Decline in Prophets (12 page)

Krishnamurti shrugged, and then he said very slowly, “I think Charles Leadbeater is evil. If I were you I would destroy Amma’s letter of introduction.” He looked intently at
Rowland. “Amma genuinely believes he is innocent, you know.”

For a moment Rowland held his gaze and then looked away, regretting that he had intruded into something so appalling, so personal. His enquiries seemed so trivial now. “I know. I’m
sorry.”

Jiddu Krishnamurti shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. We have all moved forward.”

9

R
owland stepped back from the canvas to survey his work. Daniel Cartwright was singing some dreadful French ballad from behind his own easel. The
American was, of course, both artist and model.

Both Clyde and Rowland were happy for the opportunity to paint. Clyde had set out early that morning for Central Park, inspired by the colour of the American Fall. Milton had gone with him.

Rowland didn’t even try to paint landscapes anymore, and he was not fond of working outdoors in any case. Instead, he had elected to use Cartwright’s studio. Edna had stepped out
with Archibald Leach once again, and consequently Rowland was forced to use his host as a model. And so it was that both men spent the day painting Daniel Cartwright.

“Danny, turn this way, will you,” he requested as he highlighted the points of light in Cartwright’s eyes and on the tip of his nose.

“I say, Rowly, this is rather like the old days at Oxford,” Cartwright said happily. “Two chums,
Les Frères d’Art
…”

Rowland really wished his friend would stop trying to speak French. Still, he’d enjoyed painting Cartwright. The American stood in a wine-red smoking jacket and beret, between a canvas and
a mirror, once again in pursuit of the perfect self-image. Rowland’s depiction caught Cartwright as he peered intently at his own reflection, paintbrush and palette in hand. He captured the
slight curious smile that showed a man both pleased and fascinated by what he saw in the glass.

“So what did you make of Annie Besant?” Rowland asked in an attempt to bring an end to the French folk songs.

“A perfectly charming woman,” Cartwright replied, glancing from his canvas to the mirror to check that he had done himself justice. “The epitome of cultured hospitality. I
found her delightful. Quite the gracious contrast to that Waterman woman, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Rowland looked up. “Expected? Why?”

“By George—don’t you know? I thought being from Sydney you would have heard.”

“No. What?”

“Richard Waterman—he’s rather big in sugar, I gather, aside from his surgical practice—made a small fortune before the crash… I suppose you might not know
him—new money, really.”

Rowland waited for Cartwright to get to the point.

“He married an American girl—now Mrs. Waterman—she introduced him to the Theosophical Society—she was quite devoted to that chap, Krishnamurti.”

“He’s not really with the Theosophical movement anymore,” Rowland pointed out.

“Precisely,” Cartwright replied. “The Watermans worked with Leadbeater for years preparing to bring the World Prophet to Sydney—built some kind of Roman amphitheatre for
Krishnamurti’s arrival.”

Rowland knew the amphitheatre on Balmoral Beach. He had always believed it just another folly built on the excesses of the twenties. “And then Krishnamurti abdicated,” he said
thoughtfully.

Cartwright nodded. “Waterman had ploughed a lot of money into building the amphitheatre, and of course the embarrassment of it all affected confidence in his other business affairs. It was
a complete financial cock-up.”

“So how do you know about all this?”

Cartwright shook his head. “Richard Waterman is in New York trying to borrow money to keep his other Sydney interests afloat. This sort of story has a way of getting round.”

“Embarrassing.”

“Rather.”

Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands absently on his waistcoat, smearing it in the same alizarin red he’d been using to capture Cartwright’s smoking jacket. He could hear
Bradford’s formal courtesy in the other room. Apparently Clyde and Milton had returned.

They came into the studio a bit wind-blown but in good spirits. The venture into Central Park had seen Clyde produce several dramatic studies of seasonal colour as well as a few darker sketches
of the dissolute, ragged men who now slept there. The bedraggled figures were stark in contrast to the landscaped beauty around them, but they had become as much a fixture as the benches upon which
they huddled.

Clyde looked at Rowland’s finished portrait of Cartwright. He laughed. “This has worked, Rowly.” He glanced back at Rowland critically, noting the paint-stained waistcoat and
streaks of lighter pigment which showed up in his dark hair. “You’re a mess as usual—I’d swear you were finger painting.”

Rowland smiled and ran his hand through his hair again. He’d always been somewhat exuberant in the way he applied paint—it could be a little messy.

“Good Lord, Rowly, this is magnificent,” Cartwright exclaimed, looking at the painting for the first time. “I just cannot allow it to leave these premises…”

“It’s still wet, Danny,” Rowland replied, amused but not surprised. “I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to.” He looked around at the numerous portraits of
Daniel Cartwright that adorned the walls. “You’re right—it belongs here… where it will be in good company.”

“Quite so, quite so… I have just the place for it.” Cartwright grabbed the still wet painting and headed into the main sitting room. His guests followed.

“I’ll have it framed of course,” Cartwright announced, “but you’ll see that this is the perfect position…”

He gave Rowland’s painting to Clyde and dragged over a chair so that he could remove the work that already hung over the mantelpiece. He tossed that painting carelessly to Rowland and
retrieving his portrait from Clyde, hung it on the former’s hook.

“See… perfect.”

Rowland looked at the painting in his hands, and glanced at Clyde and Milton.

“Danny, this is a Picasso.”

“Yes, I believe it is. Was never really happy with it. Would you like it?… I have nowhere to hang it now…”

“Danny, this is a Picasso,” Rowland repeated with slightly more emphasis, finding it hard to believe Cartwright had virtually flung the work at him.

Cartwright sighed. “Yes, I know, he’s very fashionable now. He just always picks such dreary subjects…” He waved his hand dismissively at the painting and gazed
appreciatively, almost lovingly, at the one he’d just hung on the wall. Clearly, he was satisfied with the exchange.

They dined that night without Edna, whose time was being monopolised once again by Archibald Leach. The sculptress seemed quite taken with the English actor.

When the meal was complete, they saw the evening out with brandy and cards. Daniel Cartwright insisted they play bridge. The Australians indulged their host’s choice as they were just
four. Cartwright explained trumps and tricks, bids and rubbers and they did their best to make a good fist of it, though they thought it a silly, overcomplicated game. They were quite pleased when
Edna returned—with a fifth player they would have to play poker.

With this in mind, they showed a great deal more interest than they might have otherwise in the events of her day with Leach. Edna sat down and pulled off her gloves. Rowland dealt her in.

“Oh no, Rowly, I just want to sleep… it’s been the most delightfully exhausting day.” Her eyes glistened dreamily.

“But we want to hear all about it,” Milton objected, looking sideways at Cartwright in case the American sought to resurrect the game of bridge. “Stay and tell us
everything… while you play a hand.”

Edna regarded him suspiciously, but then overcome by an enthusiasm for the as yet unopened Broadway musical, to which Leach had taken her, she picked up her cards. “They were rehearsing
some of the big dance numbers… I’ve never seen anything like it. Archie introduced me to the lovely man who played the lead—losing his hair he’s but the most extraordinary
dancer.”

“So what’s this show with the balding lead called, Ed?” Rowland asked as he took up his own hand.

“
Gay Divorce
I believe. It was completely wonderful.”

“They’re expecting it to be a hit,” Cartwright agreed.

Edna continued to chat happily about her day discovering New York and, of course, Leach.

“Oh, you poor dear girl,” Cartwright consoled, his round face a picture of empathy and concern, as he refilled a large silver trimmed pipe. “You mustn’t let Archie break
your heart.”

Rowland smiled, Milton and Clyde laughed out loud.

Cartwright seemed aghast that they could be so callous.

Edna looked warmly at Cartwright. “Don’t worry, Danny—Archie’s very sweet… I think he’ll be quite sorry when I go. We’ll always be wonderful
friends.”

Milton rolled his eyes and Clyde muttered, “Poor bastard.” Rowland dealt again.

“So will you be joining us tomorrow evening?” Milton asked. “Or are you forsaking us again for that… actor?”

“What do you have planned tomorrow?” Edna asked, re-ordering her cards.

“We’re going to a séance,” Milton said casually.

“Did Annie…?” started Edna a little confused.

“No,” Rowland replied. “It was that Milatsky woman from the party. She was quite taken with Milton apparently.”

“Very perceptive, these clairvoyants,” Milton added.

“So she wants to introduce him to the dead?”

“You might say that.” Rowland pondered over a card.

“Tomorrow’s the 31st,” Milton informed the sculptress. “Halloween.”

“I know,” Edna returned. “It’s nice that we’ll see an American festival before we head home.”

“It’s also the anniversary of Houdini’s death,” Milton explained patiently.

“The magician?”

“The world’s greatest magician,” Cartwright corrected. “I saw one of his shows when I was a boy—amazing… quite thrilling.”

“It seems that the anniversary of his death gives rise to séances to summon the man himself,” Milton went on.

“But why?” Edna was still a little perplexed.

“Could be something to do with the ten thousand dollars his widow has offered to the medium who manages to contact her late husband,” Clyde said. Apparently, he was not altogether
happy with the proposition.

“I thought Houdini didn’t believe in spiritualism?” Edna yawned.

Milton shrugged. “So his ghost will be embarrassed.” He laughed, pleased with the image of a red-faced apparition.

Edna rubbed her nose. “So you’re hoping to see Houdini’s ghost?”

“Of course not—it’s nonsense. Rowly wants to talk to Madame Milatsky.”

Edna turned to Rowland. “Why?”

Rowland picked up a card. “Madame Milatsky used to be a Theosophist. Thought she might know something about who’d be trying to kill them off.”

“Oh, Orville,” Edna said quietly. She shuddered involuntarily. “What do you mean
kill them off
? It was only Orville…”

“I’m not so sure about that… there’s Annie.”

“She fell—it was an accident,” Edna protested.

Rowland put down his cards and dragged a hand through his hair, which was still flecked with paint. “I’m starting to have my doubts. I figured out what was bothering me about that
accident, when I was painting today.” Painting had always focussed his mind—even about unrelated events.

“Annie’s room was at the bottom of those stairs, not the top. Why would she have climbed them? It was Krishnamurti’s room at the top of the stairs. I don’t know many
gentlemen who allow ladies to walk them to their door.”

“Jiddu saw her fall.”

“No, he heard a commotion and assumed she had fallen when he found her at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe she was attacked at her door.”

“Couldn’t she have gone back up the stairs to talk to Jiddu for some reason?” Edna persisted.

“She’d have had to be very close on his heels… he’d only just closed the door himself when he heard her “fall”… why wouldn’t she have just
called him back?”

“So you think this all has something to do with the Theosophists more than Orville personally?” Edna was thoughtful.

Rowland shrugged. “Maybe.”

“And you think that Madame Milatsky might know who would want to kill the Theosophists?”

“I think they probably have their skeletons… nothing like a disenfranchised member for that kind of information.”

“Bit of a long shot, Rowly.” Edna looked at him sceptically.