A Murder Unmentioned (11 page)

“And that’s when he…?”

Rowland swallowed. His words were bitterly frank. “Father was always liberal with his walking cane, though he started really laying into me only when Aubrey died. But he had some kind of turn.” Rowland frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “That was when
he decided his own hand was no longer firm enough, I suppose. He began using Hayden then.”

“And no one knew?”

“Oh, plenty of people knew, just no one who could do anything about it. He was my father, Clyde, and he was Henry Sinclair.”

“Did Wilfred know?”

“No. He was serving. It seemed to get better for a while when Wil returned, at least when he was at
Oaklea
. But then I was expelled and… well you heard Hayden.”

“And it was Wilfred who told you about your father?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did he say?”

Rowland’s brow rose, but he answered the question.

“He said that Father was dead, and I was not to worry. He wouldn’t let me go downstairs.”

“Why did you want to?”

“To make sure he was really dead, I think.” Rowland’s jaw hardened. “I know people say they hate this and that all the time, Clyde, but I meant it. I truly hated him.”

Clyde winced. “You know what the police are thinking, don’t you, Rowly?”

“That I killed him? Don’t worry, old boy. Wil’s handling it.”

“It wasn’t you I was—” Clyde stopped as one of the Sinclair cars sailed down the road on what appeared to be a tide of red dust. “Who is that?”

Rowland squinted. He could make out a flash of colour in the back seat. “Kate, I think… better get dressed.”

Clyde cursed and pulled on his shirt while Rowland tried to find his tie.

The Rolls Royce eased to a stop and Samuels, Wilfred’s elderly chauffeur, stepped out and opened the rear door. Lucy Bennett
handed out a large basket before emerging from the leather interior, being careful not to catch her broad-brimmed hat. “Kate thought you gentlemen might enjoy some refreshment.” She considered the state of them. “My goodness you have been working hard!”

“Miss Bennett,” Rowland tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”

“I brought the picnic, silly,” Lucy chirped. “Surely there’s some shade about somewhere to lay out a blanket.”

“Not unless you want to picnic inside the shed,” Rowland said. “It’s very kind of you to go to such trouble, Miss Bennett, but Clyde and I are filthy. I don’t think we’re fit company, even for a picnic.”

“Kate will never forgive me if I return without being able to report that you’ve eaten!” Lucy sashayed into the shed. “Why don’t you gentlemen clean up, while I put out some sandwiches?”

Clearly she was not leaving.

Left with little choice, Clyde and Rowland walked around to the water tank to wash up. Clyde stuck his head under the tap, allowing the cool water to wash away the dirt and sweat of the afternoon’s toil.

“You know, Rowly, we need more dope to finish repairing the fuselage. I might drive into Yass and fetch some.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“One of us needs to stay here and attend a picnic.”

Rowland groaned.

Clyde smiled. “I rather think you need to tell the poor girl the truth. Clearly, offending her father wasn’t enough. You may just have to risk offending her.”

“You’re probably right.” Rowland handed Clyde his pocketbook. “Try the stock and station agent—he flies a Tiger Moth himself.” He glanced at the sky. “It’ll be dark before you get back, so I suppose I’ll see you at the house.”

Clyde slapped him on the back. “Chin up, mate… and good luck.”

So Rowland walked back into the shed alone. Lucy Bennett had laid out a blanket on the dirt floor and on it, placed plates of sandwiches, shortbread and bottles of lemonade. The chauffeur had taken the car a discreet distance from the shed.

“You’ve sent Mr. Watson Jones away,” she gushed.

“I didn’t send him anywhere, Miss Bennett, he had an errand to run.”

“I must remember to ask him if he’s of the Novocastrian Watson Joneses. Irma Watson Jones was at school with Kate and me. Lovely girl. Married a Macarthur, I believe. Do you suppose Mr. Watson Jones is related?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well, I think he’s a wonderful friend to have given
us
this time alone.” She held out her hand. “Come and sit with me, Rowland.”

Rowland decided he’d best get straight to the point. He sat because it did not seem a conversation one should have while standing over a lady. “Miss Bennett, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“I’ll say there has! Pater is convinced you’re some kind of Communist pornographer.”

“Pornographer?” Rowland was startled. “He called me a pornographer?”

“A Communist one!” she said, indignantly. “Your paintings, darling. Pater can be very old-fashioned. Perhaps if you were to paint landscapes or still life…”

“I’m afraid I don’t paint trees… or fruit.”

Lucy pouted. Her voice became childishly coy. “But couldn’t you try for me, for us. Just for a teensy widdle while. Pweeese, Wowly.”

Rowland blinked. Why the hell was she speaking like that? He shook his head in horror at both the request and the manner in which it was made. “No.”

She sighed. “Oh darling, I’m so mad for you that I don’t care that you’re so dreadfully stubborn.” She inched closer; her breath came quickly as she gazed up into his face. “You know, I believe I shall have my bridesmaids wear the same blue as your eyes.”

Rowland looked away. Of course. Lucy’s apparent obsession with him was about creating a matched set—to coordinate with Kate, the bridal party and quite possibly the curtains… she was probably planning blue curtains. “Miss Bennett, I’m afraid your father may be operating under a misimpression.”

“I know, darling, I’ve tried to talk to him, told him we absolutely love each other to bits. I’ve cried, sworn I won’t eat till I starve to death, but he’s adamant you’re a scoundrel.”

“Miss Bennett, when your father called I had no intention of asking for your hand.”

“Oh my darling, I’ve always known you were impulsive,” she said, turning suddenly to clasp her hands behind his neck. “Wonderfully, romantically impulsive.”

Rowland cracked. “For pity’s sake, Miss Bennett, I am trying to say I am not, and never have been, in love with you!”

Lucy Bennett reacted as if he’d struck her. She recoiled wide-eyed and shaking. “But that’s not true!” she whispered, pleaded.

“I assure you it is,” he replied, but gently.

Lucy became strangely rigid as her hopes finally gave way. Silent tears cut a channel through the carefully applied layer of face-powder on her cheeks. Rowland offered her his handkerchief. Lucy clutched it to her breast, gasping and gagging as if his rejection was too bitter a fruit to be swallowed, crumpling finally into anguished wails.

Rowland couldn’t help but feel a cad. He had not thought her feelings genuine. “Miss Bennett, please, your father is right. I’m not at all suitable for you.”

He tried to help her up.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “You toyed with my feelings… led me to believe…” Enraged, Lucy threw a bottle of lemonade at him and ran out of the shed.

Rowland, ducked, cursed, and followed her.

Sobbing inconsolably, Lucy ran directly to the waiting Rolls Royce. Samuels climbed out. Clearly disconcerted, the chauffeur looked from Rowland to the weeping woman who was waiting for him to open her door. Samuels had driven for many wealthy men. His face remained unreadable, his decorum unflustered. He opened the door for Lucy without a word and, turning his back on Rowland Sinclair, took his seat behind the wheel.

Rowland watched helplessly as the car pulled away, swearing as he realised he was now stranded a good five miles from the homestead.

Clyde pulled in outside the post office. He booked a call through to
Woodlands House
and waited until the operator put Milton on the line.

“What’s wrong?” the poet asked immediately. The very fact that Clyde was telephoning from Yass did not bode well.

Clyde recounted what had occurred over the past days.

Milton was quiet. “How’s Rowly?” he asked after a few moments.

“This is the problem, Milt. I know his old man was a mongrel, but Rowly doesn’t seem the least bit interested in who killed him.”

“God, Clyde, who could blame him? It sounds like the murderer did him a favour.”

“Except, I think the police suspect Rowly. And he’s quite happy to let Wilfred deal with it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad plan. Wilfred may be a capitalist bastard, but he’s a powerful capitalist bastard.”

“No, it isn’t a bad plan. Unless, of course, it was Wilfred who murdered Henry Sinclair.”

“Wilfred? Have you lost your mind?”

“Hear me out, Milt. Wilfred was about to be disinherited. If he had been, he would have lost everything and wouldn’t have been able to help Rowly at all. Anyone can see he had more to gain from the old man’s death than Rowly. Rowly was a battered kid, Wilfred a man just returned from the war. He packed Rowly off to England the day after the funeral; he sacked that bastard manager and ran him and his family out of Yass. It seems to me he got rid of anyone who might have heard Henry threaten to disinherit him.”

“Or he was just protecting his brother.”

“There’s more to it,” Clyde persisted.

“And Rowly doesn’t see this?”

“He’s not an idiot, Milt. Of course he does. But it’s Wilfred.”

“What about the lawyers? Surely—”

“I’m sure Wilfred will retain the best legal minds in Australia, but they’ll be Wilfred’s lawyers. Look, Milt, what worries me is that there’s no one, including Rowly himself, who’s going to put Rowly’s interests first. He could go down for this. Fifteen is old enough to be convicted of murder and Rowly may just be willing to go to gaol to make sure that Wilfred doesn’t hang.”

Milton swore. “Ed and I will head out to you at Yass tomorrow. We’ll think of some excuse to tell Rowly on the way. I’ll call Delaney tonight—see if I can’t find out why the police are suddenly so interested in a thirteen-year-old murder.”

9

KENNEL
CHRONICLE

DOINGS IN DOGGIE LANE

CANINE PSYCHOLOGY

Some Interesting Sidelights

Dogs have a colour complex. This is the view of a prominent member of the staff of the Royal Veterinary College, London.

The greyhound, for instance, cannot resist the impulse to chase small dogs and cats. They have been known to worry goats, especially white goats.

Sunday Times, 1937

R
owland felt a little guilty eating Lucy’s picnic, but he was famished. Between them, he and Lenin polished off most of the basket’s contents. It had cooled off marginally and, after the difficulty of the last couple of days, the shed was a peaceful refuge. He brooded for a time, furious that Hayden had emerged to resurrect the ghosts of a past he had tried hard to exorcise. The scars left by the vicious beatings of his youth were on his back where he couldn’t see them. Until now, Rowland had put the memories where he couldn’t see them, too.

“I doubt Lucy’s coming back for us, old boy,” he said, scratching the dog’s one ear. “We’d best start back—it’ll be dark soon.”

Rowland decided to take the road rather than cut through the paddocks. It would make the walk longer but at least they wouldn’t miss any car despatched to collect them.

He found a rope, a makeshift lead to prevent Lenin tearing after every rabbit they came across, and man and dog set off. Once the sun set, the evening became quite pleasant. There was no moon but the stars were many and spectacular, one of those vistas that Rowland had always thought unpaintable.

Lenin padded along quite happily for about a mile, straining against the rope at every movement in the grass. But then it seemed the past day’s heat and the unexpected exercise took its toll. The dog’s head began to droop pathetically and he whined from time to time.