A Murder Unmentioned (22 page)

The News, 24 December 1931

R
owland had been staring at nothing in particular—more thinking out of the window rather than looking—when he caught sight of two figures in the moonlight. He could discern the red glow of a cigarette as the men strolled together in the muted luminosity and dense shadow of the summer night. He knew the figures, their shapes, their gaits. Wilfred, and Harry Simpson. It did not surprise him that they were talking in the garden—Harry would not set foot into the house. The original edict that the blue-eyed Wiradjuri boy never come to the “big house” had been Henry Sinclair’s—perhaps a minor concession to the feelings of his wife. Of course,
Oaklea
under Wilfred would have welcomed Harry, but the stockman still refused.

There was a tap on the door of the bedroom. Rowland turned. His nephew seemed to be making a habit of going visiting in his pyjamas. “Come in, Ernie,” he said quietly.

But it was Edna Higgins who slipped in, shutting the door quickly behind her. She was not Ernest, but she wore her pyjamas nevertheless. Actually, Rowland noted—by the monogram on the pocket and the fact that the sleeves had been rolled several times—they were his pyjamas.

He smiled. Convinced that male attire was more comfortable to work and sleep in, Edna had been blatantly helping herself to the clothing of the men she lived with since she’d moved into
Woodlands
. Milton complained bitterly that it took three washes to get her perfume out of his shirts.

“Ed… couldn’t you sleep?”

“No,” she said, standing at the window beside him. “Who’s that?”

“Wil and Harry.”

“What are they talking about, do you think?”

“Fish probably. Or perhaps Harry’s telling Wil about one of his accident-prone hounds.”

Edna laughed softly. She turned her back on the window and looked up at him. “Rowly, I’m really scared.”

“Scared?” he asked, puzzled.

“Wilfred is too, I can tell. Whatever their reasons, the police want to say you killed your father. Maybe Mr. Hayden as well.”

“They’ll come to their senses, Ed.”

“But what if they don’t? What if they decide to arrest you? Remember what happened to Allie Dawe in London? If you hadn’t helped her, she might have hanged.”

“Ed, you’re getting ahead—”

“I’m not. Rowly, please, I just want you to fight for yourself the way you did for Allie.”

For a while he said nothing. Then, “This is not something I can talk about.”

She ignored that, kicking off her slippers and settling herself cross-legged on his bed. Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down beside her.

“Rowly,” she said, taking both his hands now and locking her eyes on his, distracting his resolve with her closeness. “Did Wilfred kill your father?”

He wavered. “No… God, I don’t know… Ed, can’t you leave me—?”

“Rowly, please, I need to understand, that’s all. Can’t you just trust me?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then tell me exactly what happened the day your father died. There may be something. Please.”

Rowland rubbed his face. Finally he nodded, but he was at a loss as to where to start. It all seemed so complicated.

“What precisely happened when you returned home from school, Rowly?” Edna prompted.

“Wil had stepped out to meet someone. He was involved in politics even then…” Rowland’s brow furrowed as he remembered the details. “Must’ve been someone of whom Father didn’t approve or Wil would have brought him to the house.” He laughed. “Perhaps Wil was a Communist back then.”

Edna waited for him to continue, refusing to let him jest the subject away.

“My father called me into his study. I knew what I was in for. He shouted the bible at me for a while, then Hayden came in.”

“And did Mr. Hayden say anything to you?”

“No. That wasn’t how it worked.” Rowland lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he spoke. “I’d remove my shirt, Hayden would wrap the buckled end of that flaming surcingle once around his hand.” Edna could sense the tension in Rowland’s body, as if he were there again, waiting to be brutalised on his Father’s command. “I would brace myself against the chair, Father would read from the Book of Psalms and Hayden would begin. It was the way it always was.”

Edna desperately wanted to leave him alone, to let him forget. She steeled herself to continue. “But this time Wilfred intervened?”

Rowland nodded. “Yes, eventually. He must have returned.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“It’s rather confused, to be honest. Wil punched Hayden. There was a lot of shouting… I don’t know, Ed. I was barely conscious.”

“Oh, Rowly.” Edna’s voice was hoarse. She traced her hand over his shoulders. They were broad now, and strong, but they wouldn’t have been then. It hurt her heart to think of them bearing so much.

Rowland drew her close, touched by her tears, the way she wrapped her arms around him as though she were trying to protect him in retrospect. He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering just inches from hers. For a moment he forgot about everything else.

“No!” she said, pulling away and wiping her face angrily. “You’re not to stop! Tell me what you remember next.”

“Ed…”

“Please, Rowly.”

He exhaled. “There was a doctor, Mrs. Kendall…” He glanced at the chaise by the window. “Wil sat right there, drinking whisky and smoking. I could barely look at him.”

“Why?”

“I was ashamed, I suppose.”

“Why would you be ashamed?” Edna asked gently.

“They’d completely broken me that night, Ed. My brother was a war hero… it was not something I wanted him to see.”

“You were fifteen!”

“I’m sure Wil didn’t think any less of me, Ed. I just felt less.”

“What about your mother, Rowly? She speaks so lovingly of your father. Didn’t she—?”

“My mother seems to have re-imagined life with my father, Ed. Back then she was terrified of him. She’d lock herself in her room whenever Father… is there any point to going over all this?”

“If you weren’t here, in this room, when your father was shot, where were you, Rowly?”

“I was walking out.”

“Walking out of where?”

“The house, everything. I wasn’t thinking sensibly. I was scared and angry…”

“You were running away?”

“Not running… I could barely walk. I heard the gunshot when I was at the back door.”

“What did you do, Rowly?”

“I went back into the house.”

“To the study?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“My father was dead.”

“Did you see anything else?”

Rowland said nothing.

“Who are you protecting?” Edna demanded, reading into his silence. “Wilfred…” she said accusingly. “You saw Wilfred, didn’t you? With your father’s body!”

He flinched. “Ed…”

“Did he tell you what he was doing there?”

“We’ve never talked about it.”

“What? Never?” Edna stared at him, flabbergasted. “Not once?”

Rowland shrugged. “It’s not a particularly pleasant subject.”

“For pity’s sake!” Edna was cross now. “Well then, what did you do?”

“I returned to my room. Wil came up later to inform me Father had passed.”

“And nothing else?”

“He said he was sorry.”

“Of course he was sorry,” Edna said, determined to make Rowland see sense. “He’d just shot your father!”

“I don’t know that. But honestly, Ed, I don’t care.”

“But the police believe you were responsible,” she said, clenching her fists.

Rowland sat up. He tried to make her understand. “I was a boy, Ed. Wil was not. Wil has a wife and young family, and I do not.”

“You have us!”

“You know that’s not the same thing.” He smiled. “Perhaps if you were to marry me…”

“How can you make jokes?” Edna’s tears were hot and frustrated now. “You’re an idiot, Rowly!”

He didn’t take his eyes off her. Even crying and angry she was beautiful. If she’d said yes, he might well have sold his soul. “You’re overreacting, sweetheart. If there’s anyone who can sort this nonsense, it’s Wil.”

“And if he can’t?”

“If he can’t, I’m not going to offer up my brother to save myself.”

“It’s not fair, Rowly.”

Rowland took the sculptress’s hands. They were small in his, but her grip was strong. “You’re underestimating Wilfred Sinclair.”

“I hope so. God, I hope so.”

Edna wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Rowland handed her a handkerchief. She stared at it blankly for a while, and then she laughed through her tears. “Oh, Rowly. You carry a monogrammed handkerchief in your pyjamas… how would you possibly cope in prison?”

“I don’t expect I’ll encounter quite so many weeping women there,” he said as she giggled helplessly now.

He smiled, enjoying the respite. They talked for a while then about nothing in particular… Lucy and Arthur, the Sane Democracy
League, Edna Walling, Senator Charles Hardy and his many sisters. Aware that Lucy Bennett slept in the guestroom just across the hall, they whispered, and when Edna laughed, she buried her face in Rowland’s shoulder to muffle the sound.

He might well have declared himself then, if his own future had not been so uncertain.

“I should go back to my room before we both fall asleep,” Edna said climbing out of his bed.

“I say, Ed, did Clyde and Milt—” Rowland began drowsily, fighting the impulse to pull her back into his arms.

“They’re worried about you, Rowly.”

“Did they ask you to talk to me?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Milt told me to seduce the truth out of you if I had to.”

Rowland groaned. “I wish I’d known. I wouldn’t have been so blasted forthcoming.”

The partners of Kent, Beswick and Associates were at
Oaklea
before breakfast. The police arrived soon after.

As the matter was no longer merely a thirteen-year-old murder, Gilbey and Angel were accompanied by a third detective, an investigative specialist, despatched from Sydney’s Criminal Investigation Bureau.

“Colin! What are you doing here?” Rowland said as Detective Delaney presented himself.

“The commissioner sent me down to keep an eye on things,” he said quietly as he shook Rowland’s hand. “Gilbey and Angel are still calling the shots.” He glanced over his shoulder to see that his colleagues were beginning the process of questioning the staff once again. “You’re in trouble, Rowly.”

“I gathered.”

Delaney walked towards the stairs motioning for Rowland to follow. “Let them assume you’re showing me where you were on the night of your father’s death,” he instructed under his breath.

Gilbey glanced up as they climbed the stairs, but returned to the dining room where Angel was already interviewing Lucy Bennett.

“Hell, Rowly,” Delaney said when he was sure they were alone. “This is one unbelievable bloody mess.”

“You’re talking about Hayden?”

“That bastard
and
your father.” Delaney glanced at his watch and got straight to the point. “Listen mate, I’ve read Hayden’s statement. By themselves, there’s not enough to arrest you for either murder. But together, it’s a different matter. There are only two people who would want to kill both Henry Sinclair and Charles Hayden. And only one who has the reputation you do.” Delaney shook his head. “Your brother has influential friends, but Eric Campbell and the New Guard are not without connections and, to top it all off, you’ve been making a habit of harassing and embarrassing members of parliament about what’s happening in Germany, where it is rumoured you killed a man!”

Rowland grimaced. “I can see your point.”

Delaney just looked at him.

“I didn’t kill anybody, Colin.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you had.”

“So what now?”

Delaney sighed. “I’ll do what I can. You say nothing. There’d be nobody in prison if criminals weren’t stupid enough to confess.”

“I haven’t anything to confess, Col.”

“A few of the boys know how to help you find something, Rowly.”

“Splendid.”

Wilfred stormed into the drawing room and picked up Ernest who was sobbing inconsolably. “What the devil have you done to my son?”

“Ernest has been assisting us with our enquiries, Mr. Sinclair.” Detective Angel smiled at the child. “Thank you, Ernest. You’ve been a good and very helpful boy.”