A Murder Unmentioned (24 page)

By the time Rowland and Milton were delivered to Central Police Station, the Sinclair family’s solicitors in Sydney were briefed and waiting for the arrival of their client. So too were the newspaper journalists and a jostling bevy of photographers.

“Head down, Rowly!” Milton warned, lunging in front of his friend.

The first flash exploded. Delaney closed in to obstruct the photographers as the prisoners were bustled inside the station.

They were taken to be processed, divested of all personal effects other than their clothes. The young constable raised a brow when Rowland handed over his watch. Still, he was not unduly impressed. Many of the more successful criminals had flash timepieces. Rumour had it that Tilly Devine’s wristwatch was encrusted with rubies. More intriguing was the leather bound artist’s sketchbook. The policeman flicked through its pages, telling himself that there might be a weapon concealed between the leaves. He checked page after page of intimate sketches, women in various stages of undress, studies that brought the blood to his cheeks. From Milton, he took a small volume of verse and a pocketknife.

The constable then took them into a grimy cell, where the wall had been clearly marked with heights. It was against this wall that a humourless police photographer took their mugshots. Milton complained bitterly that any image in right profile made his nose look large and demanded that a second shot be taken from the left.

From there they were taken to a second cell, empty but for a couple of battered bentwood chairs. The photographer returned.

“Where do you want us?” Milton asked when no instructions seemed forthcoming.

“Wherever you want for this snap,” the young policeman replied.

“Really?” Rowland surveyed the cell sceptically.

“We want to photograph you natural-like.”

“These are somewhat unnatural circumstances,” Rowland replied.

“You’ll get used to them. You can pose together if you want.”

“Come on, Rowly,” Milton urged placing one foot on the seat of the chair and adjusting his cravat. “It’ll be a nice keepsake… like a postcard from Medlow Bath.”

And so the photograph was taken: Milton with his arms and one leg in the air as he declared, “Well, they are gone, and here I must remain, this lime-tree bower my prison!” beside a clearly bemused Rowland, who smiled for the camera before he murmured, “Coleridge.”

“Would you send us a couple of copies, my good man?” Milton asked as the photographer finished.

“I’m not supposed to,” the constable said, quietly. He shook his head as he looked Milton up and down. “You do realise you’ve been arrested, don’t you, sir?”

“I suppose that explains the cell,” Milton replied, grinning broadly. “Go on… no one will know, and Mr. Sinclair, here, will make it worth your while, won’t you, Rowly?”

Rowland laughed and groaned at the same time. Still it was somewhat comforting to have Milton treat being arrested like a holiday at the beach. “Yes, I’d be more than happy to compensate you for a memento of this special and memorable occasion,” he said.

The police photographer grinned. “Tell ya what. If you get off I’ll send you a couple of prints.”

They thanked him as they were escorted out for finger printing.

Once fully processed, they were taken down to the cells to await further interrogation. The detectives were, it seemed, all busy dealing with the legal and administrative aftermath generated by the arrest of a man of Rowland Sinclair’s background. There were enquiries and protestations by politicians, clergy and other men of standing, as well as missives of congratulations from those who considered Rowland Sinclair a menace. The young man’s lawyers were laying siege to the legal system of the land in order to have him released. It was not surprising then that the detectives who brought this inundation of paperwork and scrutiny upon the Metropolitan Police were being asked for explanations of one sort or another.

19

HOSPITAL ESCAPEE

Arrested by City Police

Nellie Cameron, who escaped from the Newcastle Hospital some weeks ago in sensational circumstances, was recaptured by the consorting squad in Palmer Street last night.

The woman had been admitted to bail pending the hearing of her appeal against a sentence of a month’s imprisonment for stealing. The appeal was dismissed, but Cameron in the meantime had disappeared. Some time later it was learned that she was an inmate in Newcastle Hospital, and that two men, one of whom was believed to be Frank Green, who has an unenviable police record, had been visiting her. Green had previously given an undertaking to leave the State. The Newcastle police intended to arrest the woman when she was discharged from hospital, but the night before she was to have been apprehended she left her bed during the visiting hours, and disappeared…

For some weeks the police have been searching for the woman in the belief that Green, with whom she associated, would be found with her. Last night Detective Browne, who was with other members of the consorting squad, noticed the woman in Palmer Street. He leaped from the police car and pursued her. Cameron ran to the door of a house nearby, but before she could open the door the policeman overtook and arrested her. The house to which she had run was searched, and a man was noticed climbing over the rear fence. It is believed that the man was Frank Green.

Cameron was taken to the Central Police Station, and this morning will be sent to Long Bay Penitentiary to undergo her sentence.

The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

T
he holding cells at the Central Police Station were narrow and windowless. A cot hung against one wall, the ticking mattress stained with mould and God knows what else. Rowland and Milton were shoved into separate cells.

Rowland paced, more because he didn’t want to touch the mattress than because he felt a particular need for physical movement. He reached for his handkerchief to wipe the finger print ink from his hands and he thought of Edna.

“Hey,” the man in the cell opposite rose from his cot, a cigarette stuck to his lower lip. “Haven’t seen you about. What are they trying to do you fer?”

Rowland hesitated. His fellow inmate looked distinctly unsavoury: a small, weasel-faced man whose pinched features were marked by violence, scarred by blades and malice. Still, it seemed rude not to respond.

“I’ve been arrested for murder.”

The prisoner cocked his head like a dog. “You speak like a proper gentleman, friend.” He smiled, a sly smile that did nothing to soften his face. “Green, Frank Green. I’d shake your hand if I could reach.”

“How do you do, Mr. Green? Rowland Sinclair.”

Green’s eyes narrowed. “Who did you say you were?”

“Sinclair, Rowland Sinclair.”

“You have some fancy joint in Woollahra?”

Rowland was startled. How did Green know where he lived?

“Well, who would have thought?” Green said, pressing his face against the bars of his own cell to get a closer look at Rowland. “I thought she’d made yer up!” He exploded into a rage of profanity and threats. “I’m gonna kill yer, Sinclair!”

Rowland stepped back, affronted though not unduly alarmed. Frank Green was not a particularly big chap and he was, in any case, confined to a separate cell. He did wonder, however, what he had done to offend the man.

A couple of other prisoners called out and demanded Green pipe down, further enraging him to a point of incoherent, frothing fury.

Only the arrival of Detective Colin Delaney did anything to curb the outpouring of frustrated vitriol. Delaney banged on the bars of Green’s cell with a truncheon and instructed him, in terms that were neither polite nor ambiguous, to be quiet.

He had the lock-up sergeant let him into Rowland’s cell. “You want to watch him, Rowly,” Delaney warned under his breath.

“Who the hell is he?”

“Green… the Little Gunman.”

“The Little Gunman? Who calls him that?”

“Himself mostly. He’s a killer, Rowly, a murdering thug. What have you done to offend him?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Well, stay out of his way. You have enough problems.”

“Tremendous. What now?”

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, you realise.”

“Yes.” Though, to be honest, it had not been at the forefront of his thoughts.

“It means we’re not likely to get you into a committal hearing for a couple of days. They want to transfer you and Mr. Isaacs to Long Bay with the other remand prisoners until then.”

“Christmas at Long Bay. Capital!”

“There is significant pressure to deny you bail altogether, which might mean you’ll be in Long Bay until trial.”

“What?”

“Your lawyers are trying to make sure it won’t come to that. Look, Rowly, C.I.B. has also received information, from an anonymous source, that we should, in fact, be looking at your brother for this.”

Rowland stiffened. Then he cursed.

“Steady on, Rowly,” Delaney said. “Gilbey and Angel have no interest in anybody but you, for the moment. I just wanted you to know that the enemies aren’t all yours.”

“Colin, Wil has a wife who’s expecting and a young family. I want him kept out of this.”

“Don’t worry about it, Rowly,” Delaney said, thoughtfully. “It’d be a brave detective who’d accuse Wilfred Sinclair on the basis of an anonymous note.”

“What exactly did the note say?”

“Something along the lines that Wilfred had persuaded your father to make him his sole heir, and having done that, he killed Henry Sinclair.”

“That’s preposterous. For one thing, I was not, and have never been, disinherited.”

“Which is why we’ve not pursued that line of enquiry. I presume the note came from some disgruntled business associate of your brother’s.”

“I’m sure Wil has plenty of them.”

“I’ve made sure the boys all know who you are,” Delaney said, tapping a cigarette out of his case.

“Why?”

“Just so none of them take you out back to reason with you.”

“I see. What about Milt?”

“Mr. Isaacs has been a guest of this establishment before. He knows how things work.” Delaney lit his cigarette. “If you need me,
tell them that you want to confess, but only to Detective Delaney. They’ll call me in quick smart.”

“Thank you again, Colin.” Rowland offered Delaney his hand.

The detective frowned. “You don’t shake hands with a policeman in full view of other prisoners, Rowly—they’ll assume you’re a top off—you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Oh.” Rowland dropped his hand. “Right.”

“Now, I’ll have a quiet word to the boys out at Long Bay. Make sure they keep you away from Green.” He reached into his pocket and extracted Rowland’s notebook. “Take this… it’s corrupting the desk sergeant.”

The Federal truck limped into the
Woodlands
drive. The journey had been slow and arduous and it was only Clyde’s talent with motors, and routine tappet adjustments, that had ensured it did not stall entirely. They had spent many hours en route beside the road with Clyde bent under the bonnet.

Edna climbed out, travel-worn and stiff. Clyde lifted Lenin gingerly to the ground lest the hound jar his wound by jumping. He cursed both the Federal and Milton’s cousin. The sojourn from Yass had taken them nearly a full day. They had slept in the truck somewhere near Moss Vale and stop-started all the way back to Woollahra.

Edna looked uneasily at the looming grandeur of
Woodlands House
. They had decorated for Christmas before they’d set out for
Oaklea
, hanging the jacarandas with dozens of whimsical terracotta angels and bronze-cast stars, but new wreaths and swags had been added in the time they’d been away. Edna bit her lower lip. It seemed strange arriving here with Rowland and Milton in gaol. “Oh Clyde, what are we going to tell Mary Brown?”

“I don’t know,” Clyde said grimly, grabbing their bags. “Maybe we should just say Rowly’s still at
Oaklea
, that he’ll be back soon. That way she won’t hurt us.”

Edna smiled. Clyde was only half-joking. Mary Brown was formidable and still treated Rowland’s houseguests as if they were stray alley cats he’d brought home.