Decline in Prophets (21 page)

Rowland groaned. Put like that… “Have you spoken to Madding?” he asked.

“Yes—he doesn’t believe you had anything to do with any of the deaths. How did he put it?” Delaney smiled. “‘I’m afraid, Sinclair just has a habit of
being in the wrong place every possible time. I would think twice about standing next to him.’”

“Oh, smashing,” Rowland muttered. “What can I tell you, Col?”

Delaney took out a marbled pen and his notebook. “Everything. Let’s start with Urquhart.”

They spent the next hour and a half in this way. Rowland told Delaney everything he remembered and answered the detective’s questions as best he could. Delaney prompted, and took notes. He
was particularly interested in the attacks on Annie Besant and the possibility of some sort of connection with the Theosophical movement.

“Neither the murder of Isobel Hanrahan nor the attempt on your life fits that theory, however,” he mused. He leaned forward towards Rowland. “What’s your take on Bishop
Hanrahan?”

“Your traditional fire and brimstone, scarier than Hell itself, Irish Catholic priest,” Rowland replied. “But he’s been in the brig since last night.”

“Apparently not,” Delaney said, flicking through his reports. “It seems you managed to convince Madding that the bishop had nothing to do with the first attempt on your life
and that the second was just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh.” Rowland could remember thinking and saying something to that effect, but now Isobel was dead.

The door flung open and two men walked in. The first in uniform, a tall broad man with a pugnacious jaw on a boyish face. Bill MacKay, Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Bureau. Not a
man to be trifled with. He and Rowland Sinclair had already had dealings.

Close behind MacKay, a man in his early forties—impeccably, but conservatively attired. A silver fob chain hung from his waistcoat pocket, and a traditional bowler sat straight on his
head. His deep blue eyes regarded Rowland sternly over bifocals.

Rowland stood. “Wil, what are you doing here?”

Wilfred Sinclair shook his brother’s hand, gripping Rowland’s shoulder briefly with his other. It was an unusual display of warmth, which surprised Rowland a little, but then, they
had not seen each other in several months. Wilfred’s eyes lingered on the bruises which had now darkened on his brother’s face but he let it pass without comment. “I was in
Sydney, so I came to meet your boat,” he said. “That long-haired buffoon told me you’d been arrested.”

Rowland smiled faintly. Milton. Wilfred had never approved of his friends—particularly Milton.

“I have already assured your brother, Mr. Sinclair, that you are simply assisting us with enquiries at this stage,” Bill MacKay said brusquely.

Rowland glanced at Delaney. “Glad to hear it, Superintendent.”

“Well, I think we’re finished here,” Delaney closed his notebook with a snap. He nodded at Rowland. “I’ll be in touch, Sinclair.”

MacKay signalled for Delaney to follow him out of the room, leaving the Sinclair brothers alone in the captain’s office.

Wilfred stood silently for a moment.

“God forbid you should return without some sort of scandal,” he said finally.

Rowland didn’t respond.

“I shall ensure that none of this reaches the papers,” Wilfred went on. “But there’ll be rumours.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
“What could you possibly have been thinking, Rowly?”

Rowland assumed his brother was talking about his involvement with Isobel Hanrahan. Wilfred couldn’t believe he killed anyone.

“I wasn’t thinking anything, Wil.”

“That much is clear,” Wilfred replied curtly. “You seem determined to make the most inappropriate, improper associations possible.”

“She’s dead, Wil.” Rowland’s voice caught. He looked at Wilfred searchingly. “Do the police know who killed her? Did MacKay say anything?”

Wilfred’s face became a little less severe. “They’re looking into it, Rowly, but at the moment they don’t know. I guess it’s fortunate that everybody of interest
will be in Sydney for the next while.”

Rowland thought of Urquhart, whose death had been lost, unavenged, in a jurisdictional abyss. He would not allow that to happen to Isobel Hanrahan. He grabbed his hat from the desk. “Shall
we go, then?”

Wilfred nodded. “I’ve sent your friends back to the house—the police finished with them a couple of hours ago.”

Rowland’s mouth flickered upwards. Wilfred always managed to say “your friends” as if he were talking of some feral plague. He hadn’t seen his brother in a while, so it
amused, more than annoyed him.

Godfrey Madding caught them as they were about to head down the gangway. Rowland introduced Wilfred.

“I’m afraid this has been an unfortunate way to end a cruise,” the captain said apologetically. “But then this particular trip seems to have been fraught with unfortunate
incidents.”

“I appreciate the way you’ve handled things, Captain,” Rowland replied.

The captain pulled him aside. “Look, Sinclair, we’re just packing up Isobel Hanrahan’s stateroom. I presume the bishop will have her things sent back to Dublin.” He
pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. “I remembered that this belonged to Miss Higgins—you might like to return it to her.”

Rowland looked inside the envelope. Edna’s locket. He couldn’t recall Isobel wearing it since they had re-boarded in New York.

“Thank you. I’ll see that she gets it.”

“Good man. You can also tell Mr. Isaacs that His Grace is in the habit of carrying a gun. Apparently the Lord’s army is equipped with more than just the Good Book. He has a licence
for the weapon.”

“I see.”

Madding smiled congenially. “I do hope this unpleasantness doesn’t put you off sailing with us again.”

20

W
ilfred did not take his brother back to
Woodlands House
, but to the Masonic Club in the city centre. Now, in the lead-up to Christmas, the
traditional wood-panelled décor was tastefully accented with wreaths and the odd sign of appropriately understated festivity.

It was not until they were seated in the leather club chairs with drinks that the conversation left the events on
Aquitania
.

Wilfred raised his glass. “Well, for what it’s worth, Rowly, welcome home.”

Rowland put down the glass of scotch his brother had given him. For some reason, Wilfred seemed unable to accept that he loathed all forms of whisky. It had become something of a ritual for his
brother to pour him a drink that he would leave untouched.

“I trust Kate and the boys are well.” Rowland noticed the warmth that invaded his brother’s eyes on mention of his family. It had always been so. “When can I meet this
new nephew of mine?” Wilfred’s younger son had been born whilst Rowland was abroad.

Wilfred smiled proudly. “You’re coming home for Christmas, of course. You can meet Ewan Dougal Baird Sinclair then.”

“Ewan Dougal Baird?” Rowland grinned. “I say, didn’t know you were having one for Scotland.”

Wilfred sighed. “Kate’s family,” he muttered by way of explanation. “It’s a flaming miracle they didn’t insist on McDuff McTavish.”

Rowland laughed. Wilfred had written that the name of his new son had become something of a family battle. Obviously he had lost. Wilfred didn’t lose often.

“There’s another matter I should discuss with you. We’re having Ewan christened on the sixth of next month.”

“Yes, of course,” Rowland replied, with a general awareness of what a Sinclair christening would entail. All Sinclairs were baptised at St Mark’s in Darling Point. The family
would be rallied to Sydney for the occasion. They would need to be accommodated.

“I thought we’d put up Kate’s people in
Roburvale
,” Wilfred informed him.
Roburvale
, once the home of their late uncle, was the Sinclair’s other
Sydney residence: a mansion nearly equal to
Woodlands House
in size and magnificence. “I would rather not risk having any of them at
Woodlands
in its current state.”

Rowland ignored the implied reproach. The Sinclair family home had, under his stewardship, become somewhat unconventional. It suited him.

“Which means,” Wilfred continued, “our people will have to stay at
Woodlands
.”

“Oh, I see.” Rowland tried to look unconcerned.

Wilfred checked his pocket watch. “I have already spoken to Mary Brown. I’ve instructed her to retain some extra staff for the next month at least. I expect the family will start to
arrive just after the New Year—you shall have to do something about the state of
Woodlands
before then. Mary understands what I expect.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Rowland asked, realising that Wilfred envisaged more than a general polish. Mary Brown had been the housekeeper at
Woodlands
since before
the war. She never forgot her place, but Rowland was aware she was unhappy with the way he ran his house. He had no doubt that what Wilfred expected met with her approval.

“Try and recall what the place looked like when you first took up residence, Rowly—before you turned it into a refuge for all manner of unemployed, subversive
ne’er-do-wells!”

“You want me to throw my friends out?” Rowland’s tone carried a warning that he would countenance no such thing.

“Just make them less visible, for pity’s sake,” Wilfred said irritably. “Instruct them how to behave in polite company—tell Miss Higgins to keep her jolly clothes
on and, for God’s sake, direct them to keep their Leninist principles to themselves.”

Rowland’s eyes flashed. Wilfred could really be insufferable. “Look Wil,” he said tightly. “Let’s not quarrel already. We can all put on whatever airs and graces
you require.”

Wilfred let it go, but reluctantly. “You’ll have to take down your paintings,” he said finally. “There’ll be women and children in the house.”

At this, Rowland smiled. “Of course. I’m not planning on corrupting my nephews, let alone the Sinclair women.”

“Your plans are not what worry me,” Wilfred replied tersely.

Rowland changed the subject. “I see you were successful in seeing Lang off.” He knew Wilfred would consider the sacking, and consequent electoral defeat, of the left-wing premier, a
triumph for the forces of good. Now that New South Wales was in the control of the conservatives, perhaps Wilfred’s obsession with defending against a Communist revolution had abated.

Apparently not.

Wilfred spent the next hour apprising his brother of the political manoeuvrings which had ensured a “retreat from Moscow”.

“Bertie Stevens is a good man,” Wilfred mused, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “He’ll certainly make a better fist of the Premiership than Red Jack. Many of
our own chaps have taken seats—but vigilance is the key, Rowly… uncompromising, eternal vigilance.”

Rowland wondered about his brother’s part in the change of government. The “chaps” who’d taken seats were obviously Wilfred’s compatriots from the Old Guard, the
secret army, which less than a year ago had been poised for a coup. And now they sat in parliament, exerting their own brand of insanity on the government of the land. It was Rowland’s theory
that the conservative forces operated within degrees of madness. But he knew better than to ask for particulars. Wilfred did not completely trust his allegiances.

Rowland was, in any case, more vested in the fate of Eric Campbell and his New Guard. He had made an enemy of the fascist movement earlier that year. It had ended badly. Though Wilfred had
managed to keep him out of gaol, he had sent Rowland abroad to keep him from the New Guard’s vengeance.

“The New Guard’s day is over,” Wilfred said dismissively.

“Why?”

“Campbell’s security guard—some chap called Poynton—turned informant. Confessed to Delaney actually… just walked in and told him everything… no one could
really fathom why.” Wilfred maintained a sharp and intent eye on his brother as he spoke.

The smile was in Rowland’s eyes. Good old Poynton—a man to be relied on.

“Campbell and the New Guard never quite recovered from the public outrage.” Wilfred stopped short, suspiciously. “Rowly, you didn’t have anything to do with… I
thought I told you—”

Rowland smiled innocently. “Good heavens, Wil, I was abroad.”

Wilfred glared at him. “Quite.”