A Few Right Thinking Men (6 page)

There were again two: Peters, who had come to tell him of his uncle's death, and an older man not in uniform, but a charcoal suit.

“Mr. Sinclair,” he said as Rowland shook his hand. “Inspector Bicuit, like biscuit without the ‘s'. You've met Constable Peters.”

“Inspector Bicuit…Constable.” Rowland gestured toward the chairs. “I take it you have come about my uncle.”

“We have,” Bicuit agreed, slipping himself into a wingback.

“Have you discovered who murdered him?” Rowland asked eagerly.

“Are you aware, Mr. Sinclair,” Bicuit went on ignoring his question, “how long the housekeeper, Mrs. Donelly, was in your uncle's employ?”

“Since before I was born,” Rowland responded. “About thirty years I'd say…she'd be able to tell you more exactly herself, I expect.”

“Do you know, sir,” the inspector asked, “of any family or male associates that Mrs. Donelly may have?”

“Not really.” Rowland wondered where Bicuit's line of questioning was heading. “There is a nephew, I think, but I haven't met him.”

“Are you able to tell me, Mr. Sinclair, if any valuables were taken the night your uncle died?”

Rowland shrugged. “No, Mrs. Donelly is probably the only one who would know for sure exactly what bits and pieces Uncle Rowland had. Has she noticed anything missing?”

“Mrs. Donelly claims that nothing was taken,” Bicuit replied tersely.

“So it wasn't a robbery then?”

“Perhaps.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Donelly yesterday,” Rowland volunteered. “She is certain that she saw what she described as ‘dark ghosts' when she found my uncle. Perhaps there was something she mistook for spirits….I know how it sounds, but I doubt Mrs. Donelly is insane.”

“I also doubt that, sir.” Bicuit exchanged a glance with Peters.

“Mr. Sinclair,” the inspector continued, “your uncle's body was found by the entrance door, as if he had just answered it.” Bicuit looked around at the genteel opulence of Woodlands House. “Was it Rowland Sinclair's custom to answer his own door?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Who would normally have done so?”

“Mrs. Donelly, I expect. I'm not really sure what arrangements my uncle had with his domestic staff.”

“Why do you suppose that, on this occasion, your uncle answered his own door?” Bicuit leaned toward Rowland.

“I don't know,” Rowland said slowly. “She's a bit deaf…perhaps she didn't hear the knocking.” He suddenly realised where the inspector's questions were leading. “I say, you don't think Mrs. Donelly had anything to do with it? That's preposterous!”

“Perhaps not quite as preposterous as the notion of dark ghosts,” the inspector replied.

“What would she possibly have to gain?”

“Well, that rather depends upon what, if anything, was taken from your uncle's house. At the moment, we only have Mrs. Donelly's word that nothing was taken.”

“Why would an old woman suddenly turn to crime? Murder?”

“You may not have noticed, sir,” said Bicuit coolly, “but we are in the midst of a Depression. These times have seen many otherwise honest people driven to crime.” He looked around the drawing room, his eyes settling on a large silver urn on the sideboard. “Perhaps that has escaped your attention.”

Rowland glowered at him. The silence was brittle, icy.

“Your uncle was a wealthy man,” Bicuit spoke first. “Are you aware, sir, who stands to inherit his estate?”

“My brother and me, I expect…possibly my nephew…his solicitor could tell you.”

“In fact, his solicitor has already told us,” replied Bicuit almost triumphantly. “You are the primary beneficiary of Mr. Sinclair's will.”

“Your point, Inspector?”

“As I said, Mr. Sinclair, your uncle was a wealthy man….”

“I don't mean to sound crass, Inspector,” Rowland said evenly, “but I am already a wealthy man.”

“Where were you the night your uncle was killed, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Right here,” said Rowland.

“Can anyone verify that, sir?”

At that moment Edna entered the drawing room bearing a tray laden with tea. Rowland smiled to himself. Subtlety was not Edna's talent, and she was by nature inquisitive. The men stood as she put down the tray and poured tea.

“Gentlemen, this is Miss Higgins. Ed, you remember Constable Peters, and this is Inspector Bicuit.”

“Like Biscuit without the ‘s',” intoned the inspector, staring keenly at Edna.

“Charmed, gentlemen,” said Edna demurely passing them cups of tea. She held out a plate of shortbread. “A biscuit, Inspector Bicuit?” she asked.

The inspector declined, but Peters took one, clearly enjoying her thinly disguised impudence.

“I couldn't help but overhear, Inspector,” said Edna, “you asked whether anyone could verify Rowly's whereabouts on the night he lost his uncle so tragically. Well, we were all here.”

“And who exactly constitutes ‘we'?” Bicuit asked, unable to take his eyes from Edna.

Rowland recognised the look—a mixture of realisation, scandal, and a little guilt. He'd seen the same expression on Wilfred. Apparently the inspector had noted the painting above his uncle's mantelpiece.

“Those who live here, of course.” Edna sat so that the men, too, could resume their seats. “Admittedly, I was asleep, but Clyde and Milt were with Rowly in the drawing room.”

“She means Clyde Watson Jones and Milton Isaacs,” said Rowland.

“And Messrs Watson Jones and Isaacs are your houseguests?” Bicuit asked warily.

“As is Miss Higgins.”

“I see.”

“Clyde and Milt are still asleep, but they are here if you need to speak with them,” Edna chirped.

“That won't be necessary,” replied Bicuit. “If you would just ask them to come into police headquarters to give their statements?”

“Certainly, Inspector.” Rowland rose to show them out.

But Bicuit stayed in his seat. “Mr. Sinclair…I'm afraid this is a somewhat delicate question, but it must be asked. Are you aware if your uncle had any romantic liaison or attachment?”

“He was seventy-two.” Rowland replied, aghast. But even as he said it, he lost confidence in his own outrage. His uncle had been an inveterate flirt. Perhaps the old man…

“We did find a pair of, er…” he stopped, looking at Edna.

“Please go on,” said Rowland.

Bicuit cleared his throat. “We discovered a pair of fishnet stockings in his house. We haven't yet asked Mrs. Donelly, but I think it safe to assume they are not hers.”

Rowland smiled faintly, as an absurd image of the ancient housekeeper wearing fishnets flashed upon his inner eye. He shrugged. “I'm afraid I can't help you, Inspector.”

Finally, Bicuit rose to leave. Constable Peters had used the extra time to finish his tea and did likewise. They stopped by the easel where the Domain painting still sat, and studied it for a moment. “You and your uncle have some interesting artwork, Mr. Sinclair,” the inspector said as he walked out.

Rowland closed the door behind them. “What was all that about?” he asked Edna as he returned to the drawing room.

“What do you mean?” she said with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

“The tea and charm thing,” he persisted. “Surely you could have just eavesdropped at the door.”

“I had to come in,” she replied sipping her tea. “That man…Biscuit without the ‘s'…he was about to accuse you of murdering your uncle!”

“He only asked me where I'd been, Ed,” he said, amused. “I'm sure it's only routine.”

“I don't trust him…He kept looking at me strangely.”

“I rather think he recognised you from the painting I gave Uncle Rowland.”

“Oh,” she said, understanding now. She laughed and then suddenly became serious. “Perhaps you should put that painting away, Rowly.”

Rowland was surprised. He was not the first or last artist Edna had sat for. It was not like her to be coy. “Why?”

“I was so fat back then…it's embarrassing.”

Rowland smiled. Edna had lost some weight over the last year, but it was hardly an extraordinary amount. In any case, he did not think her more or less beautiful as a consequence.

“You know yourself, Ed,” he said. “The eye likes curves. A gentleman's eye in particular. I'll take it down if you really want me to, but it would be a jolly shame. It's probably my best piece.”

She sighed. “All right, leave it then. I'm just not sure I like all these strange men knowing how extremely plump I was.”

Rowly wasn't quite sure how to respond. “I doubt they noticed your weight, Ed.”

Chapter Seven

After the Polo

Town and Country
FRIENDS ENTERTAINED

YASS, Saturday

One of the most dazzling receptions in the Polo Week gaieties was given last week at Oaklea by Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Sinclair. The guests, who numbered almost 400, included many country visitors, and there was a delightfully friendly and informal atmosphere about the gathering, making it a happy start to the pageantry of the Polo Ball.

The Argu
s, December 14, 1931

Rowland latched the wooden case containing his paints, and wrapped his brushes into their roll. The maids had just completed the rest of his packing, under Mary Brown's watchful eye, but he would trust the tools of his trade to no one but himself. Through the window, he could see his trunks already being loaded into the Rolls-Royce for the trip to Central Railway Station. Wilfred would send a car to meet his train at Yass and take him back to Oaklea, where his uncle Rowland was to be buried the next day. Wilfred had left Sydney with the coffin the day before. As it was so close to Christmas, Rowland would stay in Yass for a few weeks, returning in the New Year.

He was searching for his notebook when Edna and Milton came in.

Edna looked him up and down, clearly dissatisfied. “What are you wearing?” she demanded. “You're going to the country…”

“What do you mean?” he said looking down at the dark suit for a paint stain he may have missed when he selected it.

“I just thought you'd look a bit more…rural.” Edna handed him the notebook she'd just picked up from the couch.

“She wants a big hat and some kind of rope, Rowly.” Milton grinned as he adjusted his own cravat to sit perfectly within the collar of his shirt.

Rowland laughed. “Obviously someone needs to take you to the country, Ed,” he said. “You'll find old Banjo Paterson's taken a bit of licence.”

“I'd like to see you droving,” she said mischievously, “mustering cattle through the bush….”

Rowland shook his head. “I hate to upset your conviction that I'm Clancy of the Overflow, but Oaklea is a sheep property, and the last time I rode was in a polo match.”

“Oh.” Edna did seem genuinely disappointed. “So what do you do out there? Didn't your family make their fortune growing sheep?”

“They're pastoralists, yes, but the last couple of generations have had the good sense to put the actual running into the hands of men who know what they're doing.” Rowland was as always amused by Edna's romantic notion of his background. “Wil handles the business side, but the managers take care of everything else.”

“Don't you do anything?” asked Edna.

He smiled. “I'm the youngest son, Ed…My role is to keep bad company and squander the family fortune.”

“As long as you have some sort of purpose.” Milton picked up Rowland's case of paints. He was surprised by its weight. “Will you need all this? How long do you plan to be gone?”

“Not long, I hope,” Rowland replied, “but if I don't have something to do, my brother will feel the need to drag me around with him.”

Clyde wandered into the drawing room holding before him a large canvas, the painted side facing his chest. He put it down and beamed at Rowland. “Lady McKenzie is finished, at last. I'm taking her to be framed with the most lavish gold leaf frame known to man!”

“So let's see her.”

Clyde swivelled the canvas round. For a moment there was silence as they gazed at the dreaded portrait. Rowland broke it first.

“Clyde, old boy, you're brilliant!” He applauded.

Clyde had depicted Lady McKenzie accurately, but she was no longer the focus. The foreground was now dominated by a poodle, with large, beseeching eyes which, by distraction, softened its owner's severe and unwelcome features.

“My friend, you have painted Medusa without turning us all to stone,” waxed Milton.

The classical allusion was lost on Clyde, but he gathered it was a statement of approval nonetheless. “I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier.” He grinned. “She loves that mutt.”

“She'll be really happy with it, Clyde.” Edna stood back to observe. “It's such a handsome dog!”

“It's a vicious, smelly beast, actually,” Clyde replied, “but it is a lot prettier than the good lady.”

“I'd better get going,” Rowland checked his watch. “You know where to reach me. Try not to upset Mary, and don't burn down my house.”

They walked him to the Rolls and between them managed to squeeze his remaining cases and easels into the limited space left in the trunk.

Rowland passed his time on the train comfortably. He occupied himself as he always did, sketching. He made drawings of the people who stood on the platform as he waited for the train to pull out; the elegant ladies and suited gentlemen about to enter the first-class carriages, the people who headed for second class and even the furtive shabby men who loitered in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to jump into an open freight car. After the train left the station, he had to draw from memory. The private compartment in which he travelled meant he was deprived of unsuspecting models.

At midday, he took lunch in the dining car. The cut glass of the chandelier tinkled above his table with the rock of the carriage. Eating alone, he observed his fellow diners, making occasional scribbles in his notebook. The two men who sat at the table closest to him were discussing the divisive state premier. The conversation was not unfamiliar. Premier Jack Lang incited heated passions one way or the other. Here, in the first-class dining car, opinions on the socialist leader were unlikely to be positive.

A young woman, fashionably dressed in a fitted cream ensemble that seemed a size too small, sat smoking by the open window. She spoke with an older woman, who Rowland assumed was her mother. Despite their hushed tones, Rowland gleaned that she was to be married in a month and that her dress was being shipped from Paris. It was a remarkably long and involved conversation about a single dress. He captured the bride-to-be with barely more than five lines, marks as controlled and sharp as her face. He stopped when she noticed his gaze. She blushed and smiled coquettishly. Her mother's glance was more severe. Rowland unfolded his newspaper, making a note to be more subtle in future.

The train pulled into Yass Junction by the middle of the afternoon. It was hot, but dry. The wind was warm from the north. Already, Rowland missed the cooling coastal breezes.

The car waiting for him was another Rolls-Royce Phantom, though a more recent model than the one at Woodlands House. The chauffeur—he must have been new—introduced himself as Alfred Meakin before loading the trunk. Rowland removed his jacket and climbed into the backseat. It would still be a twenty-minute drive to Oaklea.

The township of Yass itself was busy and, for a country centre, its main street was crowded. Yass thrived as a natural break-point in the long journey between Sydney and Melbourne. Despite the times, visiting travellers contributed significantly to its economy and the activity of its business district. There were also other travellers, of vastly different circumstance. The tired men on the wallaby track, who moved from town to town in search of work, and were marked by the ragged swags that weighed down their backs. They, too, came to Yass.

The countryside here was already parched. The summer, though barely begun, had been intense and dry. The pastures had long turned gold and the road was dust under the wheels of the motorcar.

The low stone walls marking the home paddock of Oaklea seemed to hold the dryness of the landscape at bay. The lawns were irrigated and lush. The long driveway was lined by large oak trees underplanted with purple-bloomed agapanthus. It circled in front of the main house, around a segmented rose bed which lent its heavy perfume to the afternoon air.

Despite the heat, Rowland slipped his jacket back on. Wilfred was particular about such things and there was no need to start out on a bad footing.

Several other cars were parked outside the house. Rowland expected they were people who had come to pay their respects at the funeral—the usual births, deaths, and marriages company of distant relatives that appear only on such occasions. Fortunately, so close to Christmas, they were unlikely to stay long.

He stepped out of the car as soon as it stopped on the gravel.

Oaklea loomed before him. It had changed since his last visit, well over a year ago. The original homestead had been a Victorian building, with rubblestone walls and Romanesque features. Over the past three years, however, it had been expanded and remodelled under the direction of his sister-in-law. The verandah had been widened and softened with wisteria, the blooms now hanging in their pendulous purple clusters. Several bay windows had been added to the ground floor, as well as a projecting porch at the entrance. Another wing had been constructed and the roofline now included gables. Even the garden sported large arboured walkways and meandering dry rock walls he had not seen before. The extensive modifications interested more than disturbed him, but he wondered what his mother thought of them. She didn't like change.

Rowland straightened his tie and ran up the steps to the front door. He braced himself. Homecomings were difficult.

Mrs. Kendall, who had been the housekeeper at Oaklea since before the war, was holding the door open for him. Her husband was head gardener and her sons both worked for Wilfred on the property. Mrs. Kendall was a substantial woman with perfect rose-hued skin, and a face that was warmth and welcome itself.

“Mr. Rowland!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in…”

As he entered the house, he saw the interior had also been renovated. It was much lighter now. Many of the original dark and ornate features were gone, replaced with modern touches.

“Mr. Sinclair is with funeral guests in the main drawing room,” Mrs. Kendall said conspiratorially. “Why don't you go into the library and I shall quietly tell him you're here? You won't want to be talking with visitors immediately after you've arrived, not after such a long trip.”

Rowland smiled. Mrs. Kendall looked on him as a twelve-year-old. In her maternal heart, he remained the shy boy who'd been her charge. If he'd not grown so tall, she'd probably still be licking her hand to smooth down his hair. He embraced her whilst Wilfred was not around to disapprove of such familiarity. She was probably the only person at Oaklea who still missed him.

When he finally entered it, he noticed that the library, too, had been modernised with oak panelling and a sandstone fireplace. Wilfred, it seemed, had added to his father's already substantial collection of books. Rowland leant on the back of a leather armchair, letting his eyes scan the shelves for familiar titles.

“Rowly,” Wilfred walked in and shook his hand. “It's good to see you back here. What do you think of Kate's changes?”

“She's been busy.”

“Yes, it keeps her occupied.” Wilfred clearly believed the occupation of his wife to be a good thing. “Kate will be down in a moment—she just went to fetch Mother from her room.”

“There's no need for that.” Rowland glanced uneasily toward the doorway. “I could just go up…How is Mother?”

“Good days, bad days,” said Wilfred grimly. Their mother had never quite recovered from the deaths of her son and her husband.

Elisabeth Sinclair came into the room just ahead of her daughter-in-law. Now in her mid-sixties, she was still a handsome woman. Her hair was the snowy white that spoke of auburn origin, and she wore it stylishly back from her face. Always dressed immaculately and tastefully, she moved with a considered grace. Her face, however, was hesitant, her eyes tragic and bewildered. Until she saw Rowland. She rushed to him, as he stepped quietly toward her, and reached up to clasp his face between her hands. “Aubrey.” Her voice trembled. “My dear, dear Aubrey.”

Rowland returned her smile sadly. His mother had started mistaking him for Aubrey when he first came home from Oxford. In the last couple of years she had acknowledged him as no one else. It was as if she eased her grief by convincing herself that he was his dead brother. Rowland occasionally wondered what she thought had become of her youngest son, but he had given up trying to disillusion her.

“Mother, this is Rowly,” Wilfred corrected her calmly.

“Rowly? Don't be silly, Wilfred. Do you not recognise your own brother?” Despite her words, her eyes welled with tears at the mere suggestion that it was not her beloved Aubrey returned.

Rowland glanced at Wilfred, a sign to say no more. “How are you, Mother?” he said. “You look well.”

He spoke gently with her for a while. He wasn't sure if his visits helped or hurt her—she seemed more and more fragile each time he came home.

Eventually, Wilfred suggested their mother take her afternoon rest. “No, Wilfred.” She stamped her foot like a small child. “I want to stay with Aubrey.”