A Murder Unmentioned (38 page)

Rowland took the armchair facing the desk. The study was not much different in style from Wilfred’s—conservative, ordered and quietly opulent.

“Your brother, with whom I have had a long-standing acquaintance, believes there is a matter with which I can help you. I’ll do my best, of course, but I must tell you I don’t often meet with clients personally at this stage of proceedings. It is more usual that a barrister is briefed by advising solicitors.”

“It’s not your professional assistance I require, Mr. Menzies.”

“I see.”

“I don’t know if you recall, sir, but you visited my family property,
Oaklea,
in early 1920, to meet with my brother.”

“To be precise, Mr. Sinclair, I stopped in for a quick drink after I’d met with your brother at his club in town.”

“You remember it then?”

“I may.” Menzies remained cautious.

“Wil tells me that he was forced to leave you alone in the drawing room whilst he dealt with an incident demanding his immediate attention.”

Menzies’ eyes glinted suspiciously from beneath dark, upswept brows. “Yes, yes. I believe he might have, but I wasn’t alone.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Wilfred was gone for quite a long time as I recall. Mrs. Sinclair, your charming mother, kept me company.”

“My mother! She was in the drawing room?”

“She came down shortly after Wilfred left to attend whatever business called him away. I’m afraid Mrs. Sinclair was rather cross that Wilfred would have abandoned a guest in her house and insisted on keeping me company.”

“You were with my mother all that time?” Rowland asked, surprised. “Wil said he was gone for hours.”

“Perhaps two,” Menzies agreed. “Mrs. Sinclair was fortunately a gracious and vibrant conversationalist. At her insistence, we shared a bottle of your father’s finest cognac and talked about your late brother.”

“Aubrey?”

Menzies sighed. “It seems your brother and I were the same age. Your dear mother did not want him to go to war. Like my own mother, she felt her elder son was sacrifice enough.”

“Both my brothers served,” Rowland said. “Aubrey died in France.”

“My brothers served also. Fortunately they both came back. My mother was successful in keeping me out of service, a fact which my political enemies have always been eager to exploit, but it seems your father insisted that Aubrey do his duty.”

Rowland frowned. He remembered only that his brothers had all enlisted. He had not thought about whether they wanted to go—he’d always assumed they did. “I see. But Wil didn’t see Mother there with you when he—”

“I’m afraid she became distressed… the talk of Aubrey, I suppose. She excused herself shortly before your brother returned. I was about to leave when Wilfred appeared and offered me another drink.”

“And then you heard the gunshot which killed my father.” A cold realisation spread from the pit of Rowland’s stomach.

“At the time I was aware only that it was a gunshot,” Menzies said, his posture defensive. “For all I knew it might have been one of the workmen shooting at a fox.”

“That would be unusual
inside
the house, don’t you think?”

“I suppose, in hindsight. Wilfred left for a couple of minutes and then returned to suggest it might be politic to leave before I became unwittingly embroiled in an unsavoury affair that might be used, by my legal adversaries of the time, to discredit me.”

“I don’t suppose you recall seeing anyone else in the house while you were there, sir?”

“The housekeeper when we first came in, but otherwise no.”

Rowland bit his lip uneasily.

“I understand,” Menzies said hesitantly into the silence, “that your father was murdered by an intruder that evening.”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid the culprit was never found.”

“My sympathies, Mr. Sinclair, and to your good mother. May I ask, sir, why you are looking into this tragic matter now?”

“The gun used to kill my father has only recently been found and retrieved,” Rowland replied. “We hoped it might lead to some resolution.” He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Menzies. I do appreciate your time.”

Menzies walked Rowland to the door. It was as they shook hands in the vestibule that Mrs. Menzies came out in search of her husband. Bob Menzies introduced Rowland to his wife.

“Rowland is Wilfred Sinclair’s younger brother, Pattie.”

“Of course. I’d have recognised those glorious blue Sinclair eyes anywhere,” Pattie Menzies said, smiling. “How is Wilfred?”

“He’s well, Mrs. Menzies. About to become a father again.”

Pattie Menzies laughed. “It’s hard to imagine Wilfred as a father. He was such a rogue!”

Rowland’s brow rose. Rogue was not a word he would ever have associated with Wilfred.

“Now my dear,” Menzies said sternly, “we mustn’t slander the man to his own brother.”

With not a little curiosity, Rowland regarded the woman Wilfred had once sought to marry. She stood by Menzies with a kind of complementary confidence he’d never seen in shy Kate Sinclair. His sister-in-law had always seemed uncertain of her place.

Pattie asked after Kate, whom, it seemed, she looked forward to meeting when “Bob made the move to Canberra.” The Deputy Premier’s wife was a perfect hostess, warm and charming with not a word or gesture out of place. The ideal partner for a man in pursuit of power.

And yet Wilfred had fallen in love with a slip of a girl. Rowland was glad. He was very fond of Kate and always charmed by how unreservedly beguiled Wilfred was with his young wife.

After a courteous sufficiency of pleasantries had been exchanged, Rowland took his leave of Mr. and Mrs. Menzies and returned to the Cadillac which awaited him in the drive.

“Well?” Clyde asked once the Menzies’ house was well behind them.

Rowland stared silently at the road ahead.

“Did you discover anything?” Clyde persisted.

Rowland groaned. “Yes.”

“Brilliant!”

“Actually no. It isn’t.”

Clyde glanced at his friend. Rowland looked wretched. “Rowly, are you all right, mate?”

Rowland dropped his head back against the seat. He rubbed his face and spoke candidly, trusting Clyde to guard his confidence. “I think my mother might have shot him, Clyde.”

“What? Why?”

Rowland recounted his conversation with Robert Menzies.

“But your mother, Rowly.” Clyde pulled the car over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. “Why would she want to kill your father? It doesn’t make sense.”

Rowland closed his eyes. “She was terrified of him, Clyde.”

“Did he—?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t ever see him raise a hand against her, but I was at school during the term.”

“And when he’d lay into you… or get Hayden to?”

“She’d lock herself in her room. The next morning we’d both pretend it hadn’t happened.” Rowland spoke quietly. He felt strangely ashamed. “Mother didn’t have a lot to do with me after Aubrey died anyway. Not until I returned from England, when she decided I
was
Aubrey.”

“Well if she was so scared of your father, and so indifferent to what was happening to you, why would she suddenly find the courage to brandish a gun and shoot the bastard?”

“Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed,” Rowland said wistfully. “Or perhaps she blamed my father for insisting Aubrey enlist.” He smiled sadly. “Most likely it was the bottle of cognac she shared with Menzies. The thing is, Clyde, it makes more sense than anything else.”

“But what about Hayden?” Clyde said. “You don’t believe your mother made her way to
Emoh Ruo
and beat him to death, do you?”

“Well no. That would be utterly absurd. Someone else killed Hayden.”

Clyde watched Rowland carefully. “Do you know who?”

“No but…” He bit his lip anxiously. “We should get back. I need to talk to Wil.”

Clyde started the car. If what Rowland suspected proved correct, it was the worst possible news for many reasons. Aside from the
tragedy of it, Rowland’s best chance of clearing his own name was to find and expose the actual killer. But he was unlikely to offer his mother to the detectives, as an alternative. “Don’t worry, mate,” Clyde said, glancing sideways at Rowland. “We’ll think of something.”

By the time they returned to
Eldonvale
, the Mouats had managed to hunt down their sons.

“This has to be the oddest bloody thing I’ve seen your lot get up to,” Clyde whispered as Mouat recounted the number of fences they’d needed to jump to be there at the “kill”.

Rowland smiled. “It’s the same as a drag hunt in principle, I guess. It’s the fact that they don’t want to actually kill things that’s unusual.”

True to his word, Mouat had refuelled the
Rule Britannia.
Given the earlier trouble with the push rods, Clyde and Rowland ran a particularly careful check on the workings of the Gipsy Moth. Finding nothing untoward, they prepared to leave.

Mrs. Mouat presented them with a large basket containing sandwiches, an apple pie, a flask of tea, a white linen tablecloth, napery and two silver candlesticks. Rowland thanked her though he was unsure why and where she thought he and Clyde would stop for so elegant a picnic. He helped himself to a corned beef sandwich before he climbed into the cockpit and left the remainder of the basket to his passenger.

The day was still relatively clear though wispy cloud was accumulating to the north. Rowland switched on the fuel and waited while Clyde swung the propeller until the engine kicked over, removed the chocks and climbed into the passenger seat. The Mouats stood by the runway to wave them off.

By the time they took off from Wangaratta, after refuelling, the weather had come in. The valiant Gipsy Moth fought strong headwinds all the way back to Yass. Rowland had never before flown in such difficult conditions. The ply and canvas body of the
Rule Britannia
creaked and strained against the battering squalls. They did not make good time at all and it was nearly completely dark by the time they reached the Yass shire.

Rowland cursed, trying to keep calm. He did not see how he could land at
Oaklea
in the dark, but they were very low on fuel now, and diverting was not an option. The weather was only making the situation more grim.

It was then he saw the lights—two rows distinctly visible through the rain, marking a runway of sorts. He throttled back the engine and began his descent. They landed hard, bouncing as Rowland struggled to keep the wheels even and the nose up. The
Rule Britannia
slipped and fishtailed dangerously. Someone pressed a car horn. And then, finally, she stopped.

Rowland took his hand off the joystick, gasping, relieved. He turned to check that his passenger was all right. Clyde looked shaken and wet but otherwise he seemed intact.

“Rowly!” Harry Simpson ran up to the plane.

Rowland climbed out, dragging off his cap and goggles. “Harry! What are you doing here?”

“When the weather turned, Wil thought you might need some help,” Simpson shouted over the engines of the dozen vehicles—an assortment of trucks and even Wilfred’s Rolls Royce Continental—which idled in the paddock with their headlamps on. “We rounded up all the motors on the property and a few hurricane lamps and hoped you’d land before too long.”

“We may have to fire up the Caterpillar to get everyone out,” Rowland said as he and Clyde trudged through the mud after Simpson.

Simpson opened the door of one of the trucks and indicated they should get in. “That’s not the worst of our problems, Rowly. Delaney rang. Some bastard tipped off the police that you’d breached your bail conditions. Gilbey and Angel are on their way to
Oaklea
—they may be there already. We’ve got to get you back.”

Rowland swore. A breach would see him returned to Long Bay until trial. “Who tipped off the police?” he asked as Simpson put the truck into gear.

“Anonymous apparently.”

The police cars were already parked in the drive when they reached
Oaklea
. Simpson took the farm truck to the back of the house.

“We’ll just say I was out inspecting sheep with you,” Rowland said to Simpson.

“Rowly, nobody inspects sheep in the rain.”

“They won’t know that. We’ve been inspecting sheep all day and got caught in the rain.”

“What exactly were you inspecting them for?” Simpson asked, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, condition, colour, the length of their skirts… make something up.”

“I can’t go in,” Simpson said, stopping. “Tell them where to find me and I’ll tell them about sheep.”

Rowland didn’t argue.

“Oh Rowly, thank goodness you’re here.” Edna ran out of the door to intercept them. “You can’t come in. The police are here.”

“I know.”

“Wilfred and Dr. Maguire have already told them you’re in your room dangerously ill—they’re arguing on the staircase right now—you can’t just walk in from outside.”

“Is there any way of getting to your room without using the main staircase?” Clyde asked.

Rowland sighed. “Not through the house. I’ll have to climb up through the window.”

“Are you mad? It’s on the second storey!”