Decline in Prophets (42 page)

Delaney grabbed Rowland’s shoulder as he launched forward incensed. The detective held him back, and Bryan laughed.

Rowland composed himself, just barely. There were things he wanted to know now.

“You tried to shoot me on board. How were you going to blackmail a dead man, you bloody fool?”

“You have a family,” Bryan replied glibly. “People had seen you with Isobel—you wouldn’t have been around to deny it. How much is a Sinclair bastard worth, do you
think?” He leant across the table until his face was close to Rowland’s. He whispered. “Of course, I wouldn’t have needed to do it if you’d just agreed to marry poor
Isobel… she’d still be alive.”

“Murphy and Francesca Waterman,” Delaney intervened because Rowland was beyond words. “You killed them simply because they knew you?”

“I have been rather busy, haven’t I? Frannie would have told Jiddu eventually—was always besotted with the Holy Sambo.”

“But why now?” Delaney continued. “And why on earth would someone like you join the Church?”

Bryan shrugged. It seemed he had given up trying to protest any form of innocence. “I was a pious man once—had no need for my inheritance or my parents—just wanted to get as
far away from them and their blasphemous causes as possible.”

“So you entered the priesthood?” Delaney was leading him now.

Bryan nodded. “I was assigned to the bishop. I met Isobel… she opened my eyes to the pleasures of the flesh.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “It’s hard to go back
once you’ve realised what women are for. It was only then I started to think about what Annie and Leadbeater had been doing with my money… what they were stealing from me. Of course it
wasn’t till later that I figured out that Van Hook was involved.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll hire the back-stabbing rat to defend me.”

“And finding Annie and Krishnamurti on the
Aquitania
? Was that just luck?” Delaney asked.

“No. The World President of the Theosophical Society does not travel quietly,” Bryan replied, rolling his eyes. “It was public knowledge that she’d be travelling on the
Aquitania
. The bishop hadn’t actually planned to embark for a month after the
Aquitania
had left, but I was in charge of making his travel bookings. Once the bookings were made
Isobel convinced him not to break them… told him it was a sign from God that the colonies needed him or some such thing.” Bryan’s eyes sparkled as he spoke of Isobel. “She
was quite good at that sort of thing… a natural liar really.”

“Did Isobel know you planned to kill your brother?” Rowland was sickened by the thought. Could the enchanting, lively girl he had almost loved, have been so callous?

Bryan turned to him, his face set with pity and contempt. “Yes… she cried and carried on afterwards… but she knew. She lured him to the lifeboat… she had a way about
her.” The deacon smiled. “But you’d know all about her ways wouldn’t you Sinclair?… of course you weren’t man enough to go through with it.”

Rowland’s face became stony. “Go to hell!”

Bryan laughed, strangely gleeful. “Yes, it looks like I might.”

For a moment there was nothing as Rowland considered whether it would be fair to strike a man in shackles. In the end he resisted.

Edna’s locket pressed into Rowland’s palm, as his grip tightened about it. He spoke dispassionately to Delaney. “Do you have what you need?”

The detective nodded.

Rowland Sinclair stood up. He walked out of the room without another glance at the man who called himself Matthew Bryan. It was finished, and Milton was right. Bryan would swing.

41

E
dna Higgins opened her eyes slowly, burrowing back into the cushions of the chaise lounge. She could hear Rowland and Clyde discussing colour
palettes somewhere nearby. It was past noon; the morning sun no longer cast its shaft through the glass panels of the French doors. Rowland had carried her down that morning so that she would not
have to spend another day confined to her bed. It had been five days since she had come out of sedation to find the men she lived with gathered about her hospital bed. They’d acted as if
she’d just woken from the dead. She had told them to go home and shower.

As she grew stronger, she had spoken to them and the dashing Detective Delaney of what Bryan had done to her. Now they seemed reluctant to leave her alone. Edna could see that becoming a
problem, but for the time being, she was glad of it.

Milton was the first to notice she was not asleep. He looked up from his book. His mouth twitched. The bard in him could not refrain.

“That we are well awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.”

“Shakespeare,” Rowland made the attribution casually, as he smiled at Edna.

Milton was not finished. He raised a finger. “Why then, we are awake; let’s follow him; And by the way let us recount our dreams.”

Rowland sighed, looking pointedly at the poet. “He also wrote ‘Man is but an ass’.”

Milton ignored him. “How are you feeling, Ed?”

“A little tired.”

Rowland frowned. “Shall I carry you, upstairs?”

“Oh no—not yet.”

“Ed’s afraid of that nurse your brother hired to look after her,” Milton said, laughing.

Rowland glanced at Edna sympathetically. Wilfred had a talent for finding the most grim-faced staff. He’d surpassed himself with Nurse Harrington—the woman was altogether
terrifying.

Lenin clattered across and licked Edna’s face before he tried to climb onto the chaise with her. Clyde grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him off. “Are you hungry, Ed? Mary
left a plate for you… there was some shortbread too…”

“Mary took that away I think,” Milton informed them. “She seems to have an issue with the crumbs.”

Edna shook her head. Her appetite hadn’t returned. All she could taste was charcoal.

“You should eat something,” Clyde warned. “Nobody wants a thin model, Ed… you’ll lose work.”

Rowland looked carefully at the sculptress. For the first time Edna felt a twinge of self-consciousness under his gaze. She knew she had become angular. Gone were the gentle curves and rounded
lines of her figure, the feminine shape that seemed to so suit the sweep of the brush. Still, when she did raise her eyes to Rowland’s, she could see no difference in the way he regarded
her.

“There’s a depression,” he murmured as he pulled the notebook from his inside pocket. “She’ll be cheaper to paint like this.”

Edna laughed. “Has Hu sailed yet?” she asked, nestling comfortably into the pillows which surrounded her. Hubert Van Hook had called a couple of days before to say goodbye in his own
colourful and entirely incomprehensible manner. Having been cleared, he was joining Annie Besant and Jiddu Krishnamurti in India.

Clyde nodded. “Yesterday. He’ll have an interesting story to tell Annie.”

“Provided they can figure out what the hell he’s saying,” Milton added.

Clyde flicked open the
Truth
, scanning the pages for mention of Rowland Sinclair. “You seem to have fallen out of the headlines, Rowly. How did Wilfred manage that?”

“He bought the paper.”

“You’re joking!”

“Of course I am… Wil wouldn’t buy the
Truth
—
The Sydney Morning Herald
maybe…
The Age
in a pinch… but not the jolly
Truth
!” Rowland looked disdainfully at the paper in Clyde’s grasp. “Standards, old boy, standards.”

Clyde grinned. “Where are the illustrious Sinclairs? The house seems rather quiet.”

Aside from the servants, they were alone at
Woodlands
.

“Half of them went to the races, and the rest went to church to pray for the half at the races.” Rowland said as he began to draw Edna. “Oh, Ed—before I forget. More
flowers arrived whilst you were asleep.”

There had been a steady stream of bouquets delivered for the sculptress.

“That’s lovely,” Edna said without lifting her head. “Who sent them?”

“Bishop Hanrahan.”

Clyde looked up surprised. “My God!”

“No—just the bishop, I’m afraid.” Rowland winked at the sculptress. “It wasn’t even addressed to Jezebel.”

“He’s obviously feeling guilty,” Milton said closing his book.

“Why would he feel guilty?”

“Between his niece and his deacon, a lot of people died,” Milton replied.

Rowland’s eyes lost their humour. Isobel.

Edna watched him. A couple of days ago, he had sat at her bedside and told her of Bryan’s claims. She knew he was still haunted by the deacon’s words, that he had wanted the
bishop’s niece to be innocent. Rowland seemed to accept that Isobel Hanrahan had reasons for wanting to seduce him, but he had not thought it quite so calculated.

She curled up her legs to make space on the chaise. “Rowly darling, come here.”

Rowland did as she asked.

The sculptress shifted to face him and reached out for his hand. What did it matter what really happened? Rowland had cared for Isobel. “You only have Matthew’s word that Isobel was
involved,” she said softly. “She can’t defend herself.”

“You think she didn’t know?”

Edna held his gaze, steadily. “Only Matthew says otherwise and he’s… he’s a cruel man, Rowly—you shouldn’t doubt how you saw Isobel.”

Rowland shook his head. “I just feel such a fool.”

“Do you still have those drawings you made of Isobel?” Clyde asked suddenly.

“Yes.” Rowland closed his notebook and handed it over.

Clyde flicked to the sketches of the bishop’s niece. “I don’t see a cold-blooded murderer’s accomplice here, mate—just a bit of a girl with appalling bloody taste
in men.”

Rowland took back the notebook and studied his own sketch. He smiled faintly.

Edna squeezed his hand. “You leave your memories of Isobel be,” she said quietly.

“So what’s going to happen with Arthur Urquhart?” Milton asked.

Rowland shrugged. “There’ll be a trial I suppose. Delaney’s convinced he’ll hang.”

Milton returned to his book. “Good.”

“What are you reading, Milt?” Edna asked, changing the subject. She wasn’t yet ready to think about the fate of Arthur Urquhart.

“Rowly’s book—
Isis Unveiled
,” Milton replied holding up what many considered the founding thesis of the Theosophical movement. “There’s some
interesting stuff in here… I don’t know if I’m reading this right, but apparently we are all gods.” The poet straightened to suit the title. He glanced at Clyde. “Of
course some of us look the part more than others.”

Clyde snorted. “You’d fit right in with Leadbeater and his band of bleeding nutters!” He turned to Rowland. “What happened to him, anyway?”

“He’s recovered—he’s going back to Perth in a couple of days. I believe Wil has sent lawyers to the hospital to make sure he doesn’t say anything more before he
goes.”

“Wise man, your brother,” Clyde nodded.

Milton’s head lifted, a familiar poetic inspiration in his eye, verse poised on his lips.

“For he knoweth vain men: he seeth wickedness also; will he not then consider it? For vain man would wise, though man be born like a wild ass’s colt.”

There was silence as they all waited for Rowland to make the attribution. With his traditional British education, he was best equipped to defend the works of poets past from the shameless
appropriation of Milton Isaacs.

Rowland’s face was blank as he struggled to place the line. He could find nothing. Finally, he conceded. “You know, that was so incomprehensible that you might actually have written
it.”

Edna gasped. “Surely not…” They had never known the poet to actually write anything.

“Of course I did.” Milton was triumphant, smug.

“The Bible,” Clyde said tersely. “The Book of Job, to be exact.”

“Oh, really?”

“You just let him steal the word of God, Rowly.”

“Book of Job, you say… I might have to look at that again,” Rowland replied with no intention of ever doing so. He turned thoughtfully to Clyde, his smile just slight.
“Do you have any idea what it means?”

Clyde shook his head in disbelief. “Protestants!” he muttered in disgust.

Epilogue