A Murder Unmentioned (34 page)

For his part, Milton Isaacs considered the green velvet jacket and striped waistcoat a smart and fetching ensemble given a rural flair by the red kerchief he wore in place of his usual cravat.

Simpson led them up the steps onto the loading stage and into the shearing shed just as the rain began. Though neither as large nor as well-equipped as
Oaklea
, Wainwright’s still boasted a substantial shed of some twelve stands. Of course, the shearing was done, and the shed was currently empty, but for a single man undertaking maintenance on the mechanised stands and holding pens.

John Barrett looked up as the men from
Oaklea
came into his shed.

Harry Simpson nodded. “John. How would you be?”

Barrett shook his hand. “Fit as a Mallee bull, Harry. Heard you’ve had a bit of strife at
Oaklea
.”

“Could say that.” Simpson introduced Milton Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones, explaining that they were Rowland’s friends from the city.

Barrett glanced at Milton and nodded as if that explained a few things.

Then Simpson and Barrett talked about the weather for a while.

Clyde and Milton waited, allowing Simpson to lead them through whatever parochial protocol was necessary. Finally Simpson raised the matter for which they’d come. “You know Charlie Hayden’s body was found at
Emoh Ruo
.”

Barrett sighed. “I heard. Bad business, but can’t say I’m mourning. Been expecting the police to come talk to me.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cos I didn’t like the bugger… after that day in the shed. Wasn’t no secret.”

“What exactly happened, Mr. Barrett?” Clyde ventured. “We’ve heard Hayden’s side of it.” Perhaps Barrett would not think to be defensive if they asked about Charles Hayden instead.

“What’s it to you?” Barrett was suspicious nevertheless.

“The police are looking at Rowly for it,” Clyde replied, carefully omitting the fact that Rowland had already been arrested and charged.

Barrett frowned. “I don’t know if what I could tell you would help him.” He leant back against the stall and, taking out a tin of tobacco and some papers, rolled a cigarette. “The boy was back on holidays from that posh school they sent him to. Half me men had enlisted and we were trying to get the clip in. Rowland seemed a bit lost, used to watch. He had nothing better to do, I suppose.” Barrett shrugged. “He was a good lad, quiet. Didn’t try to throw his weight around like some of the graziers’ boys do. We’d stopped for smoko, and I thought I’d teach him to shear, just for a lark. The kid surprised me—he might have made a shearer. Hayden told us to get back to work, I told him to bugger off. We still had fifteen minutes. He strode back with Mr. Sinclair in tow. Bloody coward!”

Barrett cupped his hands, lit up and drew deeply. He coughed and picked a few moist strands of tobacco from his cigarette. “Old Mr. Sinclair sacked me right out. Got Hayden to flog the boy then and there so that none of the other blokes would ever think ’bout talking to the boss’s son again… for his sake, if not theirs.” He shook his head. “Poor bloody kid. That bastard made sure the boy was too bloomin’ humiliated to ever show his face in the shed again. There were a few of us who talked about killing Hayden then.”

“What about Mr. Sinclair?”

“He was a mean, black-hearted mongrel. But what can you do? He was the boy’s father. If he hadn’t died I reckon he might have killed the kid in the end.”

“Look, John,” Simpson said. “Rowly doesn’t want the police to even talk to you if it isn’t necessary.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But we still need to know everything you can remember.”

Barrett looked at Simpson. “Yeah, I can see what you’re saying.” He drew again on his cigarette. “I was in Sydney at the wool sales with Mr. Wainwright when we heard about Mr. Sinclair. We came back straight away.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Wainwright was a mate of Mr. Wilfred Sinclair’s. Had no time for the old man—that’s why he was willing to give me a job, I suppose—but he thought he should show his respects.”

“What about Hayden?” Milton asked.

“If I’d wanted to kill Hayden I’d have done it fifteen years ago. I heard he was back… bragging that he was finally evening the score, being compensated for what Wilfred Sinclair did to him.”

“Compensated? How?”

“Dunno. He was shouting rounds at the
Commercial
. Certainly wasn’t skint.”

“Do you have any idea as to who might have wanted to kill him, Mr. Barrett?” Clyde asked.

Barrett dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. “Look, not many people liked Hayden. He was a downright bully, a coward, but he picked his targets. You worked for him until Wilfred Sinclair sacked him, Harry—did he give you any grief?”

“No,” Simpson admitted. “He stayed out of my way. I had no idea of what the boss was using him to do.”

Barrett nodded. “He didn’t take on any bloke who could stand up to him.” The shearer folded his arms. “I wish I could help you. I liked the kid… used to think he had it made… and then that day in the shed.” Barrett cursed. “My old man used to clip me round the ear too, and I’d come out and kick the dog. But I never saw Rowland do anything like that.”

“No,” Simpson said. “Rowly likes dogs.”

Barrett snorted, shoving Simpson good-naturedly.

They took their leave of John Barrett then and sprinted through the rain, back to the Mercedes. Clyde started the engine, noting with not a small measure of trepidation that the dirt road was quickly turning to mud in the deluge. He drove slowly because visibility was poor.

“So what do you think?” Milton asked from the back seat.

“Rowly’s right, Barrett didn’t shoot anybody,” Clyde replied, craning his head out of the window to see more clearly.

“No, I know that. I meant what he said about Hayden having money.”

“What do you mean?” Simpson asked.

“Well, when Hayden first emerged we thought it odd that he should appear just when the gun was found. I’m starting to suspect we were right. It’s more than coincidence.”

Clyde nodded. “You may have a point. Delaney’s been telling us from the beginning that the police have an anonymous informant.”

“So who’s behind this?” Simpson looked back at Milton.

“Do you suppose it might be Campbell and his Boo Guard?” Milton posed.

“Maybe,” Clyde kept his eyes glued to what little road he could see. “Campbell’s a solicitor. He’d certainly know how to stir up this kind of trouble. He’d probably also know how to access the original records on Henry’s murder.”

Milton frowned. “But how would he even know to look?”

“It was widely reported in the newspapers when it happened, as a burglary-cum-murder of course,” Simpson informed them. “Lot of features on Wil taking over the reins of the Sinclair empire.”

“So perhaps we’re talking about Wilfred’s enemies, not Rowly’s,” Milton suggested.

“But they’re pointing at Rowly for murder, not Wil.”

“Did you blokes see anybody the night Lenin was shot?” Milton asked suddenly.

“No. Why?”

“Just think we let that go too easily. Someone might have been trying to shoot Rowly.”

“Wil’s convinced it was just some fool shooting rabbits.” Simpson’s misgivings were apparent in his voice.

“Watch it, Clyde!” Milton warned as the Mercedes slid sideways in the mud.

Clyde reacted quickly, using the steering to bring the car back to the road and under control. “I worked in a gang of shearers once,” he muttered, clearly brooding over what Barrett had described. “They were tough blokes—pretty bloody hard to shock, I’d say. God, poor Rowly. How could you do that to your own boy?”

“When Aubrey died, I gather the boss thought the Good Lord took him as atonement,” Simpson said.

“Atonement for what exactly?”

Simpson raised his thick dark brow. “Past indiscretions. Aubrey and I were about the same age.” He frowned thoughtfully. “As boys, we were all wary of the boss’s walking cane,” he confessed. “But I think the bible reading business must’ve started after Aubrey died. Perhaps he was flogging himself as much as Rowly.”

“I dunno, Harry. It sounds to me like Henry Sinclair was just a mean, sadistic mongrel—what the hell?”

The car jolted as it collected a rut in the road.

Clyde swore. The wheels began to spin. He stopped the Mercedes and put it into reverse, but the back wheels didn’t have traction. It seemed they were bogged. He cursed again.

Simpson turned towards Milton. “Looks like you and I are pushing, mate.”

“No point in this rain,” Clyde said. “We’re stuck. We’ll just have to wait till the rain stops and then chock the ruts with something.”

Wilfred was on the back verandah with one of his managers. They spoke loudly over the pounding of the rain upon the tin roof as they discussed wool prices which had apparently recovered to record levels. The
Oaklea
bales were already in Sydney, safely stored at the Goldsborough Mort Woolstore, ready for auction whenever Wilfred gave the word. Despite the extraordinary prices, Wilfred was holding back most of the
Oaklea
clip, convinced the market would climb even further.

Ernest left Rowland’s side and stood by his father, listening intently with his hands clasped behind his back. Rowland had no doubt that his nephew already knew far more than he did about wool. There was a solemn perspicacity about Ernest that more than anything else identified him as Wilfred’s son.

Rowland, on the other hand, had difficulty even feigning interest in the finer points of wool classing, let alone breeding programs. Generally, he just signed whatever Wilfred put in front of him, repaying his brother’s commitment to expanding the Sinclair fortune by not interfering. Every now and then, Wilfred felt the need to drag him to a meeting or have him appointed to some board or sub-committee, but they both knew their roles.

The conversation moved from the wool clip to the weather, which had turned rather dramatically. Fortunately, the last of the cereal harvest was in and so the deluges of the past day would cause the property very little trouble. In time the manager tipped his hat and wished them all a good night.

Wilfred ruffled his son’s hair. “And what have you two been up to?”

Ernest clammed up, clasping his hands over his mouth.

Rowland smiled. Clearly the boy was not a poker player.

Wilfred glanced at the presentation club in Rowland’s hand. His brow arched. “What do you want with that?” he asked.

“I’m going to work on my chip shot.”

Wilfred started to say something and then elected to stop. “I take it you were in Father’s study?” he said instead.

Rowland nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you go in?” Wilfred asked his son.

“Only to tell Uncle Rowly that he wasn’t allowed in there.” Ernest glanced nervously at Rowland. “Uncle Rowly didn’t make the mess—it was like that when he got there.”

“Just as well,” Wilfred said, allowing Ernest’s clumsy attempt to cover up for his uncle to pass without comment. “Did you find anything?” he asked, turning to Rowland.

“Perhaps… but Ernie told me something much more interesting.”

On cue, Ernest told his father about the ghost.

Wilfred listened grimly. “I expect we should have a chat, Ernie. You have a few things backwards, old chap.”

“Oh.” Ernest’s face fell. “So there’s no ghost?”

“I very much doubt it.”

Rowland leaned against a verandah post, listening. He was more than a little intrigued as to how his brother would handle Ernest’s guileless curiosity.

Wilfred invited his son to sit, and took the squatters’ chair opposite. “Your grandfather Sinclair died in that room, Ernie.”

“When?”

“A long time ago, son. Before you were born. We don’t talk about it because it upsets your grandmother.”

“Doesn’t it upset you?”

“Of course, but I’m a man. So are you. It’s important that we are considerate of the ladies.”

“Would Grandma cry if we talked about it?”

“Possibly.”

“She doesn’t cry when we talk about Uncle Aubrey, and he died. She thinks he’s Uncle Rowly.”

Wilfred sighed. “Your uncles look very much alike so your grandmother gets mixed up sometimes.”

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

“Which one’s which.”

Rowland couldn’t help but smile as Wilfred began to look somewhat flustered.

“It’s more complicated than that, Ernie, you’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Grandma’s older, and she’s all mixed up.”

“Now you’re being cheeky, young man,” Wilfred said sternly.

“Mr. Sinclair, excuse me, sir.” Jack Templeton interrupted them, appearing quite suddenly from the deluge. He removed his hat and wiped the water from his eyes with muddy hands. “Miss Walling sent me to tell you, sir, that the rain is causing problems. We’re just going to dig a trench to divert the overflow and minimise the damage until this is over.”

“Yes, very good, Templeton. Carry on.”

Templeton twisted his hat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m afraid Miss Walling is having a few difficulties with Mr. McNair. He seems quite agitated, sir.”

“McNair? What the dickens is he belly-aching about now?”