Decline in Prophets (20 page)

“How is Mrs. Atkinson?” Clyde asked, obviously feeling a little ashamed of having found mirth in a dying woman’s last moments.

Madding was solemn. “Well, as His Grace did not arrive, I’m afraid she had to put off dying for the moment.”

18

R
owland was shaving when Clyde called out to him.

“Get a move on, Rowly—we’ll be coming into the harbour soon.”

He didn’t reply, concentrating on shaving over the bruises on his jaw without sustaining any further damage. Under normal circumstances, he would have used the barbershop on the
Aquitania
, but after the previous evening’s encounter he was happy to keep a low profile. Rowland wiped his face with a towel, inspecting the results in the mirror. He didn’t
look as rough as Clyde, and at least now he was clean-shaven.

He joined his companions in the sitting room. They would be home soon. The
Aquitania
would sail into Darling Harbour that morning.

Rowland sat down beside Edna. “I wonder if Bryan found Isobel,” he mused aloud.

Edna poured him a cup of tea.

“You’re still worried about her—after what she did?” Milton shook his head. “Hanrahan might have shot you before she got there to tell him she lied.”

Rowland took his tea. “She’s pretty much alone, Milt. Hanrahan’s disowned her—she doesn’t have anyone here. Maybe we could…”

“Cripes Rowly, you weren’t actually in love with her were you?”

Rowland pictured the bishop’s niece on the night she had first kissed him on the moonlit deck—beautiful and unexpected. He preferred to think of what she’d done afterwards as
an act of desperation rather than malice. He glanced at Edna as she spooned a ludicrous amount of sugar into her tea. That was a different thing—a futile comparison.

“No—I wasn’t,” he said finally. “But, given time, I could have been.”

“Probably for the best, mate,” Clyde reflected. “Can’t imagine what Wilfred would have said if you’d brought a Catholic home.”

“Honestly, Clyde,” Edna huffed. “You make her sound like a puppy.”

Rowland smiled. “Isobel isn’t your traditional Catholic.”

“That’s what they all say,” Milton muttered as he drained the teapot, “until after you’ve married them.”

Rowland laughed ruefully. “I’m sure I’ll probably end up disappointing Wilfred one way or another.”

“One can only hope,” the poet agreed.

Edna put down her teacup and gathered her camera. “Shall we go?” She smiled eagerly. “It feels like we’ve been away forever.”

“Had enough of travelling, Ed?” Rowland asked, amused. It was Edna, more than any of them, who had relished the grand adventure of their travels.

“There’s someone trying to kill you, Rowly.”

“Oh, yes.” He stood. “Shall we?”

As it had been when they entered New York, the deck was crowded with both returning and visiting passengers. The
Aquitania’s
brass band struck up ‘Waltzing
Matilda’ as the great liner passed through the harbour’s famous headlands. The crowd cheered periodically, the atmosphere on board becoming progressively more festive and excited.

Edna took pictures. The rejoicing passengers waving at nothing in particular. Sydney emerging on the horizon. Rowland, Clyde, and Milton together against the unadulterated blue of the sky. Her
photographs would not capture the colour but they would preserve the easy happiness, the relaxed friendship of the moment.

Hubert Van Hook found them. Rowland gave the Theosophist his card and an open invitation to
Woodlands House
.

“Swell! That’s a scorching idea. I’ll level with you, Rowly—Old Charlie makes me a bit hot under the collar!”

“Oh!” Edna exclaimed, disappointed as she tried to snap Van Hook. “The roll’s run out.”

“Do you have another?” Rowland asked.

“Yes, but I left it in your suite—I put it down when we were having tea.”

“I’ll go get it,” he volunteered. “I won’t be a moment.”

“Oh no, Rowly, don’t bother…,” Edna began, but he was gone.

Hubert Van Hook grasped her about the waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Well, I’ll be seeing you doll!” he said grinning. “You keep those fellas honest and we might cut
the rug in Sydney sometime. I’ll give you a bell at Sinclair’s joint.”

Edna returned his embrace. “Yes, do keep in touch, Hu.”

The American waved and disappeared into the throng. Edna went to stand between Clyde and Milton at the rail. A swarm of smaller boats, tugs, fishing vessels and private yachts were surging out
to meet the ocean-liner. The air was crowded with music and laughter and the noise of the harbour.

And yet, Edna heard the scream over it all. It was just a single desperate cry. More chilling in the midst of the homecoming festivity. In the confused silence that followed, she cast her eyes
around, searching erratically for an explanation. Then she saw the passengers who were looking over the side.

“My God, someone’s jumped!”

The crowd pitched towards the portside, pressing against the rail and shouting uselessly. Edna gasped as she was crushed against Milton by passengers desperate to view tragedy. Clyde leaned over
the guardrail; pale, unable to take his eyes from the water below. He had seen the body hit.

Rowland reached them several minutes later. By then the crew was calming and reassuring the distressed passengers. Smaller boats had gathered in the
Aquitania’s
wake where the body
had sunk beneath the foaming water. The atmosphere was subdued; the more delicate ladies wept politely. Already the horror of the incident was dissipating—the thought of someone jumping to
her death was not as shocking as it may once have been. The Depression had seen to that.

“What happened?” Rowland asked, bewildered. He had missed the incident entirely.

“I think someone jumped,” Milton replied.

“Bloody hell.”

Clyde grabbed his arm. He looked sick. “Rowly, I think it was Isobel.”

19

R
owland Sinclair gazed vaguely at a scale model of the
Aquitania
as he sat in the captain’s office on the ship itself. He was alone.
The ocean liner had now made port at Darling Harbour and the process of disembarking over two thousand passengers begun. Isobel Hanrahan’s body had been recovered. Detectives from Sydney
Police Headquarters had boarded to take charge of the investigation. He’d been waiting for a couple of hours now, with nothing but his own brooding thoughts.

Rowland rubbed the bridge of his nose as he pictured Isobel; beautiful, seductive Isobel, who had fallen from grace and to her death. Could he have helped her? Could he have somehow treated her
more kindly and protected her from despair? The thought tormented him.

Madding had said the police wished to speak with him. He had expected as much. Guilt and regret haunted him. Perhaps if he had never left his suite that night, she would not have been forced to
reveal her secret. He wished he’d at least gone after her himself. It needn’t have been as hopeless as she saw it.

There was a brief knock on the door and Detective Constable Delaney walked into the room. Rowland stood.

“Sinclair.” Delaney extended his hand and smiled. “Welcome home. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon—on an official basis at least.”

Rowland shook the man’s hand. “It’s a hell of a thing, Col,” he said sadly.

The detective took Madding’s chair and motioned Rowland to sit. “Leg seems to have healed up, Rowly,” he said, glancing down. “You were on crutches when I saw you
last.”

Rowland nodded, dragging his hand distractedly through his hair.

Delaney’s mouth twitched, perhaps sympathetically. “Suppose you tell me about this woman, Rowly. The one in the harbour.”

Rowland shrugged. “Miss Hanrahan—formerly of Dublin. Travelling with her uncle, Bishop Hanrahan.”

“A bishop?” Delaney was stopped short by the implications.

“Afraid so.”

“And you were involved with her?”

“Depends what you call involved?”

“She claimed to be expecting your child.”

Rowland shook his head. “Not possible.”

“Are you sure?”

Rowland glared at the detective. “Yes, I’m sure. She admitted it herself—I think she might have known she was in trouble before she ever met me.”

“She admitted it?”

“Last night, when the bishop was trying to shoot me.” Rowland rubbed his face. “If I’d known she was going to jump, I—”

“Jump?” Delaney interrupted him. “Rowly, this is a murder investigation. Isobel Hanrahan was thrown from the deck.”

Rowland looked up sharply. “How do you know?”

“By all accounts, there was a delay between the time the scream was heard, and when the young lady’s body hit the water. It’s unusual for a jumper to scream at all, but if they
do, it’s usually when they’re actually falling. Rarely is there an intervening period of silence before they hit the water.”

Unsure whether he really wished to know the mechanics of such a thing, Rowland struggled to accept what Delaney was saying. Isobel had been murdered.

“Are you sure?”

“One can never be sure—but it seems likely. There were some injuries to her face, her dress was torn. It looks like there may have been a struggle.”

“Lord, poor Isobel. What kind of monster…?”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.” Delaney studied him. “Where exactly were you when Miss Hanrahan hit the water?”

Rowland’s thoughts were on Isobel’s last moments. Stricken by the violent, desperate images, he did not think to be concerned by the question. “On the deck… no,
wait—I believe I went back to the suite, to get a roll of film for Edna.”

“Do you remember seeing anyone? Did you talk to anyone?”

“No—everybody was on deck, I guess.” Rowland looked up, startled. “You don’t think I had anything to do with…?”

The detective sighed. “Here’s the problem, Rowly: you had every reason to be very angry with Isobel Hanrahan and, unfortunately, you are also implicated in the deaths of the other
two victims.” Delaney shuffled through the reports in front of him. “You discovered the body of Francesca Waterman and had some kind of altercation with Orville Urquhart.”