Give the Devil His Due (35 page)

“Reg!” A man's voice from deep within the club. “Where the hell have you got to?”

Edna turned, as did Stuart Jones. The men who had come out of the offices behind the dance floor remained there for only seconds, but Edna saw them. And she recognised one of their number.

“What is Detective Hartley doing here?” she demanded.

“He's asking questions. The police always have questions.”

“What is he asking about?”

“That's none of your business, beautiful.”

“Perhaps he should ask you about Rowly and Clyde,” Edna snapped. “How about I speak to him?”

“No!” Stuart Jones grabbed her arm before she could move. “Now Eddie, you just leave John Hartley alone. You seem… a little anxious, agitated… I could give you something for that.”

“Let go of me!” Edna tried to shake him off but this time his grip was iron, and his face was as hard.

“I might just administer an anaesthetic to help you calm down.”

Edna heard a door slam. Hartley and the other men had made an exit. She was alone with Stuart Jones. “I'll scream.”

“Go ahead. If anyone hears you they'll understand why I had to give you something to settle your nerves.”

“No one will believe that. I'm not one of your unfortunate patients, Reggie!”

“A woman like you? Just the kind to need my discreet professional services.”

Edna kicked, connecting with the doctor's shin. She broke for the door. He came after her, catching Edna at the door and clamping a manicured hand over her mouth. The sculptress fought like a wildcat, and Stuart Jones whispered as much in her ear as he dragged her back into the nightclub.

Doctor Exonerated

SYDNEY, Wednesday

____________________________________

“Death could have been caused by shock, but it is the most extraordinary death that I have ever seen,” declared Dr. Reginald Stuart Jones, of Macquarie Street city, today, giving evidence at the inquest into the death of Mrs. Adeline Amy Jones, 42, wife of a Grenfell farmer, while she was being given an anaesthetic by Dr. Jones to facilitate a medical examination.

The witness said that he had been called in to see Mrs. Jones. She was extremely nervous and agitated, however, and he suggested the anaesthetic to complete the examination. She agreed. She had only taken about twelve breaths when he saw her colour change. When he removed the mask she was barely conscious. He gave her an injection of adrenalin, and asked for someone to call another doctor. He then resorted to artificial respiration until she died.

“I had just finished, and stood up exhausted and dripping with perspiration, when Di Macnamara came in,” continued the witness. He said “It is jolly bad luck.”

Witnesses said that it was usual to administer an anaesthetic to examine a patient in such circumstances, and even without anyone else being present.

The Coroner returning a finding of death from shock said that he thought the practice of giving anaesthetics in private houses by a doctor who was by himself was not a desirable one. In the evidence disclosed the deceased was a woman of excessive nervous temperament. The state of her nerves was entirely due to her own feelings, and caused the cessation of her heart action. The doctor was entirely absolved.

The Canberra Times, 1935

T
hey set out for Leura at first light, slowly, as the blood frozen in their veins was coaxed to flow again with movement and billy tea. The swelling around one of Clyde's eyes had subsided and he could see to walk. Rowland stayed within reach nevertheless. The dirt track joined a more substantial road within a mile, and seven men trudged two abreast, with Thompson at the lead. Petey Holmes whistled God Save the King in a manner that seemed to have no end. Otherwise they said little.

Rowland's mind settled on the murder of White and he brooded there, wrestling with what had evolved over the past days. The race had muddled his thinking, crowded his perspective so that he was distracted. The miles before him were an opportunity to focus and think clearly.

He tried to picture White, portly with thinning slicked hair, a creased suit and that tiepin—Les Bocquet's tiepin. Bocquet had claimed the pin was an anniversary gift from his wife. Rowland considered the design—two horseshoes in the centre of a bar. Was it intended as a lucky charm or did Bocquet simply like horses? Why would Beryl give her husband a talisman of good fortune, unless fortune was something Les called on regularly? Perhaps he gambled. On reflection, Rowland didn't believe that the Bocquets had been burgled, or that the maid had taken the jewellery. The tiepin had almost certainly left the Bocquet residence through the hands of either Mr. or Mrs. Bocquet. Which, he wasn't sure.

What White had been doing at Magdalene's still perplexed him. Perhaps there'd be some clue in the reporter's notebook. Mollie Horseman had said White was looking into the occult, and the girl employed to weep at the House of the Macabre had spoken of clandestine meetings. Rowland had never really embraced the current fascination with the supernatural but he was aware that some took the fashion quite seriously. He remembered, fondly, Annie Besant who had passed away the year before. The old theosophist had been his friend. Rowland admired her deeply and though she seemed to believe in the stuff of myth and fancy, he had never dismissed the honesty of that belief. Perhaps it was some exposé of alternative religion or black magic that had incited someone to murder the reporter.

“Rowly,” Clyde said quietly. “What are we actually going to do when we get to Leura? We have no money.”

“I'll book a call through to Wil, reverse the charges. He'll sort something out—send someone to get us.”

“You might ask him to send a few sandwiches as well.”

It was nearly mid-morning when they finally walked into the small mountain town of Leura. Rowland cast his eyes up to the Italianate guesthouse which looked over the town from its highest point. The smoke that spilled from its chimneys promised warmth and perhaps a meal. He pointed it out to his companions. “There's bound to be a telephone there.”

Thompson and Eather exchanged an amused glance. “You're ambitious Sinclair, I'll give you that.”

Clyde squinted at the street through his one good eye. There didn't seem to be a police station that he could see. He was, by virtue of experience, a little more realistic about how men in their current state would be received at a genteel guesthouse. But perhaps the Sinclair name would be recognised even here.

They were stopped at the gatehouse where a gardener informed them that there was no work. He pointed to a sign that prohibited hawkers and beggars.

Politely, but firmly, Rowland asked to see the manager. As firmly, though not at all politely, the gardener told them to clear off.

“Come on, mate, let's go,” Thompson said. “You don't need to impress us. We ain't nothing.”

A housekeeper came out to investigate the disturbance. Rowland introduced himself and Clyde. “Mr. Watson Jones and I have been involved in… an accident. Could I trouble you, madam, for the use of your telephone?”

The housekeeper inhaled conspicuously and then grimaced in a manner pointed. “It seems to me, Mr. Sinclair—if that is your name—that you and your companions have been consorting with the demon drink. I will not allow you and your kind onto the premises! Now get on your way before I call the police.”

Having, like Clyde, ascertained that the town didn't have its own police station, Rowland decided to press his luck. “Madam, if you are making a call perhaps you could telephone Mr. Wilfred Sinclair at
Roburvale
in Woollahra, yourself. I'd be happy to compensate you for the telephone call and for your trouble.”

“I don't believe you are in any position to compensate anyone, my good man.” She sighed. “It's against my better judgement, but if you go around to the tradesmen's entrance I'll see if Cook has any porridge left over from breakfast.”

“That's not necessary—” Rowland began.

“Be quiet, Sinclair,” Thompson interrupted, pushing Rowland back. “Thank you, kindly, madam. The trade entrance is this way, is it?”

The housekeeper sniffed. “Wait outside the door and don't let the guests see you, mind. If there's any trouble I'll have Gerry fetch his shotgun!”

The gardener nodded. “Happy to oblige.”

“We don't want any trouble, madam,” Thompson said with his hands in the air. “But that porridge would be most welcome.”

“Go on with you then. I'll have someone come to the back door, and then you'll have to move on.”

Thompson thanked her and grabbing Rowland's arm to make sure he didn't talk them out of breakfast, led his derelict band around the property to the door at the back of the kitchen.

Gerry, the gardener, watched every step, a spade at the ready.

“What are we going to do now, Rowly?” Clyde murmured.

“Breakfast, I believe.”

“And after that?”

“We might be able to send a telegram at the post office.”

“With no money?”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. “We'll have to try.”

Milton Isaacs guessed immediately that Edna had gone after Reginald Stuart Jones. He cursed. The sculptress had always underestimated how dangerous their old acquaintance could be. To her, he was still “pudgy Reggie”; ineffectual and pitiful. Even now, he elicited her compassion as much as her ire.

But the poet knew full well that Reginald Stuart Jones had changed. He was no longer innocuous and he had learned much from the associations he had made while moving with the criminal classes.

Milton did not need to telephone Stuart Jones' wife to know the doctor would be at the Lido. The nightclub had been Stuart Jones' primary place of business for a couple of years.

As he was leaving
Woodlands
to find Edna, Milton spotted Errol Flynn's Triumph easing to a stop at the gate. He sprinted down the long driveway to meet it and jumped into the passenger seat.

“I say, old chap, what are you doing?” Flynn asked as the wild-eyed poet landed beside him.

“Ed's in a spot of trouble. Turn around. We need to get to Bondi Beach.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“The kind that might just get her killed. Now drive!”

Without any further hesitation Flynn turned the car around and applied the skills he'd learned on the Maroubra Speedway.

A maid came to the back door with green and yellow enamel plates of thick porridge. Leftover from earlier in the morning the porridge had become lumpy and congealed, but, to the cold, famished men, it was ambrosia. They ate without speaking, scraping the plates clean as they stood at the back door. When the maid came to the door to collect the plates, Rowland asked if she would call her mistress to speak with him.

“The mistress is very busy,” the servant said uncertainly.

“Please,” he said. “It's extremely important.”

The maid wiped her hands on the crisp white of her apron.