Give the Devil His Due (39 page)

He'd been painting while brooding on what might have happened had Milton and Flynn not arrived when they did. Edna seemed determined to treat Stuart Jones' handling as a miscalculated attempt to restrain her. Perhaps it was. But that didn't stop Rowland wanting to tear the doctor limb from miserable limb. Edna had forbidden murder, of course.

And so the detective found him in a less than sunny disposition.

“How is Miss Higgins?” Delaney asked.

“She's alive.”

Delaney sighed. “Rowly, I did not for a moment believe a word Dr. Stuart Jones said.”

“That's not the impression you gave Milt.” “

I'm a police detective. I'm under obligation to at least appear impartial.” Delaney blanched and continued to explain himself. “The problem is that Stuart Jones' nurse is adamant that Miss Higgins had an appointment for a medical examination, and Miss Higgins doesn't remember a great deal.”

“She remembers why she went to the Lido and it had nothing to do with a medical examination, Colin.”

“Yes, I know. I'm glad you and Clyde are back, by the way. Where the hell were you?”

“We thought we might give Beejling the slip—I was rather fed up with being shadowed,” Rowland followed his lie with the truth in the hope that the result would be vaguely believable.

It wasn't. Not to Delaney anyway, but he didn't press Rowland on that count. He handed Rowland an old leather-bound notebook. “White's,” he said. “You wanted to have a look, I recall. Consider it a peace offering.”

Rowland relented. “I'm sorry, Colin. I know you're simply doing your job. It's just the thought of that bastard touching Ed…” He dragged a hand through his hair and smiled apologetically. “Have you had breakfast?”

Relieved, Delaney accepted the invitation. He had no wish to fall out with Rowland Sinclair. He liked the man for one thing.

The breakfast room had been set. Steaming silver warming trays graced the sideboard. On request, a maid disappeared and returned a short while later with a bowl of porridge, which she placed before Rowland.

“Is that…?” Delaney began.

Rowland drizzled honey over the cooked oats. “Yes, I seem to have developed a taste for it.” He waited until Delaney's plate was piled high. “Detective Hartley was at the Lido, you know.”

“When?”

“Ed saw him just before Stuart Jones attacked her. She wonders if that might be the reason he panicked and tried to silence her.”

Delaney pulled at the knot of his tie. “Hartley has his own way of doing things, Rowly.”

“By consorting with criminals?”

“Sometimes. It's only the low-level crims that won't speak to the police. Honour among thieves is negotiable when you're dealing with the likes of Stuart Jones. It may well be that Hartley is on some undercover operation. He's Superintendent Mackay's golden-haired boy at the moment.”

“Or involved in something untoward.”

Delaney exhaled loudly. “I'd be mighty careful about making allegations like that.”

“He's a police detective associating with Stuart Jones and then turning up to personally question the witnesses to that association. What does that look like to you?”

Detective Delaney chewed and swallowed before speaking. “Being a good copper isn't always about following every rule, Rowly. We all bend the rules. It's just a matter of how much and for what reason. I've allowed you to see evidence—in fact, I've borrowed evidence from case files to which I'm not assigned—I've shared information and intervened on your behalf often enough. And here I am enjoying your fine bacon and drinking your coffee. Would you say I'm on the take?”

“No… of course not, but—”

“All I'm saying is that if Hartley was there, as Miss Higgins believes, it may not be without good reason. If he is meeting with Stuart Jones, it may not be because he's in league with the bastard. Sometimes you have to deal with the devil for the greater good.” Delaney put down his knife and fork. “Look, Rowly, I'll keep an eye on Hartley, but we can't be making loose accusations.”

“Are you going to arrest Reginald Stuart Jones or not?” Rowland asked, angry despite being able to see Delaney's point, or perhaps because of it.

“At the moment we've only got Miss Higgins' word against his that she was not there for medical reasons.”

“That's ridiculous, Colin. Ed had no reason to seek his dubious medical expertise.”

Delaney paused. “Are you sure, Rowly? Would Miss Higgins necessarily tell you if she were in trouble? Now hear me out before you lose your temper—I've seen girls move heaven and earth to ensure their families never find out about this sort of thing.” Delaney looked at his plate and kept talking. “I mean, what would you do if Miss Higgins told you she was in trouble? Could she go on living here, would you still feel the same way? These are the kinds of things Stuart Jones' lawyers are going to put to the court to make it look like she had every reason to lie.”

They ate in silence for a while, as Delaney gave Rowland a chance to calm down, to resist the impulse to deck a police officer. The detective knew that Edna Higgins was the soft underbelly of Rowland Sinclair and that he'd probably tested their friendship with his words, but the man had to know what was ahead.

Rowland eventually spoke. His voice was tight, barely controlled. “Ed does not lie. She doesn't pretend she's anyone but who she is. And yes, I think she would tell me, and no, I doubt it would change how I feel. But more to the point, Colin, you know Edna Higgins! Do you really believe she would accuse an innocent man of attacking her, even scum like Stuart Jones, simply to protect her reputation?”

“No, I don't. I believe that Stuart Jones, at the very least, tried to keep her quiet for a while by putting her forcibly under anaesthetic. But my faith in Miss Higgins' good character is not evidence, Rowly. I just want you to understand why we haven't rushed out and hanged the bastard, and to caution you against undertaking such a course yourself.”

“Oh, I wasn't thinking about hanging him,” Rowland muttered.

Grand Master Installed

SYDNEY, Tuesday

Before a brilliant assemblage in the Town Hull to night, Most Wor. Bro. Dr. F.A. Maguire was installed as Grand Master of the United Grand Lodge of New South Wales of Ancient Free and Accepted Masons. The installation ceremony was performed by the retiring Grand Master (Most Worshipful Bro. A. Halloran). Among the visitors were R. Wor. Bro. E.A. Jones, Grand Master of Queensland; M. Wor. Bro. L.J. Abra, Grand Master of Tasmania; M. Wor. Bro. W. Warren Kerr, Grand Master of Victoria; R.W. Bro Sir William Brunton. Deputy Grand Master of Victoria; and H.W. Bro. A.D. Young, Deputy Grand Master of South Australia. Greetings were received from England and other parts of the Empire. In the afternoon the visiting delegates were given a reception at the Masonic Club.

The Argus, 1933

____________________________________

R
owland leafed through Crispin White's notebook, noticing as he did so white chalk dust on his fingertips. “Your chaps don't dust for fingerprints with chalk dust, do they?” he asked Delaney, a little perplexed by the presence of the stuff.

“Of course not.” Delaney was finishing a second helping of breakfast. “I assume the dust came from
Smith's Weekly
. Don't they use powder to blot ink when they're drafting?”

Rowland nodded. “That makes sense.”

The last entries in the notebook were of course about Rowland Sinclair—abbreviated notes from the interview and dinner. The earlier entries concerned a wide range of stories: the cricket, Campbell's launch of the Centre Party, a house fire in Wollstonecraft, a stabbing in Darlinghurst and a single reference to the Kings Cross coven.

“Do you have any idea what these numbers might signify?”

“They're odds,” Milton said peering over Rowland's shoulder as he took a seat at the table. Clyde and Edna had also come down. “Bookmakers' odds.”

“They're on every page.”

“I'd say White was a seasoned punter then.” Milton pointed to a note written on the perpendicular. “That's a horse and race number.”

“Perhaps White owed the bookmakers money. They can be a tough bunch,” Delaney said standing to see the notebook.

Milton raised a brow. “We seem to be encountering rather a lot of bookies lately.”

Rowland nodded. “Perhaps they're behind more than White's demise.”

“Like the shooting,” Edna suggested, spooning sugar into her tea.

“I dunno.” Milton was sceptical. “Dead men can be replaced, as we saw with Linklater. If the bookies wanted to make sure that Joan Richmond's team doesn't win, it'd be more effective to simply convince Rowly to throw the race. They hadn't even tried when the shot was fired.”

“Perhaps that's what that shot was meant to do,” Delaney pointed out.

“You'd have to be a crack shot to shoot the painting and still miss me,” Rowland said.

“Perhaps he was just lucky.”

“Reggie is a very good target shooter,” Edna said quietly. “Do you remember, Milt? He was forever shooting out light bulbs to show off.”

Delaney took out his notebook and wrote the possibility down. “We'll certainly look into his whereabouts when the shooting occurred. If we can put him at
Woodlands
that morning it could go towards his credibility, or lack thereof, on other matters.”

Edna moved to sit next to Delaney. “I expect Rowly's already growled at you this morning, Colin. I want you to know that I don't hold what happened yesterday against you.”

Delaney stuttered, flustered and clearly embarrassed. “I am sorry if it seemed—”

“I'm glad you were there,” she said. “Detective Hartley and Superintendent Mackay seemed determined to ‘crack' me.”

“I'm sure that wasn't their intention, but I must admit, I'm happy Maguire was able to remind the superintendent of the importance of being cautious, considering what you'd been through.”

Rowland looked up sharply, but said nothing.

“You're licensed to carry a pistol, aren't you, Rowly?” Delaney asked.

“Yes,” Rowland said carefully.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“Wil's old service revolver is in a box somewhere.”

“It mightn't be a bad idea to carry it, just until this flaming race is over at least.”

Rowland shook his head. “I think I might be safer if it stays in the box.”

“You're not in the least bit amusing, Rowly,” Edna said, assuming he was making some tangential reference to the fact that she'd shot him with that gun.

He hadn't been, but now they were all reminded. Rowland laughed.

Delaney stood. “I'd best get on.” He glanced at Edna awkwardly. “Would you mind coming in to the station to finish your statement, Miss Higgins?”

“Not at all, Detective Delaney,” Edna replied.

“You might be able to help us on another matter, Colin,” Rowland began, glancing at Milton. “This chap Bocquet who claims to have had his tiepin stolen, employed a young woman called Frances as a housemaid. I don't suppose you could find out if someone's recorded her details?”

“Do you have a surname?”

“No.”

“The case is John Hartley's, but I'll see what I can do.”

Edna and Rowland walked Delaney out as the others were still eating.

As soon as the detective had left, Edna quizzed Rowland on his peculiar reaction when Delaney made reference to Maguire's words on her behalf. “I know you, Rowly. What were you thinking?”

“It wasn't anything… I just realised that Bill Mackay must be a Mason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fredrick Maguire is a member of the Grand Lodge. He reminded Mackay of the fact that they are brothers… and that he's the bigger brother. It's probably why Mackay agreed to postpone the interview.”

“I didn't hear him say anything about—”

“It's a code, a particular turn of phrase.”

“Oh,” Edna said intrigued. “What turn of phrase?”

“I can't tell you that.”

Edna's hands sat indignantly upon her hips. “Why not?”

“I'm a Mason.”

“You're also a grown man.”

Rowland's face was grave though there was an unmistakable smile in his eyes. “If I tell you my throat will be cut and my name forever decried as that of a miserable cowan.”

“What? By the Freemasons?”

“No, just Wil—goodness knows what the brotherhood would do.”

Edna laughed. She linked her arm with his. “So, just because he's a higher ranking Freemason, Frederick Maguire can order Superintendent Mackay about?”

“It doesn't quite work that way, but his rank does carry influence.”

“Well that's hardly fair.”

“Possibly not.”