Give the Devil His Due (45 page)

Rowland turned stiffly towards the greeting. “Colonel Campbell, Mrs. Campbell,” he said with painstakingly conscious civility. “May I introduce Miss Joan Richmond and Mr. Errol Flynn? I believe you know Miss Higgins.”

“Oh yes,” the leader of the New Guard said, glancing at his wife. “You remember, my dear. This is the young lady who purported to be Mr. Sinclair's fiancée and then shot him in my study. Ruined the Axminster.” Campbell laughed loudly.

Mrs. Campbell looked mortified. “It was such an ugly carpet, Eric. I was glad of the excuse to replace it,” she said nervously.

Rowland met Campbell's eye, wondering what the man was up to. “Then we are both glad of Miss Higgins' actions, Mrs. Campbell. You were able to replace the carpet and I was able to avoid being beaten to death.”

“Yes, well I'm afraid the chaps can be a little zealous when they feel I'm in danger. They're a jolly decent and loyal bunch.”

“I hear you've become a politician, Colonel Campbell,” Rowland said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I'm so glad to see democracy has finally won you over.”

“Sometimes it's necessary to effect change from within,” Campbell replied smoothly. “And what are you doing with your time these days, Sinclair? By the time I was your age, I'd fought a war, progressed in business, married and founded a thriving legal firm.”

“Not to mention a militia,” Rowland said brightly. “Actually, I'm thinking about standing for parliament myself, since it seems to be the thing to do these days.”

Edna beamed and rubbed Rowland's arm in a show of pride. “I don't believe Lane Cove will have ever had so handsome a member.” If she had exhibited the slightest surprise, Campbell might have realised that Rowland Sinclair was fabricating his intended candidacy, that his interest in the seat of Lane Cove was being feigned to irritate the man who hoped to win it. But Edna Higgins was a convincing actress, and having been offended by his reference to the shooting incident she carried on. “The publicity surrounding the race has been just wonderful for raising Rowly's public profile!”

Campbell was noticeably shaken. “You haven't announced…”

“Well, I didn't want to take attention away from the race—the car race, that is,” Rowland said unfazed. “It's for charity, after all. Time and place, you know.”

Campbell's smile looked more like a barring of teeth. “If you'll excuse us, I've promised Nancy a turn on the dance floor.”

Edna giggled as the Campbells flounced away. “Now we've done it,” she said, delighted.

“I didn't realise you were standing for parliament, Rowly,” Joan ventured.

“I'm not,” Rowland whispered. “Ed and I were just playing the fool, to be honest.”

“I sense you may have upset Colonel Campbell,” Joan observed.

“Yes, it's a terrible pity,” Edna said blithely.

A pause in the music signalled that the formalities were about to begin. Various dignitaries took the stage to acknowledge other dignitaries and to deliver words of welcome and thanks. When the music started again, Rowland danced with Joan, discussing race strategy through the slides of a Gypsy Tap and two waltzes. Then he took Edna on to the floor while Joan gave the same instructions to Errol.

Rowland saw that Campbell had abandoned any pretence of dancing, spending the evening instead in earnest conversations with various gentlemen and the Honourable Charlotte Linklater who'd attended the ball wearing a black gown in remembrance of her brother.

“Are you all right, Rowly?” Edna asked as she sensed him become distant and tense.

“Yes,” he replied. “I just wish Miss Linklater would allow me to—”

“The accident wasn't your fault.”

“I know. But it seems callous that we're all just carrying on as if nothing happened.”

“That wasn't your decision, darling. Miss Linklater wanted to race in her brother's place.” Edna glanced over her shoulder at the bereaved motorist. Charlotte Linklater was watching them from beside the punch bowl. She looked more wistful than anything else. “Why don't you try speaking to her again? Put all this nonsense to rest before tomorrow's race.”

“Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” Edna squeezed his hand. “Just so long as you remember you don't need absolution.”

He brought her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”

Rowland relinquished the sculptress to one of the many admirers circling hopefully for a chance to cut in, and made his way to Charlotte Linklater.

“Miss Linklater?”

“Yes?”

Suddenly Rowland was unsure what exactly he wanted to say and so he asked her for that dance. She accepted without any sign of enthusiasm whatsoever. He led her onto the floor and for a while they waltzed without exchanging words. Rowland's height meant that by keeping her eyes straight ahead she could avoid looking at his face. Even so, the fact that Charlotte had accepted gave Rowland some hope. Finally he broke the silence between them.

“Miss Linklater, I know our dealings have been difficult to date, but I hope you'll believe me when I say I do not wish for us to be enemies.”

She said nothing.

Rowland continued. “I know that you're racing in your late brother's memory and if there's anything I can do to help you honour that memory—”

“Yes, there is,” she said, raising her eyes. Rowland pulled back, startled by the seething hostility in them. “Stay out of my way,” Charlotte hissed. “Because on the track I shall drive as ruthlessly as you did when you forced Charles into the fence. Dear Charles had only toured before, but I've raced in bowls. I understand the peculiarities of speedways and I will show you no measure of mercy. I suggest you withdraw Mr. Sinclair and retreat behind that red easel of yours because I have not forgiven you!”

Rowland stayed in step. “It's regrettable that you feel that way and whether you believe me or not, I am sorry for what happened to your brother.”

“Have you ever lost a brother, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Yes. Aubrey was killed in the war.”

“And how do you feel about the people who killed him? Mr. Campbell told me about your ongoing animosity against the German government.”

“That has nothing to do with Aubrey.”

“Are you sure? How else do you explain your opposition to a government that has returned Germany to its former greatness?”

The bracket finished. Rowland thanked Charlotte Linklater for the dance and abandoned his attempts at a pre-race reconciliation. But he wished her luck, quite sincerely, as she turned her back on him.

Wilfred found him before he could re-join Joan and Flynn. Kate Sinclair was on her husband's arm. The pale blue sheath suited her porcelain complexion. She was, as always, a picture of understated elegance.

“Rowly. Best of British for tomorrow, old boy.” Wilfred shook his brother's hand. “Don't get carried away. The Red Cross will make plenty of money whether or not you win.”

“Thank you, Wil. Are you bringing the boys?”

Wilfred nodded. “Ernie and Ewan, anyway. Gilbert's a bit young to enjoy the finer points of motor racing. I understand the organisers are expecting quite a crowd, so let's hope that Fritz jalopy of yours lives up to expectations.”

Kate turned to her husband. “For heaven's sake, Wil. You're not going to quarrel about Rowly's motorcar now!”

Rowland laughed. “No we're not.” Joan Richmond caught his eye from across the room and tapped her watch. He sighed. “I'm afraid I must be going. Joan's imposed a strict curfew.” His kissed Kate's cheek. “I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be the one in the Fritz jalopy at the front.”

Popularity Increasing

Judging by the record number of visitors to Cowes for the 100- mile race on New Year's Day motor racing is at last becoming as popular in Australia as it has been for many years overseas. The 6 ½ miles rectangular course on Phillip Island is very suitable for motor racing, and it can be closed to ordinary traffic while races are being decided. It is hoped that later other good roads on the island will be used to form a much longer course, making a complete circuit of the island. By facilitating the holding of races the shire council and residents have materially increased the popularity of the island as a holiday resort, and have greatly assisted the motoring clubs. This year promises to be a record one for motor sport. It is hoped that several overseas drivers will compete in a special Centenary programme of racing.

The Argus, 1934

____________________________________

T
he residents of
Woodlands House
set out for the Maroubra Speedway at dawn. Despite all the drama and mayhem leading up to the event they embarked with a spirit that was both festive and adventurous. Clyde had ensured the Mercedes was ready, Rowland knew his motorcar and had become well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of the speedway; Joan Richmond was a racing veteran and her Riley, top shelf; Errol Flynn was enthusiastic and his Triumph at least sea-worthy. Surely a good time would be had by all.

They were among the first to arrive at the track. Speedway officials with brooms, shovels and bags were clearing the bowl of debris as well as the snakes, lizards and the occasional cat that had come to enjoy the morning sun on warm concrete. Each team had been given a makeshift bay into which their cars could pull off for refuelling, minor repairs or wheel changes if necessary. The Red Cross marquee in the centre of the bowl served the racers breakfast to the strains of a bombastic brass band. After months of preparation, setbacks and anxiety, the day of the race had broken clear of clouds and the atmosphere was buoyant and infectious.

With wishes of good luck and exhortations to be careful, Edna and Milton set off to find seats among the burgeoning throng of spectators. There was still a while till flag fall, but the venue was filling fast. Clyde hummed tunelessly as he checked the Mercedes once again, and Rowland mentally paced out his part of the race, until familiar figures caught their attention.

It was the doctor's ostentatious sense of style—reminiscent of Milton's—that attracted their notice. Stuart Jones stood in the infield talking to Redmond Barry and another. For a moment the second man merely sparked a sense of vague recognition and then Rowland placed him: Les Bocquet. What was Les Bocquet doing with Stuart Jones?

Rowland glanced at his watch—recently repaired and synchronised with Clyde's. They still had nearly an hour. He signalled Clyde. “I'm just going to have a brief word with Stuart Jones.”

“Rowly, the race—”

“It won't be a long conversation. I'll be back in time.”

“Well then, I'll come with you,” Clyde said, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Ed reckons Stuart Jones carries a revolver, remember.”

Rowland nodded. “Best bring the tyre lever.”

They intercepted the doctor near the underpass which afforded public entry from outside the bowl through a culvert that ran under the track. Redmond Barry and Les Bocquet might have seen them coming— they were gone by the time Rowland grabbed Stuart Jones by the collar. He dragged the protesting gynaecologist into the tunnel opening and slammed him against the poster-plastered wall. Clyde stood back, keeping an eye out for anyone who might come to Stuart Jones' aid.

“Rowly, look, I fully understand you're upset but you must let me explain…”

“Explain what, you cretin?”

“That misunderstanding with Eddie. You see Eddie and I go back a long way, it's only natural that she come to me when—”

Rowland punched him. “If you ever lay your filthy hands on her again, so help me—”

“Is everything all right here?” The first good Samaritan.

“Just move on, sir,” Clyde growled. It seemed to work.

Rowland seized Stuart Jones' arm as the doctor reached for his pocket, pinning it to the wall. “You're not carrying a loaded gun are you, Reggie? Do you know how many people accidentally shoot themselves with their own firearm?”

“What do you want, Sinclair?” Stuart Jones was discernibly nervous now.

“How do you know Les Bocquet?”

“Bocquet?” Stuart Jones was clearly perplexed. “He places a couple of bets for me.”

“He's a bookmaker?”

“What's it to you?”

Rowland hit him again. “Is he a bookmaker?”

“Yes. How else would he afford that grand residence in Lindfield and that pretty little wife of his? Bocquet's a street rat!”

A second and third Samaritan approached. “Is there some kind of problem here?” To Stuart Jones: “Do you need some assistance, mate? Should we get the police?”

At this Stuart Jones became tense. “No, no… just a bit of horseplay… We're old friends, aren't we, Rowland?” Rowland looked anything but friendly, but, keen to find seats, the Samaritans took the doctor at his word and moved on.