A Murder Unmentioned (5 page)

“Find the gun?” Rowland finished. “No, apparently it was some gardener that Arthur retained.”

Arthur Sinclair was Rowland’s cousin, a solicitor who had stepped in to keep an eye on the property and old Mrs. Sinclair when both Wilfred and Rowland had been abroad. Apparently he had not yet left.

Edna took Rowland’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Rowly… this must be horrible for you.”

Rowland squeezed her hand warmly, before releasing it to take the drink that Milton held out to him. “It’s fine, Ed. I’m just annoyed that all this is being dredged up for nothing.”

“For nothing?” Edna said alarmed he could be so indifferent to such a staggering tragedy.

Rowland sighed. “It was thirteen years ago, Ed. There were no witnesses. Whoever shot Father is long gone, regardless of what gun he used.” He sat down, swirling his glass distractedly. “Wil wants me to return home to Yass straight away.”

“Because of this investigation?”

“Possibly… either that or my sister-in-law has unearthed another old school chum she feels I should marry.”

Edna’s brow furrowed slightly. “Oh dear, you don’t suppose Kate will be cross about Lucy, do you?”

“How could she possibly be cross?” Rowland said innocently. “It’s Colonel Bennett who put an end to it all.”

“So are you going?” Clyde asked.

Rowland grimaced. There were a few parties he’d planned to attend before retreating to the more sober celebrations at the family estate. Still… “Yes,” he said.

His friends did not try to persuade him otherwise. As much as Rowland appeared to dismiss it, the reinvestigation of Henry Sinclair’s murder had clearly shaken him.

“Did the police find out anything at all when your father was first killed, Rowly?” Edna asked.

“Ed!” Clyde scowled at the sculptress. “For pity’s sake…”

“It’s all right, Clyde. It’s a fair question.” Rowland put down his glass. “But to be honest, I don’t know. I boarded a boat to England the day after my father’s funeral.”

“The day after? Where the hell were you going in such a hurry?” Milton blurted.

Clyde swatted Milton. “You’re as bad as Ed,” he muttered, appalled by the poet’s lack of sensitivity.

“I suppose it would seem rather odd,” Rowland conceded. He tried to explain. “Wil sent me to school in London. I expect he was trying to protect me from all the fuss.”

Edna stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes fierce and disapproving. Rowland continued, aware that the sculptress had always thought Wilfred’s actions, in this respect, cruel. “Wil had a lot to contend with… the investigation, the property, Father’s affairs, not to mention my mother—he wasn’t trying to be unkind.”

“You were a boy who’d just lost his father,” Edna replied, unmoved by his defence. “He sent you away to grieve with strangers.”

“It wasn’t that simple, Ed.”

Edna paused and then let well enough alone. She had no wish to make the situation more difficult with her outrage on his behalf. “When are you going to Yass, Rowly?” she asked.

“I can fly to
Oaklea
tomorrow.”

“That soon?”

Rowland smiled. “Did you have plans for me?”

“Of course!” she said perching on the upholstered arm of his chair. She sighed. “I’ll have to make do with Milt, I suppose.”

“You should be so lucky,” Milton muttered indignantly. “You will find that I am very much in demand these days. I may well be busy.”

Rowland glanced at Edna regretfully. He had promised to escort the sculptress to the Christmas Ball to be held at the Domain. Not that she would have any trouble replacing him, whether or not Milton was busy—which he somehow doubted.

“I am sorry, Ed,” he said.

Edna’s face softened. “Oh darling, you have no reason to be. You will be all right, won’t you, Rowly?”

“Yes, I will… I am.” He slung back the remnants of his drink and smiled at the sculptress. “This is just one of those things, Ed. Wil will probably have cleared it up before I’ve landed at
Oaklea
.”

Rowland banked left and assessed the landscape below the
Rule Britannia
. Someone had let a mob of merinos into the paddock in which he’d been told to land.

“For pity’s sake!” There were too many to risk hoping the creatures had sense enough to get out of his path. The only remaining option was the cleared ground near the billabong, but that would mean a five-mile walk to the house.

Cursing, he cut back the engine and began his descent into the wind.

The fence-line was new. Not that Rowland would have, in any case, been familiar with the fence-lines of
Oaklea
but perhaps if the barbed wire had had time to rust he may have seen it before it was too late.

He pulled hard on the joystick, in a desperate attempt to raise the plane’s nose.
Rule Britannia
pitched upwards but not enough to clear the fence. The wheels clipped the top wire and the fuselage shook as the undercarriage dragged along the barbs.

The impact slowed the Gipsy Moth and forced her nose even higher. Rowland gunned the engine hoping a burst of speed would soften the landing. It may have done so, but the landing was hard regardless. The Moth bounced and careered precariously until Rowland managed to regain control and bring her to a stop just short of the water.

Rowland heaved himself out of the fuselage, wincing as he moved the knee which had slammed against the underside of the dashboard when the plane had touched down. He ignored the damage to himself and inspected that sustained by his plane. One tyre had blown and the fabric of the fuselage near the tail was torn where it had been ripped on the barbs.

Rowland limped over to check the fence. Incredibly it seemed perfectly intact despite its brief tussle with the
Rule Britannia
. He removed his cap and goggles, relieved. This was embarrassing enough without having to tell Wilfred that he’d destroyed the fence as well.

Returning to the Gipsy Moth, Rowland retrieved the Gladstone bag he’d stowed in the passenger compartment. Clyde would drop off his trunk and the Mercedes in a couple of days, before catching the train on to Kunama, near Batlow.

“I’ll be back for you, sweetheart,” he said tossing the aviator cap and goggles into the cockpit and extracting his hat from the bag.
Removing his leather flying jacket, he slung it over his shoulder and set out in the direction of the main house.

The day was warm and the countryside had already taken on a mantle of summer gold. The new green growth coming up amongst the longer yellowed stalks spoke of recent rain despite the ripening of the landscape. Some of the paddocks Rowland cut through were stocked. The lambs, no longer tiny, were still with their mothers and the mobs were sleek on the rich pastures of
Oaklea
.

He’d been walking for nearly an hour when the workman hailed him. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

Rowland stopped and waited for the man to approach. He wasn’t about to announce his arrival by shouting across the paddocks.

He realised it was a woman only when she stood before him. Rowland supposed she was about forty, though he couldn’t be sure. Tall and broad shouldered, wearing jodhpurs into which was tucked a man’s shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A large sketchbook was clamped under her arm and a small paintbox and brushes protruded from various pockets. She peered curiously at him from beneath a thick, blunt fringe of dark hair.

“I say, are you lost?” she asked. “You’re on private property, you know.”

Rowland removed his hat. “I’m not lost, Miss…”

“Walling,” she said, offering him her hand. “Edna Walling. And who are you?”

“Rowland Sinclair, Miss Walling. How do you do?”

“Well, well… another blue-eyed Sinclair!” Edna Walling looked him up and down. “Good Lord, you’ve hurt yourself!” she said, noticing his trousers were ripped and bloody at one knee.

“It’s just a graze,” Rowland replied. “I belted it against the dashboard when I clipped the fence.”

“You’ve had a motor accident…”

“A plane actually,” Rowland said, sheepishly. “I was forced to improvise. For some reason Wil’s had stock placed in the paddock I planned to use for landing.”

“Oh, that would be my fault, I’m afraid.” Walling uncapped the canteen she’d had slung across her body and offered him a drink. “We moved them there when we began draining the dam so we weren’t having to rescue the silly creatures from the mud constantly.”

Rowland realised then with whom he was speaking. “You must be the
gardener chap
that Arthur retained,” he said smiling.

She laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Are you painting?” Rowland asked, glancing at the sketchbook.

“Just some plans for the grounds.” She opened the sketchbook so he could see.

Rowland dropped his coat and took the book to examine the watercolour more carefully. It was an aerial plan of the grounds at
Oaklea
… though he recognised only Wilfred’s rose gardens and the grand oaks which lined the drive to the house. Edna Walling had taken those bones and added sweeping stone walls and extensive new plantings. The plans she had created in detailed watercolour were of themselves beautiful—fluid, and balanced with an innate sense of space and light. They conjured the garden she’d designed. Rowland was spellbound.

At Walling’s invitation, he turned the page to view the plans for the dam paddock. The small dam was gone in this second watercolour, replaced by a cobble-edged pond, surrounded by terraced gardens.

“Why, these are magnificent,” Rowland said. “Has Wil seen them?”

“If you mean Mr. Wilfred Sinclair, yes, of course. We’ve already started work draining the old dam.”

Rowland remembered the gun. “You found the revolver.”

“Yes. It was quite the surprise. I took it to Mr. Sinclair and he called the police.”

“Wil?” Rowland’s eyes narrowed.

“No, the other Mr. Sinclair.”

“I see.”

“I should let you get on,” Walling said, taking back her sketchbook. “I expect they’re wondering why you haven’t turned up at the house.”

5

A LITTLE NONSENSE

HONEST LABOURER

“These barbed-wire fences bean’t no good,” said the farm laborer. “I wouldn’t have one of ’em on my place if I had my way.”

“Why not?” inquired the stranger. “They are cheap and strong and keep cattle in better than anything else.”

“That may be, sir,” replied the rustic, “but a man can’t sit down to rest on ’em.”

Molong Express, 1938

T
he old housekeeper threw open the door. Every part of her plump person seemed to beam. Rowland forgot he was on the threshold of his brother’s house, where propriety was paramount and a certain reserve preferred, and he embraced her warmly, wholeheartedly. She clasped his face delighted. “Mr. Rowland! Now don’t you look a sight! My goodness what have you done to yourself?”

“It’s just a scrape, Mrs. Kendall.”

“You boys—tearing headlong about the place as if the world was on fire. It’s a wonder you don’t do yourself serious harm!”

Rowland allowed her to fuss over him as she always had. Though she at least allowed him the title of “Mr.”, Alice Kendall had somehow missed that he was no longer twelve years old, smoothing
and chiding him as if he were a child, promising to bake him a special batch of shortbread that very same afternoon. Still, her unrestrained motherly welcome reminded him that
Oaklea
had once been his home.

“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair came hurtling down the grand staircase. He stopped abruptly and raised his small fists. “Put up your dukes.”

“Ernest Aubrey Sinclair!” Kate descended the stairs more slowly behind him. “Is that any way to speak to, let alone to greet your uncle?”

Rowland laughed, dropping gingerly onto his uninjured knee to move Ernest’s fists a touch higher and adjust his stance. He’d been teaching his nephew the basics of boxing. Ernest, in his way, applied himself to the sport with solemn diligence.

“That’s better,” Rowland said when he was satisfied with Ernest’s fighting posture. “You don’t want to overbalance when you swing.”