Give the Devil His Due (9 page)

“No, the second floor is always private. The gent passed over in the Greek Room.” She pointed towards a closed door. “It's all cleaned up now, but Mr. Magdalene thought we oughta close it to the public for a week outa respect.”

“Quite properly. But it is a shame. I've always had an utter fascination for Greek mythology. I expect it's an impressive exhibit.”

“Oh, it isn't that great. A couple of men in sheets, a woman with snakes in her hair and the devil.”

“The devil? Really? I'm pretty sure he wasn't Greek.”

“Well he's always been there. Cloven hooves, evil little horns…”

Rowland nodded. “That's probably meant to be Pan. It'd make a little more sense in a Greek exhibit.”

The young woman in white laughed. “This is a House of Horrors. I wouldn't be expecting much in the way of rhyme and reason!”

“I suppose not.” Rowland glanced back up the staircase. “Why is the second floor closed off? Is it a residence?”

The young woman shrugged. “Staff ain't allowed up there neither. Mr. Magdalene uses it for his meetings. Why are you so interested, Mr…?”

“Sinclair.” Rowland introduced himself. She giggled at the formality of his manners, told him her name was Daisy Forster, and promised she would return his handkerchief once she'd laundered it. Her mother took in laundry, she said, so it would be no bother. By the time Daisy finished talking, she appeared to have forgotten whatever suspicions she might have held about his interest.

“I wonder who'd meet in a House of Horrors,” Rowland mused aloud.

“The Magdalenes are a little odd,” Daisy confided. “I do this circus act for my wages, but the Magdalenes, they like this sort of thing. Their friends too.”

“What friends?”

“The men who come to their meetings… skulking upstairs in their capes and masks.” She shuddered. “Still, they're not mean or nasty to work for. Just strange.” She took one final long drag of her cigarette and then crushed it under her heel. “I'd best get back, Emily sounds a little hoarse.”

Included among the passengers on the Orsova, which reached Brisbane last week from London, were a number of Italian Immigrants who are about to seek their fortunes in Queensland. Some of the menfolk, however, were not making the trip for the first time. They had been settled in the North before, and had amassed sufficient money to visit their homeland and marry, and they have brought their brides back with them.

Daily Mercury, 1934

____________________________________

“E
asy, Rowly,” Milton cautioned. Rowland hadn't said anything, but his fury was plain. Ernest silently took his uncle's hand.

Quite heroically, Rowland managed not to curse.

“What happened to your car, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest whispered.

“Some… scoundrel's slashed the tyres, mate,” Rowland replied, editing out his more profane sentiments.

“Who?”

Rowland glanced at Milton. This was not the first time the Mercedes had attracted unwelcome attention, though it had been some time since anyone had attacked the car herself. He was annoyed with himself for having become complacent about where he parked the automobile. “It's only the tyres,” he sighed. “They're replaceable.” He shook his head. “We had better see about getting her home.” Rowland left Milton and Ernest with the Mercedes and went back into the waxworks in the hope of using their telephone.

The old woman with the patch and pipe was initially reluctant, but she was eventually persuaded by the gentleman's willingness to pay compensation. The ticketing booth was so small she had to step out in order for him to use the wall-mounted telephone. Rowland rang through to
Woodlands House
, looking curiously around the inside of the booth while he waited for connection. All manner of objects had been pinned to the walls: the usual pamphlets and notes as well as medallions and a large poster on which columns of numbers had been written within the triangles of a pentagram. A large jar of dead spiders sat on a shelf and a dagger lay on a pile of opened envelopes.

When
Woodlands House
came on the line, he spoke to Johnston, the chauffeur, explaining what had happened and asking him to arrange for a lorry to collect the Mercedes.

“I'll be out to fetch you directly, sir,” Johnston declared when Rowland told him of his intention to call a motor taxi.

Rowland conceded. He did not want to offend the old chauffeur, and he was aware that Johnston felt slighted by the fact that the current master of
Woodlands
generally preferred to drive himself.

And so it was in one of the family's Rolls Royces that Ernest Sinclair was driven back to Tudor House. There were no tears, just a fleeting sadness as they said a manly goodbye. The first time Rowland had returned his nephew after a weekend outing, Ernest had only been at school a couple of weeks. He'd sobbed bitterly and pleaded with Rowland to take him home.

Despite the protests of the housemaster, Rowland had taken Ernest back to
Woodlands
and, determined to rescue the boy, telephoned his brother in Yass. Wilfred had told him not to be an idiot. “Of course he'd rather live with you and have every whim indulged, Rowly. He's seven years old. If you're going to take him out on weekends, you're going to have to learn to deal with this sort of thing.”

Even so, Wilfred had come up to Sydney the following week, to check that Ernest was settling in at boarding school.

Over the weekends that had followed, both Ernest and Rowland had become accustomed to the parting, so that now it was conducted with a simple and dignified handshake.

When the Rolls Royce finally pulled into the stables behind the house, the Mercedes had been returned and was jacked up on blocks.

Clyde popped up from under the bonnet. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“Someone slashed the tyres,” Rowland murmured as he greeted Lenin who had woken from his slumber in a shaft of fading sunlight when he heard his master's voice.

“Well, I can see that! Bloody oath Rowly, did you park her next to the Cenotaph?”

“Can we get another set of tyres before tomorrow?” Rowland asked, a little surprised. Clyde was the most even-tempered of them. He occasionally found cause to call Milton the odd name, but that was probably understandable.

“I got in some extra tyres and wheels because of the race, but I didn't expect to have to use them already,” Clyde growled, kicking one of the ruined tyres.

Rowland remembered then that Clyde should have been dining with Rosalina Martinelli's family. “I say, what are you still doing here, Clyde?”

“What did you do?” Milton said, glancing over his shoulder to see that Johnston had discreetly retired.

Clyde swore. They let him do that for a while and they asked again. “What happened, mate?”

“The Martinellis didn't just come to Sydney to see Rosie. They were meeting a ship.” He shook his head and groaned. “They've brought some bloke over from Italy.”

“So?”

“They brought him over so he could marry Rosie.”

“That's medieval!” Milton scoffed. “Rosalina won't agree to that!”

“I'm afraid that's not how her family works.” Clyde slammed down the bonnet. Rowland winced, as much for his car as for Clyde. “I'm such a bloody fool. I had my chance and I blew it!” He turned away, his shoulders slumped.

Milton climbed into the Rolls Royce and opened the walnut cabinet fitted into the back of the front seat. He grabbed a half-sized bottle of sherry, another of gin, and three crystal tumblers. With no regard for the duco, he poured drinks on the Rolls Royce's bonnet.

“Clyde,” Rowland said gently, “she hasn't married him yet, mate.”

“Rowly, you don't understand Rosie. She wouldn't do that to her parents.”

“She wanted to marry you, remember?”

Milton handed Clyde a drink. “Where is she?” he asked.

“Why?”

“We'll put new tyres on the car and go get her. You can marry her tomorrow, before the other bloke's had time to unpack.”

Clyde laughed bitterly. “You want me to abduct her?”

“You say abduct, I say rescue.”

“Whatever you want to do, Clyde,” Rowland said calmly, “we'll help you. Are you sure Rosie won't defy her parents? She was my model once… I'm sure her parents wouldn't have approved of that either.”

Clyde rubbed his face. “You're right. Maybe I'm underestimating Rosie.”

“Perhaps if you talk to her?” Rowland suggested. “Before you abduct her, at least.”

Clyde nodded.

“We could take the Rolls if you'd like to go now.”

“No.” Clyde picked up a tyre lever. “We'll fix your vehicle while I try to work out what I'm going to say.”

Rowland and Milton removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. With Clyde directing the process, they replaced the Mercedes' wheels with the four already prepared for the race. Clyde refitted the tyres on the four they took off. “Just don't get a flat tomorrow,” he warned Rowland. “I can't put any of these on until they're balanced and weighted.”

“Have you decided what you're going to say, comrade?” Milton asked.

Clyde shrugged. “Thought I might beg.”

Milton nodded. “Nothing as attractive as a desperate man.”

Rowland swatted the poet. Poor Clyde was not in the mood for jest. “It might be an idea to get cleaned up first,” he said.

Clyde looked down at his grease-covered hands. “Yes, I suppose I should.” He sounded quite forlorn.

“Chin up, old mate.” Milton gripped his friend's shoulder. “Rowly and I will be there. You'll seem eminently marriageable by contrast.”

Rowland was the first to come downstairs after showering. Milton had always taken greater time and care with his personal presentation and, on this occasion, perhaps Clyde was doing so too. Rowland, however, maintained an indifference to his appearance, possibly born of the knowledge that his suits were impeccably tailored and generally the best that money could buy.

He spoke to Mary Brown, requesting the housekeeper arrange for a posy of flowers to be sourced from the gardens, before ducking into his mother's part of the house. Elisabeth Sinclair had spent most of the day with her sister-in-law, Rowland's Aunt Mildred. They'd taken luncheon at the Queen's Club and then played euchre for the afternoon.

“We might be quite late home, Mother, if you'd like to join us for supper?”

“No, no, Aubrey darling. I'm rather tired this evening. I don't have the same vitality now that I'm fifty.” She shook her head. “We all get older, I suppose.”

Rowland smiled faintly. His mother was sixty-five. It was one of the facts she'd forgotten. The consequence was that she behaved as if she were fifty, taking up the pastimes and amusements and vigour she'd had back then, which he did not consider a bad thing. To be honest, Rowland had been as surprised as anybody when Elisabeth Sinclair had resettled so well to life at
Woodlands
. Indeed, she seemed a lot less perturbed by the unconventional manner in which he ran his house than Wilfred had always been—for now at least—and Rowland was not a man to borrow trouble from tomorrow.

He kissed his mother goodnight and left her to the kindly, watchful eye of Nurse Samuels, who was on duty that evening.

“Your mama seems very well, sir,” she whispered before he departed. “She's talking of taking up golf again.”

“Well as long as it's not tap dancing,” he murmured, taking his leave and returning to the main part of the house to wait for his friends.

“Why are you wearing a dinner suit?” Milton demanded when Clyde finally came down.

“I thought…” Clyde began uncertainly. “Ed always said…”

Rowland bit his lip. It was Edna's oft-declared opinion that every man looked his best in formal wear. Clearly sensible, practical Clyde had been paying more attention than any of them realised.

“Oh mate…” Milton groaned.

“Clyde's right,” Rowland said. “Dinner suits are the appropriate attire for proposals.”

“No, I look daft.” What small confidence Clyde had was dissipating quickly.

“Ten minutes,” Rowland said. “Milt and I will change. We'll look like we're all on our way to dinner somewhere.”

Milton glared at Rowland, but he agreed and they too donned dinner suits.

“So what exactly are we doing?” Milton asked from the back seat as they pulled out of the drive.

Rowland glanced at Clyde who sat rigidly beside him with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. “Clyde?”

Clyde stared at his friends for a moment. “I'm going to speak to her father. Ask him for Rosie's hand.”

Neither Rowland nor Milton said anything. Clyde seemed to be choosing the most dangerous possible course of action.

The Martinellis were staying at Sorrentino's Guesthouse in Leichhardt, a respectable but modest establishment that catered to families and commercial travellers.