A Murder Unmentioned (7 page)

“Wil…” Kate touched her husband’s arm, startled by the harsh frankness of his words.

Rowland said nothing, seething.

“You know,” Arthur Sinclair interrupted the tension. “I would be very pleased to have Aunt Libby stay with me whenever… whenever she needs a change of scenery.” He waited while one of the maids took his plate. “We do rub along rather well, and it won’t be far away.”

Rowland’s face was unreadable. It was true that while his mother had forgotten him, she remembered fondly her nephew by marriage who had been cut out of their lives two decades ago—a stinging irony he was trying valiantly not to hold against Arthur.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I might go and check on the children,” Kate said.

“Yes, of course.” Wilfred stood to pull out her chair.

“Kate seems a trifle quiet,” Arthur whispered as they watched her go.

Wilfred nodded. “I suspect she finds Yass a little dull and lonely after the excitement of our time abroad.” He lit a cigarette. “I’ve organised a small surprise which should cheer her up.”

“You cousin, are a prince among men!” Arthur rose from the table. “I have some business in Yass, so I might leave you chaps to it. Wil, do you mind if I—”

“Not at all. Take the Continental,” Wilfred replied. There were several Rolls Royce limousines garaged in the
Oaklea
stables. The Phantom II Continental was Wilfred’s particular favourite.

When Arthur too had departed, Wilfred took Rowland into his study. Clearly there was much on his mind.

Rowland assumed the seat his brother offered him and watched as Wilfred paced. He was feeling restless himself but they couldn’t both pace without risk of collision.

“Look, Rowly, I expect that by now the police will have realised this new investigation into Father’s death is futile but, if they haven’t, I think we should be crystal clear about what happened.”

“I see,” Rowland said. He clenched a fist in his hair, his face unguarded for the first time. He was worried. “Just tell me what you want me to say, Wil.”

Wilfred sat. He fixed his eyes on Rowland’s. “You were in bed when you heard the gunshot. You did not leave your room until I came to tell you there had been a break-in and that Father had been shot and killed.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. I’ll deal with the rest of it.”

Rowland nodded. “Very well.”

“I don’t want you to worry, Rowland. I’ll take care of this. Just keep your head.”

6

GOLF HINTS

Art of Putting

USEFUL PRACTICE

(By S.R. HOWARD.)

There is no part of the game which is so vital to a player’s success as putting. When played badly it causes more aggravation than the misplaying of longer shots. When a player gets out of the double-figure handicap class an analysis of his score will show that half of his strokes will be putts.

Dungog Chronicle, 19 May 1931

T
he yellow Mercedes slowed to halt outside the chapel on
Oaklea
. The small sandstone church sat alone amongst sheep paddocks and occasional stands of gum trees from which cicadas raised the background scream of an Australian summer. The building was encircled by the private cemetery in which Sinclairs had been interred for generations.

The driver’s-side door was swung open, and Clyde Watson Jones stepped out. A greyhound followed him, its excessive tail already wagging furiously. Clyde smoothed back his hair before replacing his hat and adjusting his tie.

He’d called at the homestead, knocking bashfully at the tradesman’s entrance where he’d been greeted by Alice Kendall. She’d plied him with tea and cake and informed him that Mr. Rowland was visiting his father’s grave. Not wanting to announce his arrival in the absence of the friend who’d invited him, Clyde had followed the housekeeper’s directions to the chapel.

He’d been both surprised and relieved to learn Rowland was here. His friend’s apparent lack of interest in Henry Sinclair’s murder had unsettled Clyde. It was not the way one expected a son to behave. But visiting graves was. Perhaps it was the shock of learning the gun had been found, or simply that insane upper class stoicism that had initially made Rowland seem so indifferent.

Clyde held tightly to Lenin’s collar as they walked around behind the chapel to the main part of the picket-fenced cemetery. The dog struggled against the restraint as they sighted his master—by a grave and on his knees. Clyde held the dog back, respectfully allowing Rowland a private moment of prayer.

Less considerately, Lenin barked.

Rowland looked up. “Clyde!” he said pulling his arm out of the dirt and walking over the grave at which he’d been kneeling to greet his friend. He slipped the golf ball into his pocket before he offered Clyde his hand. “How are you? Hello Len.”

The hound responded with a demented excitement, leaping and writhing with such pure joy that he seemed unable to proceed with any composure at all. It took a time to calm him. It was while Rowland was thus occupied that Clyde noticed the golf clubs. They were propped against a marble headstone at the apex of which was mounted a gilded angel who appeared to be wearing Rowland’s jacket.

“Rowly, what the dickens were you doing?”

Rowland looked up from his dog. He pulled the golf ball from his pocket. “I was retrieving my ball… that hole’s a few inches deeper than I remember. I hope it hasn’t attracted a resident.”

“What?”

“A snake.”

“No, I mean… what are you doing here?”

“Playing golf with Aubrey,” Rowland said, pointing out a bronze and sandstone memorial a few yards away. The inlaid portrait of a young soldier might have been Rowland Sinclair, so striking was the resemblance.

“And exactly how often do you golf with your late brother?”

“We try to play a round whenever I’m back in Yass.”

“Rowly, mate, this is a cemetery.”

Rowland smiled. “Yes… it’s more putting and chipping practice than an actual game of golf.” He retrieved his jacket from the headstone, revealing the inscription: “Henry John Sinclair, 6th July 1851 – 13th March 1920”. There was something more below that began with the word “Beloved”, but which had otherwise been so badly chipped as to render the original lettering illegible.

Rowland fetched a putting iron, dropped the golf ball on to the grass before him and, lining up his shot, swung. The ball hit the headstone like a bullet. “Beloved” became “Belove”.

“You’ve lost your mind!” Clyde accused.

Rowland laughed but he offered no explanation. “Did you have a good run?”

“Yes, not bad. I’m early in fact.”

“Good! Can you stay a while? I might need your help with something.”

“I’m not playing golf in a cemetery. I’ll have enough explaining to do when I face the Almighty as it is!”

“No, not golf. Something else.”

“Then, sure. I could catch a train tomorrow or the next day if your brother doesn’t mind my sleeping in one of his sheds.”

“He mightn’t, but I would,” Rowland replied. “I’m sure we can find you an actual bed.”

“In that case, what do you need?”

“I’ll show you.” Rowland gathered his golf clubs and stowed them in a rough shed behind the chapel. He patted his brother’s memorial affectionately, before heading back to the Mercedes. Slipping behind the wheel, he drove them to what was technically a separate holding.
Emoh Ruo
had been purchased by Wilfred a couple of years previously and, with it, the
Rule Britannia
. Past the now uninhabited homestead was a cluster of sizeable sheds.

Rowland keyed the padlock that secured the largest shed, and opened the doors wide to allow light into what was a makeshift hangar.

Clyde whistled. “What the hell happened to her?”

“I landed a bit hard and clipped a fence on the way down,” Rowland confessed. “I’ve managed to procure a replacement tyre through the local flying club—it’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Any other damage?”

“I’ll need to patch the fuselage…”

Clyde nodded, running his hand over the rips in the body’s fabric. “You’ll need some linen canvas and a couple of coats of dope. You’re damn lucky the wire didn’t go over the wheel—you’d have flipped old
Doris
completely.”

Rowland nodded. “It was a new fence,” he said in his own defence. “I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

Clyde squatted before the damaged wheel. “We might as well get started then.” He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Rowland followed suit.

Having worked for a time in a motor mechanic’s workshop,
Clyde had acquired an understanding of machines, and the virtue of improvisation.

And so they remained in the shed, jacking up the
Rule Britannia
and determining how to remove the shredded wheel. As they worked, Clyde brought Rowland up to date with goings on in Sydney: Edna had won a part in another film.

“I think she must die in this one,” he said, grimacing. “She’s been rehearsing her final moments in the drawing room… sounds like it may be a painful demise. Your housekeeper is not happy. That’s why I had to bring the dog with me. Miss Brown is quite clearly fed up with the strays you bring home.”

Rowland laughed. Over the years Edna had procured the odd acting role in local amateur productions and been an extra on one or two films. Perhaps it was because she approached the roles like an excited child at play that none of them took it seriously.

They’d only just managed to remove the wheel when Wilfred’s Continental approached. The racing green duco was coated with a thick layer of red-brown dust. The chauffeur opened the door, and Wilfred and Arthur Sinclair stepped out.

“Good Lord, she’s a beauty!” Arthur said admiringly. “What a jolly ship!”

“She will be once Clyde and I fix my little mishap,” Rowland said smiling. Wilfred had never appreciated the biplane sufficiently. It pleased Rowland that Arthur, at least, could give the aircraft her due. “And what are you gentlemen doing out here?”

“We’ve stopped in to see what you were up to, on our way to the house,” Wilfred said. “I thought Arthur might like to take over the
Emoh Ruo
homestead since he plans to stay on in Yass.”

“As long as you don’t have any objections, Rowland,” Arthur added hastily. “Wilfred assures me that you have no intention of taking over the place yourself… but if you’ve changed your mind—”

“God, no!” Rowland glanced at Wilfred, more disconcerted by the fact that his brother had not mentioned that he planned to offer Arthur a house on what was now the greater Sinclair property, than by the offer itself. “I’m happy where I am.”

While Clyde showed Arthur what they were doing to repair the biplane, Wilfred took the opportunity to pull Rowland aside. “I am informed that Campbell, Campbell and Campbell is preparing to take action against you for slander and libel.”

Rowland frowned. Campbell, Campbell and Campbell, as the name suggested, was Eric Campbell’s law firm.

“Let him sue.”

“For God’s sake, Rowly, can’t you just leave this alone? Campbell’s Centre Party will amount to nothing. You are making yourself a target for no reason at all!”

“But what if it doesn’t amount to nothing, Wil?” Rowland asked, shaking his head.

Wilfred looked at him thoughtfully. “I know you’re still smarting after what happened in Germany but there are better ways of taking a stand against him, Rowly. All you’re doing at the moment is inviting the New Guard to silence you one way or another.”

“I am not afraid of those—”

“This is not the time to call out all your enemies!” Wilfred stopped as Clyde and Arthur emerged from the shed. “We’ll talk about this later. At least you can’t get into any more trouble while you’re here!”

Rowland could hear the bubbling chatter of his nephews as he came down the stairs. They were in the conservatory with Clyde who was telling them some kind of country yarn, spinning it out with amusing
voices and imitations. His tale was consequently interrupted by Ernest’s giggles and questions and exclamations of thrilled horror. Ewan, who was only eighteen months old, babbled and clapped with equivalent enthusiasm.