A Few Right Thinking Men (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Rowland's eyes went again to the sitting room window. The impulse to check repeatedly for the black Oldsmobile was making it difficult to read. The road remained clear, and he smiled at his own folly—Wilfred was infecting him with his paranoia.

His restlessness diverted to brooding over the brutality of his uncle's murder. He had long ago dismissed Inspector Bicuit's suspicion of Mrs. Donelly. Still, Rowland could not imagine who would want to hurt the harmless old man. His uncle had been, as far as he could see, inoffensive. He was not aligned particularly with anything, politically, religiously, or even socially. The elder Rowland Sinclair had many friends, but had never bothered with enemies. He'd had no real passions beyond food and entertainment, though Rowland did now wonder about the mysterious fishnet stockings. There was no conceivable way that the assault could have been precipitated by debts…no Sinclair was short of funds.

Rowland played with idea of Mrs. Donelly's “dark ghosts,” drawing shadowy figures repeatedly into his notebook in the hope that something would trigger…but he came no closer to any earthly explanation for what she might have seen.

Toward the end of the day, two men came to the gate, hats in hand, asking for work. It was not unusual. With so many unemployed, these hopeful, hopeless appeals were a daily occurrence. There were no vacancies at Oaklea, but Mrs. Kendall always fed them in the servants' quarters before sending them on their way; it was a long walk to the next property and the men were invariably hungry.

Not long after they'd gone, Wilfred returned from Cootamundra, buoyed, and Rowland guessed that the proposal to amalgamate with the New Guard had failed. He was relieved. He had no wish to find himself at war with his brother; but he could see himself standing against the belligerent excesses of Eric Campbell's men. He was glad that doing so would not pit him against Wilfred. With any luck he could remain outside whatever it was that his brother's group was planning—as long as they didn't start shooting again.

***

Days at Oaklea fell into an indulgent pace and pattern—a series of dinner parties, graceful entertainments and refined company. Evenings with the wireless, often spent listening to the rousing broadcasts of the Sane Democracy League. Tennis parties at the courts behind the homestead. For most of the time, Rowland felt only half awake.

Kate was both delighted and embarrassed by Rowland's painting. It was only when she saw the completed work that she realised how closely her brother-in-law looked at the world, how much he saw and understood. It disconcerted her, but the finished portrait was arresting. Rowland had painted Kate as a mother, but he had not lost her in that role. He had found a girlish dreaminess in her eyes, a gentle strength in the way she held her son. Wilfred had it framed and hung proudly in the main drawing room. Rowland was unexpectedly gratified. He had not known that his brother's approval meant anything to him.

There were no more meetings at Oaklea, although Wilfred often left the property on the pretext of business. Rowland had decided to avoid the topic of revolutions and insurgents, and simply hope that the head of the Sinclair family would come to his senses.

Christmas was a private affair at Oaklea but Boxing Day was different. On this day Oaklea was festooned with bunting and marquees for the annual Sinclair garden party in the aid of the Australian Red Cross. The garden parties had been held at Oaklea since the war, and were usually very successful fundraisers. Rowland's mother played the hostess with surprising ease; though it was Kate, as the new Mrs. Sinclair, who had organised the day.

Rowland surveyed the celebrations with a kind of distant interest as he listened to Lucy Bennett enthuse about the extraordinary philanthropy of his family. Rowland had, for the past couple of years, allowed Clyde to guide his own charitable works, relying on his friend to point out those who did not otherwise enter his world. In the days before Clyde had moved into Woodlands House, he had himself eaten often at the soup kitchens which fed hundreds of desperate, hungry people around the city. He had not forgotten those days and so, at his suggestion, Rowland Sinclair had become a benefactor. It was a stark contrast to the champagne that accompanied charity at Oaklea. It was not that Rowland found the excess uncomfortable; it was just that now he noticed it.

Even before the year turned, the summer became more intense. The northerlies blew in strong gusts bringing the fire season in earnest. Grass fires had to be dealt with quickly. If they were permitted to grow, it would be too late do anything but allow the blazes to burn themselves, and whatever lay in their paths, out.

There were many men who lived and worked on Oaklea but, at the first signs of fire, all hands manned pumps and beat flames. Rowland fell in wherever needed, and took orders from the farmworkers, who knew better than he how to control a blaze and protect the property. Wilfred approved. While he didn't feel it was appropriate or necessary that he, as head of the family, participate in such a direct manner, he thought Rowland's involvement a good thing. If nothing else, he hoped that his brother was finally showing an interest in the property to which the Sinclairs owed so much.

Having spent so little time on the property in recent years, Rowland was much less identifiable than Wilfred. The smoke, grime, and panic in fighting the fires, helped him keep a sort of anonymity. There was no time for chatter under the circumstances, so the telltale British plum of his speech was barely heard. In any case, Edna had so often ribbed what she called his pretentious accent, that he had learned to adjust it to the company he kept. He did it subconsciously, and quite well now. Indeed, Wilfred often complained about the common manner in which he used the King's English.

The grassfires cracked the languid pace of life at Oaklea, giving Rowland some purpose now that Kate's portrait was hung. The small blazes were more a nuisance than a potential disaster, though the season was a dangerous one. Much further west, bushfires were gathering force and forming massive fronts. Here, they were mere skirmishes by comparison, but even so, they couldn't be allowed to get out of control.

At times, Rowland wondered if Wilfred's involvement with the mysterious Old Guard was his brother's attempt to break the luxuriant and frivolous monotony of the landed gentry. If so, he could understand it.

On New Year's Day 1932, Wilfred called Rowland into the library shutting the door behind them. Rowland took a seat. By Wilfred's manner, it was a matter of some gravity. The older Sinclair poured two glasses of whisky, placed one in front of Rowland, then sat and lit a cigarette. “Rowly, I want to talk to you about our responsibility to this land.”

Rowland groaned. “I'm not coming back to Oaklea, Wil.”

Wilfred sighed. “I don't care where you live—just listen. I would not have thought to bring you into this, but since it seems you have stumbled into things, I can only hope you have enough common sense and love of country, to work with, rather than in opposition to, us.”

Rowland toyed with his glass wordlessly. Obviously, Wilfred was about to make a speech.

“Rowly, we have undeniably been raised in a privileged world, exposed to the best education, society, and morality that the British Empire can offer. With that, comes an obligation to guide and lead men who are not so well-equipped to grasp the intricacies of politics and good government.”

Rowland relaxed a little. This was going to be another of Wilfred's “ruling class” speeches, which always finished with him demanding that his brother find a more fitting occupation.

“The world is on a precipice,” Wilfred continued. “The Communists have Russia and they seek to extend their power much further. Europe is in flux. Both Germany and Italy have sought to stand against the influence of the Bolsheviks with men who know that Communism must not be treated gently.”

This, Rowland could not let lie. “I've met men who have not been treated gently by Germany.” Artists and writers had already started fleeing the increasingly Fascist regimes of Europe, where dissent was dealt with brutally.

Wilfred ignored him. “There are patriots, organisations of men, ready to defend His Majesty's peace against the enemy—prepared to lead this country out of the destruction and terror to which Russia has succumbed.”

Rowland let him carry on, hoping Wilfred would get to the point soon.

“Rowly, I must admit that given your tendency to associate with lesser elements, I would not have normally thought to ask you this.” Wilfred stubbed out his cigarette. “I am hoping that your behaviour is simply a manifestation of your age…”

“For heaven's sake Wil, I'm nearly twenty-seven, not ten!”

“The other evening, you saw a meeting of the Old Guard. We are a membership of right-thinking men from all over the state. Our men are loyal to both King and Country and are committed to turning the Red Army from our shores.”

Rowland exhaled impatiently.

“The organisation values secrecy. Only Maguire knows it was you who spied upon us.”

Rowland's brows rose as he waited for Wilfred to meander to some sort of end.

“Rowly, I want you to join us. You could bring us valuable intelligence through your less savoury contacts. It will assure me that I can rely on your discretion and, frankly, you owe it to your family and your country!”

Rowland was taken by surprise. This wasn't quite what he expected. “Wilfred…No.”

The ensuing argument was heated, and bitter. Rowland was not a Communist, of course, but he did not share his brother's hatred of them. Wilfred was motivated to give his son the same world he had himself inherited, and determined that all the Sinclairs should enlist in the defending the status quo.

“You don't need to worry about my discretion, Wil,” Rowland snarled. “I'm not about to tell anyone that my brother is raising some clandestine, tweed-jacketed army because he thinks Stalin is heading south! Who the hell would believe me, anyway? I can barely believe it myself. You're crazy, you know.”

“How like you to leave it to other men to defend the life you take for granted.” Wilfred was contemptuous.

Rowland had worn this criticism before. In a country that revered its returned soldiers, he was a man unproven in war. He responded sharply and defensively. “Wil, I was fourteen when the war ended, if you recall?”

“You're not fourteen now, and this war is on our doorstep. If the Communists rise up…”

Rowland stood. “No.” He opened the door and walked out, quickly, because at that moment he wished very much to hit Wilfred.

He would have left for Sydney immediately—he certainly wanted to—but his mother stood in his way. She heard him throwing his things into a bag—he was angry and so not quiet about it. Elisabeth Sinclair came out of her room, and when he tried to say goodbye, she clung to him frantically, her eyes terrified. “Aubrey, Aubrey, you mustn't go,” she whispered and wept. “They'll shoot you…they have guns…they'll shoot you…” She shook uncontrollably. Her legs gave way but still she gripped the lapels of his jacket as if they were her last grasp on life. Kate came to help him, but Elisabeth would not let go of her son. She began to wail. “Dear God, they'll shoot you, Aubrey…stay here with me…it's safe here, darling…”

Wilfred emerged from his study. “Kate, call Maguire—tell him we need him.”

Rowland was struggling to keep his composure and console his mother. She would not release him, frantic to save her Aubrey. Eventually, he carried her back to her bed.

Maguire arrived. He treated Elisabeth Sinclair with a sedative and, finally, she loosened her grip on Rowland. She was confined to bed rest and her warring sons were warned to upset her as little as possible. Accordingly, it was decided: his mother wanted Aubrey to stay, so Rowland could not leave.

Chapter Thirteen

Attendance Figures

MELBOURNE, Friday

Attendance at the Motor Show on Saturday was 12,411, which is 400 more than attended the show's first Saturday last year.

Around the Exhibits

Mr. Hoette is also displaying the Mecedes-Benz motorcars in two models—the new two-litre type and the six-litre sports model. For the smaller engine, remarkable and rapid acceleration are claimed, and the supercharged sports model possesses unusual speed and road-holding qualities.

The Argus
, January 9, 1932

Rowland was sketching on the verandah, trying once more to manage a likeness of his mother. For some reason, he had never been able to do so. This time, he blamed the chirp of countless cicadas whose background scream was almost physically uncomfortable. Even so, he was reluctant to go inside. His mother had become difficult, constantly demanding to see Aubrey, as if she were afraid he would vanish at any moment. Rowland sighed. She was probably right in a way, though he was beginning to get the desperate feeling he would never escape Oaklea. He and Wilfred had started butting heads regularly now. It was, on reflection, how his visits home had usually ended. Wilfred had taken Ernest riding and Kate had gone with them.

His mother was resting and he was free to brood in peace. Well, a sort of peace if he ignored the cicadas.

A cloud of dust billowed in the distance. Rowland squinted and saw that the cloud contained a vehicle which was turning into the long driveway. As it got closer, the roar of the engine struck him as familiar.

He rose and walked down the entrance stairs. For a moment he stood motionless as the Mercedes hurtled toward the house with Milton at the wheel and Clyde and Edna waving madly. Milton skidded the car to a stop sending gravel in all directions and over Rowland. Before he could shout at Milton, Edna had jumped out and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Rowly! Surprise!”

“What on earth? What are you all doing here?” Rowland asked. “I can't believe you let Milt drive my car. Who said he could drive my car?”

Edna laughed. “Don't be ridiculous, Rowly…He was quite good, after a bit of practice.”

Clyde and Milton jumped out of the tourer to shake his hand. Rowland was unreasonably happy to see them. It was like standing on solid ground again after months at sea. “What are you all doing here, really?” he asked again.

When Rowland had phoned Woodlands House with the news he was staying longer than expected, Edna decided he had not sounded himself.

“Lady McKenzie paid Clyde for the portrait,” Milton replied. “So we decided to have a holiday in the country…unfortunately we spent most of Clyde's fee feeding this flaming monster.” He patted the bonnet. “She's a guzzler, isn't she?”

“You've got to treat a lady well, Milt—they like to be fed.” Rowland smiled. Lady McKenzie's commission was Clyde's only income in months. They were all like that—his friends—both generous and utterly irresponsible with what little they had.

“Mary Brown is bloody scary when you're not around,” confided Clyde. “And we have some news for you.”

“Well, you don't need to tell me in the driveway,” Rowland motioned back at the house. “Grab your bags and come in.”

“No, Rowly, we won't.” Edna was firm. “Your mother's not well…We've taken rooms at the Royal in town.”

“Yes, mate.” Milton slapped his friend's shoulder. “We just thought we'd bring you the car…figured you'd be missing her by now.”

Rowland was happy to see his car; that was true. If things hadn't already been so tense between him and Wilfred, he might have insisted his friends stay at Oaklea. As it was, perhaps this was better. “Just give me a minute,” he said as he opened the French doors into the main drawing room. “I'll drive you back to the Royal.”

They followed him in and sat primly in the immaculate formality of the drawing room, while they waited.

He walked quietly into the house and found Mrs. Kendall. He told the housekeeper that he would be going into Yass.

“If my mother awakes, assure her that I'll be back later,” he said a little guiltily.

“Don't you worry about Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Rowland.” The housekeeper dismissed his concern. “She won't be getting herself so upset if you're not here to see it.” She patted his hand. “You go and have a nice time. I'll bake you some shortbread tomorrow.”

When Rowland returned to the drawing room, his friends were stopped in front of Kate's portrait.

Edna stood closer than the men. The painting was mesmerising; it pulled her into it—into the depth of the bond between the sitter and her child. The light came in from the window to bathe the boy in an almost ethereal glow, and yet it was the woman who was the true subject of the piece. Rowland, she decided, was developing a very distinctive style.

“Who is she?” Milton asked.

“Kate. She's my sister-in-law, and that's Ernest, my nephew.”

“She's not a bad model,” Clyde murmured appreciatively.

“You'll have to paint me like that one day, Rowly,” said Edna softly.

Milton grinned. “It's illegal to kidnap children, Ed.”

Rowland laughed but Edna snapped back at Milton in a less than charming manner, which would have shocked the real Kate if she'd been there to hear it.

They left the house and Rowland slipped behind the wheel of his beloved Mercedes. He listened to the roar of the engine as though it were some kind of symphony, refamiliarising himself with the sound of the pistons and the workings in the already warmed machine.

Edna squeezed next to him and Clyde and Milton jumped into the backseat. Milton handed him back the driving gloves he had borrowed from their place in the glovebox, and Rowland swung the car around the driveway and accelerated toward the ornate gates of Oaklea. He had engaged the supercharger by the time they turned onto the road into town.

They pulled up outside the Royal Hotel oblivious to the curious, somewhat disapproving stares of the local citizenry. Rowland spoke to the proprietor and arranged for refreshments to be sent up.

They took their tea on the wide balcony which skirted the building, or rather, Rowland and Edna had tea while their companions sampled the establishment's other beverages.

“So what do you have to tell me?” Rowland asked.

“We have news about who killed your uncle,” Milton replied, smugly.

“Really? Why didn't Inspector Bicuit telephone me? Did he come by Woodlands?”

“Bicuit? Forget that fool,” Milton replied. “This piece of deduction was the product of a mind far more evolved than poor Bicuit's.”

Clyde laughed. “It was hardly deduction, Milt.” He turned to Rowland, “Paddy just told us.”

“Told you what?” Rowland demanded.

“Paddy—you remember—the speaker at the Domain that day…?” Milton started.

Rowland nodded.

“He was beaten up last week; they broke into his house and did him over.”

“Who?”

Milton drummed his fingers against the side of his glass.“Dark ghosts…” He paused for further effect while Clyde rolled his eyes.

“Just get on with it, Milt,” said Edna, irritated.

“Paddy says it was four men dressed in black Ku Klux Klan outfits—you know?—robes and hoods. Dark ones.”

“You're joking,” Rowland sat up. “Paddy wasn't drunk, was he?”

“He's usually drunk,” Milton admitted, “but not that night.”

“Was he badly hurt?”

“He took a fair hiding.”

“But they didn't kill him?”

“No, but then your uncle died of a heart attack, not from the assault itself.”

Rowland nodded.

“Anyway, Rowly,” Milton went on, “that's not all, see. Clyde and I had a good chat with Paddy.”

At this point Clyde shook his head and Rowland gathered that the chat had been in furtherance of Milton's Holmesian fantasies.

The poet detective continued, “While their garb made them impossible to identify individually, Paddy is sure his ‘dark ghosts' were New Guardsmen!”

“What?” Rowland was sceptical. “How on earth does he reach that conclusion?”

“It's happened before,” said Edna. “Almost all the men these ‘dark ghosts' have been targeting have been speakers for the Communist Party or from one of the unions.”

“Paddy said there was a lot of bad language, which I won't repeat in front of Ed…generally it was not exactly complimentary of Communists,” Clyde added.

“Yes, but Uncle Rowland was no Communist.”

“Are you sure?” asked Edna. “Perhaps he had a side he kept hidden from you?”

“That's insane…” Rowland started, but then it occurred to him that he had been saying that a lot of late. Perhaps he was expecting too much. Perhaps madness was actually the normal state of affairs. Certainly, Wilfred had surprised him. That his Uncle Rowland was a Communist was unlikely, but not quite as farfetched as what his own brother was doing.

Deciding to ignore Wilfred's insistence on secrecy, Rowland began to tell his friends of the meeting at Oaklea and subsequent events.

“You hid in a tree?” Edna was quite aghast at the indignity.

“Did I mention they shot me?” Rowland repeated.

“And this Old Guard is different from the New Guard?” Clyde's weathered face furrowed with effort of following the subtle distinctions between establishment militias.

“So it seems.” Rowland tried to explain. “Campbell was once a member of the Old Guard, but at some point he got peeved and started his own little club.”

“Surely they're just a bunch of old codgers playing secret armies…They'd be pretty harmless, right?” Milton put his feet up on the side table.

“I don't know, Milt—they seem fairly organised and I'm guessing many of them are returned soldiers. They're convinced there's going to be civil war any day now.”

“Civil war? Who would…?” Milton clapped his hand on his forehead in realisation. “Bloody Catholics! I knew the Tykes were planning something…all that bloody Hail Marying!” Milton folded his arms in indignation.

Clyde, who was a Catholic of sorts, clipped the side of Milton's head as he got up to refill his glass.

“They're talking about the Communists, you idiot!” retorted Edna, a little worried that Milton might only be half-joking.

Milton laughed. “There aren't enough Communists to stage a dance, let alone a revolution, but there's plenty of Catholics.”

“That's what I'd thought,” agreed Rowland, “but I think they're counting all the unions, the unemployed, and anyone who's ever tipped his hat to Premier Lang.”

Milton stood rubbing his chin. “Well, let's just gather the facts, shall we, my friends? And, with the application of superior reasoning, determine the culprit in this foul deed.”

Clyde groaned.

“My God, you're annoying.” Edna poured another cup of tea.

“Do you think the New Guard may have targeted your uncle because of friction with your brother and the Old Guard?” Clyde ignored the poet and directed the question at Rowland.

“I suppose so…maybe…but it…” Rowland shrugged. “This whole thing's bizarre.”

“So what are we going to do?” Edna moved to sit next to him on the wicker settee.

“I guess I'll go see Bicuit when we get back to Sydney,” Rowland replied. “Tell him about Paddy's assault and the others. It's a theory at least.”

“When are we heading back?” Clyde looked at Rowland sheepishly. “My commission will only cover us here for another two nights.”

“Don't worry about that,” Rowland didn't blink. “I'm not entirely sure when I can get away—my mother's a bit fragile at the moment—but we should be out of here in a few days.”

“You take your time, Rowly.” Edna placed her hand on his arm. “We don't have anywhere we need to be.”

“Yeah, mate,” Clyde assured him, “we can keep ourselves occupied for as long as you need.”

Rowland drained his cup and smiled. He felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. “That might not be so easy,” he said. “There isn't a lot to do in Yass. But I'm really glad you came.”

Milton reached over and ruffled his hair. “I knew it. He's lost without us.”

Rowland pushed him away. “Actually, I missed my car.”

They talked of other things for a while—the new ground being trod by the avant-garde movement, Cubism, Picasso, Lindsay, and of course the latest gossip. Clyde spoke in enthusiastic detail of the Harbour Bridge, which had in its various stages of completion been part of the Sydney skyline for some years now. He raved about the suspension cables, the great arches, and the flex of the structure. Clearly he was besotted with the industrial magnificence of it.

“For pity's sake, Clyde, it's a bridge!” Edna was less impressed.