A Murder Unmentioned (15 page)

Edna Walling cleared her throat fiercely.

The men looked up, realising they’d been overheard. “I beg your pardon,” the elder of the two stammered, clearly abashed. His leathered face was too tanned to show the blush his voice betrayed. “We meant the poacher, not Mr. Sinclair. Why he’s a proper gentleman. We didn’t mean to—”

“Not at all,” Rowland smiled.

“May I introduce Victor Bates and Jack Templeton,” Edna Walling said glaring at the outspoken pair. “They’ve joined us temporarily while my usual contractor is unwell.”

Rowland offered the men his hand. “How do you do, gentlemen? Rowland Sinclair.”

For a breath, Templeton, the younger man, stared at Rowland’s hand, then he wiped his own and shook it. “I know who you are, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sorry if Vic here spoke out of turn —he’s from Adelaide, I’m afraid… no decorum at all.”

“Watch yourself, boy!” Bates poked his workmate and shook Rowland’s hand himself. “Jacko thinks he’s funny, but we didn’t mean no offence.”

“None taken,” Rowland replied, laughing. “I misspoke myself. Poacher is probably not quite right. A number of people enjoy shooting rights on
Emoh Ruo
apparently. Perhaps some of them have poor eyesight.”

“We did run into a couple of rabbit shooters when we were surveying the dam paddock,” Edna Walling said thoughtfully. “Of course they refrained from shooting at us!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rowland replied. “It was dark when Len and I were out,” he added, though he wasn’t entirely convinced of the explanation himself. “Fortunately, Lenin will pull up quite well, and I believe Wil intends to revoke the permissions to all shooting parties.”

“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair stood up in the passenger seat of the Mercedes as a reminder that he was waiting.

Rowland waved at his nephew and took his leave of Edna Walling and her workmen.

As there wasn’t a great deal left to be done to restore the
Rule Britannia
, Rowland planned to take the biplane up, ostensibly for a test flight. Ernest, armed with his father’s binoculars, was understandably impatient to be on their way. Mrs. Kendall had packed them a basket of cakes and shortbread, and Clyde had secured a wooden crate, containing three bottles of lemonade and another of ginger beer, to the running board.

It took less than an hour to finish patching the fuselage. Rowland and Clyde pushed the wood and canvas aircraft out of the shed. Rowland walked the paddock checking for holes or obstructions in the low stubble, anything large enough to interfere with a successful take-off. That done, he climbed into the pilot’s seat and switched on the engine. Clyde spun the propeller and removed the wheel chocks before running back to watch with Ernest. Rowland turned the
Rule Britannia
into the prevailing headwind and opened up the throttle. Clyde and Ernest cheered as she left the ground.

Rowland tested the elevators and ailerons, banking hard in a series of turns. He could see Ernest on Clyde’s shoulders, waving
madly. He turned into the headwind again to land, double-checking for any troublesome fence-lines before he cut back the engine and began to glide towards the ground.

He landed softly, faultlessly, taxiing the biplane to rest in almost the same position as he started. Rowland climbed out of the cockpit, looking around for Clyde. It was only then he noticed another man a short distance behind Clyde and Ernest.

Tearing off his aviator cap and goggles, Rowland jumped down from the wing.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hayden?” he demanded.

Clyde and Ernest turned. Focussed on the flight of the
Rule Britannia
, they’d failed to notice Charlie Hayden, whose history as the manager of
Oaklea
had so interested the police.

Rowland strode past them towards the intruder.

“Ernie, stay here, mate,” Clyde instructed as he set the boy down and started after Rowland.

Charlie Hayden dropped his cigarette stub onto the ground and crushed it with the ball of his foot. “Look, Mr. Sinclair, Rowland… I thought maybe you’d hear me out… for old time’s sake—”

“I don’t know why you’d think that, Hayden. I don’t know why you’d think that I wouldn’t want to kill you!”

Hayden backed away a step. “Because you’re not like your father or your brother. You’re not a complete bastard. And because you know who killed your father as well as I do!”

Hayden recoiled, staggering as Rowland’s fist made contact with his jaw.

Clyde leapt to grab his friend before he could swing again.

“Leave off, Clyde,” Rowland growled, his eyes fixed on Hayden who was spitting blood.

“Rowly!” Clyde did not loosen his grip. “Ernie… the boy’s here. Is this something you want him to see?”

Rowland glanced at his nephew, who watched from just a few yards away, his small fists up in the fighting stance his uncle had taught him as he blinked back tears of horror and confusion. Rowland stopped pushing against Clyde and turned back to Hayden. “Get off this property!”

“If you’d only listen, Rowland. I was doing my job. You can’t hold that against me!”

“On the contrary, Mr. Hayden, I do.” Rowland’s fists remained clenched as he lowered his voice. “I don’t want to listen to your cock and bull theories, I don’t want to talk to you and if I see you here again, I may just kill you. Now go!”

Hayden did not move. “You’ll regret this, boy!” he spat blood into the dirt at his feet.

It was all Clyde could do to hold Rowland back then. Suddenly Hayden seemed to reconsider the wisdom of what he was doing and put up his hands. “I’m going… I’m going.”

He turned and walked towards the road. They watched till he was out of sight.

“What do you think he’s after?” Clyde whispered.

Rowland suppressed a curse. “I don’t know, but the bastard’s bloody lucky that you and Ernie were here.”

Clyde smiled. “Well, Ernie anyway. I would have helped you bury him, otherwise.”

Rowland laughed bitterly. “You may yet have to.” He stepped back to Ernest and knelt to look his nephew in the eye.

“I’m sorry about that, Ernie. Are you all right?”

“That’s the man who came to see Mummy,” Ernest said shakily.

“He came to see your mother? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What did he want?”

Ernest’s lower lip began to tremble. “I don’t know.”

“That’s all right, mate,” Rowland said more gently. “I can ask your mother.”

“Why did you punch that man, Uncle Rowly?”

“I was angry.”

“Why?”

Rowland hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I shouldn’t have hit him, Ernie,” he said in the end. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

Ernest threw his arms around Rowland’s neck and hugged him. Rowland was surprised and then ashamed. Whether by nature or training, Ernest was not generally demonstrative. The child must have been truly frightened by the violence.

He stood up with Ernest still in his arms. “Come on, you can ride in the cockpit while Clyde and I push
Doris
back into the shed.”

12

DOCTOR SAYS:

Weather Decides A Baby’s Sex

(From Brooke McClure,
The Sunday Times
Special U.S.A. Representative.)

NEW YORK, Saturday

Dr. William F. Peterson, pathology expert of Illinois University, is convinced that the fact of a baby being born a boy or girl is largely due to temperature.

He believes that, broadly speaking, girl babies are the result of warm weather conditions and males the result of cold weather.

More geniuses as well as sub-normal babies are born when weather conditions are unsettled, and he believes that Europe is filled with so many turbulent figures because its climate is more unsettled than the climate of many other parts of the world.

The Sunday Times, 1939

T
he two-ton Federal lorry looked entirely out of place with the imposing elegance of
Oaklea
as a backdrop. Battered and patched with mismatching timbers and tin-plate, it was a stark contrast to the pristine duco of Lucy Bennett’s Riley Lynx, beside which it was parked. Rowland did not pay a great deal of attention to the lorry, assuming it belonged to Edna Walling or one of her contractors. It was the third vehicle that caught his attention: a black police car.

“It looks like Gilbey and Angel are back.” He brought the Mercedes to a stop.

Clyde nodded. “You might want to have a word to them about this bloke Hayden,” he said, frowning. “The man’s got some hide turning up here again.”

“I will,” Rowland promised as he climbed out of the car.

He glanced up at
Oaklea
. In their absence a grand wreath had been hung on the front door and swags of holly beneath the windows. With all the drama he had almost forgotten it was nearly Christmas.

“Your poor mother will be wondering where you’ve got to,” Rowland said guiltily. “You should have reached Batlow days ago, Clyde.”

“Don’t worry about it, Rowly—with all the wives and husbands and children, there are an awful lot of us now. I expect Mum’s glad to have the extra bed until the last possible moment. And my sisters’ boys won’t be half-impressed when I tell them about how we fixed
Doris
.”

Rowland had an idea. “Why don’t I fly you up there? There must be somewhere near Batlow we could land.”

For a moment Clyde considered it and then, reluctantly, he declined. “Nah, Rowly, I’d never hear the end of it. My old mum doesn’t really approve of flying. She thinks it’s blasphemous.”

“Blasphemous?”

“She has this notion that the heavens are the dominion of the good Lord and we should not venture up there unless we’re invited, or dead.”

“I see,” Rowland smiled. He’d met Mrs. Watson Jones. Clyde was probably wise to be cautious. “Come on, we’d best see what the constabulary wants this time.” He looked thoughtfully at his nephew. “Ernie, why don’t you investigate what Miss Walling and her band of
gardeners are up to?” Rowland handed Ernest Mrs. Kendall’s picnic basket which had, it turned out, been packed with enough cakes and shortbread to feed a dozen men. “See if they’re hungry.”

Ernest took the basket eagerly. He liked talking to the workmen. Miss Walling had let him plant the violets. Templeton and Bates always made him laugh, calling him “Ernest, Lord of
Oaklea
” or “Prince Short Pants” and requesting that he shift great boulders out of the way.

And so he set off happily, leaving his uncle and Clyde to see about the police.

“Rowly! Clyde!” Edna Higgins flung open the homestead door and launched herself at them, somehow managing to embrace them both simultaneously.

Milton came up behind the sculptress and shook Rowland’s hand. “Lenin told us he took a bullet for you. How are you, Rowly?”

“I’m well…” Rowland replied, bewildered. “What are you both doing here?”

“Aren’t you pleased to see us?” Edna asked, feigning hurt.

“Of course I am. I’m simply surprised. How did you get here?”

Milton pointed to the shabby Federal. “My cousin lent me his lorry, though I did have to promise him your car for his wedding in return.”

“What?”

“He could hardly expect his bride to arrive in the Federal.”

“Aren’t you both supposed to be spending Christmas in Sydney?”

“Ed received an invitation to spend Christmas in Canberra,” Milton replied.

“Do you remember Bertie Middleton, Rowly?” Edna asked casually.

Rowland did. Bertram Middleton had been one of the sculptress’s many suitors… a writer, if memory served. “Yes, Middleton—whatever happened to him?”

“He moved to Canberra… something about inspiration for his novel.”

“Canberra?”

Edna shrugged. “Where else would you write the Great Australian Novel?”

“I can think of a few places… he won’t be hindered by distractions, I suppose.”

She laughed. “Poor Bertie has been wretchedly lonely—he literally begged us to visit.”

“Actually, he begged Ed,” Milton corrected. “I’m just the chaperone.”

“I see,” Rowland said. It was a little startling to find them both here but it was the kind of impulsive thing they would do. And he was strangely relieved to see them. Of course he was less than pleased that Middleton seemed to be once again pressing his case. “I thought you had a film role?” he said to Edna.

Milton grinned, delighted. “They sacked her.”

“Whatever for?”

“A creative disagreement,” Edna declared loftily.

“She told the director that he was ridiculous,” Milton revealed.

“Kenny Hall? Good Lord! Why?” Edna had always got on famously with Ken Hall.

“It’s K.G. now,” Edna said rolling her eyes. “He won’t let anyone call him Kenny anymore.”

“And that’s why you told him he was ridiculous?” Rowland ventured.

“No, of course not. Kenny wasn’t directing this film. This was Harry Southwell who wanted me to die like a lady.”

“How else could you die?”

“Like someone actually dying!” Edna said, demonstrating by clutching her hands to her chest, gasping and stumbling in a wild but surprisingly convincing depiction.