Miles Off Course (37 page)

“Mary!” Rowland stood surprised at his own door. Mary Brown held it open. “What are you doing here?”

“I believe Miss Carstairs has given her notice, Master Rowly.” The elderly housekeeper looked at him accusingly, and sighed. “I warned Mr. Sinclair that this was not a
situation for the faint-hearted. It’s a fortunate thing I’m ready to resume my duties.”

Rowland smiled. He was well aware that, at best, Mary Brown regarded his lifestyle, his friends, and many of his decisions, with a kind of martyred sufferance, but she had known him all his
life. There were certain things that Mary had come to accept, however plaintively she sighed while doing so. “Are you sure you’re well enough, Mary?”

“I am, sir, and not a moment too soon.”

“Indeed, Mary. I’m pleased you’re back.”

“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the drawing room, sir. Apparently he’s staying here.”

“Abercrombie? You mean he’s here?”

They charged into the drawing room. Humphrey Abercrombie sat by the fire with a glass of Scotch and a book. “I say, you’re back. I wondered where you’d all got to.”

“We’ve been out looking for you,” Rowland said, a little too evenly.

“We were terribly worried about you,” Edna chimed in.

“Oh yes, Miss Higgins.” Abercrombie stood. “We lost each other when we were forced to flee from those Communist thugs in the park. I searched for you for hours, and then
decided it’d be best if I just took a taxi back here. I came in just as your housekeeper was leaving. She informed me, to my overwhelming relief, that Miss Higgins had come back here and was
now in your company, old boy.”

Edna threw herself into the settee. “Well, I’m exhausted.”

“I believe we could all use a drink,” Milton muttered, as he unstopped various decanters.

Rowland nudged Edna over and sat down beside her. “How did you know the men in the Domain were Communists, Humphrey?”

“Aren’t they?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Well they were wearing those badges that they all seem so fond of… and I believe one of them was singing that appalling Communist anthem.”

On cue, Milton began to hum “The Red Flag”.

Abercrombie nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Rowland stared at the financial statements before him. Columns and columns and columns of numbers… neat, clear and incomprehensible. He threw the pages down in disgust.
It was a language he didn’t understand.

The Dangar, Gedye and Company board meeting loomed the following Tuesday. In the normal scheme of things Rowland would not have paid nearly so much attention to his board papers. He had always
expected that Wilfred, having ensured his appointment to the board in the first place, would guide his vote. It was an arrangement that worked well for both of them.

Decisions taken by the Dangars Board were usually unanimous. Indeed, Rowland wondered if a dissenting vote was considered impolite. The board members were all men of an ilk. Wilfred’s
ilk.

On this occasion, however, Babbington’s entreaty at Pocket’s Hut had alerted Rowland to the possibility that the meeting could be more contentious. He had no idea of Wilfred’s
position on the Lister franchise. They had not yet spoken a word to each other.

Rowland scowled unconsciously as his mind strayed to the meeting at
Oaklea
. He and Wilfred had their differences but he had always been loyal—to his country and to his brother.
Surely Wilfred knew that. Being called a Communist didn’t bother him. Being accused of treason was another thing altogether.

He looked up a little startled as Edna sat on the arm of his chair. He hadn’t noticed her come in.

She peered over his shoulder. “What are you reading?”

He pointed to the large stack of papers on the side table beside his armchair. “Legend has it that you can assess the health of a company by reading these. I think one may need the Rosetta
stone to decipher them however.”

Edna stroked his hair. “Poor Rowly, how frightful.”

“I’ve never been very good with figures,” Rowland admitted.

Edna nodded. “Mr. Abercrombie told me.”

“He did?”

“He was telling me about your sadistic mathematics master.” Edna frowned, clearly disturbed by the story.

Rowland dismissed it. “They were all like that, Ed.”

“It sounds like a frightful school, Rowly… quite Dickensian.” She glanced defiantly up at the portrait of Henry Sinclair which glared contemptuously at her from the wall
behind Rowland. “I can’t understand why your father sent you so far away… to somewhere so awful.”

“It wasn’t that bad… and it wasn’t my father, Ed.” Rowland was amused by the way she was challenging a painting. “I was still in Australia when he died. Wil
packed me off to Pembroke House.”

Edna turned to face him, not in the least appeased. “That’s horrible! How could he?” Rowland regarded her with a faint smile, as her tone darkened. “Why do you suppose
Wilfred wanted you out of the country, Rowly?”

“I don’t think it was anything sinister.” He decided to explain before Edna’s imagination ran away with her. “Wil had just come back from the war, my father died
suddenly and my mother had been unwell since Aubrey was killed. I was fourteen. Wil probably thought I’d have an easier time, away from it all.”

“But England, Rowly?” Edna was once again seized with the impulse to protect the child he had been. “You were already at boarding school… You could just have stayed at
Kings.”

Rowland’s smile became sheepish. “Well, no actually. I’d been expelled by then.”

“Really?” Edna seemed more impressed than scandalised. “Whatever for?”

Rowland shrugged. “Nothing particularly villainous. I started a bit of a poker club…”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Rowland grinned. “Things were stricter back then and the headmaster was a clergyman—he took it badly.”

Edna shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned this before. You couldn’t possibly have thought we’d think less of you for it?”

Rowland laughed. “No, I’m sure it will only raise me in Milt’s estimation.” He shrugged. “Wil went to such extraordinary lengths to cover it up for the sake of my
reputation, that I just became accustomed to not talking of it, I suppose.”

Edna’s brow arched.

“What?” he asked.

“Just wondering exactly how many secrets you Sinclairs have.”

“Good Lord, Ed, our family secrets are a good deal worse than my chequered schoolboy career.”

“Rowly, old boy, there you are!” Humphrey Abercrombie strolled into the room adjusting the cuffs of a grey flannel smoking jacket. “I say, what’s this?” He picked
up the papers Rowland had discarded and flicked through them.

“Financial statements,” Rowland said quite bitterly.

“What fun!” Abercrombie was excited. “Would you like me to go through them with you—relive the old days…”

“No, I would not,” Rowland muttered. He looked again at the papers and sighed. “But perhaps you’d better anyway.”

Rowland stared out the window into the grounds of
Woodlands House.
Jenkins had men stationed at various points and vantages. The gates were locked, manned by two men who
checked everyone who came and went. It was a bloody nuisance.

Delaney had made some headway. Apparently there had been a spate of abduction attempts on prominent citizens in the last months. Indeed two businessmen had disappeared in the last week, though
there was some suggestion that they had absconded for reasons of their own. The already stretched police force was now looking into a potential kidnapping ring at work in the Sydney area.
Fortunately most of the targets to date were in a position to retain their own security against further attempts.

Rowland turned back to the Dangars papers which lay in a disordered heap on the table. Abercrombie had confirmed what Babbington had told him. The company’s financial position was
precarious. The numbers still made no sense to him.

“F
or pity’s sake, Clyde!” Rowland was exasperated. “I only hired her again for your sake… you could at least have
spoken to her.”

“I know. I just… she’s coming back, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Rowland groaned. He felt grey.

Between abduction attempts, supposed Communist plots, Babbington’s entreaties, Charles Hardy’s accusations and the ongoing coldness between him and Wilfred, Rowland was not thinking
clearly. He had turned to painting as he always did when his mind was troubled. And Clyde had reminded him of his promise.

Rowland had hoped Rosalina Martinelli was no longer available to model but, as fate would have it, not only was Miss Martinelli willing to work, but she was able to do so immediately. Her
technique had not improved, and though she professed to be enthusiastic, she had wept and prayed and complained through most of the session.

Surprisingly, the painting was coming along well, but it gave Rowland none of the clarity and calm that the brush and canvas usually delivered. To make things worse, when given this dearly
bought opportunity, Clyde had become incapable of conversation. Rowland was sure that Rosalina had left convinced that his friend was either mute or simple.

“This looks bloody good though, Rowly,” Clyde offered by way of compensation, as he scrutinised the work in progress—
Psyche Weeping on the Banks of the Styx
.

Rowland regarded the compliment suspiciously. Perhaps it was sincerity. More likely it was remorse. He sighed. The Dangars board meeting was impending, and the question of the Lister franchise
was playing on his mind, as was Hardy’s accusation that he was working to undermine the company. The safest path would be to speak with Wilfred. He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees
as he looked up at his friend. Clyde was a sensible man. “What do you think, Clyde? Should I vote in favour of the Lister franchise?”

“Which way would Wilfred vote?’

“Not sure.”

“You could ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

Clyde laughed. “You know me, Rowly. I love machinery.”

Rowland nodded. He and Clyde had that in common.

“And I’m from the bush,” Clyde continued. “Can’t see the country getting by without generators, pumps and whatnot. Every shearing shed I’ve ever worked had a
Lister plant… Things are grim now but when they get better folks will start restocking and producing things again—and they’ll need their machines.”

Rowland studied him thoughtfully and then, suddenly, he smiled.

“What are you thinking?” Clyde asked.

“That you should sit on this board, not me.” Rowland leaned back, relaxed. “You’ve made more sense in one minute than poor old Humphrey has in all the hours I spent with
him and those bloody figures.”