temper.

“No. I've met hundreds of Lucy Bennetts…they're all the same.”

“Yes, well a decent girl might not provide the entertainment of your Miss Higgins…”

“Careful,” warned Rowland, his back tensing.

Wilfred stared at his brother, at first in disbelief and then in horror. “Bloody oath, Rowly, you're not…Miss Higgins and all your other freeloading friends are only after one thing!”

“And what exactly would be Lucy Bennett's interest in me?”

“Lucy is a jolly decent girl from a good family,” Wilfred replied. “Rowly, you must be careful. You are a wealthy man. Women like Edna Higgins have ways of ensnaring men like us…”

Rowly groaned. “For God's sake, Wil! I'd be entirely happy for her to ‘ensnare' me, but you needn't worry—Ed can do much better than a Sinclair.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Rowland wondered if Wilfred had been struck dumb by the mere notion that the Sinclair name was not enough to attract a woman. He hoped that the conversation would move on.

They ate their soup in relative silence. Over the main course, Wilfred mentioned the painting he had seen on the easel in Woodlands House.

“Is that one of yours, too?”

“Don't tell me you liked it?”

“I've never pretended to know a great deal about art, Rowly.” Wilfred was non-committal. “I must say the subject intrigued me….Were they real people?”

“Yes.” Rowland told him about the meeting in the Domain and the ensuing violence, carefully, for he was surprised that Wilfred was interested, and he was sure that some sort of censure would follow.

He was not disappointed.

Wilfred drank deeply from his glass. “What the devil is wrong with you, Rowly?” he said in frustration. “Don't you realise how dangerous the Communists are! What's the point of me—” He stopped suddenly.

“Point of you what?”

Wilfred said nothing for a moment. “What's the point of me fighting for this country if my brother is going to undermine it? What's the point of Aubrey dying if you're going to join up with the enemies of our way of life?”

“That's a bit dramatic, Wil. Have you joined the New Guard then?”

“Don't be a fool.” Wilfred slammed his fork on the table. “Campbell's Boo Guard is a band of radical no-hopers. I daresay their hearts may initially have been in the right place, but they simply don't have the calibre of men required to do anything but aggravate the situation!”

“Oh, they were certainly inflaming things at the Domain last Sunday.”

“That's beside the point, Rowly.” Wilfred glared at his brother over his spectacles. “What are you doing consorting with the Red Army? Aside from being wrong, it's bloody unseemly.”

Rowland sighed. “A few men in the Domain are hardly the Red Army, Wil. When did you get so paranoid?”

Wilfred wiped his lips with his napkin. Rowland braced for a lecture.

“I want you to get your unemployed, Communist friends out of my house.”

Rowland's voice became steely. “It's my house as much as it is yours, Wil, and as you said, they are my friends. They stay as long as they choose to.”

And so the Sinclair brothers returned to silence as they finished their meal, and parted in anger.

“I'll send Johnston around for you in the morning,” Rowland said as Wilfred got out of the Rolls at their uncle's house. “I can use my car.”

Wilfred nodded abruptly and walked into the house. As Johnston drove off, Rowland watched Wilfred through the rear window. He had not intended for their meal to end this way.

When Rowland walked once again into Woodlands House, Bertram Middleton was still there. A jazz recording was playing on the gramophone and the aspiring novelist was teaching Edna and Milton the steps of some new dance, while Clyde tapped the final nails into a newly stretched canvas. Rowland slumped into the armchair and removed his tie without interrupting them. He took his notebook from its usual place on the side table and doodled absentmindedly as he listened to the laughter and good-humoured banter. He was, at that moment, completely happy with the way he chose to live his life.

Once she had tired of the dance lesson, Edna suggested cards, and they played poker until Middleton gave up all hope of having Edna to himself and went home.

“I thought he'd never go,” Edna said as the door closed behind him.

“Of course he didn't want to go,” Rowland replied. “You shouldn't lead the poor chap on, Ed.”

“Whatever makes you think I'm leading him on?” Edna huffed.

“Going to marry him, are you?” Milton asked raising a chuckle from Clyde.

“I might.” She tossed her head.

Milton rolled his eyes. Edna was just about stubborn enough to do so, simply to prove a point.

“Oh, yeah? And what are you going to tell Alby Jones, Sam Harrington, Fred Turner, and that other bloke with the funny voice?” asked Clyde, listing just some of the artists and musicians who came calling to vie for her attention.

“I wouldn't worry about that last one.” Milton restacked the deck. “He's more interested in seducing Rowly.”

Edna smiled. “I'm not going to marry Bertie, not unless his novel proves a lot more interesting than he is.”

Rowland dealt the next hand. “What's the book about?”

“Some tragic ponderous epic about unrequited love, and justice for the downtrodden…I don't know too much. Frankly, I don't like to get him started on it,” she picked up her cards. “I'm heartily sick of talking about Bertie. How did things go with your brother?”

“You made quite an impression on him.”

“I'll bet,” said Milton as he studied his hand,

“Did you speak to the housekeeper?” asked Clyde, remembering why Rowland had left the house early that afternoon.

Rowland nodded and recounted his conversation with Mrs. Donelly.

Edna's mouth dropped open. “She thinks your uncle was murdered by ghosts?”

Rowland nodded. “Dark ghosts, apparently.”

“Do you think she's off her rocker?” asked Clyde.

“I don't know. The police obviously do.”

“She's not a Theosophist?” suggested Milton thoughtfully. The spiritual movement, which had reached its height over the last decade, still had many local adherents.

“I doubt it.” Rowland shook his head.

Milton stroked his chin. “Hmmm, mysterious, wot.”

Edna groaned. Milton was an avid reader of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “Grow up Milt!” she scolded. “Rowly's uncle was murdered. This is not the time to play Sherlock Holmes.”

Rowland, however, was not offended. He, too, had been intrigued by the housekeeper's claim. Despite his initial reaction to her story, he was not inclined to believe she was mad. “He's right, Ed,” he said in Milton's defence. “It is odd; I wonder what the old girl actually saw?”

“Nothing wrong with using our own brains, my dear Edna,” Milton added smugly. “The amateur reasoner could well have a part to play in the resolution of these sad events.”

Now Rowland laughed. “I just meant that I should talk to the police again about what Mrs. Donelly saw. I'm not suggesting that we buy pipes and move to Baker Street!”

Regardless, Milton regaled them with the anecdotes of the fictional detective as they played poker into the first hours of the next morning.

***

The night had been hot and Rowland rose early, despite having played cards until the small hours. It was fortuitous. He had just drained his cup of coffee when Mary Brown informed him the police were at the door. He asked her to show them in, and met them in the drawing room.