A Few Right Thinking Men (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

New Guard
Sent to Fire Front

Fire Fighters Annoyed

SYDNEY, Friday

A contingent of the New Guard left for Cuan Downs, where the bushfire is raging on a front of 50 miles.

A meeting of the unemployed and local bushfire volunteers called by the Mayor last night carried a resolution: “We view with disgust and contempt the action of the New Guard in sending a contingent to Cobar well after locals were good enough to give their labour to the small men on the land to put out bush fires.”

The Sydney Morning Herald
,
January 15, 1932

Rowland slammed the heavy oak door of Woodlands House shut. He pulled off his jacket, tossing it fiercely at the coat stand in the tiled vestibule. He missed, but did not stop to retrieve it from the floor, storming instead into the main drawing room as he loosened his tie.

Milton looked up from behind a hand of cards. “Oh, it's you, Rowly…with all the banging I thought it must have been Ed.”

Rowland stood at Milton's shoulder, and said to Clyde, “He's bluffing. He hasn't got a thing.”

Milton grinned and twisted round to wink at Rowland, undermining any trust Clyde may have had in the surly revelation. As they continued to play their hand, Rowland dropped himself into an armchair.

“Rightyo, Rowly.” Clyde dealt him into the next hand. “What's wrong?”

Rowland pulled himself up and moved over to the card table. “That man—Biscuit without the ‘s'—he's a damned idiot!”

Rowland had spent the morning trying to get some movement on the investigation of his uncle's murder. Inspector Bicuit had scoffed off Rowland's speculation about the “dark ghosts.”

“The blithering fool is still convinced that Mrs. Donelly somehow masterminded murder to get hold of some valuable knickknack or other—he's going harass the poor old thing into her grave!”

“Want a drink?” Clive rose and went to the sideboard.

Rowland shook his head.

“Scotch.” Milton checked Clyde's cards as soon as the painter had turned to pour.

Rowland carried on fuming. “The worst thing is that by the time the inspector realises what a colossal fool he is, it will be too late to find out who really killed my uncle! It's probably too late already.”

“You told him Paddy was sure his attackers were New Guard, didn't you?” asked Clyde.

“He said the paranoid ramblings of a known Communist had to be viewed with suspicion.” Rowland threw down a card in disgust. “Warned me not to associate with such elements…Condescending bloody pratt!”

“So, what are we going to do?” Milton asked expectantly.

“Us?” Clyde looked up. “What the hell can we do?”

“Well, if Bicuit won't uncover the culprit,” Milton replied, “we'll have to.”

“Don't be daft!”

“This won't be the first crime solved by informed amateurs.”

“Oh, for pity's sake,” muttered Clyde.

“We need to look more closely into the New Guard,” Milton went on, his cards temporarily forgotten.

“Rowly, tell the man he's an idiot.”

Rowland looked carefully at Milton, but said nothing.

“Oh, my God!” Clyde groaned. “Not you, too!”

“I'm not saying he's not an idiot,” Rowland said slowly. “Obviously he is…but if we could find something to get Bicuit interested…”

Clyde dropped his forehead onto the table and moaned.

Milton raised a finger. “I am stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.”

“Coincidentally, so was Robert Browning,” Rowland noted.

“We need to get close to the New Guard.” The poet didn't drop his finger.

“So why don't you join?” Clyde scowled.

“Not a bad idea,” Milton stood to grab a newspaper from the sideboard. “But I've got a better one.” He opened the paper, found the page he sought, and dropped it onto the table.

Rowland picked up the paper and held it so Clyde could see it too. “What are we supposed to be looking at, Milt?”

“The article on Buckmaster.”

“Buckmaster?” Both Rowland and Clyde were perplexed. They skimmed the article: Ernest Buckmaster, the Victorian artist, was painting Sir William Irvine for the Archibald Prize. According to the article, Sir William was “honoured and thrilled” to be asked to sit for an artist of such reputation.

“Still have no idea what you're talking about,” Clyde said flatly.

Milton sighed. “Stay with me, fellas.” He sat back at the card table. “We're trying to show our friend without the ‘s' that there's a connection between Mrs. Donelly's dark ghosts and the New Guard, right?”

Rowland nodded. Clyde refused to give the poet any sort of encouragement.

“We know from what Paddy tells us that the New Guard has some kind of special unit that dresses up and assaults Communists.”—Clyde remained unmoved, but Rowland was listening—“One has to assume they adopt this crazy getup because anonymity is so important to them that they are willing to look ridiculous…so finding out who exactly they are, might be difficult…even from the inside.”

“Are you ever going to get to the point?” Clyde's fingers drummed an irritated rhythm on the table.

“My point is,” Milton replied, “that to find out more about these blokes in black sheets and hoods, we need to get close to men a little further up the ranks.”

Now Rowland was getting a little impatient. “So, precisely what has Buckmaster and the Archibald Prize got to do with that?”

“Nothing to do with Buckmaster.” Milton smirked. “But everything to do with the Archibald. To find out what the New Guard's up to—and why they killed your uncle—you go straight to Eric Campbell, the commander-in-chief.” He pushed the paper back toward Rowland. “Get him to sit for you…for an Archibald portrait.”

Rowland whistled and rocked back in his chair as he considered Milton's proposition. Maybe the poet was right. Rowland had painted enough portraits to know that the artist often found himself cast as the sitter's friend, confidante, and confessor by virtue of his attention and his brush.

Clyde spoke first. “Assuming that Campbell even knows what happened to Rowly's uncle, don't you reckon he might be a bit suspicious if a second Rowland bloody Sinclair waltzes up and offers to paint his portrait?”

Milton shrugged. “Just use another name…he's never met you, has he?”

Rowland shook his head.

“Use Clyde's name,” Milton suggested. “Then you could have Lady McKenzie as a referee. Or maybe her dog.”

“You're not seriously considering it, Rowly? Are you?” Clyde was anxious.

“Campbell does seem eager to get his picture in the paper,” Rowland said tentatively. “He probably wouldn't mind having his portrait painted as a distinguished Australian.”

“That's my boy!” Milton slapped him on the back.

“Rowly, these people are dangerous,” Clyde warned. “We've seen what they or their ilk can do…”

“What could happen?” Milton brushed off the concern. “It's not as if Rowly can't paint…The New Guard's a bit paranoid, but who's going to doubt a fresh-faced, up-and-coming artist?”

“The arts community hasn't exactly embraced the right wing,” Clyde persisted. “Campbell will be suspicious.”

“Which is exactly why Rowly will be all the more appealing in his three-piece suits. Campbell won't believe his fascist luck!”

Clyde turned to Rowland who had been conspicuously silent. Rowland shrugged. “It's worth a shot.”

Milton hooted in triumph.

“Come on, Clyde,” Rowland tried to talk him round. “Campbell could be interesting to paint.”

“Interesting? He'll be bloody brilliant!” said Milton . “How many chances do you get to paint the crackpot head of an extremist political movement…in this country, anyway?”

“Actually, there seem to be a few around,” Rowland admitted ruefully, thinking back to the meeting at Oaklea and to Charles Hardy.

“Look Clyde, if I can get the name of even one of the cowards responsible,” his body tensed as his mind moved to how his uncle had died, “Bicuit will have to act.”

Clyde sighed. “What if I go instead of you?”

“Thank you, old boy, but no.” Rowland smiled. “I know this is a ludicrous plan, and I'm not going to drag you into it.”

“Even in one of Rowly's suits, you'd look a bit like a bushie,” Milton looked critically at Clyde's weathered face and his calloused hands.

“I don't have to call myself Clyde Watson Jones,” Rowland added. “Any name will do.”

Milton disagreed. “Clyde's been hung in a couple of galleries…If anyone checks, they'll find that Watson Jones is indeed the name of a local artist. Campbell isn't the kind of bloke to let himself be painted by a total unknown.”

“But anyone who knows Clyde will know that I'm not him.”

“And which of Clyde's mates is going to be mixing with the New Guard, exactly? The better question is whether any of their snooty upper-class members will recognise Rowland Sinclair?”

Rowland shrugged. “If they do, it won't matter what I'm calling myself, I suppose.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I could risk it…I'm just going to paint Campbell, not contest his leadership.”

“Use my name, Rowly. It's the least I owe you.” Clyde said finally. “You know, we can't be sure that the New Guard had anything to do with what happened to your uncle.”

“At the moment, it's all we've got to go on…I've got to find out, one way or another.”

“So, how are you going to go about this?” Clyde resigned himself to what he considered an absurd plan.

“I'll need to borrow that letter of recommendation Lady McKenzie wrote, and any others you may have. I'll fabricate a few more, and then I'll just present myself at his offices.”

“What do you mean ‘fabricate a few more'?”

“I'll draft some letters from satisfied clients of appropriate social standing.”

“That's a bit risky, isn't it? What if Campbell runs into the actual person?”

“Well, somewhat conveniently, the well-heeled have a tendency to take long tours of the continent, even in these times,” Rowland replied. “I'll just forge the names of people I know to be abroad.”

Clyde raised his eyes to the ceiling. “No wonder you Sinclairs are so bloody wealthy; you're common criminals.”

“Hardly common,” Rowland stood to search for a pen and stationery. He found what he was looking for and handed them to Milton. “Right, Milt, let's see you actually write something for once.”

“That's deeply offensive, Rowly,” Milton replied. “I'm a poet, a sculptor of words…not your flaming secretary.” Even so, he proceeded to write effusive acclamations of the talent and professionalism of the artist Clyde Watson Jones using a variety of scripts, and signed with the names that Rowland supplied.

“You're a little bit too good at this,” Clyde observed as he looked over the finished products. “You'd both better hope that Bicuit doesn't just decide to arrest us all for forgery and fraud.”

Milton laughed. “Rowly can afford the best lawyers in town.”

“Yes, I believe Campbell's one of them,” Rowland noted as he folded one of Milton's letters of reference into an envelope. “I say, where's Ed?” he asked, realising that he had not seen her all day.

“Penrith.”

“What's she doing out there?” Penrith was about thirty miles west of Sydney.

“A moving picture,” Milton replied.

“Surely, she can see the film closer to home.” Rowland gathered the forged letters into a neat pile. “Why go all the way to Penrith?”

“She's not seeing one,” Milton corrected. “She's got herself a part in one—
On Our Selection
, it's called. She met some bloke called Ken who's the director or something.”

“
On Our Selection
?”

“Ed says it's going to have sound.”

“Apparently that eliminates the need for actors,” Clyde said dryly. Rowland pulled in the cards and reshuffled the deck. They played several hands before they heard Edna talking to someone at the door. No one got up. They found it unnecessary to be introduced to every one of the sculptress' many gentlemen callers. But they played on silently, so they could eavesdrop on her farewell.

The other voice belonged, as they expected, to a young man whom Edna was calling “Kenny.”

“You were brilliant, Edna darling,” he told her repeatedly. “You'll be a smash!”

When she finally stepped into the drawing room, she was smiling broadly and her eyes sparkled with unbridled zest. She wore a long-bodiced navy dress, which was now a little out of style, but in which she was nevertheless captivating.

“Well if it isn't Burwood's answer to Greta Garbo.” Milton was the first to look up.