Miles Off Course (35 page)

Aside from meddling with his staff, it appeared that Wilfred had also installed security at
Woodlands House
. The gates were manned and guarded, and there were more men patrolling the
grounds. A chap called Jenkins reported shortly after they arrived to inform Rowland of the precautions his brother had taken.

Agnes Carstairs brought in the post that had been delivered in the time he had been away. Rowland groaned as the neatly stacked envelopes were placed on the table beside him. “It’ll
be weeks before I get through this.”

Milton handed him a tall glass of gin. “This might help, Rowly.”

Rowland flicked unenthusiastically through the envelopes… then one caught his interest. There was no postmark—it had obviously been hand delivered. Dropping the rest of the mail
onto the table, he opened it. He smiled.

“It’s from Humphrey,” he announced, as he read the meticulous copperplate. “It appears he got back to Sydney all right—still thinks someone’s trying to kill
him.”

“Where is he staying?” Edna asked, walking behind Rowland’s chair to peer over his shoulder.

“The Grace, though he’s thinking of finding somewhere quieter. Apparently it’s full of Americans.”

“You should invite him here, Rowly,” Edna suggested. “At least the poor man will feel safe with all this security.”

Rowland grimaced. “I suspect that’s what he’s hinting at. His mother has gone to visit a cousin in Melbourne and so he is ‘at something of a loss’.”

Milton laughed. “His mother? Good Lord Rowly, what were you thinking knocking about with this bloke?”

Rowland sighed. “Mostly I was trying to ignore him.”

“Don’t be mean, Rowly,” Edna chided. “The poor man doesn’t know anyone here but you.”

“Here we go…” Milton muttered.

“It’d probably do him the world of good to spend time with people his own age.” Edna was persistent.

Rowland laughed. “You want me to invite him out to play?”

“We could take him out to some parties or to the races… perhaps he’d like to come to the Easter Show?”

“If he falls in love with Ed, we’ll never get rid of him,” Clyde warned, flicking open the paper and settling into an armchair.

“Yes, Rowly,” Milton agreed. “Your houseguests never seem to leave, mate.”

“He’s not going to fall in love with me,” Edna protested. “Mr. Abercrombie’s still heartbroken over Lady what’s-her-name.”

“He writes that he’s leaving Sydney at the end of the month,” Rowland said, glancing at the letter again. He sighed. “It might be safe to ask the poor blighter to
stay… I’ll phone.”

“You’ll regret it,” Clyde said from behind
The Sydney Morning Herald
.

“No doubt, but I can’t have Edna thinking I’m mean.”

Edna ruffled his hair fondly. “You’re not mean, Rowly, you’re really very sweet.”

Milton shook his head. “You know, mate, there’s something particularly sad about a hen-pecked bachelor.”

Rowland returned to his mail. “Yes, I know.”

Humphrey Abercrombie arrived the next morning, with Michaels and a half-dozen trunks. Rowland had forgotten about Michaels. Fortunately his new housekeeper took charge of the
ageing manservant, finding him a room in a part of
Woodlands House
that Rowland rarely entered.

Abercrombie was installed in one of the more luxurious bedrooms. The Englishman was deeply and expressively grateful for the invitation; so much so that Rowland felt quite bad about his
reluctance on the matter. Edna, it seemed, had decided to adopt the bumbling classicist as a cause of sorts and set about organising activities that would distract him from the conviction that his
life was in danger.

To Rowland’s recollection, Humphrey Abercrombie had always suffered under some kind of persecution paranoia. Admittedly, back when they were at school, it had not been entirely
unwarranted. Perhaps the poor fellow had been permanently scarred by the experience.

Rowland avoided giving Abercrombie any reason for the extraordinary security at
Woodlands House
, having decided that his guest’s imagined dangers did not need to be collaborated
with evidence of real ones. Abercrombie seemed in any case disinterested in the reasons for the fortification. Perhaps he assumed that such precautions were in the ordinary scheme of things.

“I think he was more lonely than scared,” Edna whispered when Rowland pointed this out. “This nonsense about being in fear of his life was just an excuse to come here, I
think.”

“Possibly,” Rowland conceded.

“You know, Rowly…” Edna’s eyes glittered with the excitement of a sudden idea. “We should have a party! It’ll be a fabulous way to introduce Mr. Abercrombie
to people who don’t spend their lives in gentleman’s clubs.”

“A party?” Rowland hesitated. They had thrown parties at
Woodlands
before. They were far from staid affairs. “Don’t you think our crowd might be a bit much for old
Humphrey? He’s not particularly intrepid.”

“He just needs to come out of himself,” Edna replied, sliding onto the couch beside him. Then she stopped. “Perhaps it’s not such a good idea,” she said, frowning.
“It wouldn’t be the best time for you to invite an entire crowd of dangerous insurgents into your home.”

Rowland looked up. The sculptress had a point. The sympathies of the artists and performers in whose circles they moved were often very left-wing. There were probably a number of
“dangerous insurgents” among them.

“Everybody seems to be watching you at the moment, Rowly,” Edna said gently. “We should be careful.”

Rowland’s eyes darkened. He wondered what Hardy and his conservative inquisitors would think of a
Woodlands
party. He could almost hear Wilfred’s fury. “They can’t
hang me for throwing a party, Ed,” he said quietly.

“Rowly…”

“This Saturday, I think,” Rowland smiled. “We can all go to church and repent the next day.”

The preparations for Humphrey Abercrombie’s introduction to the wrong crowd were, at Rowland’s insistence, elaborate. After some discussion, an evening soirée
was agreed upon, with a picnic supper and champagne on the lawns; jazz bands and dancing in the ballroom. The guest list was extensive and varied, and it was not entirely devoid of names from the
better families of Sydney, many of whom were quite happy to attend Rowland Sinclair’s scandalous parties, even if they would never throw such an affair themselves. Also invited were the more
creative, occasionally quite destitute, acquaintances of the residents of
Woodlands House
.

“Are you sure, Rowly?” Milton asked, scanning the list. “Some of these blokes are on the crazy side of red… Good grief, you’ve asked Jock Garden…”

Rowland smiled.

“Are you throwing this party for Humphrey or for Wilfred?” Clyde asked dubiously.

“Who cares?” Milton laughed. “It’s going to be one helluva gathering!”

“Still, Rowly, I don’t know that Humphrey’s going to cope.” Clyde folded his brawny arms and shook his head. “The bloke spends two hours every morning writing to
his mother.”

Unexpectedly, it was Milton who came to Abercrombie’s defence. “He might surprise you. I had quite a regular conversation with him yesterday—he seemed quite interested in the
party… we might turn him into a comrade yet.”

Rowland sighed, convinced Milton was exaggerating. “I’ll keep an eye on Humphrey,” he said. Then, realising he hadn’t seen the Englishman all morning, “Where is
he?”

“Ed took him to Manly… she thought he needed a bit of colour.”

Rowland’s brow creased. Abercrombie’s initial shyness of women seemed to have dissipated where Edna was concerned.

“Excuse my intrusion, Mr. Sinclair.” Miss Carstairs entered the room. She seemed put out, but then she had seemed thus since they arrived. “A Detective Delaney to see you,
sir.”

“Smashing… where is he?”

“I asked him to wait until I checked whether you were receiving visitors, sir.”

“Oh… yes, I am. Tell him to come in.”

Colin Delaney strode in shortly thereafter, clearly bemused by the unexpected increase in formality at
Woodlands
. He shook Rowland’s hand warmly.

“Bloody hell, Sinclair,” he said, grinning. “You can’t seem to go two months without coming to the attention of the Bureau… Blimey,” Delaney glanced at
Milton and then back at Rowland, “I’m out of town for a few weeks and this is what happens!”

Rowland relaxed a little. Delaney hadn’t been in Sydney. Rowland had been worried the detective was calling with a few words to say on the subject of the Englishman Rowland had directed to
him. “You’ve come about the break-in here haven’t you?” he asked hopefully.

“What else have you been up to?” Delaney regarded him sharply.

“Nothing at all.” Rowland offered the detective a seat, and Milton poured him a drink. “So… this break-in, Col… what do you know?”

Delaney sighed. “Not a great deal I’m afraid. We’re no closer to identifying the blokes who broke into
Woodlands
… or who they were working for.”

“So you don’t think this is a random snatch a rich bloke thing?” Clyde asked.

“Doesn’t seem likely. They want Rowly particularly, for some reason.”

“Well, we just have to apply our intellects to that reason to deduce both it and the perpetrator,” Milton mused, pacing.

Clyde groaned and threw a cushion at him.

“Sorry, Col.” Rowland looked at Delaney apologetically. “Milt channels Conan-Doyle from time to time… it’s some kind of elaborate tic.”

Delaney smiled. “There was a time when Elias Isaacs would have been our prime suspect.”

“What’s changed?” Clyde asked dryly. “Don’t tell me Milt’s become respectable.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Delaney swirled the whisky in his glass. “It’s just that there are any number of reasons to snatch Rowly.” He put down his glass,
counting off on his fingers. “Between the New Guard, the Communists, Wilfred’s political enemies and the usual gentlemen of Sydney’s underworld, we have a few people who could be
behind this… and now this connection with treasure-hunting bushrangers really has us pulling out our hair.”

Rowland regarded the detective thoughtfully. “Why would the Communists want to kidnap me, Col? Word has it I’ve been one of them for a while now.”

Delaney shrugged. “They’d know that you’re not… you’re not, are you?”

Rowland sighed. “No, I’m not.”

Delaney leaned forward onto his knees. “The feds seem to think that Soviet spies are operating here.”

“Soviet?” Rowland started to laugh.

Milton said nothing.

Delaney sat back in his chair. “According to our friends in the federal police, Communist spies are infiltrating our great bastions of capitalism on Moscow’s orders. There are
rumours about a Senate Enquiry or some such thing.”

“Do you think there’s something to it?” Rowland asked. It all seemed a bit fanciful.

“There’s definitely something, but it’s hard to tell what. Bit early for a witch hunt though.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Rowland murmured.