A Murder Unmentioned (8 page)

Rowland smiled. Clyde had a way with children. He expected that his fellow artist would be the first of them to settle down and do that for which his long-suffering Catholic mother prayed. He knew that Clyde’s sweetheart, a young woman by the name of Rosalina Martinelli, was of the same mind, though Clyde himself was in less of a hurry. Indeed, Clyde had been playing a game of matrimonial duck and weave since they’d returned from abroad.

They’d come in only a short while earlier to clean up and dress for dinner. Rowland’s trunk had, by then, been collected from the Mercedes, taken up to his room and unpacked. Kate had welcomed Clyde to
Oaklea
and ensured he was comfortably accommodated in one of its many guest rooms.

They were dining formally that evening. Rowland’s dinner suit had, of course, been in the trunk Clyde had delivered with the Mercedes. Clyde’s not untirely unfounded conviction that any interaction with the upper classes, however brief, would require formal attire, meant he had also brought his own.

It was when Rowland was about to join Clyde and the boys in the conservatory that he heard the commotion at the front door and Kate, breathless with excitement. “Oh Wil, how could you not tell me? What a truly wonderful surprise!”

“I thought you might like the company, Katie,” Wilfred replied. Rowland could hear the warmth in his brother’s voice. It was always the way when Wilfred Sinclair spoke of, or to, his wife and sons.

Rowland hung back, allowing them that moment alone. He may have continued in to join Clyde if he hadn’t heard a vaguely familiar voice shriek, “Kate, darling!”

And then, Kate’s response. “Lucy, how simply wonderful to see you!”

Rowland closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. With everything that had happened he had completely forgotten to mention his awkward conversation with Colonel Bennett to his brother and sister-in-law.

“Rowly!” Wilfred caught sight of him as they walked through into the drawing room. “You remember Miss Lucy Bennett…”

Lucy gasped. She had arrived dressed for dinner, in voluminous, emerald-green taffeta and jewels. Perhaps it was the influence of the season, but she reminded Rowland of a blonde Christmas tree.

“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennett,” he said uncomfortably.

Lucy stared at him. Some moments later, it seemed she might speak, but instead her eyes brimmed with tears and she pushed past Rowland to run up the stairs in quite obvious distress.

Dumbfounded, Wilfred and Kate watched her go.

“Oh… oh dear,” Kate said eventually. “I’d best go after her.” She set off up the stairs in concerned pursuit.

Wilfred grabbed Rowland’s arm, furious. “What the hell did you do to that girl?”

“Nothing,” Rowland replied, shaking off Wilfred’s grip. “Her father asked me never to see her again.”

“What! Why? If you’ve—”

“For God’s sake, Wil!” Rowland said, affronted. “Colonel Bennett came to see me. Somehow he’d got the impression that I wanted to marry his daughter, which I can assure you, I do not!”

Wilfred cursed. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d jilted the poor girl?”

“I didn’t jilt her… I’ve never had any—”

“She’s Kate’s dearest friend, Rowly. Why would you—no wonder she—” He stopped as a thought occurred to him. “If you refused her, why did Bennett feel the need to forbid you seeing her again?”

“I hadn’t had the chance to tell him when he met my friends and decided I was not a fit and proper suitor for his daughter.”

“Well, that part is perfectly understandable,” Wilfred growled. He sighed. “The poor wretch probably believes I’ve orchestrated this encounter in defiance of her father’s wishes.”

“I’ll leave,” Rowland offered.

“Bloody hell, Rowly, why can’t you do anything without a public scandal? Colonel Bennett will unleash the dogs of war when he hears you’re here.”

“I can be gone before she comes down for dinner,” Rowland said again, but Wilfred was not listening to him. Kate and Lucy were descending the stairs arm in arm.

“Gentlemen, you must forgive me,” Lucy said, when they’d come down. “It’s been a frightful trip. I’m afraid I was tired and overwrought. You must think me terribly silly, Mr. Sinclair.”

“It’s wonderful to have Rowly and Lucy visiting at the same time, don’t you think, Wil?” Kate’s enthusiasm was distinctly forced. “The four of us will make such a jolly party.”

Wilfred cleared his throat, glaring at Rowland. “Don’t forget Arthur, my dear.”

“Or Clyde,” Rowland added. “Indeed, I might just go and tell him that we’ll be going in for dinner,” he said, taking the opportunity to retreat, for a while at least. “What would you like done with the boys, Kate?”

“Oh, I’d better have them taken up to the nursery,” Kate replied. “Nanny de Waring will have their supper waiting.”

“Clyde and I will do that,” Rowland volunteered, already on his way to the conservatory. “It’ll give you and Miss Bennett a chance to get reacquainted.”

7

THE HOME CIRCLE

A SIGN OF TRUE LOVE

Rarely, indeed almost never, is it of any use for a man to ask advice as to how he shall manage a proposal of marriage to the woman of his choice. Books of etiquette, with formulas for every occasion, counsel from obliging and deeply interested friends, however experienced, alike are of little or no avail to “him who lacks a tongue.”

Shyness is, above all, a distinguishing characteristic of true love, and the man who has most cause highly to esteem himself is often the one who is most diffident, who will stammer and blush like a bashful schoolboy in the presence of the woman whom he believes to be the paragon of her sex and who all the while, if the truth were known, may be longing to help him out with his faltering speech.

Camperdown Chronicle, 1934

E
wan Sinclair shrieked in delight as he was hoisted onto Clyde’s broad shoulders. He grabbed a chubby fistful of the artist’s sandy hair and bounced. Ernest punched into Rowland’s open palms, his face fierce and clenched in concentration.

“Good show, Ernie!” Rowland said as his nephew managed a jab without closing his eyes. “What did I tell you? Your aim’s rather better when you can see.”

Ernest nodded thoughtfully.

“Come on then, Sonny Jim.” Rowland got up off his knees. “Your supper’s waiting and Clyde and I have to go in to dinner.”

“Are you going to marry Aunt Lucy?” Ernest blurted.

Rowland was startled enough to answer bluntly, “No.”

“Oh. Are you sure, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest’s small brow furrowed with concern. “Aunt Lucy is very suitable.”

Clyde smothered a snigger. Rowland stared at his nephew, wondering what adult conversations the boy might have overheard.

“I’m sure she is, Ernie, but I’m afraid that I’m not.”

Ernest nodded solemnly. “Oh, I see.” He took Rowland’s hand. “Will you tell Nanny de Waring that you kept us playing so she won’t be cross?”

“That I can do.”

“And that we needn’t go to bed straight after supper?”

“That might be trickier.” Rowland grabbed Ernest and slung the boy over his shoulder. “When did you become such a scamp?” he asked as Ernest writhed and squealed.

And so the younger Sinclairs were delivered somewhat raucously to the sanctuary of the nursery so that the adults could go about the business of dinner.

Kate’s other dinner guests had arrived by the time Rowland and Clyde made their way down. Kate had, like any good hostess, attempted to alleviate the gender imbalance by inviting Miss Edna Walling to join them. Lucy’s surprise arrival had happily evened the numbers exactly, so now each lady had a gentleman to escort her into the dining room.

The seating arrangements placed Rowland between Lucy Bennett and Edna Walling. Resigned now to an awkward evening, he just hoped for the best.

Clyde took his place on the other side of the garden designer. The two seemed to find each other good company from the outset.
Unlike Rowland, Clyde painted landscapes and so perhaps it was this appreciation of nature that each recognised in the other. It may also have been a certain discomfiture in the rarefied atmosphere of an
Oaklea
dinner party. Sun-bronzed and straight-backed, Edna Walling looked as out of place in the constriction of her fussy lace-trimmed gown as Clyde had always seemed in a dinner suit, however well-tailored.

In the absence of any protocol on how to proceed, Rowland decided to carry on as if he had never spoken with Colonel Bennett. Perhaps Lucy, too, wished to relegate the whole embarrassing incident to the past. After all, it was quite possible that her overzealous father had acted of his own accord.

Lucy’s behaviour did, in fact, reassure him on this account. She was as cheerfully vacuous as ever. She asked about his time abroad, enquiring after fashions and acquaintances she’d made during her own season in London, and extolling over Kate Sinclair’s presentation at court. Of course, nobody mentioned the murders. They were, after all, at dinner.

Elisabeth Sinclair was also her best self this night, the charming hostess who had once claimed a place at the pinnacle of gracious society. Rowland had vague memories of his mother thus when he’d been very young—long before the war, when his brother and father had been alive. Wilfred expertly managed the conversation so that her inescapable frailty, her inability to acknowledge Rowland with anything but Aubrey’s name, and Aubrey’s life, was barely noticed.

As the main course was being cleared, Elisabeth Sinclair bid them all good night. “Late nights and Mrs. Kendall’s desserts are best enjoyed by the young,” she said, smiling warmly. All the gentlemen stood, volunteering to see her to her rooms, but it was Arthur’s arm she chose.

“Your mama seems well tonight, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucy said once Elisabeth had left the room.

Rowland nodded. “She does.” He presumed that, despite
Wilfred’s efforts, the malady of his mother’s memory was something of which Lucy was aware.

“She has been rather unwell, I believe.”

“For quite a while,” Rowland murmured more to himself than anyone else.

“Kate believes that it would be easier if your mama had another daughter-in-law.”

“She said that?”

“Not exactly, but I know Kate would love nothing more than to have another woman in the family.”

“I expect she would.”

Lucy giggled.

Rowland looked desperately for some way to steer the subject to one less personally threatening. As luck would have it, he overheard a snippet of Clyde’s conversation which served the purpose admirably.

“A project of this size must be daunting, Miss Walling. When we were abroad we visited whole countries smaller than
Oaklea
!”

“Fortunately, Mr. Watson Jones, we are not converting the entire property into garden, just the immediate grounds, which already have excellent bones. I’m just adding a few highlights.”

“You must have Miss Walling show you her plans, Clyde,” Rowland interjected. “They’re quite splendid.”

Kate nodded. “I’m very much looking forward to seeing it all in place.”

The garden designer sighed. “We would be progressing a great deal more quickly if the jolly police would stop bothering me about that old gun!”

Wilfred cleared his throat.

“That Gilbey chap,” she continued, “is insisting the area be sieved before he’ll let me get on with building the ponds. You’d think I’d dug up Tutankhamun’s tomb!”

The table fell silent as the Sinclairs struggled for an appropriate response.

In the end, Rowland leaned over and said quietly, “I’m afraid, Miss Walling, that the police believe our late father was killed with that gun.”

Edna Walling turned quite crimson. “Oh, my Lord, how clumsy of me. I had no idea… I hope you can forgive my lack of tact.”

“Not at all, Miss Walling. You weren’t to know,” Wilfred said. “Indeed it was remiss of us not to have told you sooner since you did us the service of finding the weapon.”

Dessert was served: an extraordinary construction of meringue, brandied pears and caramel sauce.

Edna Walling was noticeably quiet.

“Please don’t feel badly,” Rowland whispered to the embarrassed garden designer. “My father died a long time ago. It’s not a fresh wound by any means.”

“You can always trust me to drop a clanger!” Edna lamented.

Rowland laughed, taking up his dessert fork. “Tell me, Miss Walling, what exactly did the police want?”

“All sorts of daft information, Mr. Sinclair. What vegetation has been removed, whether the dam was visible from the house, how long it would take to get from the house to the dam, whether the dam was visible from the workmen’s cottages… I’m afraid they must have mistaken me for a surveyor!”

“I imagine it must be testing your patience, Miss Walling, but I’m sure the matter will be put to rest soon.”

“Do you expect they’ll find your father’s murderer quickly, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland shook his head. “No. I don’t expect they’ll find him at all.”

“You’re being rather pessimistic, don’t you think, old chap?” Arthur said, having returned to the table. He smiled broadly.
“Wouldn’t it be something if, after all these years, justice could finally be done?”