Decline in Prophets (36 page)

“Wil doesn’t seem to think luck has a lot to do with it,” he said grimacing.

“Of course. He wouldn’t.” Edna smiled. “Where is Wilfred?”

“Making phone calls. Eric Campbell is moving to have me expelled from Lodge and Dangars is not so keen to have me on the board anymore.” He laughed ruefully. “No wonder Wil
thinks I engineered this.”

“He doesn’t—”

“No, not really… but he’s not happy.”

Milton and Clyde came into the conservatory.

The former was singing some ditty he’d picked up the night before, complete with Scottish inflection.

“… Will you stop your tickling Jock!

Dinna mak’ me laugh saw hairty,

Or you’ll mak’ me choke.

Och, I wish you’d stop your nonsense,

Ye’ll mebbe tear ma frock…”

“Rather an odd song for a man to sing, Milt,” Rowland interrupted him, testily.

“My Lord you’re conventional when you’re out of sorts,” Milton replied blithely. But he did stop, looking intently at Rowland. “Cheer up, mate—are they
preparing the gallows for you?”

“Don’t give them any ideas,” Rowland replied.

Milton sat down. “So, the bishop came a-calling?”

Rowland glanced uneasily at Ernest. The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. “Very well, Uncle Rowly, I’m going.”

“Thanks Ernie, you’re a gentleman.”

“That’s all right, Uncle Rowly,” Ernest replied solemnly. “I know you’d do the same for me… we are nothing, if not in the street.”

Rowland was momentarily perplexed and then he recognised Wilfred’s dogma in his nephew’s words. He smiled. “I think you mean discreet, Ernie, nothing, if not discreet. You can
take Lenin if you like, but don’t go near the street.”

They waited as Ernest took the misshapen greyhound out onto the lawn.

“His Grace seems to think I murdered Isobel,” Rowland said finally.

“His Grace is unhinged,” Clyde replied. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Rowland frowned. “He knew that I went out to Rookwood.”

“He might have talked to someone at St Michael’s,” Clyde suggested. “He is a bishop.”

“Or he could have seen you just before he tried to kill you with the garden ornament,” Milton countered.

The thought had crossed Rowland’s mind.

“Rowly, have you spoken to Detective Delaney, yet?” Edna asked.

Rowland flinched. “Damn—I forgot. With all this Leadbeater nonsense, I’ve been a mite distracted.”

“Right,” Clyde decided. “You’d better get in touch with him.”

Mary Brown came into the conservatory.

“A Mr. Van Hook called for you, sir, while you were in with Mr. Sinclair. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh, Hu—I’ve been meaning to call him.” Rowland put down his tea. Wilfred had spent at least an hour ranting at him that morning. Rowland did not blame the housekeeper
for not wanting to disturb them.

“He would like you to meet him at
The Manor
at noon, sir. He believes that he may be able to help you sort out the matter with Mr. Leadbeater.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Fleetingly, Rowland wondered what Mary Brown and the staff thought of recent events. He checked his watch. It was half past eleven. “I had better get
moving… I’ll call Delaney when I get back.”

Clyde and Milton stood. The poet picked up the paper, pointedly. “We’d better come, don’t you think Rowly?”

“We’re still not sure if Hu was involved with what happened to you at Rookwood,” Clyde added.

“We’ll all go,” Edna decided. “We’ll be back after lunch with good news.”

Rowland wasn’t sure that turning up at
The Manor
en masse was the best idea, but Edna had already donned her hat and gloves and was heading out the door. “Hurry up, Rowly,
we’ll be late.”

“Mary, would you let Mr. Sinclair know we won’t be in for lunch?” he asked, as he collected his own hat and retrieved his jacket from where he had last discarded it. He had no
doubt that the housekeeper would inform Wilfred where they were going. Outside
Woodlands,
Mary Brown was the soul of discretion, but her loyalty lay with Wilfred. He didn’t really mind
but he was aware of it.

The pack of reporters and photographers outside the gates of
The Manor
had grown if anything. Rowland and his friends were admitted without question once again. The servant who answered
the door was apologetic.

“Mr. Leadbeater is meditating in the gazebo, sir. He does not like to be disturbed.”

“Is Mr. Van Hook here yet?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Perhaps we should wake Leadbeater up,” Milton suggested.

“I can assure you, sir, Mr. Leadbeater is not asleep,” the woman protested sharply. “He is meditating. He may not even be in his body.”

“Well, surely he’ll return for the World Prophet?” Milton persisted. “Rowly’s got a golden aura, you know.”

Being the only person present not accustomed to ignoring the poet, the servant seemed confused. “Well… I…”

“What say we wander up to the gazebo to see if Mr. Leadbeater has finished?” Rowland offered.

“Mr. Leadbeater does not like to be disturbed.” The woman remained adamant.

“We’ll ensure he’s back in his body before we talk to him,” Rowland said firmly. He didn’t have time for this nonsense.

The grounds at the back of
The Manor
were lined with trees and hedges, and so the gazebo was not immediately visible from the house. Rowland walked a little ahead of his friends who
allowed him to take the lead. He was, after all, Leadbeater’s beloved prophet.

The gazebo was a large structure fashioned in the style of an Eastern pagoda, painted in the bright colours of the subcontinent rather than the whitewash of traditional British garden houses. It
was surrounded by a tall hedge of camellias, which created an appropriate feeling of solitude. Rowland ran up the steps, feeling a slight twinge in his leg for the first time in days.

Leadbeater was sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor. He was slumped forward. Rowland stopped. Perhaps the old man had projected out of his body. The others clattered noisily up the stairs
behind him but Leadbeater did not stir. Odd, but then everything about Leadbeater was odd.

Rowland approached cautiously and then he noticed the red in the folds of the man’s voluminous smock. Blood.

He reacted quickly, moving to Leadbeater’s side. “He’s bleeding… Clyde call for…”

The shot was muffled, and it was only because the post in front of him splintered with the bullet’s impact that he realised they were under fire.

“Get down!”

34

T
he second shot would have killed him if he’d still been standing. Edna screamed. Rowland pulled her under him as another bullet hit the
pagoda and splints of wood flew in all directions.

Milton swore.

Clyde tried to look for the source of the bullets. A fourth shot and then a fifth. He got back down. A sixth shot hit the trellised doorway, and then, nothing.

They did not move for several minutes.

“I think he’s gone,” Rowland said finally.

“Or he’s reloading.”

Rowland looked towards Leadbeater. “We’ve got to get help.”

“Is he dead?” Clyde asked.

“I didn’t have time to find out before the shooting started. If he isn’t he’ll bleed to death soon.” He raised his head cautiously. “I’ll go—you
lot stay down just in case.”

Clyde shook his head. “No, I’ll go. It’s more likely you he was shooting at, mate.”

“How do you figure that?”

“This is the second time you’ve been shot at, Rowly. Not to mention what happened at Rookwood.”

“Don’t go, Rowly,” Edna whispered still under the protection of his arm.

She was trembling. He could feel it. He didn’t argue and he held her tighter.

“Be careful,” Milton warned as Clyde made ready to go. “If you hear anything at all, get down. He’s probably somewhere behind the hedges.”

Keeping his head and shoulders down Clyde crawled out of the gazebo and ran for the house. They watched him go, breath held, waiting for the shooting to start again. It didn’t.

When it was clear that Clyde had reached the house, Rowland looked down at Edna.

“Ed, are you all right? You’re not hurt are you?”

She let go of him. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I don’t like guns.”

He smiled. “It’s the bullets I have a problem with. I’m going to go check on Leadbeater now, okay?”

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

He moved guardedly towards the Theosophist’s body. He found the man’s mouth buried in the hairy grey mass of his beard and put his ear to Leadbeater’s lips. He couldn’t
hear anything.

“Is he dead?”

“I can’t tell.”

Edna dug into her handbag and produced a compact. She tossed it to Rowland. “Hold the mirror up against his mouth,” she said.

Rowland did so. A very faint mist fogged the glass. Rowland closed the compact and handed it back. “He’s alive.”

He and Milton worked to move Leadbeater into a more comfortable position, without standing themselves. By the time they had laid the man prone and applied pressure to the bleeding wound in his
back, the sirens were audible.

Soon the grounds of
The Manor
were teeming with police. Charles Leadbeater was stretchered into an ambulance whilst officers forced reporters and photographers back. Clyde dragged them
into the house out of reach of the cameras. Rowland and Milton were now splattered with Leadbeater’s blood. It would not make a good picture.

Edna found the kitchen and made tea whilst they answered a barrage of questions from junior officers. And then Delaney arrived.

He sent the other constables to search the grounds for evidence and sat down. He shook his head. “You’re determined to get yourself killed then, Rowly.”

“One doesn’t normally expect a gunfight in Mosman,” Rowland muttered.

“I was talking about what your brother’s going to do,” Delaney replied. “… oh, that bad already?” he asked, when Rowland failed to smile.

“Poor Rowly’s had a rather trying week,” Edna confided. “He’s a little grumpy.”

“I see.” Colin Delaney loosened his tie. “How about you tell me what’s been happening since we spoke last… other than being named a messiah, of course.”

Rowland remained unamused. He started with Rookwood and what had happened in the gardens of the Chapel of St Michael the Archangel.

“So this kid,” Delaney wrote furiously in his notebook, “she saw someone hit you with an angel?”

“I believe she said God hit me with an angel.”

“I think the Good Lord may have an alibi, so let’s just assume she was mistaken about that bit,” Delaney said, frowning. “Who could she have mistaken for God?”

“I don’t know,” Rowland shrugged. “What does he look like?”

“Protestants!” Clyde shook his head. “Don’t you people ever go to church? He’s a big old bloke with a long, grey beard… isn’t he Colin?”

Delaney nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Bloody hell… Leadbeater… had to be!” Milton made the improbable leap.

By now, even Rowland was smiling.

“All right, let’s forget about the description,” Delaney decided. “You said the perpetrator shouted at you before he slugged you with this statue?”

“Someone shouted at me.”

“What did they shout?”

“Just ‘Sinclair’.”

“And you thought you recognised the voice? From just one word?” Delaney was dubious.

“It was the accent. I thought it was Van Hook… but I may be remembering incorrectly… it was just before someone tried to crack my skull.”

“Fair enough,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Tell me about today. What were you doing here?”

“Hubert Van Hook phoned—wanted me to meet him here.”

“And you were willing to meet him, despite what happened at Rookwood?”

“I’m not sure what happened at Rookwood, and he said he would help me talk to Leadbeater.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No—he rang while I was being lambasted by Wil. My housekeeper took the message.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“That he would meet me at
The Manor
at noon and we would deal with Mr. Leadbeater together.”

“And what is Mr. Van Hook’s relationship with Mr. Leadbeater?”

Rowland thought uneasily of Van Hook’s open hostility to Charles Leadbeater. “Hu grew up in the Theosophical movement. I think Annie Besant sent him to check on the old man—Hu
didn’t seem to like him particularly.”

“Rowly,” Clyde reminded him. “What about Waterman? He was here.”