A Murder Unmentioned (39 page)

“I had that room when I was a boy.” Rowland smiled. “Believe me, I’ve climbed in and out that way often.” He loosened his tie. “I’ll need a couple of minutes.”

Edna nodded. “I’ll see if I can help Wilfred and Dr. Maguire convince them you’re contagious.” She turned to Clyde and Simpson. “Can you gentlemen please see that he doesn’t break his neck?”

Rowland was already on his way to the window. He assessed the task. The tree and the drainpipe he’d always used as a boy were still there, the lattice looked distinctly more rickety than he remembered but he presumed the wisteria vine had strengthened to compensate. He was lucky, he supposed, that Edna Walling had not decided to remove it.

He handed his jacket to Clyde, rolled up his sleeves and began. The apricot tree helped him scale the ground floor quite easily. The next storey was more difficult. The drainpipe was wet, as was the vine. Still, somehow, he made it to the ledge of his window. He’d disabled the latch himself when he was twelve and to his relief it had not been repaired. Even so, opening the window was tricky as it required him to take all his weight with one arm whilst he pushed the window up. The trellis cracked beneath his right foot and, for a moment, he slipped. Clyde swore. Rowland scrambled, regaining his footing on the wisteria and dragging himself up through the open window. He was reminded that he had grown a fair bit since he’d last tried this.

He could hear Wil and Maguire arguing with the detectives in the hallway. Rowland ripped off his clothes and bundled them into
the cupboard, before throwing on his robe. He opened the door to the room and stepped out. “What is going on out here? How’s a man to get any sleep?” he demanded.

The four men quarrelling in the hallway fell silent and stared at him.

“Mr. Sinclair, how are you feeling?” Maguire asked eventually.

“Bloody awful,” Rowland replied, coughing violently.

“He’s wet!” Gilbey said suspiciously. “He’s soaking wet.”

“That, you fool, would be the fever,” Maguire said curtly. “Come on, Mr. Sinclair, we’d best get you back to bed before you have a complete relapse.” He turned to Gilbey and Angel. “If you’re satisfied, gentlemen, Mr. Sinclair is a very unwell man and should not be on his feet!” He ushered Rowland back into the bedroom and slammed the door.

30

GOOD MANNERS AT HOME

Practical jokes are rarely indulged in by persons of nice perceptions, and teasing passes the bounds of good taste when it ceases to be a matter of pure fun from all sides. Inquisitiveness is always bad form. “Whom is your letter from?” “What makes your eyes so red?” are interferences with one’s rightful privacy. A closed door should be respected and give assurance of seclusion.

Camperdown Chronicle, 1933

R
owland inspected his jaw in the shaving mirror before finally rinsing his razor in the porcelain basin of his washstand. He glanced out of the window and saw that the police cars were no longer parked in the drive. Towelling off his face he selected a tie, relieved he no longer had to feign being mortally ill. He tied the Windsor knot with expert and practised speed and grabbed a clean jacket from the wardrobe.

Ernest was outside his door when he opened it to go down. “Uncle Rowly, you’re back!”

“I was never away, just a mite unwell.”

“Yes, you were away!” Ernest accused. “You weren’t here!”

Rowland knelt to look his nephew in the face. “You’re right, Ernie, but that was a secret. How did you know I wasn’t here?”

“I came to see you, and I waited and waited and waited… and then I let myself into your room.”

“Did you indeed?” Wilfred said reprovingly, as he entered the hallway.

Ernest stepped back and bit his lip.

“Ernie, what have I told you about respecting people’s privacy?” Wilfred said, folding his arms as he looked down at his son. “You were told to stay out of your uncle’s room!”

Ernest’s lower lip wobbled under his father’s censorious gaze. “I wanted to give him the picture.”

“What picture?”

“I made Uncle Rowly a picture of Lenin and me to help him feel better, but he wasn’t there!”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, mate,” Rowland said, still kneeling. “I had an errand to run.”

“When you were sick?”

“I felt a bit better so I ducked out. Ernie, did you tell anyone I wasn’t here?”

“I told Mr. Isaacs. He said that sometimes you like to sleep under the bed, but that he was sure you were there and would I like to play cricket.”

“I see. Did you tell anyone else?”

“Only Aunt Lucy.”

At this, the Sinclair brothers exchanged a glance.

“She telephoned and I spoke to her while Mrs. Kendall fetched Mummy. Aunt Lucy asked about you, Uncle Rowly, and where you were and I told her you weren’t under the bed because I went back and checked.” Ernest looked very much like he was about to cry now.

Rowland smiled. “I don’t sleep under the bed, Ernie. I don’t know where Mr. Isaacs gets such preposterous ideas. Perhaps we should go have words with him for pulling your leg so abominably!”

Ernest nodded.

“I think that first you and I need to have a word about obedience and discretion, Ernest.” Wilfred said taking his son by the shoulders and turning him firmly in the opposite direction. “You go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be there directly.”

Rowland stood as they watched Ernest dawdle away, his shoulders slumped and his head hung as if he were walking to the gallows.

Rowland looked at his brother uneasily. “Wil, he didn’t mean—”

“If you’d really been sick, Rowly, he might have endangered himself by going into your room when he’d been told not to.”

“But Wil, you’re not planning to—”

“Rowly,” Wilfred interrupted, sighing. “I have never had cause, and hope never to have cause, to discipline my sons with anything more severe than a cross talking-to. Ernie has a flair for the dramatic and he’s worked out that you’re a soft touch.” He shook his head. “I shudder to think what lawless brats you’ll raise one day!”

Nobody commented on Rowland’s sudden and almost miraculous recovery. Even Kate let it pass without comment. She possibly realised that there was more to it, but Kate had always trusted that her husband would tell her what she needed to know about his machinations, and the rest was best left alone.

Wilfred came down with Ernest a few minutes later. The boy held his father’s hand as he apologised to Rowland. “I’m sorry I invaded your piracy, Uncle Rowly.”

Rowland smiled. “Privacy, Ernie. I haven’t plundered the coastline in a while.”

Ernest nodded solemnly. “I’ll never come in without knocking again.”

“Without knocking and being invited in,” Wilfred corrected, in case Ernest was creating a loophole for himself.

Rowland winked at his nephew. “That’s good of you, old chap.”

Ernest handed him a sheet of paper. It was the picture for which he had risked disobeying his father. Rowland smiled as he studied the drawing. Ernest had never drawn for him before, preferring to watch as Rowland sketched. The picture was full of whimsy and vibrance—naive attention to some detail, and the complete disregard of others. Lenin had been faithfully represented with only one ear, and numerous scars, though it seemed he was the size of a pony.

“Do you like it, Uncle Rowly?”

“Very much.”

“Will you put it on your wall?”

“I will indeed. I’ll hang it proudly alongside the Picasso.”

“What’s a Car So?”

“Picasso. He’s a very famous artist who’s devoted his life to trying to draw like this.”

“Do you think I could be a famous artist too, Uncle Rowly?”

Wilfred cleared his throat, clearly alarmed by the thought. “I believe that’s Mrs. Kendall calling you for bed, son. You’d best run along now.”

Ernest beckoned Rowland down and whispered in his ear. “I’m glad you’re not really going to die, Uncle Rowly.”

Rowland met the child’s wide eyes, startled. Ernest had obviously taken his uncle’s supposed illness more seriously than they’d anticipated. “I’m sorry I worried you, mate.”

“That’s all right, Uncle Rowly.” Ernest regarded Rowland gravely. “You shouldn’t go out in the rain though. You’ll catch death.”

“I’m afraid I forgot how impressionable Ernie is,” Wilfred said as the boy trotted off. “He’s become very fond of you, Rowly, and his
imagination is, well, six years old. I’m afraid he was convinced you’d contracted some fatal disease.”

“To be fair, we did go to some lengths to create that impression,” Rowland reminded him.

“Yes, I suppose we did.” He removed his spectacles and extracted a handkerchief with which to polish them. “So, did you manage to speak to Bob Menzies?”

Rowland nodded.

“And?”

“We should talk.”

Wilfred frowned. “Come into the library where we won’t be disturbed.”

In the privacy of the library, Rowland told his brother in some detail of his conversation with Robert Menzies. Wilfred swore, obviously drawing the same conclusion that Rowland had.

“Did Father insist that Aubrey enlist?” Rowland asked.

“Yes, but he also insisted I enlist. That was Father. He never spoke without insisting or demanding. Aubrey would have joined anyway. We all thought it would be over by Christmas. He never thought he’d die.”

“But—”

“Mother was always particularly protective of Aubrey, and he was only nineteen when we went.” Wilfred was lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “I didn’t even think to wonder where she was that night.”

“Wil, did Father… did he ever strike Mother?” Rowland struggled with the question because he dreaded the answer.

Wilfred’s eyes darkened and he spoke candidly. “Yes. They used to quarrel, mostly about Harry. He’d take a belt to her… until Aubrey and I were old enough to intervene.”

“Did no one else try to do anything?”

“Uncle Rowland did. He tried to reason with Father on several occasions, but it isn’t the kind of thing people talk about.”

Rowland clenched his fists, frustrated. “I can’t remember.”

“You were younger then than Ernie is now, Rowly. Harry’s mother passed away around that time, and after that Mother and Father didn’t quarrel so much.” He sighed. “When we went to war, we really thought it would be all right—for Mother and you. Father had been content to disinherit us now and then for years. We didn’t think he’d… I can’t tell you how sorry, I am.”

“What could you have done, Wil?” Rowland replied bitterly. “Short of shooting him before you left.” He stared absently into the distance. “Do you suppose he’d started to… to batter her again?”

“Perhaps she was simply in terror that he would,” Wilfred said gently, “or perhaps she was trying to protect you in her way.”

Rowland swallowed. “Do you think she remembers, Wil? Do you think she’s starting to remember?”

Wilfred rubbed his temple wearily. “I’m not certain. How could we ever be certain of what’s going on in Mother’s mind? The nurse informed me this morning that some of the Laudanum Maguire prescribed is missing.”

“Laudanum? Who would—”

“I can’t imagine any of the servants would steal Laudanum. The nurse fears it was Mother herself.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Maguire suspects Mother may be more depressed than we know. If she’s remembering… realising… We’re just keeping a very close eye on her.”

Rowland stared at his brother. “My God, what are we going to do, Wil?”

“If this gets worse we may be forced to consider a sanatorium. I wouldn’t make that decision without you, Rowly, but you should be prepared for the fact that we may have no other option.”

Rowland groaned. “What about the police? We can’t…”

“I’m not sure. I’ll speak to our solicitors. Let’s not panic just yet.”

Wilfred lit a cigarette and for a moment there was silence as he fortified himself with the first draw. “Perhaps we should concentrate on who killed Charlie Hayden,” he suggested. “It was, after all, on the strength of Hayden’s murder that they arrested you.” Wilfred sat back, tapping the arm of his chair absently, thoughtfully. “What do you remember from the scene?”

Rowland thought back. “Hayden had a belt in his hand,” he said.