Decline in Prophets (22 page)

It was evening when Rowland returned to
Woodlands House
; still light, but only because the midsummer sun did not set till nearly eight. Externally, the Woollahra mansion
was unchanged since the days when his parents had run the house. Perhaps the ivy was a little thicker on its sandstone walls. The garden was dotted with some of Edna’s more experimental
works, but to Rowland’s eye they ornamented the clipped formal layout of the grounds.

He let himself out of the Rolls-Royce as soon as it paused in the circular drive, leaving the chauffeur to take the car round to the stables.

“Johnston,” he said, pausing as he climbed out. “The family will be coming up in January. We might need another driver, and another car. Would you see to it, please?”

“Very good, sir.”

Johnston had been at
Woodlands House
since before Rowland was born. He understood the difference between the expectations of Wilfred and Rowland Sinclair.

Rowland entered his house for the first time in several months. Edna opened the door before he reached it. It appeared his friends had begun to worry that he may, in fact, have been
arrested.

“Rowly, where have you been? We were just about to go back for you.”

“Sorry.” Rowland loosened his tie with the hand that was not holding his jacket. “Did you get everything back all right?”

He followed the sculptress into the main drawing room, which had also served as his studio. His easels still stood by the large windows. The canvases stacked against the walls seemed to have
been neatened somewhat, but essentially the room was as he had left it. Rowland smiled, sure that Mary Brown had managed to dust and polish around the jars crammed with paintbrushes and palette
knives, the bottles of mineral turpentine and the half-finished works in which he had lost interest. He was sure that she did so whilst sighing repeatedly. Plaintive exhalations were the
housekeeper’s anthem, a kind of requiem to
Woodlands
under his father’s rule.

Rowland threw his jacket over one of the wing-backed armchairs and descended into its seat. He liked the drawing room the way it was, but no doubt Wilfred considered the parlour ill-used.
Rowland glanced at the life-sized portrait of his late father, which glared down at him from the wall. Henry Sinclair, he supposed, would have agreed with the eldest of his sons.

Milton poured him a glass of sherry. “Come on, Rowly, what happened?”

“Nothing really, Delaney just needed to ask some questions.” Rowland told them about the interview and the revelation that Isobel Hanrahan had been murdered.

“Oh, Rowly.” Edna grabbed his hand in both of hers. “I don’t know which is worse.”

Clyde shook his head. “Who’d want to kill the poor girl?”

“Well, the bishop wasn’t too happy with her,” Milton said grimly. “And perhaps the bloke who really got her into trouble was a bit worried when she admitted it
wasn’t Rowly… or maybe he was jealous.” He frowned. “Bloody awful what happened to Isobel—but she was playing with fire.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Mary Brown stood by the door. “Are you ready for supper?”

Rowland stood and put his jacket back on. “Thank you, Mary. I’m famished.”

He offered Edna his arm and though she giggled and told him he was pretentious, she took it. They proceeded into the dining room.

The current residents of
Woodlands House
did not usually dine so formally, but Mary Brown had obviously decided that this was an occasion on which they should. The table was covered with
crisp white linen and each place set with enough cutlery for at least five courses. A pair of grand Victorian candelabra graced the centre of the long oak table and three service maids stood in
line against the papered wall, waiting discreetly until they were required. Rowland assumed Mary Brown was practising for Wilfred’s arrival. His brother liked things done properly.

Milton pulled a chair out for Edna, bowing ridiculously. “So with a world, thy gentle ways, thy grace, thy more than beauty…”

“I think you’ll find that’s Poe,” Rowland said as he took a seat.

Clyde looked at the table, and then surreptitiously back at the maids, who were now busy at the sideboard. “I feel like we should have dressed for dinner.” He might have been
inclined to whisper, but the length of the table and the consequent distance between the four places necessitated a reasonable volume.

“Yes, about that,” Rowland said, grimacing. “I’m afraid that we are about to face an inundation of Sinclairs.”

“A what?”

“The family’s coming up to Sydney for a christening—Wilfred’s younger boy—I’m afraid they’re all staying here.”

There was a short silence as the words were absorbed.

“Of course they’re staying here,” Clyde said finally. “This is their house. When are they coming?”

“Not till after the New Year,” Rowland replied as he started his soup. He looked apologetically at Clyde and Milton. “We may need to bunk together for a while.”

Clyde laughed. “I’m from a family of twelve, Rowly. There was always at least three to a bed—sharing a room with you two is still an opulent use of space by Jones
standards.”

“Don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Milton murmured. “People will talk.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to move our easels and gear somewhere,” Rowland went on as Clyde shot Milton a withering glare. “Wil wants
Woodlands
to look
like a mausoleum again.”

Edna smiled. “It might be fun pretending to be a lady.”

“I have never thought you were anything else, Ed,” Rowland replied calmly. He squinted at Milton down the candlelit table. The letters emblazoned by silver nitrate had faded
considerably, but they were still just discernible. “Maybe we should do something about Milt’s forehead…”

Edna studied the poet’s face. “I could cover that up with a bit of rouge and powder.”

Clyde chuckled.

Milton put down his spoon and stared at the sculptress. “I rather think the Sinclairs might find a man in rouge and powder as alarming as one labelled
Red
.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Rowland agreed. “Let’s just not mention it, and hope for the best.”

Mary Brown came into the dining room with a platter bearing the second course. Those seated at the table shared their plans for Christmas as the maids served roast potatoes, steamed carrots and
snap peas to accompany the individual beef and kidney pies. Rowland and his house guests usually scattered to their own families for the holiday. Edna’s father and Milton’s grandmother
both lived in Burwood. Clyde’s large family still lived in the Snowy Mountains, west of Canberra.

“When are you heading home, Rowly?” Clyde asked as he cut into the golden pastry of his pie.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll catch the train together, then,” Clyde suggested. He would have to travel through Yass Junction in any case.

Rowland nodded. “I’ll be glad of the company. I’m just making a lightning visit—have to get back and organise things here—but you needn’t. I can pack up your
studio if you like.”

Clyde shook his head. “Mum goes to town with the fancy food whenever I come home. They can’t afford for me to stay more than a couple of days.”

Rowland didn’t pursue the matter. Clyde was from very humble circumstances, but they were proud people. Though he had never met them, he had a vague suspicion that the Joneses did not
quite approve of their eldest son’s association with Rowland Sinclair.

“It’s settled then,” Milton declared, waving his fork at them. “We’ll see 1933 in, in style, and then we’ll try not to disgrace Rowly for the rest of
January.”

“Just January, then?” Rowland asked, amused.

“Yes, January is more than enough.”

Rowland reached inside his pocket, remembering suddenly, the envelope that Madding had given him. He tossed it to Edna, with enough height to clear the candles. Mary Brown sighed audibly.

Edna caught the envelope and opened it.

“My locket! Rowly, how…”

“Captain Madding—they were packing up Isobel’s things to send back to Dublin. He thought you might like your locket back.”

“Oh the dear, dear man…” she hesitated. “Rowly, do you think it’s wrong to…”

“I don’t think either Urquhart or the locket had a lasting place in Isobel’s affections,” he said firmly. There was nothing to be gained by Edna looking at the jewel with
sadness or guilt. “Besides,” he added as he watched her hold it, “I gave it to you long before Isobel ever saw it. It was always meant to be yours.”

The sculptress smiled, slipping the chain over her head and pressing the locket to her breast.

Rowland looked thoughtfully at Edna. “Ed, you don’t know where Father Bryan is living in Sydney, do you?”

“Staying, not living,” Edna replied. “Matthew’s just here for three months, and then he’s going to India as a missionary of some sort.”

“So, where is he staying, then?”

“I believe he and Father Murphy will be at the seminary.”

“Why do you care, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

“I thought I’d call on him.”

Edna looked at him, sympathetically. “You’re thinking about Isobel.”

“I just wondered if he found her, after she ran off,” Rowland replied. “And if he did, where?” He put down his knife and fork. It occurred to him that Isobel Hanrahan had
been alive that morning. The murderous act, which had taken her life, was only a few hours old.

“Bryan might also be able to tell us what the bishop did, once he’d been released from the brig,” Milton added darkly. “Frankly, mate, I think you’ve been far too
trusting of both the Hanrahans.”

Rowland did not respond. Milton was probably right. But still.

“You’re taking a direct interest in this investigation then, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

“Yes, I daresay I am.”

“Getting to be a bit of a habit,” Clyde muttered.

Rowland grinned. Clyde could be an old woman sometimes. “Just asking a couple of questions… don’t worry, Bryan’s a priest.”

“A Catholic priest, mate,” Clyde reminded him.. “Abstinence makes a man bad-tempered. You’ll find they’re more formidable than your poncy Proddie
ministers.”

21

S
t Patrick’s Seminary was a building from an era past. A truly massive Gothic structure, its stone facades were raised high upon the rugged
hills behind Manly Beach. The six storeys of its central belltower loomed like the mast of some vast flagship of faith.

Rowland wondered whether his Protestantism was visible. It felt uncomfortably so. He had known Catholics before, but generally they had been fallen, or at the very least, lapsed. The residents
of St Patrick’s were a different thing altogether. Edna, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home in this enclave of men. But that was her particular talent—she was entirely at ease
in her own skin, and in any other place really.

Matthew Bryan was waiting by the majestic staircase in the reception. He greeted them warmly, informally.

“Edna, Rowland, how delightful to see you so soon. I was so glad to get your call.”

“Matthew, this is charming.” Edna smiled wickedly. “It might even be bigger than Rowly’s place.”

Bryan laughed. “It is rather grand. I must say I’m jolly glad I’m here in the summer, though.”

Rowland looked up to the twenty-foot ceilings. “I daresay it would be hard to heat,” he agreed.

“This time of year, however,” Bryan said, as he led them up the staircase, “you can stand on the parapets, cooled by the ocean breeze, and taste the salt on your lips. You can
look out upon the glorious, uncontainable, unknowable sea and understand the nature of God.”

“Or you might see a whale,” Edna added helpfully.

Rowland smiled. The sculptress had a way of blithely finding the ridiculous in the most earnest of situations.

Matthew Bryan showed them around the seminary, or at least those parts to which they were allowed access. They were in the belltower taking in the vista of beach and ocean, when Rowland finally
broached the subject of Isobel Hanrahan.

“I wanted to ask you, Father,” he said quietly, “did you find Isobel, that night on the boat?”

Matthew Bryan bit his lip and paused to gather himself before he replied. “Yes. I found the poor girl in the chapel.”

“Oh.” Rowland wasn’t sure what he had hoped to hear. This told him nothing. “Did she…?”

“I heard Isobel’s last confession,” Bryan said, grasping Rowland’s shoulder in a show of sympathy. “The confessional is sacred confidence, but I can say that the
public humiliation to which she had just been subjected was more than Isobel could bear.”