Give the Devil His Due (44 page)

“He did? My congratulations.”

“I'm very grateful for your intervention on my behalf, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Believe me when I say I did very little, Miss Norton.”

“I thought I might pay you a visit and see how you were on the count of… you know.”

“I'm sorry?”

“My premonition. Did you finish that painting?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“Did something evil come out of it?”

Rowland hesitated. He did not wish to lie but surely the bullet didn't count. That had come through the painting rather than out of it, after all.

“I mean metaphorically, ” Rosaleen said while he vacillated. “The story is about the compulsion of artists to examine the darkest parts of their souls, to lay bare the most dangerous ideas and how, in the end, we are all doomed to be consumed by the very thing we have created.”

Rowland blinked. In the periphery of his vision he could see Milton smirking. “As you can see, I haven't been consumed,” he said carefully.

“Haven't you, Mr. Sinclair?” she said, rising on her toes to gaze searchingly into his eyes. “Haven't you?”

Rowland shot Milton a silent plea for help.

“The only thing Rowly's been consumed by is the Maroubra Invitational!” Milton stepped ably into the breach. “Are you still covering that story, Miss Norton?”

“Oh that. No, Ken Slessor's taken over. Frank wants me to write another story for him,” she said, taking the chair Rowland offered her. The gentlemen resumed their own seats.

“What's this one about?” Edna asked enthusiastically.

Rosaleen straightened her shoulders. “Actually that's the other reason I've come—there's a full moon tonight.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rowland asked. Rosaleen Norton had a very cryptic way of communicating.

“I've been thinking of the statue of Pan in your garden, Mr. Sinclair. I wondered what it would look like in the moonlight.”

Edna regarded the girl curiously. “Why don't we have a look now?” she suggested.

“Oh, I was hoping you'd say that!” Rosaleen jumped to her feet.

Edna stood too and the men rose less enthusiastically. Milton grabbed the decanter of sherry as they walked out.

There was indeed a full moon that night, so bright that the garden was rendered in stark colourless clarity. The air was cold. Perhaps that was what chilled them into a kind of acute awareness. It seemed to Rowland that he heard every footfall and crackle, every night bird and frog. He saw the faint glow of a cigarette near the gatehouse and the black silhouettes of each leaf. Of course, he'd walked the grounds in the moonlight before, but on those occasions he might have been somewhat distracted by the company and purpose of taking the night air. Certainly it was the first time he'd stepped out at this time to inspect a statue.

Edna's sculptures, bathed in moonsilver and shadow, were ethereal, and strangely threatening. Rosaleen Norton's eyes were large and bright. They fell upon the statue of Pan with a kind of reverent lust.

“He's really quite alive under this Pagan moon,” she whispered. “Marvellously beautiful.” She touched the statue's lips. “His face is exquisite… exotic and soulless.”

Clyde guffawed.

“It's Milt's—Mr. Isaacs' face,” Edna said, shoving Clyde. “I used him as my model. See, his nose is distinctly crooked, just like Milt's.”

“I believe the word Miss Norton used was exquisite,” Milton said, adopting the pose of the statue. He winked at Rosaleen. “Perhaps your next story could be about a particularly handsome statue that comes to life and becomes the toast of society.”

“It'll be your most frightening tale yet,” Clyde added.

“I must say, being a statue rather suits you, Mr. Isaacs,” Rosaleen said running her hands over Pan's shoulders. “He's quite wonderful— makes me want to dance wantonly in the moonlight like some ancient priestess.”

Milton offered the young reporter his hand. “If you'll allow me to stand in for my statue?”

“But there is no music.”

“Oh, I'll sing!” the poet said, undeterred.

The Red Flag was possibly an unusual song by which to dance the foxtrot, and probably not what Rosaleen had meant by “wanton”, but they danced nonetheless. Rowland, Clyde and Edna watched, amused. Beejling and Armstrong wandered up from the gatehouse to investigate the disturbance and stayed to watch, disapproval declared in their tightly crossed arms. Rowland grimaced. The episode would probably be reported to Wilfred soon. He was accustomed to Milton's idiotic notions, but his brother was likely to be less understanding.

…His face was marvellously beautiful and sad with all the sadness of the ages—sad yet utterly, soullessly evil. His was a detached wickedness of something beyond humanity, like an archangel of evil. It might in fact have been a mask of Lucifer at the time of his fall—still young, yet incredibly ancient in the knowledge of ghastly secrets and fearful rites that were old when mankind lived like apes in the trees…

Smith's Weekly, 1934

____________________________________

T
he Australian Red Cross' refreshment tent at the back of the horticultural pavilion at the Royal Easter Show was enjoying a surge in popularity. The Maroubra Invitational Race was generating considerable interest and a static display model of the speedway complete with racing cars added a certain excitement to tea and biscuits.

Rowland lifted his godson onto his shoulders. Ewan promptly knocked the hat off his uncle's head. Ernest retrieved it.

“Thank you, Ernie.” Rowland held on to the hat as he could feel that Ewan's small hands were entwined in his hair.

Wilfred and Kate were viewing the roses in the pavilion. Young Gilbert had remained with his nanny at
Roburvale
, but Ernest and Ewan had accompanied their parents to the show. Inevitably the boys had become bored, and Rowland and Milton had volunteered to take them for ice-cream. Of course, Beejling was presumably also nearby.

They were not actually heading for, but past the Red Cross tent in search of an ice-cream vendor. Indeed, Rowland was trying to give the tent as wide a berth as possible to ensure he didn't find himself being endlessly introduced to the venerable patrons and matrons of the charity.

Even so they passed close enough to notice Redmond Barry and Reginald Stuart Jones in conversation outside the tent.

If not for his nephews, Rowland might have responded in a manner that was at the very least rash.

“What the blazes are they doing here?”

“I expect some of the gentlemen coming out of that tent may be placing bets on the outcome of the Maroubra Invitational.” Milton pointed out the spotters walking in and out of the tent in the company of men eager to part with their pounds and pennies. “There'll be a bookie nearby to take wagers.”

“Clearly the police didn't see fit to hold Stuart Jones,” Rowland said angrily.

“Is something wrong, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest asked, looking up. “Are you cross?”

“Of course not, Ernie,” Rowland said quickly.

“Are you nervous, Uncle Rowly?”

“Nervous? About what?”

“The race. Digby Cossington Smythe says that it's bewitched. He says you'll be driving on a killer track. He says the track gets everyone eventually.”

Rowland pulled a face. “It appears Digby Cossington Smythe is rather an oracle of doom.”

“What's an ora… cul?”

Rowland handed Ewan to Milton and bent down to speak to Ernest. “Never mind, Ernie. And never you mind about the racetrack. It's just a track and it doesn't have anything against me or the other racers.”

“Daddy says you're safer on the track than you are anywhere else. He told Mummy that you're determined to get yourself killed. You're not are you, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest's face was both fearful and stern; a little boy trying to emulate his father, but with real dread that his uncle would in fact die.

Rowland smiled. “I'm sure your father didn't know you were listening. If he had, he would have told you he was speaking in jest. I quite like being alive.”

“Daddy says you have a talent for making enemies.”

“Nonsense, I'm thoroughly charming!”

“Then you won't get killed?”

Rowland was tempted to assure his nephew that absolutely, he would not. But the question was familiar. He'd asked it himself when he was not much older than Ernest, as his brothers prepared to go to war—a momentary panic amongst the celebration of impending adventure. He had believed them when they'd said they wouldn't die, that they'd be back before Christmas. Then Aubrey had been killed in France, and mixed into the overwhelming grief, the destruction of life as it had been, was the feeling that he'd been tricked. “Look at it this way, Ernie,” he said in the end. “I've had quite a lot of practice at not being killed. I'm getting quite good at it now.”

Ernest thought about it. The logic seemed to appeal to him.

“Very well, Uncle Rowly. I really do wish you'd settle down though. Daddy believes you ought to stand for parl'ment. He says you're tall enough to be Premier.”

Milton laughed for a number of reasons.

“Your father told you that?” Rowland asked, bemused.

“He told Mummy. I was listening.”

Rowland wasn't sure what exactly his brother might have said, but he was pretty sure Wilfred didn't believe height was the deciding factor in the race for public office. However, it was not something he could ever clarify without revealing his nephew had been eavesdropping. So he let it be.

Ewan's demands for “scream” had in any case now become quite vociferous and immediate appeasement seemed the most advisable strategy.

The much-anticipated Royal Easter Show Ball was being held on the evening before the race. Joan Richmond was unhappy with the timing of the lavish affair. The racers were all expected to attend, though Joan was adamant her team should be home and tucked up in bed by half past ten. That, in addition to Clyde's insistence he not drink, meant Rowland was anticipating a very wholesome evening.

He collected Joan from her hotel. Clyde had declined the evening's invitation to sit with the Mercedes, lest an intruder get past Wilfred's security to interfere with the vehicle. Rowland suspected that, in truth, Clyde couldn't bring himself to attend a ball to which he might once have taken Rosalina Martinelli. He understood—in fact he would happily have kept his friend company in the stables if the Red Cross' organising committee had not insisted he make an appearance. Instead, Milton had decided to guard the Mercedes with Clyde, much to Elisabeth Sinclair's disappointment.

Errol Flynn had invited Edna, leaving Rowland to escort “the cap'n” as Flynn insisted upon calling Joan Richmond.

“He makes me feel like I ought to have an eye-patch and a wooden leg,” Joan complained as she took Rowland's arm into the Town Hall.

Rowland glanced down at the racer's crimson gown. “I like what you're wearing better,” he said.

Joan laughed. “Well let's get this over with then.”

The Town Hall had been bedecked with bunting and festoons of blue hydrangea. Supper had been laid out on linen-draped tables and an orchestra played from the stage. The gentlemen presented a consistent elegance in white tie and tails whilst the ladies were given the privilege and responsibility of appropriate individuality. Even amongst the competitive spectacle of gowns and jewellery and poise, Rowland's eyes found Edna immediately, and rested there a while. The sculptress seemed to sense his gaze and turned towards him to smile and wave. She grabbed Flynn's hand and pulled him through the crowd towards Joan and Rowland.

“Hello you two. Isn't the hall just lovely?”

“It is terribly swish,” Joan agreed. “Have you been here long?”

“No, we just arrived.”

“Sinclair! I'm glad to see Wilfred found you in the end. Last I heard you were absent without leave!”