A Murder Unmentioned (27 page)

Most housewives like to have a special time of house cleaning and renovating prior to the Christmas season, and it gives one a feeling of quiet contentment to know that walls, if they have not been washed, have, at any rate been well brushed, cupboards have been done out and bait laid for destructive moths and silver fish, pictures have been polished, and fresh curtains adorn gleaming windows.

After your actual cleaning has been attended to, the paint or varnish pot is the next item to claim attention.

The Charleville Times, 1932

“R
owly! Bloody hell—what did those bastards do to you?” Milton was lying on the lower bunk when Rowland was pushed back into the cell. He got up to make way for his friend and helped him onto the cot.

Rowland lifted his prison tunic, gingerly testing the large area of bruising on his ribs. Milton winced. Rowland’s torso was a startling canvas of black and blue. “Do you need a doctor, mate?”

Rowland straightened. “No.”

Milton paced furiously. “They’ve no right—just because you can’t mop.”

Rowland smiled. “It wasn’t that, Milt. The bruising is from the fire. Withers just reminded me it was there, that’s all.” He told
Milton what he’d been doing for the past couple of hours. His conversations with Wilfred, Clyde and Edna, and then Withers.

After Milton finished laughing, they talked of what they’d do next.

“We’re going to have to find out who really shot your old man, Rowly.”

“We?”

“You’re not objective about this, Rowly. You’ve already proved that. Clyde and Ed and I will need to get involved this time.”

“As opposed to every other time?” Rowland asked.

Milton ignored him. “We need to get back to
Oaklea
when we get out.”

“
Oaklea
? Why?”

“It’s the scene of the crime, old boy. It’s where we have to start.”

“The crime happened thirteen years ago. What evidence there was would be long gone by now.”

“Even so. We need to figure out who exactly was there that night. Now that you’re no longer worried about dropping Wilfred in it, you might be able to remember something useful.”

“I don’t know, Milt…”

“This meeting of Wilfred’s, for example. Who was it with?”

“I believe Wil said his name was Menzies.”

“Well, perhaps this bloke Menzies was involved.”

“He didn’t set foot on the property as far as I know,” Rowland said, shaking his head.

“But perhaps the meeting was purposely engineered to get Wilfred off the property while your father was murdered.”

Rowland frowned as he considered the idea. “But Wil was back at the house by the time Father was shot.”

“You returned unexpectedly from school, remember? You should still have been away at Kings. The killer wouldn’t have known that
your father would be dealing with you that evening. Perhaps he was just waiting until he could get Henry Sinclair alone.” Milton leaned back against the cold cement wall. “What about the servants?”

“What about them?”

“Perhaps one of them saw or heard something. Like you and Wilfred, they may have had reasons for not coming forward.”

Rowland lay back, allowing Milton to carry on. A devotee of mystery novels, the poet’s theories began to take on Christiesque twists, involving disguises, conspiracies and elaborate plots. Rowland was only half-listening, still getting used to the idea that Wilfred had not killed their father; that his brother had sent him away to protect him, rather than because he didn’t trust him. For so many years, he had been shaped by the gratitude and the hurt that had come out of that night. He wondered what would have been different had he known. Perhaps nothing.

At six o’clock they were taken out of their cells and marched to another block for the evening meal. Amongst the prisoners Milton came into his own, diffusing any hostility and steering Rowland away from those who might have taken issue with him for one reason or another. Green glowered at them from the other side of the dining hall but he did not approach.

Rowland allowed the poet to recite the verse of Wilde, Keats, and Coleridge as his own. They were, after all, in a prison—stealing poetry was probably not an offence worth pointing out in the circumstances.

The diminutive guard sergeant oversaw the dining hall hawkishly. Rowland wondered if he’d ever see his notebook again. In its absence he tried to commit the features and manner of the men around him to memory.

After dinner the inmates were returned to their cells. The remand prisoners were escorted to the showers and given five minutes and
a cake of soap. Rowland found the communal facilities less than dignified, but at least they weren’t being fumigated again. By eight o’clock they were locked down for the night.

Despite the hour, both Rowland and Milton were grateful to find their rudimentary beds. Guards patrolled the corridors, conducting bed checks and moving on.

When Guard Sergeant Withers, flanked by two other guards, stopped outside his cell, Rowland assumed he was about to receive the promised lesson in rules. He sat up in the lower cot.

Withers unlocked the cell and strode in. Rowland stood slowly. Milton jumped down from the upper bunk. The two guards stationed themselves at the cell door so that any clear view of what was occurring inside the cell was obscured.

Rowland waited.

Withers reached inside his jacket and extracted the artist’s notebook. “I’ve been looking through your book, Sinclair.”

“I see,” Rowland said eyeing the holstered truncheon warily.

“You draw bloody well, Sinclair… them pictures of your sister aside.” He opened the notebook to a portrait of Detective Angel that Rowland had scribbled from memory. “I applied to join the police with Angel. Course he’s a bit taller than me. Recognised him straight off. It’s a damn good likeness.”

Rowland said nothing, unsure where the conversation was headed.

“You know, Sinclair, it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yes. Merry Christmas, Mr. Withers.”

“It should be, Sinclair. I’m married to a fine woman. Saintly, she is. Though it’s been a difficult year. Her folks have been ill and a guard don’t bring home much, but she’s never complained.”

“It sounds like you’re a lucky man,” Rowland said awkwardly.

Withers lowered his voice, and stepping closer, spoke in confidence. “I’d put away a bit to buy her something nice for
Christmas. A surprise… a clock for the mantel. Mrs. Withers takes great pride in her mantel. But I had a bit of bad luck, you see, on the horses. A sure thing that had second thoughts.”

Rowland’s brow rose. Was the guard about to ask him for money? Was this some clumsy attempt at extortion? Briefly he met Milton’s eye. The poet seemed equally at a loss.

“I feel real bad ’bout it—Christmas Eve and me with nothing for my beloved Patricia. But then I saw this book of yours and I thought to myself that Mrs. Withers would like nothing more than to have a real portrait for the mantel—like you see in posh houses. It’d make a fine Christmas gift.”

The guard smiled, clearly pleased with his ingenuity.

“You’d like me to draw a portrait for you?” Rowland asked tentatively.

“Not for me, for Mrs. Withers.”

“Of?”

“Of me, of course.” The guard became vaguely defensive. “Mrs. Withers still finds me quite fetching… says I’m more handsome now than I were when we was courting. Saintly she is.” He signalled one of his men who brought in a cardboard box. “We rustled up some blotting paper and a few pencils.”

Rowland glanced at Milton. “I see.”

“Will you do it, Sinclair?”

“Yes, I suppose I could… but I’ll need decent light.”

Withers nodded at the guard who remained outside the cell, and within minutes the lights were turned on. The prisoners whose cells were on the same circuit stirred and protested. The guard threatened them into silence.

“Right,” Rowland said, pulling a roll of thick paper and a couple of pencils from the box. “We’d best get started.”

The guard sergeant took up a position by the cell door, posing with his chin high and his hands on his hips—a man of authority, a gatekeeper of consequence.

After some discussion, and in the absence of an easel, Milton and the guard inside the cell stretched the paper out and held it against the cement wall. It was an awkward way to draw but with little other option Rowland made the best of it. He worked quickly, defining a loose composition before he began on the detail. In time he forgot the somewhat peculiar circumstances and became engrossed with the portrait. The haughty insecurity in Withers’ demeanour intrigued him. Whenever the sergeant talked of his wife, his face became tender and he stood taller. It was that moment, that insight that Rowland endeavoured to capture.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Rowland looked again over his shoulder at his model, cross-hatching with the lead’s point like he was making an etching.

For nearly two hours he worked, pausing only to allow the men serving as his easel to change position or stretch. Withers for his part barely moved, though Rowland invited him to relax once the structure of the portrait was complete. Aware that Rowland was not accustomed to working with an audience, Milton chatted, recited and even sang at one point, in an attempt to distract everybody else in the confined space.

Eventually Rowland stood back. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do without proper equipment.”

So eager was Withers to see his portrait that he leapt from his pose by the door and jostled Rowland out of the way. He viewed the pencil sketch from various angles, touching his own face as he studied his features on the paper. “I think Mrs. Withers will be most satisfied, Sinclair.”

“I hope so, Mr. Withers.”

The guard sergeant handed him back his notebook. “I’ve already been offered a month’s wages for that book, Sinclair. It’s worth a fortune in here.”

“I’m not trying to sell it, Mr. Withers.”

“Well, considering how happy Mrs. Withers is going to be tomorrow, I’ll try to make sure no one tries to kill you for it. Some of the blokes can get pretty desperate in here, and then there’s the inmates.”

Rowland laughed. There didn’t seem to be any good purpose in protesting the difference between art and pornography just then. “Thank you.”

“Just don’t show anyone what’s in it.” Withers took the portrait in his hands, smiling warmly at his own image. “We’d better get on. Oh yes,” he added as he stepped outside the cell. “Don’t go to the dining hall tomorrow, stay in your cell.”

“Why?” Rowland asked.

“Your brother’s arranged for a special Christmas dinner to be brought in for you and Mr. Isaacs.”

“Is that allowed?” Rowland asked, surprised. Long Bay was a prison after all.

Withers winked. “With any luck your sister will deliver it.”

Edna and Clyde returned to
Woodlands
just as the furore erupted. They saw immediately as they entered that the doors to the drawing room had been thrown open. They could hear Arthur’s voice, from within, speaking to Lucy Bennett and Kate Sinclair.

“I can only apologise, ladies. Rowland is clearly a very troubled young man. I only thank God that the children and Aunt Libby weren’t with you.”

Edna glanced warily at Clyde and stepped into the room Rowland had used as his studio. Lucy was in Arthur’s arms, her face buried in his lapel as he tried to shield her from the horror.

Kate’s face was flushed as she stared at the painting on the easel, clearly Edna, undeniably naked.

“Hello,” Edna said. “What are you all doing in here?”

Kate’s colour rose even higher as she looked at the sculptress. “Lucy thought… We were curious as to why Mary Brown did not want us to use this room. It was silly really…”

“Oh, I see,” Edna said gravely, though her eyes gleamed merrily. “Mary doesn’t really approve of the way Rowly paints.”

“I would say the problem lies more with what he paints!” Arthur declared. “Good Lord!” He gaped at the portrait of Edna in the yellow leather armchair, her legs slung over one upholstered arm, almost beckoning, as she gazed brazenly from the canvas. “That’s Uncle Henry’s chair!”

Edna smiled mischievously. “It’s most comfortable.”

“Ed…” Clyde warned. The sculptress seemed unable to resist poking at ant nests.

“Please don’t be concerned, Kate,” Arthur declared valiantly. “I’ll arrange for the paintings to be removed and the room returned to some sort of respectable order.”

“You can’t take Rowly’s paintings!” Edna objected.

“You aren’t in any position to issue directives in this house, Miss Higgins,” Arthur replied coldly. “There are now ladies, not to mention children, staying at
Woodlands
during this festive season.”

“Oh, Arthur, I don’t know that we should—” Kate began.

“If the authorities see this they’ll lock Rowland up without doubt!” Arthur said firmly. “We must save Cousin Rowland from himself.”

“Where’s Mr. Sinclair?” Edna directed the question at Kate. Arthur Sinclair needed taking down a peg or two. Wilfred knew
full well the way Rowland ran
Woodlands
, of what he painted. He didn’t approve of it but other than the occasional rant, he did not interfere.