Give the Devil His Due (2 page)

“But you don't object to a wager?”

Rowland paused and studied the reporter. He laughed suddenly, shaking his head. “Just what are you trying to get me to say, Mr. White?”

The reporter's smile was sly. “Something wicked would do very nicely, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Why?”

“Every contest needs a villain to stir emotion and get the public involved—someone to boo and hiss. It's all part of the show.”

“And you've decided the villain ought to be me?”

“Well, you are driving the German car.”

Rowland couldn't quite tell whether Crispin White was in earnest.

White grinned. “Just pulling yer leg, sir, but you understand your car may upset the odd digger. I'm not prejudiced myself, but some folks don't see it that way.”

“Quite.” Rowland leaned back against the mudguard of his car, his arms folded as he tried to discern just how badly this interview was going.

White tapped the lead of his pencil against the notebook. “So, tell me Mr. Sinclair, how did you get involved in this charity race caper?”

“My mother,” he replied, thankful the reporter was moving on. “She's a patron of the Red Cross.”

White made a note. “Can't fault a man who loves his mother,” he said with a breathy note of disappointment.

“Mr. White, if it is necessary to portray me as some kind of melodrama villain, I'm sure you'll need to look no further than the archives of your paper.” Rowland couldn't help but be slightly amused by the reporter's approach.

“Are you asking me to leave, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Not at all. We could continue to stand here while you ask ridiculous questions, or you could join me at the house for a liquid refreshment.”

White's large head bounced from side to side as he considered the proposition. “A drink you say? Inside the house?”

Rowland smiled. He could see that White had not yet given up on uncovering a scandal. One had to admire the man's commitment. “If you'd care to follow me, Mr. White?”

White did indeed care to do so, and they walked amiably to the conservatory via the meandering wisteria walk. “Good Lord, they're women!” the reporter murmured, reaching out to touch the cast posts that supported the arched iron trellis upon which the wisteria was trained. He pulled his hand back hastily when it came too close to the small pert breasts of one elongated figure.

“You can touch it,” Rowland said, entertained by White's reaction. “Miss Higgins' work is designed to be handled.” He ran his fingers over the curve of a sculpted hip in demonstration. “She likes to try out ideas here before she finalises a commission. You'll find a walkway strikingly similar to this one, though somewhat bigger, at the Botanical Gardens in Adelaide.”

“Miss Higgins resides here, then?” White asked, puffing to keep pace with Rowland's long stride. Of course, he knew full well that Edna Higgins was a member of the hedonistic artistic set who had taken up residence at
Woodlands House
where they lived at Sinclair's expense. Some said she was his mistress, an opportunistic Communist siren with her eyes not only on Rowland Sinclair's fortune, but his political soul.

Rowland's response was brief and affirmative, his tone warned against any attempt to pursue the enquiry.

He offered White one of the wicker armchairs that furnished the conservatory through which they entered the house. The early evening was decidedly crisp but the room caught the fading light. Sunset bathed the parquetry floor in a warm glow, and patterned it with a lace of shadows thrown by fretwork brackets.

“I'm famished,” Rowland said, pulling on the servants' bell. “Are you hungry, Mr. White?”

“Oh… I… Yes, I am actually,” White said, surprised by the invitation. Sinclair seemed an exceedingly unaffected sort of chap, but perhaps he was trying to sway the coverage in his favour. Well, he'd find that Crispin White was not going to lose his objectivity so easily.

Rowland's summons was answered by a strong, straight woman, well into middle age, whom he called Mary. She addressed him as Master Rowly, as if he were a child, and when he told her that Mr. White would be joining him for dinner, she responded with a sigh.

“Since it's just the two of us, we might eat in here, Mary.”

The housekeeper shook her head firmly. “Mr. Watson Jones telephoned to say he and Miss Higgins will be back for dinner after all, Master Rowly.”

“Oh.” Rowland glanced at White. He hadn't intended to give the press quite so much access to his personal life, but it was probably too late now to withdraw the invitation. “I guess we'll have to use the dining room then.”

“I'm not sure when exactly they intend to come in, sir.”

“I daresay they'll be back directly.” Rowland responded to the unspoken complaint in Mary Brown's voice. The housekeeper believed tardiness to be a symptom of ill-breeding. “Mr. White and I might have a drink while we wait.”

All this White dutifully recorded in his notebook.

A large misshapen greyhound padded into the conservatory, pausing to nuzzle Rowland's hand before turning to investigate his guest.

“Lenin's harmless,” Rowland said when White pulled back.

“I've heard Lenin called many things but never harmless,” White muttered as the bony one-eared dog tried to climb into his lap.

“Len, lay down,” Rowland commanded, handing the reporter a glass of sherry.

The hound obeyed, settling at Rowland's feet with a distinct air of indignation.

So, tell me, Mr. Sinclair,”—White was all business again—“have you raced before?”

“No,” Rowland admitted. “But this is a charity invitational. I'm hoping at least a few of the other drivers will be equally inept.”

“Well-heeled men with supercharged cars and no sense. A certain recipe for disaster, wouldn't you say?”

“It's for a jolly good cause, Mr. White.”

“I don't suppose you're bothered by rumours that the Maroubra Speedway is cursed?”

“Cursed?” Rowland laughed. “My good man, you can't be serious?”

“Seven men have lost their lives on the circuit—it's been called the killer track.”

“Rowly, where are you?” A woman's voice. White sat up. This was more like it.

Rowland stood and called into the vestibule adjoining the main hallway. “In here, Ed.”

Despite rumours that the women at
Woodlands House
were customarily naked, the young lady who walked in was attired—a plain green frock, not drab yet certainly not the latest style. But she could well have worn a sack… indeed, the simplicity of her dress only served to accentuate the fact that she was beautiful—unusually, unforgettably so. There was a complete lack of self-consciousness in the way she moved: a natural informal grace. She'd already removed her hat, shaking out tresses of burnished copper as she greeted Sinclair with casual warmth.

White swallowed, hastily closing his notebook as he stood. Rowland introduced him to Miss Edna Higgins and Mr. Clyde Watson Jones.

It was only at that point that White even noticed Watson Jones— solid, sturdy with a face that wore the years plainly and the calloused hands of a worker. “Sorry we're so late, Rowly.” Clyde helped himself to sherry. “Ed came across some bloke trying to drown a sack of kittens and their mother in the harbour. She insisted I rescue them… wanted me to thump the bloke too—”

“Oh do stop complaining, Clyde. You didn't even get wet!” Edna said, perching on the arm of Rowland's chair.

“Where are they?” Rowland asked. “These felines that Clyde liberated.”

Edna directed her smile at Rowland. “Out in the tack room,” she said. The old tack shed near the stables had served as Edna's studio for some years now. “Clyde thought we should give you a chance to tell Mary before we brought them into the kitchen. She's still cross about Lenin.”

Rowland blanched. His housekeeper did not approve of his tendency to give refuge to what she called “ill-bred strays”.

The Red Flag, sung stridently, boomed down the hallway.

“Good! Milt's back,” Rowland said. “I'm ravenous.”

The revolutionary anthem grew louder and a second voice became discernible, female, thin and tentative with the words. Milton Isaacs walked in laughing with an elderly woman on his arm. He was not a subtle presence, with dark hair that fell long to his purple velvet lapel, under which sat a carefully knotted gold cravat. His companion was elegantly dressed in a tweed skirt suit, her soft white hair coiffed neatly beneath a brown felt hat.

The seated gentleman stood. “Mother,” Rowland said, alarmed. He did not want White's profile on him to invade his mother's privacy.

“Aubrey, my darling, I've had the most thrilling afternoon with your Mr. Isaacs.” Elisabeth Sinclair resided in her own wing of
Woodlands House
, with her own staff, including three private nurses. She had for some time been suffering from a malady of mind that often left her confused and distressed. Elisabeth had forgotten a great deal, including the existence of her youngest son, insisting instead that Rowland was his late brother, Aubrey. Some days were worse than others. Today, however, she seemed well. Her cheeks were infused with rosy colour and she beamed like an excited girl. “We've been to a splendid show at the Domain!”

“It wasn't really a show, Mrs. Sinclair—” Milton began.

“May I introduce Mr. Crispin White from
Smith's Weekly
.” Rowland interrupted before Milton could reveal that he'd taken Elisabeth Sinclair to a Communist Party rally. “Mr. White will be our guest for dinner.”

Milton frowned as he regarded the reporter. “Crispin?”

“Elias Isaacs… I didn't know… Hello,” White pulled at the already loosened knot in his tie.

Rowland's brow rose. It appeared the reporter was well enough acquainted with Milton to know his real name. The reunion did not appear to be a fond one, but neither seemed about to elaborate.

“Will you be joining us tonight, Mother?” he asked.

“I believe I shall decline, darling. I've had such an exciting afternoon with Mr. Isaacs, I think I might need a quiet night. I'll leave you young people to it. You'll all forgive me my old age, I hope?”

“Of course,” Rowland said, relieved.

“I have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight,” Milton proclaimed, turning his back on White to escort the old lady from the conservatory.

“Shelley,” Rowland said quietly. Milton's reputation as a poet was built principally on a talent for quoting the works of the romantic bards and a practice of not actually attributing the words. He didn't seem to feel obliged to write anything himself. Rowland smiled as he heard his mother object, “I don't think a small glass of cognac before bed will do me any harm, Mr. Isaacs.”

Edna glanced at Rowland. The tension between Milton and White had been unmistakable. She shrugged slightly, clearly unaware of its cause and taking White's arm, she allowed their guest to escort her to dinner.

The reporter paused as they entered the dining room, gazing at the high walls around him with undisguised awe. Stylised figures and intricate patterns were defined with white paint on a background of black—naked women, mythical beasts, peacocks given movement in the candlelight. Every square inch of the walls was rendered in this way. It was ethereally beautiful and startling.

“Is this…? Did you paint—?”

“It was a collaboration,” Rowland said, pulling out a chair for Edna. “An experiment of sorts.”

“I feel a little like I've stepped through the looking glass.” White sat down, glancing over his shoulder. “I must say it's the first time I'll have dinner with the devil.”

Edna laughed. “Oh I'm sure that's not true, Mr. White!” She patted his arm reassuringly. “You're a newspaperman after all. And that's not the devil, you know. It's a faun. Rowly was having a phase with mythology.”

“I trust you're not planning to report that Rowland Sinclair has a painting of the devil in his dining room, Mr. White,” Clyde said, clearly disturbed by the possibility.

“Yes, if Clyde's mother reads that in
Smith's Weekly
she'll drag him home by the ear!” Milton re-joined them. There was a note of wariness, a warning in the jest.

Clyde didn't bother to deny it. His mother would do that if she thought his soul was at risk… or if she knew he wasn't attending mass regularly. He leaned over to Rowland while White was distracted by Edna's explanation of the wall's design, or perhaps just by Edna herself.

“You invited a newspaper reporter to dinner?” he whispered accusingly.

“I didn't expect that any of you would be home,” Rowland replied.

Milton threw an arm around Rowland's shoulder. “You're not ashamed of us are you, old chap?”

Rowland smiled. “I take it you and White are acquainted.”

“A long time ago, Rowly.”

“He knew you as Elias.”

“And I knew him as Crispin Weissen. Perhaps he's reformed.”