A Murder Unmentioned (12 page)

“For pity’s sake, Len, you’re a greyhound. Well something like a greyhound,” Rowland muttered as he realised the drag on the rope was now more to do with the dog wanting to stop, than rabbits. The hound’s eyes glistened reproachfully up at him. “I know, it’s my fault we have to walk, but I’m not carrying you.”

They were nearly halfway back to
Oaklea
when Rowland caught sight of headlamps in the distance. “There you go, Len, you can quit your complaining. It looks like the cavalry’s arrived.”

He blanched as the vehicle approached. He knew it wasn’t the Mercedes by the sound of its motor, but the glare made it impossible to see who was behind the wheel. Rowland waved. The car slowed to an idle.

“Come on, Len,” he urged, tugging on the rope. Lenin whined and resisted in reply. Rowland was still arguing with the dog when the first shot cracked the night air. Instinctively, Rowland dropped down. He felt the whistle as the second shot passed his shoulder. Cursing, he tried to pull Lenin off the road but the dog would not stir. “Len!” he shouted. “Move!”

Lenin whimpered. The car’s engine roared. A third shot, and a screech as the car swung around and sped back in the direction from which it had come.

But Rowland wasn’t looking at the car. In the swing of the headlamps as the car turned, he’d seen the blood.

“Len, hang on mate,” he said pulling out his lighter to inspect his dog in the feeble glow of its flame. Blood oozed from Lenin’s bony hind. Swearing, Rowland pulled off his jacket and then his shirt. He pressed the shirt against the wound, and then wrapped the stricken hound in his jacket. Knowing the dog would respond to his voice, Rowland spoke calmly. “Helluva way to get me to carry you, mate.” He heaved Lenin into his arms. “You’re going to be all right… we’ve just got to get back.”

Rowland continued on the dirt road as quickly as he could manage under the greyhound’s weight. The road was rough here and he was forced to slow down and step carefully lest he stumble. Lenin became limp and somehow heavier.

“Come on, Len, talk to me,” Rowland demanded as even the whimpering stopped.

Then he saw headlights again. For a moment, he panicked, looking frantically for some place to hide, some sort of cover. And then, he recognised the familiar attention-seeking scream of a supercharged motor. His car. He ran towards it.

The Mercedes stopped as it caught him in its headlamps. Clyde stepped out first and then a giant of a man, so dark that had he not been standing against the yellow paintwork he might have been invisible in the night.

“Harry!” Rowland exclaimed, recognising the shape of the shadow.

“Rowly, what the hell!” Harry Simpson said by way of greeting.

“Lenin’s been shot,” Rowland gasped.

“That was years ago, Rowly. Are you all right?”

“He means the dog,” Clyde said. “Who would—”

“He’s not moving,” Rowland said as Harry took the dog from him.

Harry Simpson put his ear to the greyhound’s muzzle. He listened, his face grim. “We’d better get your dog seen to quickly, Rowly.”

Rowland sat by his dog’s head, comforting and restraining the hound as Harry Simpson stitched the wound. The bullet had grazed but not lodged. Lenin had lost a good deal of blood, but thanks to Harry’s needlework the wound would not be fatal.

“You gave me one helluva scare, you daft bloody dog,” Rowland said gruffly as he stroked the animal’s long muzzle.

They were in the manager’s cottage reserved for Harry Simpson.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Harry,” Rowland said.

The Aboriginal stockman washed his hands in an enamel basin. “Wil needed an extra man to oversee the stock while Bob Bowman deals with the harvest. Jim’s got the stock in the high country well in hand—good man, that Jim—so I came down.”

Clyde smiled. His brother, Jim, worked under Simpson on the Sinclair holdings in the high country. “It’s a lucky thing you did, Harry. Old Len wasn’t looking too chipper.”

Harry Simpson frowned. “What happened, Rowly? Who shot your ugly dog?”

Rowland left his hand on Lenin. “I don’t know.” He told them about the car.

“So they were shooting at you?”

“Seems that way.”

“Why?” Simpson asked.

“That rather depends on who it was, I suppose. There might be a few reasons.”

Harry Simpson chuckled, his face creasing around blue eyes that were all the brighter for the darkness of the brow under which they were set. He reached over and ruffled Rowland’s hair. “I’ve missed you, Gagamin.”

Rowland smiled. “Thank you for fixing my dog, Harry.”

“Looks like it’s not the first time you broke him, Rowly,” Simpson regarded the battle-scarred Lenin dubiously. “I had a dog with only one ear once. Lost the other in a fight with a cat.” The stockman’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled loudly. “He died eventually… I think it was the embarrassment.” Simpson’s eyes moved to the swastika-shaped scar of cigarette burns on Rowland’s chest. “That’s new, Gagamin. You had an interesting time in Germany then?”

“You could say that. I may have to borrow a shirt before we return to the house.”

Rowland told him of the trouble they’d found in Munich, of what had happened to him. Simpson let him talk, cursing occasionally.

“And these fellas who did you over,” he asked eventually, “what happened to them?”

“Well, one of them is Mr. Hitler’s deputy.” Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know Harry. I’m hoping our escape was at least awkward for them, but who knows?”

Simpson studied him, assessing more than the physical scars. “Are you painting?” he asked.

Rowland nodded.

“Good,” Simpson replied as if nothing more needed to be said.

Clyde watched the exchange, intrigued. Despite the fact that he’d been by Rowland’s side in Germany and England, that he’d seen Rowland struggle with nightmares and sleeplessness, it had taken
him weeks to realise that Rowland needed to paint to deal with the violence and fear of his encounter with Nazis. And yet Harry Simpson knew this instinctively.

“Does Wil know you’re here, Harry?” Rowland stroked Lenin’s muzzle, smiling as the dog’s eyes rolled back with pleasure.

“Yes. I called the house when I got in,” Simpson said. The manager’s offices and cottages on
Oaklea
were equipped with telephones. He frowned. “Wil said that mongrel Hayden’s turned up.”

“They found Father’s gun.”

“How?” Simpson asked, clearly surprised.

“It was in the dam. And now they…”

“Well, don’t you worry about it, Rowly,” Simpson said after a moment. “Wil will deal with it.” The stockman rubbed his jowl. “Who knew you were out there tonight, that you’d be walking back?”

“Clyde and I went out to work on the plane this afternoon. I expect Miss Bennett mentioned that she’d left me out there… among other things.”

“Good Lord, I’d forgotten about Miss Bennett,” Clyde said. “What happened? How did it go?”

Rowland told them.

Clyde grimaced. “Well at least it’s done, Rowly. You can concentrate on finding someone far less suitable now.”

Rowland sighed. “I’m sure Wil will have plenty to say on the matter.”

“He told me to go get you when I pulled in,” Clyde replied, smiling. “If he’d been too upset he’d have let you walk, I imagine. I’d just dropped in here to say hello to Harry when we heard the shots.”

“And I take it you didn’t see a motorcar coming the other way?”

“No, but we cut across past the shearing shed from here,” Simpson said. “If they took the other lane…” He frowned. “We’d better let Wil know what’s happened, and inform the police I suppose.”

The gentle but persistent tapping woke him eventually. Reluctantly Rowland opened his eyes. It was barely light. It had been a late night, explaining the events to Wilfred and then the police, who seemed amused that he was reporting an assault upon his dog.

“Did the dog bark often at night? We find that disgruntled neighbours can often take matters into their own hands.”

Too tired to argue with what he concluded was the force’s most dim-witted constable, Rowland had let it go.

“Uncle Rowly, it’s me, Uncle Rowly.”

“Come in, Ernie.”

Wilfred’s elder son was still in his pyjamas.

“I came to check on… Lenin,” he said, whispering the dog’s name as if it were a profanity. Ernest tiptoed over to the chaise longue on which the injured hound had been settled.

“What are you doing out of bed, Ernie?” Rowland asked, as the boy scrutinised the dog anxiously.

“Is he alive, Uncle Rowly?”

“Of course—he’s just asleep.”

“I was worried,” Ernest said, climbing onto Rowland’s bed. “I heard Aunt Lucy crying and then Mummy started crying too.”

Rowland groaned. “That probably wasn’t about Lenin, Ernie.”

“Was it about you, Uncle Rowly?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you get shot too?”

“No, not this time.”

“Have you fallen out with Aunt Lucy?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Realising that going back to sleep was probably not an option, Rowland sat up. “Would you keep an eye on Lenin while I get dressed?” he asked his nephew.

Ernest nodded, slipping off the bed to take up a vigil beside the slumbering hound. By the time Rowland had showered and dressed, the Sinclairs’ nanny was searching for her missing charge. Charlotte de Waring had joined the
Oaklea
household only recently, after the family returned from abroad. Knowing his brother’s preference for a certain moral severity in his staff, Rowland assumed that Kate must have selected the pleasant, loquacious young woman.

He watched, amused, as the nanny tried valiantly to invoke some sense of authority and control. “Ernest!” she exclaimed when the boy emerged from his uncle’s room. “Whatever are you thinking going visiting in your pyjamas?”

“Uncle Rowly was in his pyjamas, too!” Ernest replied.

“It was five in the morning!” Rowland protested. “I was asleep.”

“Why, you cheeky devil!” The nanny folded her arms in a manner designed to appear stern, and scolded Ernest in a tone too kind to have any disciplinary effect at all. “You can’t be calling on a gentleman at that time!”

Rowland laughed. “Ernie was just keeping an eye on Len while I dressed,” he said. “It was very thoughtful of him.”

Ernest nodded solemnly.

Nanny de Waring’s round, wholesome face softened. “Oh, yes… how is the poor creature, Mr. Sinclair? Mrs. Kendall has cooked up some bacon for its breakfast, I believe.”

“I’m sure Len will make a complete recovery, Miss de Waring, particularly if there’s bacon involved.” Rowland moved back so she could see the hound. The nanny stepped past him to the chaise and knelt to fuss over the patient.

Lenin played his part, lifting his muzzle weakly to offer her a feeble lick.

“Poor, sweet puppy,” she said stroking his head softly. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Miss de Waring.”

“Well, I must say that I can’t think of anything more wicked than trying to murder an innocent animal!” The nanny placed her hands on her hips. “I hope they catch the scoundrel, Mr. Sinclair. Lord knows what he’ll shoot next.”

“Indeed.”

She left her hands on her hips. “Now Master Ernest, do you propose to spend the day in your pyjamas?”

Rowland laughed. “Hurry up and get dressed, Ernie. We’d best go down to breakfast before all the bacon is requisitioned for Lenin.”