Decline in Prophets (32 page)

Rowland suppressed a curse, aware enough to guess he was in a church. “What happened?”

“Not sure. I came looking for you when you didn’t turn up at the station. Found you out in the gardens—Mr. Hartman here helped me bring you into the chapel.”

Rowland glanced up. The man with the little girl who talked to stone angels.

Painfully he proffered the hand that was not securing the compress. “Rowland Sinclair. I’m most grateful, Mr. Hartman.”

“No problems—are you all right, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I think so—did you see what happened?”

“I’m afraid I was watching little Mary.” He turned his head towards the young girl who knelt on the pew in front, looking intently at Rowland.

“I sawed it,” she said. “God hit the man with an angel. He must be a sinner.”

Hartman flushed red. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Mary’s ma, God rest her soul, passed away two weeks ago. Poor little poppet don’t understand.”

Rowland smiled ruefully. “Perfectly all right. My condolences for your loss.”

“It might not have been God, Rowly, but someone did hit you with an angel—one of the small garden statues. It’s a ruddy miracle he didn’t kill you.”

Rowland looked around him, taking in the opulent interior of the Catholic mortuary chapel. Wilfred would not be pleased if he was saved by a Catholic miracle.

“He shouted my name, and I turned,” he said. “Probably deflected the blow a bit.”

An elderly priest appeared then with a portly, red-faced man whom he introduced as Dr. London. Apparently the clergyman had found a physician among the mourners.

“We should call the police,” Clyde said as the helpful doctor cleaned and dressed the wound on Rowland’s right temple.

“I’ll phone Delaney when we get back to
Woodlands
.” Rowland flinched as some sort of liquid was applied to the lesion. The doctor had not had his bag—he wondered
briefly if they were cleaning the wound with communion wine. For some reason the thought amused him. It seemed appropriate since he had been battered by an angel. “There’s no point
calling them out here… our only suspect is God.” He smiled at Mary Hartman, whose wide-eyed stare had not strayed from him.

Clyde looked dubious.

Rowland stood carefully. His head hurt like the blazes, but he was otherwise steady. “I’m fine am I not, Dr. London?”

“I suggest you consult your own physician as soon as convenient,” advised the good doctor. “That might need stitching, but I don’t think there’ll be any lasting
damage.”

Rowland glanced at his watch. It was getting towards eleven.

“The family’s probably arrived already,” he said regretfully. “We’d better get back and make sure no one looks too closely at Milt.”

Hartman handed him his notebook. “You musta dropped this when you were clobbered. Mary picked it up.”

“He’s been drawing pictures in there,” Mary chirped smugly.

Rowland was a little alarmed, wondering how thoroughly the little girl had been through his notebook. Mary giggled.

He flicked quickly through the pages, until he found his most recent drawings. He chose a picture of Mary, calling over her shoulder to the angel as she danced about in the statue’s
shadow. He tore it out and gave it to her father, before returning the notebook to his inside pocket.

Hartman looked long at the sketch, and for a while the grief Rowland had seen in the garden returned to the man’s face. The widower said nothing but he shook the artist’s hand.

As they made to leave, Rowland thanked Dr. London, and the priest who had found him, and discreetly left a generous donation in the offering plate. They departed for the short walk back to
Cemetery Station No. 2.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Rowly?” Clyde was still concerned.

Rowland squinted in the bright sunlight. “I have a rather tremendous headache, but I’m fine… though I…” He shook his head.

“What? Do you need to sit down?”

“Not at all… it’s just that… I could almost swear it was Hu’s voice I heard when I turned.”

“Hu? Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure.” Rowland frowned. “The blow might have confused my memory… but I thought… I’m probably imagining things.”

“We’ll have a word with him,” Clyde said thoughtfully.

They jumped aboard a train, which took them back to Central Station. Clyde hailed a motorcab to take them to
Woodlands House
. It was now well after noon.

The wrought-iron gates of the Woollahra mansion were almost completely obscured by a throng of reporters. The motorcab stopped as they waited for the gates to be opened.

Rowland cursed as the flash of a camera assaulted his throbbing head.

“What the blazes is going on?” he said, bewildered and uneasy. What had happened in their absence to bring the media to
Woodlands
?

“Mr. Sinclair, do you have a statement?”

“Were you surprised by the announcement, sir?”

Rowland blanched as another camera flashed in his face.

The gates were opened and they drove through to the house. The circular drive was crowded with Rolls-Royces, and the occasional Armstrong Siddeley. The arrival of the extended Sinclair clan had
begun. They paid the cab driver and walked hastily inside, anxious to find out why the press had gathered.

Wilfred Sinclair’s furious voice was the first thing they heard. “He can’t seem to go two days without doing something to embarrass the family! Where the hell is he?”

Rowland walked into the library from where the tirade emanated. Kate was with her husband, trying in vain to soothe him. Wilfred was bent over the large rosewood desk, with a copy of the
Truth
. He looked up as they entered.

Wilfred glared at his brother without a word. He picked up the paper and tossed it angrily at Rowland. “What is the meaning of this? What the hell have you been doing?”

Rowland looked down at the front page; Clyde read over his shoulder.

The story ran under the headline:
Leadbeater discovers another World Prophet
. A picture of Rowland Sinclair appeared with the story—it had been taken at a gallery opening the
previous year.

Clyde let out a low, incredulous whistle. Rowland ignored the insistent ache of his head and read on in disbelief. It seemed Leadbeater had decided that the young man sent to him by Annie Besant
was the World Prophet for whom the Theosophical Society had been waiting, destined to take the place that Jiddu Krishnamurti had abdicated. The story carried an alarming amount of information about
Rowland’s background, his past association with Colonel Eric Campbell of the New Guard and his recent travels. There were quotes from the Bensons, describing the newly discovered prophet as a
protégé of Annie Besant. There was a statement from the leaders of the Co-Masonic movement welcoming Rowland Sinclair to their ranks. The light of greatness, the article reported, was
apparent to Leadbeater in the Australian’s aura.

Rowland might have sworn if his sister-in-law were not in the room.

He looked up at his brother. “Yes, I can see why you might be upset.”

“Upset! Rowly, have you lost your mind? When did you join Leadbeater’s band of blasphemous crackpots?”

“I haven’t joined them. Leadbeater’s obviously completely daft.”

“How does he even know you?”

“I dropped a friend out at
The Manor
a week ago.”

Wilfred snorted. “Of course. Your friends.”

Rowland frowned. He was quite used to Wilfred’s lectures but he didn’t appreciate being dressed-down publicly.

“Calm down, Wil. I’ll ring the paper—set them straight.”

“The damage has been done.” Wilfred paced the room, furious. “Half of Sydney will have seen this by now…”

Rowland glanced at the article again and shook his head. “I really don’t know what Leadbeater is talking about, Wil. I had no idea…”

“No, it never is your fault, is it, Rowly?” Wilfred was not ready to let go of his wrath. “Maybe if you didn’t insist on living like some radical libertine with no
respect for anything but your own pleasure…”

Rowland was beginning to flare. Clyde stood back awkwardly. Kate put a hand timidly on her husband’s arm but Wilfred was not interested in being pacified.

“I suppose I should be grateful that you haven’t invited Leadbeater to move into
Woodlands
!”

Rowland fought to respond calmly.

“I told you, I don’t know Leadbeater—I’ve only met him the once.”

Wilfred grabbed the paper from him.

“And the Besant woman? I suppose you didn’t know her either.”

“Annie is a lady. I’m sure she knows nothing about this.”

Wilfred grunted and threw the paper into the fireplace in disgust.

“For God’s sake, Wil,” Rowland said angrily, “Do you think I aspire to being Leadbeater’s latest messiah? The man’s a lunatic—that’s all there is
to it!”

Milton and Edna burst into the library, clearly excited, a little jubilant. Edna had a paper in her hand.

“Rowly, have you seen… oh you have…” Edna looked from Rowland to Wilfred and back again. “This must have been why Hu was trying to reach you.”

Milton stood beside Edna, his lips twitching. Rowland gathered he was restraining himself with effort, waiting for Wilfred to be out of earshot before he laughed. Suddenly Rowland wanted to
laugh too. The notion was, after all, plainly ridiculous.

“Rowly—what have you done?” Edna reached up to his face, noticing suddenly the damage to his temple.

Wilfred too, now saw the blood on his collar. “For the love of God, what now?”

“It’s nothing,” Rowland said dismissively.

“It’s not nothing,” Edna protested, turning his face so she could see the injury more clearly. “Gosh, does it hurt?”

Rowland moved her hand away firmly. “Shall we deal with Leadbeater first?”

“What am I supposed to tell everybody?” Wilfred exploded again. “Ewan’s about to be christened in the Church of England and his godfather is leading some kind of insane
cult!”

“Tell them it’s a mistake.” Rowland said wearily. He could hear voices in the hallway. Remembering that they had a house full of guests, he groaned and closed the door to the
library.

“I’ll go see Leadbeater and demand he retract all this nonsense.”

Wilfred did not look placated in any way.

Rowland pulled his brother aside. “Look, Wil, I know this is embarrassing. I’ll understand completely if you and Kate want to choose another godfather for
Ewan—honestly.”

For a moment Wilfred hesitated, but in the end he shook his head irritably. “Just flaming well sort out this Leadbeater character!” he said, opening the library door.

Rowland nodded. “I’ll go now.”

“No.” Wilfred regarded his brother coldly. “Katie, would you call Dr. Maguire? Have him come and take a look at Rowly.” He held up his hand as Rowland objected. “I
don’t care why you’ve been brawling or with whom, but you’re not going anywhere looking like some common street thug!”

31

R
owland fastened his tie over a fresh shirt. Maguire had inserted a couple of stitches to secure the wound above his temple—completely
unnecessarily, he thought. Of course, the dour physician had been entirely indifferent to his opinion. Maguire had always appeared at Wilfred’s beck and call, but he was never very happy
about it.

Milton placed a glass of gin on the dresser before him. “This might help your headache, Rowly.”

Rowland pulled on his jacket before he picked up the glass. “My head’s fine, but thanks. This could help with the relatives.”

Milton laughed. “Ed and I met a couple of them while you were out.”

“How exactly did Wil introduce you?” Rowland was curious.

“I think he called us your business colleagues,” Milton replied. He stopped for a moment and added carefully, “There’s a bloke here to see you… wants to wish you
well in your new… appointment.”

Rowland groaned. “Who?” He could tell by the uneasy tone of Milton’s voice that he was not going to like the answer.

“Phil Jeffs…
the Jew
… apparently he likes the idea of knowing a World Prophet. Wants to shake your hand and tell you himself that you’ll be welcome at any of his
establishments.”

Rowland swore.
Phil the Jew
was one of Sydney’s most notorious criminals. He made a living from vice and violence. Rowland had encountered the gangster the previous year and he had
no desire to continue the acquaintance.