A Murder Unmentioned (29 page)

Early on Boxing Day, Rowland Sinclair and Milton Isaacs were collected from Long Bay Penitentiary in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Wilfred had arranged for fresh suits and a barber to be sent into the gaol, so that anyone watching from outside the gates may well have assumed the smartly dressed, clean-cut young men were solicitors.

The charges against Milton had been dropped. Rowland was committed to face trial in April, and bailed into his brother’s recognisance. The court was closed to the public and not attended
by the press, and consequently the committal of Rowland Sinclair for murder was not yet a full-blown scandal.

They followed Wilfred’s green Continental to
Woodlands House
. Ernest Sinclair met the small convoy at the gate, waving his father through and running beside the second motor car all the way up the long drive. On Rowland’s instruction, the chauffeur drove very slowly to ensure the boy could keep up.

When they got to the house, Ernest opened his uncle’s door. “Hello, Uncle Rowly.”

“Hello, Ernie.” Rowland shook the boy’s extended hand.

“You missed Christmas, Uncle Rowly.”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry. I was—”

Ernest beckoned him down before he could finish and whispered in his ear. “I’m not supposed to know that you were in prison, Uncle Rowly. I’m just a child, you know.”

“I see.”

By then the rest of the family had emerged in a rather civilised cacophony. Even Elisabeth Sinclair came out to greet her son, though it was the wrong one she welcomed home.

To Rowland, his mother seemed to have become smaller in the few days he’d been away, and more deeply confused. He sat with her in the sunroom for a while, reassuring her that the presence of the police at
Oaklea
had been a mistake. She’d clearly found the incident distressing. Clinging to Rowland, she whispered, “The gun… I saw the gun. I thought he was going to kill you.”

“Detective Angel is rather too quick on the draw, Mother. But he had no intention of shooting me.” He put his hand on hers and rubbed gently. “I’m perfectly fine, you mustn’t be upset.”

Elisabeth reached up to straighten Rowland’s tie. “Your father would have been so dreadfully proud of you, Aubrey. I do wish he might have lived to see the man you’ve become.” She brushed the
hair out of his face. “If only you’d comb your hair properly. Wilfred’s hair is never out of place.”

Rowland smiled, comforted that his mother was well enough to scold him. “Wil doesn’t have as much hair to worry about,” he said loudly.

Wilfred cleared his throat and glared across at his brother. He did not take kindly to being reminded that his hair was thinning.

Luncheon was, if anything, more extravagant than that which they’d eaten the day before, and served with the formality that Wilfred preferred, but which was rare under Rowland’s stewardship of
Woodlands
. Indeed, usually neither Rowland nor his houseguests were in residence during Christmas. Still, the staff coped admirably presenting a table and a service that was both excellent and smooth. Some grumbled about the extra work, others relished the opportunity to do things properly and all were in any case assuaged by the generous sums which had been included in their Christmas envelopes.

The family and their guests retired to the drawing room for coffee and Rowland entered his studio for the first time since it had been made fit for polite company. The only painting which remained was the portrait of his father. Rowland’s easels and paintboxes were gone and the paint-splattered rugs had been removed. The furniture and drapes too had been changed. An exquisitely decorated Christmas tree stood in the large bay window in which he usually posed his models.

“What do you think, old boy?” Arthur asked, beaming. “I’ve organised the painters for the new year.”

“Painters?” Rowland looked slowly about the room. “I always thought I was a painter.”

“For the walls.” Arthur pointed out a splatter of viridian and another of ochre. “Miss Brown did her best, but we couldn’t remove much of the damage. Repainting’s the only way. I’ve asked Lucy to pick out the colours. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch.”

Wilfred handed Rowland a drink. “Settle down, Rowly,” he said under his breath. “They meant well.”

Rowland forced a smile.

Wilfred stepped through the French doors onto the verandah, beckoning his brother to follow. They stood looking out over the manicured lawns.

“I’m afraid you are going to have to return to
Oaklea
with us, immediately after the New Year—terms of your bail.”

“We were prepared for that,” Rowland said.

Wilfred scowled. “Prepared? We?”

“You heard what Beswick said—our best plan is to find out who did, in actual fact, kill Father.”

“And you need a band of Communists to do that?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

Wilfred sighed. “Arthur won’t like it.”

“Since when does Arthur’s—”

“Keep your shirt on, Rowly. I was simply warning you, not telling you not to bring them. After all, my dear wife already issued them an open invitation.” Wilfred lit a cigarette. “It’s just that I believe Arthur and Mr. Watson Jones, not to mention Miss Higgins, have had a falling out.”

“Over what?”

“To be truthful, I suspect Arthur was out of line.”

“Well he’d better bloody well apologise—” Rowland began furiously.

“I’ve spoken to him, Rowly.”

“I’ll do more than speak to him!”

“Arthur means well.” Wilfred attempted to soothe his brother. “It was getting mixed up with a woman not unlike Miss Higgins that led to his own ruin.”

“Ruin? For God’s sake…”

“In his own way, he’s trying to save you from making the same mistakes he did.” Wilfred removed his glasses and, clenching the cigarette in his teeth, polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “Arthur worked tirelessly with our solicitors to secure your bail, Rowly. He’s never doubted your innocence. Even I can’t say that.”

Rowland groaned. “Very well, I won’t deck him. Not today anyway.”

“We do have to talk about Dangar Geddes.”

“What about it?”

Wilfred’s influence and the Sinclairs’ substantial shareholding in Dangar Geddes and Company had seen Rowland appointed to its board. He was far from the most enthusiastic, let alone diligent, director, but they had not as yet asked him to leave.

“You can’t remain on the board whilst on bail,” Wilfred said. “You’ll have to stand down, for the time being at least. I thought perhaps Arthur could assume your place.”

Clyde’s warning that Arthur intended to replace him passed fleetingly through Rowland’s mind. Perhaps. But Arthur was welcome to the Dangar Geddes board meetings. “Capital idea.”

23

HUGH D. M
C
INTOSH

Again Declared Bankrupt

A second sequestration order against the estate of Hugh Donald McIntosh was made yesterday by the Judge in Bankruptcy. The petitioners for sequestration were the defendants in the libel action brought by the respondent against
The Truth
and
Sportsman Ltd
a writ for costs (£700) which McIntosh had been ordered to pay having been returned unsatisfied.

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1932

M
r. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair opted to spend New Year’s Eve in, with a small party of close friends and family, including Lucy Bennett, her parents and Arthur Sinclair. A gracious dinner was planned, an intimate first celebration of the very recent engagement of Lucy and Arthur. Of course, the guest list did present some awkwardness for the usual residents of
Woodlands House
, considering their last encounter with the good Colonel Bennett. It was not surprising then, that an alternative invitation, extended to Rowland and his friends by none other than Hugh D. McIntosh, was greeted with general approbation and relief.

Rowland had met Hugh McIntosh only once before. Norman Lindsay had introduced the gentleman as a “denizen of the sporting
world” and the conversation had been struck with a discussion of the pugilistic arts. McIntosh promoted professional fights at the Sydney Stadium, which, it seemed, he had built. The man was a brash, gregarious raconteur, but there’d been a child-like exuberance about him that Rowland had found engaging. McIntosh had been quite proud that the press had dubbed him “Huge Deal”, which he claimed was a resounding endorsement of his entrepreneurial prowess and not a moniker from which he resiled. He was, however, happy for Rowland to call him Mac.

At present, after a recent bankruptcy, McIntosh was managing
Bon Accord
, a fashionable guest house in the Blue Mountains, beside which, he’d built a nine-hole golf course. It was at
Bon Accord
that McIntosh was throwing his New Year’s Eve party followed by a day of golf for those who survived to play on.

“Golf?” Milton exclaimed. “We don’t play.”

“Rowly does,” Clyde replied. “His chip shot ain’t half bad.”

“Really?” Edna was surprised. She’d never known Rowland to play.

“Shall we go?” Rowland asked. “I’m told Mac’s parties are reminiscent of Jay Gatsby’s shindigs.”

“Of course, we’re going!” Milton declared. “What about the conditions of your bail?”

“I have to reside with Wilfred and I can’t leave New South Wales. Otherwise I’m essentially free.”

“And Wilfred?”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have us out of
Woodlands
while the Bennetts are here.”

And so it was decided.

Edna removed the scarf which had held her copper tresses vaguely in place for the trip up to Springwood. The summer evening had been so warm and clear that they had travelled the entire forty-five miles with the top of Wilfred’s Rolls Royce Phantom II well and truly down. Now she and Milton fought over the rear vision mirror to re-groom what disruption the wind had inflicted upon their hair. Clyde had used enough Brylecreem to make that unnecessary, and Rowland did not even think to check his reflection.

The party at
Bon Accord
was a fancy dress affair with guests directed to come as pagan gods and goddesses. Though only Milton had been particularly keen, they had all managed to procure costumes.

Milton had come as Pan, the goat-legged Greek god of the woodlands. He’d managed somehow to secure a set of short horns to his forehead in a manner that looked more demonic than anything else, and wore a toga long enough to hide the fact that his legs were inconveniently human.
Costumes on George
had turned Clyde into a gladiator, as Mars the Roman god of war. Rowland had chosen a Norse deity, mainly because their costumes involved trousers. Consequently he was attired in the leather vest and horned helmet of a Viking, while he purported to be dark-haired Loki.

Edna, like Milton, had chosen to be Greek. She wore a sheer white gown which was draped over one shoulder. Her hair was woven with a wreath of laurel and she carried both a bow and a golden apple. Rowland wasn’t sure whether she was meant to be Athena or Aphrodite, but he was in no doubt that she was a goddess.

The celebration had well begun by the time the borrowed Rolls Royce joined the scores of vehicles parked in the drive and adjoining road. The way to the grand ballroom of
Bon Accord
was lined with lanterns shaped like birds in flight and suspended from wires strung between the trees.

Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand as she stumbled. “Be careful Ed—the path’s quite uneven here. You may need to watch your step.”

“Just look up there, Rowly,” she said, her eyes bright, and fixed upon the glowing flock which seemed to hover over them. “It’s so utterly enchanting… How can you tell me to watch my feet instead?”

He laughed and offered Edna his arm to secure her balance while she took in the decorations. They made way for an Egyptian pantheon, and a man painted blue in the style of some Asiatic deity.

When they finally reached the entrance to the ballroom, they were received just inside the door by a gentleman who managed to be dapper despite being dressed as Neptune, complete with silver trident.