Miles Off Course (3 page)

Rowland glanced at Clyde. Edna notoriously and shamelessly bent the rules of croquet when it suited her. The artists had always let it go—it was just croquet after all—but Milton had
known Edna since childhood. A kind of sibling familiarity prevented him from exercising any gracious tolerance in her favour.

“Any luck today, Clyde?” Rowland asked, as the other two proceeded to bicker.

Clyde put down the easel and handed over a large folder containing the sheets of cartridge paper on which he had been working. Rowland pulled out the series of watercolours. Clyde didn’t
often work with watercolours but they were convenient when one was lugging equipment any distance. He had wandered down to paint the Megalong Valley from the edge of the clifftops on which the
Hydro Majestic stood.

Rowland studied the vistas that Clyde had created with muted washes of undersaturated colour. The effect was subtle, almost ethereal. His low whistle was wistful.

“This is smashing, Clyde… I’d forgotten how still and quiet trees were.”

Clyde smiled. “Still and quiet? I take it Miss Martinelli was not the best model.”

“A tree, she is not.” Rowland glanced at Edna, who was still arguing with Milton. “I’ll give you a hand taking this back to the suite,” he said, replacing the
paintings and grabbing the easel. He turned back to the warring croquet players. “We’ll meet you at the restaurant for dinner.”

They waved him away without pause.

As they walked back to the Grand Majestic suite, Rowland told Clyde of Rosalina Martinelli and his troubles. Clyde was sympathetic. Rowland worked intensely but he was not unreasonable.

“Ed’s right though,” he said. “She might get better. When is she sitting for you again?”

“Tomorrow,” Rowland replied gloomily.

At the suite, Rowland stowed the easel, while Clyde took a minute to wash up, collect his jacket and put on a tie. They were dining casually this night. Rowland waited in the
darkened sitting room, wondering vaguely why Jarvis, the fastidious valet, had drawn all the curtains.

He stepped towards the window to remedy the lack of light. Even as he did so, he sensed it: the movement from behind him, another from the corner of the room.

There was no time to react—an arm locked about his neck. Rowland twisted, lashing out instinctively.

A hood was dragged over his head and pulled tight. He could see nothing, his breathing stifled by the sack. His arm was twisted painfully behind his back.

“Come quietly, Sinclair, and we won’t have to break your arm.”

Rowland’s response was muffled by the hood, but it was less than co-operative. He swore again as his arm was wrenched further back. And then someone else joined the fray: Clyde.

Mayhem ensued amidst the crack of impacting blows and a great deal of profanity. The scuffle was fierce, confused. Rowland wrested free and pulled off the hood just in time to duck a swinging
fist.

There were three intruders, hefty men in cheap suits. The settee crashed over as Clyde was thrown into it. Two men turned on Rowland again, striking without restraint and pinning him to the
floor.

“Give over, you stupid toff!”

Rowland gasped as a heavy boot ploughed into his back. And then a second kick to the ribs.

“Enough already! I’m not carrying the bastard out of ’ere.”

Clyde roared, launching himself at the closest intruder. Rowland struggled to help him.

The door to the suite flew open and Milton stood in the doorway—but only for a moment. The poet barely missed a beat—he knew a fight when he saw one—and launched himself
enthusiastically into the scuffle.

The numbers were now even and the intruders seemed to be startled into retreat. They pushed past the bewildered staff at the door who had come to investigate this disruption to the
sanatorium’s advertised serenity.

“Mr. Sinclair, we heard… oh my Lord!” Once again, confusion seemed to reign.

In the ruins of the sitting room, Rowland helped Clyde upright. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Clyde mopped his bloody nose with a paint-stained handkerchief. “You’re going to have one helluva shiner though, mate.” He looked critically at the bruise
forming over Rowland’s left eye. “Who the hell were those blokes? Bit game, burgling the place in broad daylight.”

Rowland shook his head. “I don’t think they were common burglars… they knew who I was for one thing.”

Milton moved closer to him. “You don’t owe money do you, Rowly? Those fellas looked like debt collectors, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Don’t be a flaming idiot,” Clyde muttered.

Rowland understood what Milton meant. He had frequented enough of Sydney’s gambling dens and sly-grogeries in his time to recognise the kind of men who inhabited Sydney’s underworld.
He shook his head.

“I don’t owe anything,” he said, as he rubbed his arm. “But they did want me to go with them.”

By this time, there were other people pushing into the room, and Rowland was compelled to explain to the management what had happened to raise such a din and leave the suite in utter disarray.
Edna also arrived to investigate why all the men in her party had left her waiting alone in the restaurant. Jarvis was found locked in a broom cupboard. It appeared he had been bound and gagged by
the three intruders prior to Rowland’s return to the suite. Inevitably the authorities attended to ask questions and take statements. And so, it was well into the evening when the battered
men of Rowland Sinclair’s party found themselves finally alone in the Grand Majestic suite with Edna.

Rowland loosened his tie and removed his jacket thankfully. He felt a little damaged and he was hungry. Milton handed him a glass of sherry. It would have to do. The dining room was closed now
and Jarvis had retired early after his ordeal in the broom cupboard.

“So what’s going on, Rowly?” Edna asked, perching as usual on the arm of the now righted couch. She looked from his bruised face to Clyde’s swollen nose. “You were
nearly abducted.”

“Now let’s not get carried away,” Rowland said. Abduction sounded a bit hysterical.

“What else would you call it?” Edna challenged.

“Well, yes… I suppose… technically…”

“It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Rowly would be a target for abduction,” Clyde said, frowning. “They could demand a whopping great ransom.”

“From whom?”

“Your brother for one.”

Rowland smiled. “I don’t know that Wilfred would pay anything to get me back.”

“Perhaps you should telephone him,” Edna suggested. “Let him know what’s happened. He might be able to…”

Rowland’s eyes darkened. “I don’t need Wilfred to rescue me quite yet, Ed.”

“Oh don’t be silly, Rowly.” Edna reached over and patted his hand fondly. Rowland’s relationship with Wilfred was invariably adversarial and Rowland instinctively
resisted the control and interference of his elder brother. There were fourteen years between the two and the gap exacerbated the natural differences in their dispositions. Still, Wilfred Sinclair
was an influential man and he would not tolerate any threat against his brother.

“Rowly can look after himself, Ed.” Clyde spoke up with perhaps a little more understanding of Rowland’s reluctance to seek his brother’s help, unless absolutely
necessary. Wilfred Sinclair cast a formidable shadow.

“So what do you propose to do?” Edna persisted.

They looked at her blankly. It had not occurred to any of them that they should do anything.

“The police have been called, Ed,” Milton said finally.

“And if they come back?”

“What—the police?”

“No—the men who did this.” Edna lifted her hand gently to the darkening bruise on Rowland’s brow.

“We’ll try to hang on to one—probably the best way to find out what they want with Rowly.”

“But…”

“I’ll be careful, Ed,” Rowland assured her. He was touched by the sculptress’ concern for his safety. He was not entirely nonchalant about the incident himself, but he
didn’t see what he could possibly do about it. There had been a spate of kidnappings in Sydney over the past couple of months. It seemed abduction had become fashionable among the criminal
elements and the Sinclair fortune was not a secret.

And then something occurred to him. He dragged a hand through his hair. “I will call Wilfred,” he said.

“Really?” Clyde was surprised.

“I’m not the only Sinclair… Wil needs to make sure Kate and the boys are safe.”

Clyde nodded. He had not thought of Wilfred Sinclair’s young family. The abduction and murder of the Lindbergh baby the year before had received worldwide coverage. The tragedy had made
people like the Sinclairs understandably protective of their children.

Rowland stood to use the telephone. He dialled the exchange and had a call booked through to
Oaklea
near Yass, the family estate on which his brother resided. It was several minutes
before he returned the receiver to its cradle.

“Wil’s in Sydney on some kind of business,” he informed them. “I told Kate to be particularly careful until he gets back… They’ll be all right at
Oaklea
.”

The Sinclair estate had long been well protected. Wilfred was both politically and commercially powerful—with that came enemies. Rowland had always believed his brother to be somewhat
paranoid about security, but, in light of what had happened, perhaps it was fortunate.

He resumed his seat beside Edna. She still looked troubled. Her unease was a little contagious. Rowland rubbed his shoulder absently where his arm had nearly been wrenched from its socket.
“I’ll get hold of Wil tomorrow,” he promised.

T
he knocking at the door of the Grand Majestic suite was insistent.

Rowland emerged from the room he was using as a studio. Jarvis had not as yet
returned, so the suite was still without a valet. Clyde, who had been working in the parlour, reached the entrance first. He opened the door, cautiously at first, then flinging it wide as soon as
he recognised the gentleman outside.

“Mr. Sinclair.” He stood back surprised.

“Mr. Jones.” Wilfred shook Clyde’s hand and removed his hat as he stepped into the room.

“Wil—I’ve been trying to reach you.” Rowland wiped the paint off his hand before he offered it to his brother.

Wilfred looked distastefully at Rowland’s waistcoat, now smeared with Viridian blue, and adjusted his cuffs as he noted the rolled sleeves of his brother’s shirt. His gaze stopped
briefly on Rowland’s bruised eye, but he made no comment.

“Rowly, it seems I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

Rowland smiled. “I was just working…” He glanced anxiously back towards his studio as the noise from within became audible. Sobbing. It was unmistakable and impossible to
ignore.

“And who may I ask is in there?” Wilfred demanded.

“Miss Martinelli… the model.”

“Good Lord, Rowly, what’s wrong with her?”

Rowland scratched his head. “She’s a little emotional.”

“What in the blazes did you do to her?” Wilfred glared at him.

“I didn’t do anything to her!” Rowland replied, mortified and angered by the suggestion.

Wilfred stopped. “No… of course you wouldn’t.”

“I’ll see if Miss Martinelli needs anything,” Clyde said awkwardly. “Why don’t you talk in the drawing room… it’ll be… quieter.”

And so the Sinclair brothers left Clyde trying to calm Rosalina Martinelli through the closed door of the studio.