Give the Devil His Due (12 page)

When luncheon was concluded, Edna and Flynn decided to take a stroll. Clyde and Rowland retreated to their respective studios. Milton went with Clyde, and Lenin, having reluctantly relinquished the kittens to their mother, kept Rowland company. The artists were painting with purpose: Rowland images of oppression and violence and Clyde the pretty landscapes behind which they would hide.

Rowland had always worked quickly. Already a number of paintings were complete. There was one image, however, with which he struggled—a likeness of Ernst Röhm, whom he had first met in the Königplatz in Munich. His second encounter with the Nazi had ended badly. It was not that he'd forgotten the scarred, flaccid contours of Röhm's face. He had not forgotten any of it. Perhaps that was the problem. Whatever the reason, the painting of the book burning was still unfinished.

He worked intensely for the next few days. That was not unusual and, in a household of artists, perfectly acceptable. It had always been Rowland's way to paint feverishly when the muse was with him, late into the night and again at first light. He'd eat by his easel and come away from it only to shower or visit with his mother. She'd scold him for the state of his suit and send him on his way.

His houseguests came in and out of his studio: Milton read and intermittently poured drinks; Clyde borrowed pigments and commented collegially on the progress and the challenges of whatever piece was on his easel at the time; and Edna visited to chat about all manner of subjects and left him feeling somehow lighter. Occasionally all three would come at once and play cards, but he would paint.

It was Thursday when Mary Brown came in to inform him that Miss Rosaleen Norton of
Smith's Weekly
had called to see him. Rowland frowned, a little irritated to be interrupted. He'd thought he'd finished with the decidedly strange Miss Norton.

Still, it would not do to be discourteous.

“Ask her to come in, Mary. Don't worry, she's already seen the studio.”

The housekeeper sighed fiercely, but she showed the reporter in.

Rosaleen Norton was once again wearing a scarf as a blouse. Rowland couldn't help but think it was a distinctly precarious way to dress with rather too much reliance being placed on corners remaining tucked. She carried a large cardboard folio awkwardly under her arm.

Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands on his waistcoat. “Miss Norton. Hello, again. What brings you back to
Woodlands
?”

“I felt a need to share my drawings with you, Mr. Sinclair. I thought you might like to see them.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Rowland said, though he could not remember expressing interest in the reporter's drawings.

She glanced at the canvas on his easel—the book burning. “Weren't you working on that last Sunday?”

“I have been painting other pieces since,” Rowland replied. “I'm just now resuming work on it.” This was not strictly true. While Rowland had worked on other pieces he had also tried several times to complete the painting.

“I do like it,” she said. “There's a sense of ominous ghastliness about it… as though there's something monstrous lurking behind the canvas.”

Rowland glanced at the space in the composition waiting for Ernst Röhm. Perhaps there was.

He cleared the brushes and palettes off the card table so that Rosaleen could lay out her folio. The first drawings were those she'd drafted for
Smith's Weekly
. Visual jokes really… Two fat ladies with cigarettes captioned “heavy smokers”, two cats dressed as women making catty comments about the attire of a third. They were well drawn. Rosaleen's line work was competent if unremarkable. But she seemed young, so Rowland expected that she would, in time, develop a more individualistic style. Then, as he leafed through, the drawings became more confronting. A circle of young mothers devouring their babies and laughing hysterically, and esoteric pieces of fantastic and explicit figures.

“As you can see, I too have been influenced by the works of Norman Lindsay, and am also a great admirer of Pan,” she said, pulling out a detailed pencil sketch that depicted the god on his cloven haunches, a rearing snake in place of a phallus.

“Do you mind if I ask how old you are, Miss Norton?”

Her chin pulled back as she smiled. “I see you've read my story in
Smith's Weekly
. I know it states I'm fifteen, but that was just when I wrote the story. I'm seventeen now.”

“Actually, I'm afraid I haven't come across your work.”

“Oh.” She rummaged through the folio. “Never mind. I do believe I have a copy of it here. It was published in January.” She handed him a newspaper cutting. “You can keep that if you like.” She rolled her eyes. “My mother bought about sixty copies, so I have plenty.”

“Thank you, that's most kind,” Rowland murmured, not quite sure what to do with the cutting.

“Mr. Marien—Frank—employed me on the basis of my writing, but I'm an artist really. I'm sure the paper will publish my drawings soon, but it's peculiar that they're so much more conservative about drawings than stories.” Rosaleen walked about the room studying the paintings on its walls, commenting occasionally in a manner designed to demonstrate her knowledge of technique. She stopped before the portrait of Henry Sinclair which glowered over his son's studio. “I do like this. There's a delicious rage in his face, don't you think? And the hint of wickedness and danger. It's exciting.”

“I didn't paint that one. It's a McInnes,” Rowland informed her.

“Oh, pity.” Rosaleen moved onto the nude of Edna. “This is one of yours?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes.”

She considered it thoughtfully. “I model, you know… if you need someone new.”

“Thank you, I'm well accommodated in terms of models… but I'll pass your details on to Norman Lindsay next time I see him, if you like.”

Rosaleen beamed. “Oh, would you? That would be splendid!”

“Consider it done.”

“Perhaps Mr. Lindsay would like to look at my drawings.” “Perhaps.” Rowland was beginning to feel sorry for the young reporter. She seemed to be quite desperate for attention. He'd have to warn Lindsay to be kind. The artist could be brutally blunt and he wasn't sure how well Rosaleen would take criticism.

“I'm going to leave these with you,” she announced, putting the drawings back into the folio and leaving it on the card table. “Perhaps you could show them to Miss Higgins or even Norman Lindsay if he calls on you.”

“I'm not sure Mr. Lindsay will call by anytime soon, but I'm certain Miss Higgins will be interested to see your work,” Rowland replied.

Rosaleen nodded enthusiastically. “I'll pick the folio up next week.”

"I could return it to you at the paper, if that's more convenient?”

“Oh, yes! I could show you where Crispy used to sit. They won't let anyone use his desk, but you can feel his presence in the office.”

Rowland struggled for an appropriate response. He opted for simple courtesy in the end. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Well, I'd best get on and let you get back to your monster,” she said, nodding at the unfinished canvas.

He walked her out to a waiting motor taxi.

Rowland's houseguests all barged into the studio the moment he returned, making no secret of the fact they'd been waiting for Rosaleen Norton to leave before showing themselves. Milton and Clyde had decided she was odd, and Edna, who had not yet met the reporter, was trying to be considerate of any burgeoning attachment.

“For pity's sake, Ed, she's seventeen!” Rowland said horrified, though he had only just discovered that fact himself. “And Milt and Clyde are right. She's quite odd.”

Edna laughed. “We were all a little odd when we were seventeen.”

“Not this odd,” Clyde murmured, leafing through her folio. “These drawings are rather macabre, aren't they? Come and have a look, Ed.”

Edna did so, spreading the drawings out on the table.

“What do you think?” Rowland asked. “Miss Norton was particularly interested in your assessment.”

“Mine? Why?”

“Because of the sculptures of Pan in the garden, I expect. I told her in passing that they were yours. I suspect she's concluded the two of you have a common obsession.”

At this the sculptress smiled. “I sculpted Pan for the gardens because he's the Greek god of the woodlands… as in
Woodlands House
. It was a play on words, not a religious homage!”

“Really?” Rowland was genuinely surprised. “I thought you just liked Pan.”

“I do,” Edna said. “But no more than you do. Pan's curious, interesting to work with but—” She looked back at the drawings. “I expect Miss Norton admires him for
other
reasons.”

“These works are quite explicit and violent for a nice girl from Lindfield, don't you think?” Milton observed.

Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps Lindfield is not quite as respectable as we've come to believe.”

“What's this, Rowly?” Edna asked, picking up the newspaper cutting from the table.

“It's some story Miss Norton wrote when she was fifteen. Apparently
Smith's Weekly
published it earlier this year and employed her on its strength.”

“What's it about?”

“I don't know, I haven't read it yet.”

Milton took the cutting from Edna. “We'd best hear it then,” he decided, clearing his throat as he prepared to read the piece aloud. “The Story of the Waxworks…”

“Waxworks?” Rowland said, startled. The others, too, had not missed the coincidence.

Rosaleen Norton's tale was that of a young Sydney musician with a particular and maudlin passion for wax figures. Late one evening he happens upon a waxworks museum and pays the sixpence entry fee. The exhibits were not the usual kind—of celebrities and statesmen— but grotesques of the sort found in a House of Horrors. Among them, described in detail, a demonic satyr with “twisted horns and splayed goat's feet”. With Rosaleen's drawing fresh in their minds, the image was too easily conjured. The musician in her tale is locked in the museum overnight. The next morning, two policemen enter an abandoned house after hearing screams and manic laughter from within, and find the musician, his hair completely white, sitting pitifully in an empty room playing a discordant tune on a violin. He screeches, “Call it the ‘Dance of the Waxworks'” before falling dead at their feet.

Nobody said anything for a few moments after Milton finished.

Clyde broke the silence. “Well, that was creepy.”

“Quite well written in spots, though,” Milton added. “Considering she was only fifteen.”

“Disturbing parallels with how White died.” Clyde went to the sideboard and poured each of them a drink.

“Miss Norton did say that the story might have been a premonition when I first met her,” Rowland offered uneasily.

“You're all being utterly silly!” Edna said. “Mr. White was not a musician and he did not go mysteriously insane before falling inexplicably dead. The only common thread is a waxworks and that could easily be a coincidence!”

“Didn't White die in the Greek Room, Rowly?” Milton asked. “Pan's a Greek god—a satyr with twisted horns and splayed cloven hooves.”

Rowland recalled his candid conversation with the girl employed to cry and wail at Magdalene's. She'd said there was a devil in the Greek Room. He had to admit the coincidences were uncomfortably uncanny.

“You don't suppose Miss Norton is behind White's murder, Rowly?” Milton suggested. “She did end up with his job.”

“Did she want it, though?” Rowland mused. “She seems committed to becoming an artist rather than a journalist.”

“She's only seventeen!” Edna protested.

Milton shook his head. “The murderers I know all started their apprenticeships young.”

Edna rolled her eyes. “Just how many murderers do you know?” she challenged.

Milton chose to ignore her.

“Miss Norton does seem to find White's death strangely exciting,” Rowland said quietly.

Clyde scowled, clearly conflicted. His natural instinct was to warn his interfering companions to stay out of police investigations, but he also suspected that Milton's involvement with White would become more problematic as time went on. “I wonder if Delaney has come across Miss Norton yet.”

Rowland returned to his canvas, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared at the frustrated progress of his painting. He'd not advanced any further than a tonal underpainting of Ernst Röhm, and it was clear he was not going to finish it before the day's end. “Perhaps we ought to invite Colin round for a social drink.”

…Then the full horror of the position burst upon him. Locked in with those grinning monstrosities for the night. Commonsense strove to reassert itself. It must be a mistake of course. The old woman would, no doubt, come early in the morning, to let him out, and in the meantime—well, there were worse places to spend the night than in a warm room, and the waxworks were only life-sized toys, after all.