A Murder Unmentioned (25 page)

“Clyde,” Edna began hesitantly. “Should we tell Detective Delaney about Wilfred?”

Clyde took a breath. “Rowly would never forgive us, Ed. I’ll risk that if it’s the only thing that will save him, but…” He closed his eyes wearily. “Come on, let’s get washed up. Even Long Bay has standards.”

It was only after Mary Brown opened the door and admitted them that they realised they would not be the only guests at
Woodlands House
.

“Edna, Mr. Watson Jones,” Kate said, stepping out into the vestibule. “We had expected you to arrive before us, though we’ve been here scarcely an hour ourselves.”

“Mrs. Sinclair.” Clyde put down the suitcases and removed his hat.

“I wouldn’t hear of Wil being away at Christmas,” Kate explained before they could ask. “Not after the fire… and since he had to be here to help poor Rowly, we decided that we should all have Christmas in Sydney this year.”

“Of course.” Edna tried to muster enthusiasm. “What a lovely idea. Where is Mr. Sinclair?”

“He’s already gone to the… to Rowly,” she replied unable to bring herself to name the prison. “Arthur’s stepped out too.”

“Oh, well perhaps we should—”

“You must be tired,” Kate said, observing the dishevelled state of them. “Why don’t you two go and wash up while I have Mary organise
some tea and refreshments?” She smiled nervously. “Wil is looking after Rowly. If I know my husband, he’ll have Rowly released today.”

A little reluctantly, Clyde and Edna agreed, washing and changing quickly.

Tea was served in the conservatory.

“Mary won’t let us use the drawing room, for some reason,” Kate whispered in explanation.

Edna smiled, despite herself. “Rowly uses the drawing room as a studio, Kate. It’s probably a bit untidy.”

“Goodness! We must go in and have a look!” Lucy Bennett declared as she came into the conservatory. She took a seat at the table, set out with tea and cakes on an Irish linen tablecloth. “Why hello again, Miss Higgins, Mr. Watson Jones. Do please sit down.”

Edna glanced anxiously at Clyde, who responded by pulling out her chair.

“Shall I pour?” Lucy asked with the pot already in hand.

“Where are Ernest and Ewan?” Edna asked uncomfortably. “And Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Elisabeth is a bit tired after the trip. She’s resting,” Kate replied. “And Nanny de Waring took the boys to the beach—there’s a puppet show. It hasn’t been much of a Christmas for the poor little darlings.”

Lucy handed Kate a cup of tea. “Well, we’ll all muck in and make up for that now!” She looked around her. “I’m sure with a spot of extra work we could make this place festive. And next year, you can come to Arthur and me for Christmas—oh bother!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I s’pose the cat’s out of the bag now,” she said, giggling as she looked at Clyde and Edna. “It’s not been announced of course.”

“You and Mr. Sinclair are engaged?” Edna asked, trying to follow.

Lucy glanced at Kate and nodded emphatically. “We’re extremely happy.”

Edna and Clyde offered their somewhat bewildered congratulations.

“Arthur hasn’t yet spoken to Colonel Bennett,” Kate cautioned, awkwardly.

“I’m certain Pater will give us his blessing. And then,” she took Kate’s hands and squeaked, “we’ll both be Mrs. Sinclairs.”

Colour warmed Kate’s cheeks. “Yes, that will be lovely.”

“But you mustn’t say a word to Rowland. Not a word—not now,” Lucy continued, turning back to Clyde and Edna. “It would be cruel, another blow. We’ll just wait to see how it all works out.”

Edna’s brow rose. “I’m sure Rowly will be delighted for you and his cousin, Miss Bennett, but, of course, we’ll let you and Mr. Sinclair give Rowly the happy news yourselves.”

They continued then to take tea in thoroughly civil but uncomfortable circumstances. Lucy talked of parties and the wording of engagement notices and made only occasional reference to Rowland and Milton being “away”.

As soon as it was politely manageable, Clyde and Edna excused themselves, leaving Kate and Lucy to plan an autumn wedding at St Martins in Darling Point.

The altercation between prisoners Frank Green and Rowland Sinclair occurred as the lorry load of remand prisoners arrived at the Long Bay Penitentiary. Green was clearly surprised that his posh opponent knew how to fight.

Green was a ferocious street fighter; Sinclair a trained pugilist, but the spectacle was short-lived, interrupted by another prisoner who tried to soothe the Little Gunman with poetry and, of course, the guards, who eventually descended to teach both men a lesson.

In this, Green fared much worse than Rowland who had only taken a couple of blows of correction before another, more senior guard, intervened.

“That’s Rowland Sinclair, you bloody fools!”

The punishment stopped there, for Rowland at least.

Of course, the inequity incensed Green who spat and raged about the injustice of the system, and accused Rowland of being a “grass and a top off”.

Rowland and Milton were taken to the cell they were apparently to share in one of the double-storey wings, and locked in. Whether the particular confinement was some form of punishment for the fracas or merely to keep them out of Green’s reach was hard to tell. The cell was noticeably larger, cleaner and less dank than the holding cell at Central. Long Bay was, after all, less than twenty years old—a modern penitentiary—which had at least started out with a reformist agenda. Once the guards left, Rowland told Milton of Frank Green’s earlier threats.

The poet was less perplexed by Green’s enmity. “He knew where you lived and said he thought
she
made you up? Flaming Nellie Cameron!”

“What has Nellie Cameron got to do with this?” The notorious young prostitute had visited
Woodlands
earlier that year with Phil the Jew, a gangster who for some reason believed and insisted that Rowland Sinclair was his friend. The Jew had presented the “services” of lovely Nellie to Rowland as a gift of sorts. She had not been unenthusiastic, but Rowland had declined, in a manner that was characteristically polite. He’d had her taken back to Darlinghurst in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce.

“Nellie is Frank Green’s lover, Rowly… when he’s not in prison, anyway. She’s obviously embellished her encounter with you somewhat, and now he wants to kill you for it.”

“What on earth does Green think I’ve done to her?”

“She’s on the game, Rowly. I would say it’s fairly obvious what he thinks you did.”

“But she’s—”

“Clearly the Little Gunman believes she entertained you for free, which is a different thing. Or perhaps she told him she had too good a time.”

Rowland sighed. Still, he was reasonably confident he could handle Green if he was called on to do so.

“It’s not in
here
you have to worry about Frank,” Milton warned. “As you said, he knows where you live.”

“Why’s he here? Do you know?”

“Murder this time—shot a man in cold blood. Over Nellie, I’m told. You need to watch your back.”

Rowland’s smile was wry. “I’m in here for murder, too.”

“Yes, but he actually did it.”

Rowland looked at Milton uneasily. “If I had shot my father, would that have made me as reprehensible as Green?”

“Are you asking about you, or Wilfred?”

Rowland groaned, and rubbed his face.

“Look, Rowly,” Milton said, moving to lean back on the wall beside his friend. “I get it. He’s your brother. But has it ever occurred to you that he may have had reasons, other than protecting you, to kill your father?”

“Father and Wil were always at odds over business,” Rowland replied. “Wil wanted to expand and modernise in a way Father considered reckless. But that argument started before the war. Why would he suddenly be driven to murder over it?”

“Your brother has a reputation for ruthlessness, Rowly. He didn’t show that bastard Hayden any mercy.”

Rowland’s eyes darkened. “He didn’t deserve any. Hayden made it sound like he was just some downtrodden pawn. That’s not how
I remember it. He beat me senseless on a regular basis for five years. And then he’d brag to the other men, tell them how the boss’ boy would beg.” Rowland laughed bitterly. “That was before I realised begging just made it worse.”

Milton shook his head in disbelief. “I always thought you had it so good, that you’d been dealt all the good cards.”

Rowland shrugged. “Swings and roundabouts, Milt.”

“I gotta hand it to you, Rowly,” he said. “By anyone’s standards your father was a bastard, treats you worse than a dog and then he gets gunned down in the next room, and you just straighten your tie and carry on. Maybe that’s why your lot find it so easy to oppress the proletariat—you don’t flinch.”

“I don’t know about that,” Rowland said ruefully. “I was a bit of a firebrand for a long time, quite unreasonable to be honest.”

Milton laughed. “What—because you wouldn’t assume your place in the Graziers’ Association, join the Country Party and marry an appropriate debutante?”

Rowland’s eyes became distant as he thought back. “I was really angry when Wil shipped me to England. Not with him, just angry. I did my level best to get expelled again. It must have cost Wil a small fortune to ensure they kept me on. I joined the boxing club when I got to Oxford. I was getting into so many fights anyway, I thought I may as well.”

“Yeah, but that sorted you out.”

“Boxing taught me to control my temper a bit, I suppose, but I don’t think I stopped being angry until I started painting. Even so, I haven’t exactly been a bastion of respectability since.”

“No… there is that, at least.”

20

ON THE SCENT

(By L.W. LOWER)

The N.S.W. Police Association wants different uniforms of lighter material, open at the neck, with a collar and tie. They also want black buttons and badges. They’ll be wanting feathers next. I would most certainly refuse to be arrested by a constable in a bow tie. And the possibility of being bailed up by a constable with a water-pistol full of eau de Cologne is not so remote as it seems.

“What do you mean by beaning that poor old gentleman with a bottle! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’ve a good mind to slap your face, you cad!”

“Oh, constable! How could you use such language to an old Goulburnian!”

“Were you at Goulburn? What year?”

“Last year. I matriculated in 1936, and have just completed a refresher course in the gaol bakery at Long Bay.”

“Hmmm. Have you no respect for the old gaol tie?”

“I’m sorry, constable.”

“Well, I don’t want to get my new uniform creased, so I’ll let you off this time. Don’t do it again. Is my tie on straight?”

“I think it needs adjusting, just slightly. Allow me.”

“Thank you. Now you go and apologise to the old gentleman. He seems to be conscious now.”

There’s no doubt about it. Clothes do make a difference.

The Daily News, 1939

W
ork assignments in the penitentiary bakery were much sought after and usually reserved for those who co-operated particularly with the police. It was here that Rowland Sinclair and Elias Isaacs, who was otherwise known as “Milton”, were sent. True to his word, Colin Delaney was doing what he could. Of course, they were not, at this stage, permitted to touch the bread and were put to work unloading sacks of flour and scrubbing bench tops.

“If Mary Brown could see you now,” Milton grinned. It was obvious that Rowland had not even considered mopping a floor before. Indeed, he might never have actually witnessed the act. Such things were done invisibly in suburbs like Woollahra.

“Squeeze the mop out a bit first, otherwise you’re just going to make mud, mate.”

The baker’s oven at Long Bay turned out enough loaves to feed the entire prison population on a normal day. This day, being Christmas Eve, it was twice as busy, due to the fact there would be no baking on Christmas Day itself. The comforting aroma of freshly baked bread would have been tempting to any man, but the bakery was manned by criminals. Guards watched to ensure the bakery workers did not help themselves to extra rations. Even so, the occasional inmate would return to his cell plumper for the secretion of buns smuggled out in his clothing to stock the prison’s thriving black market.