Decline in Prophets (19 page)

“I can assure you, Mr. Jones,” Madding protested, “Every precaution will be taken to ensure there is no repeat of this unfortunate incident.”

Edna leaned forward and touched Madding’s arm. “Please don’t be offended, Captain. It’s just that we are all rather fond of Rowly.”

Madding relaxed a little. “Indeed, Miss Higgins. I have no intention of losing another passenger either—the death toll’s getting embarrassing if nothing else.” He turned
to Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay in your suite until we reach Sydney.”

Rowland groaned.

“I understand this is inconvenient, Sinclair, but there are well over two thousand souls on board—we cannot keep an eye on all of them. You’re safest here.”

“We’ll be home in three days,” Edna reminded Rowland as he wavered. She was scared for him. “Please, Rowly.”

Rowland glanced at her and conceded. “You’ll let me know if your investigations reveal anything?”

Madding stood. “Of course.”

It was the early hours of the morning. Rowland Sinclair pulled on his jacket. After two days, the tastefully papered walls of his suite were beginning to close in on him. Though
it had not been an inordinate length of time, the knowledge that he could not step out was testing him.

“Where are you going, Rowly?” It was Clyde.

“Just onto the deck,” Rowland replied guiltily. “There’ll be no one out and I’m really getting cabin fever.”

Clyde did not try to argue with him. It was three in the morning, and he’d watched Rowland become progressively more restless. “Give me a minute to get some clothes on, and
I’ll come with you.”

A short time later they left the Reynolds Suite and headed out onto the first class deck. It was a pleasant night, warm. The breeze was gentle and, for a moment, Rowland fancied he could smell
eucalyptus on the balmy movement of air. He laughed at himself, at the improbability of the notion. Perhaps he was more homesick than he thought.

He and Clyde stood out on the deck, talking quietly of home under the broad southern sky. The state government had changed whilst they were away, and the conservative forces were again in
control of New South Wales. That was more important for Clyde and Milton who were Communists, than for Rowland who managed to remain entirely indifferent to politics. Still, when they left Sydney
the country had seemed on the verge of civil war. It was only the threat of criminal prosecution that had convinced them to walk away from the fight which had appeared imminent, but never
eventuated.

The twisted end of Clyde’s rolled cigarette glowed red in the darkness.

Rowland leant against the balustrade looking out over the lower decks of the ship. There was still a little movement; primarily the crew ensuring all was well while the passengers of the
Aquitania
slept. He wasn’t nervous but he did wonder who had tried to shoot him, and why.

“Sinclair. So the snake finally leaves its hole!”

Rowland recognised the broad Irish lilt before he turned. Bishop Hanrahan stood on the deck, fists clenched, already trembling with rage.

Clyde sighed loudly.

“Your Grace,” Rowland said evenly.

“Defiler, despoiler. Would you ruin an innocent girl with your carnal desires?”

“I assure you…”

The bishop stepped forward and staggered Rowland with a punch to the jaw.

Clyde moved to aid his friend, but hesitated. Years of childhood Mass, of doctrinal fear, intervened to render him useless. Rowland too was unsure of how to respond.

“You can be married before we get off this infernal boat!” Hanrahan grabbed Rowland by the collar. “You will not be leaving her with a bastard!”

Now Clyde found the courage to lay hands on the bishop, but Hanrahan twisted and sent Clyde reeling with the closed fist of his free hand.

“I’m not… I didn’t…,” Rowland gasped.

“You would deny your own child? Abandon an innocent girl? Shameless, predatory fornicator. Isobel told me how you took advantage of her.” The bishop hit him again. “God shall
judge thee, but the child shall not bear the stain of your sin.”

Shocked by the accusation, Rowland wrested himself free of the bishop’s grip. What the hell had Isobel told her uncle?

“I am not responsible for Isobel’s predicament,” he said tersely, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. “I will not be marrying your niece.”

“You, sir, are a liar and I shall beat God’s truth into thee!” Hanrahan launched himself at Rowland again and proceeded to do just that. Clyde had now stumbled to his feet and
tried in vain to pull the incensed clergyman off. The noise was attracting attention. Hanrahan was trying to force Rowland over the balustrade of the deck.

Milton reached them in shirtsleeves and braces, having dressed in haste. Godless spawn of Lenin that he was, he had no compunction about hitting the Catholic bishop. He grabbed Hanrahan by the
shoulder and pulled him around, stunning the Irishman with a quick blow to the nose. Clyde dragged Rowland away from the deck’s edge.

It was only then that Bishop Hanrahan pulled the revolver from his jacket. Rowland froze. So too did the crewmen who had finally emerged to sort out the disturbance on the first class deck.
Lights came on.

“Isobel! Isobel! Get over here, girl!” Hanrahan bellowed with the gun trained on Rowland.

Isobel approached, tear-stained and disgraced. Even now, Rowland felt sorry for her.

“Now, Sinclair, will you be setting things to right?”

Rowland stared at the gun and then at Isobel. There was no going back, whatever he did.

Voices of support murmured from the crowd that had now gathered.

“Do the right thing, you cad!”

“Marry the girl—take responsibility—what’s wrong with you?”

“Scandalous… just scandalous!”

Rowland glanced at Isobel. She wouldn’t look at him. This was ridiculous. He now had to defend himself to all and sundry.

Edna pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

“Make your decision, Sinclair!” The bishop cocked the gun.

17

R
owland Sinclair glared at the revolver that supported the bishop’s proposal of marriage.

“No…,” he replied, before he had fully considered the advisability of such a response.

“Isobel!” Edna stepped towards the bishop’s fallen niece and shook her furiously. “For pity’s sake, Isobel—that’s a gun… you must put a stop to
this… tell your uncle the truth!”

Isobel looked from her uncle to Rowland. Her eyes full and tremulous; a creature trapped.

“He’s speaking the truth, Uncle. Mr. Sinclair has been naught but a gentleman.”

Bishop Hanrahan may have paled—the light was too poor to tell. His righteous fury certainly took a visible blow. “But…”

“I lied to you, Uncle Shaun. I wanted it to be him.”

The clergyman destroyed Isobel with his gaze; she seemed to crumple under it.

“You, my girl, are dead to me,” he said as he dropped his hand.

Now Madding’s men surged to arrest the bishop. Isobel ran weeping from the scene. The curious disapproving spectators were dispersed. Rowland looked on, a little stunned. Clyde stood
grimly by him. “That couldn’t possibly have been worse… though I suppose he didn’t shoot you.”

Milton joined them. “What the hell were you two doing? He’s an old man and he had the both of you on the ropes.”

Clyde looked sideways at Rowland. “He’s a man of God.”

Milton snorted, disgusted.

Edna was speaking with Father Bryan. The deacon looked grave and a little lost. Rowland moved towards the pair and put his arm gratefully around the sculptress.

“Arrived in the nick of time, Ed.”

She shoved him. “What are you doing out here? He might have killed you!” She softened as she looked at his face. “Oh Rowly, that’s going to bruise.”

He scanned the deck, frowning. Madding was having words with Bishop Hanrahan. “Look Ed… Isobel… could you… she looked so…”

“I’ll go after Isobel,” Father Bryan volunteered. “She may need more than a friend, given the circumstances.” He turned to Rowland and offered his hand. “Mr.
Sinclair, please accept my apologies. His Grace can be rash.”

Rowland took the handshake. He picked his words carefully, now gun-shy of seeming too interested in Isobel Hanrahan. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do for
Isobel?”

Bryan nodded and set off in search of the bishop’s wayward niece.

Madding walked over to them whilst his staff captain and a couple of officers escorted the clergyman away. Father Murphy followed unobtrusively, as it seemed he always did.

“Mr. Sinclair, what were you doing out here?”

“My rooms were becoming a tad claustrophobic, Captain. I didn’t think there would be anyone about at this time… of course I was mistaken.”

Captain Madding walked them back to the Reynolds Suite. He sent down to the kitchens for ice despite Rowland’s assurances that it was unnecessary. Milton poured generous balloons of
brandy.

“What are you going to do with Hanrahan?” he asked as he handed a glass to the
Aquitania’s
captain.

“We’re holding him in the brig. He denies that he had anything to do with the shots fired at you, Sinclair. Also denies that he intended to shoot you on the deck just now…
claims he was just trying to make you do the right thing by Isobel.”

Rowland twirled the brandy slowly in the balloon.

Madding looked at him. “What do you think? It was you he pointed the gun at… would he have used it?”

“He might have,” Rowland replied thoughtfully. “But I don’t know that he planned to. I think he was really trying to… Actually I’m not sure what he was
trying to do, but I don’t think killing me would have helped.”

“The bullets, Captain,” Edna asked, “the one that ended up in the deck… did they come from the bishop’s pistol?”

“They were small calibre bullets—fired from a similar gun—but the Webley was standard issue during the last war. Every man on board who saw service probably has one—I
have one.”

Rowland smiled at the irony of it—it was a Webley with which Edna had shot him earlier that year. It had been his brother’s service revolver and it was in fact now packed in one of
his trunks. Wilfred had arranged a licence and insisted he take the weapon as a precaution. “To be honest,” he said in the end, “I really don’t think Bishop Hanrahan would
shoot a man in the back.”

“You’re right,” Milton agreed. “He’s much more likely to empty the barrel into your face.”

“How did His Grace know we were on the deck tonight?” Clyde asked, applying a cloth of ice gingerly to his blackened eye.

“It seems he came upon you by chance on his way to the infirmary.”

“Was he unwell, then?”

Madding shook his head. “No, it was Mrs. Atkinson—she’s a bit of a hypochondriac, I’m afraid—there’s one every trip. She seems to have taken up residence in
the infirmary.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

The sea captain smiled. “Convinced that the end was near, Mrs. Atkinson called for last rites. We sent for Father Bryan initially, but he is apparently unable to administer last rites. He
had us send for the bishop instead. As His Grace was coming across, it seems he found you and Mr. Sinclair.”

“Was he planning to finish the old bird off?” Milton asked. “Can’t imagine why else he’d have a gun?”

Clyde laughed.

Madding coughed, poorly disguising a chuckle. “You do have a point, Mr. Isaacs. I’m afraid that didn’t occur to me… but I’ll be sure to ask the bishop.”