A Murder Unmentioned (44 page)

“It was me who sacked your father,” Wilfred said. “That was all me. It was nothing to do with Rowly, or my son.”

Templeton laughed. “What my father did was nothing to do with me either, but I paid for it.”

“For God’s sake, Templeton, he’s a little boy!” Rowland pleaded.

“You don’t deserve to be a father, Sinclair!” Templeton spat at Wilfred. “In the end you’re the same man your father was. How many times have you belted that poor kid?”

Wilfred pulled back, stunned by the thought.

“Jack,” Rowland said, seeing hope in the accusation—Templeton was ironically trying to protect Ernest on some level. “Wil’s never laid a hand on the boys… not to hurt them.”

“How would you know?” Templeton retorted. “He claims not to have known what was happening to you. Maybe you’re as oblivious as he was.”

“What do you want, Templeton?” Wilfred asked. His voice was strained, unsteady. “If it’s money, I’ll give you whatever you want—name your price, just, for God’s sake, give me back my son.”

“Can’t do that. I’m not stupid, Mr. Sinclair. I know this isn’t going to end well for me. Afraid it’s not going to end well for you either.” He poked Wilfred with the barrel of the revolver. “I was just going to stick around and enjoy watching you grieve, like I grieved for my mother. Don’t even know where they buried her. A pauper’s grave somewhere I expect—a stark contrast to the marble monument you erected for your father. I thought it would be fitting to watch you with no grave to mourn. But somehow, I don’t think taking your son will be enough. I’ll have to shoot you.”

“What have you done with Ernest?” Rowland demanded as he watched his brother turn grey with grief and terror. “I know you haven’t hurt him, Jack. You liked him, he liked you!” Rowland was speaking as much to Wilfred as their captor.

“I did like him, but you’re wrong.”

Rowland struggled against the urgency of his own anguish, stemming it with denial and a desperation to save his brother.

Jack Templeton took aim at the back of Wilfred’s head.

Wilfred barely moved, defeated by the loss of his son.

Rowland shouted, straining against the rope, ignoring the physical pain as he threatened and begged. “Stop, Jack, please! I can fly you out of here. Kate—Mrs. Sinclair’s about to have a baby… for pity’s sake, man!”

Templeton turned on him. “Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut the hell up. I can’t think!”

“I can fly you to Queensland. You’ll have such a head start they’ll never find you! Just stop.”

Templeton aimed at Wilfred again, but he hesitated. “What about your arm?” he said.

“I’m all right,” Rowland replied, seeing Templeton’s resolve weaken. “I can fly.”

Templeton took a knife from his belt and cut the ropes binding Rowland. “Get the plane ready. Try anything and I’ll kill your brother.”

Pushing the Gipsy Moth out of the shed by himself proved to be a challenge. Rowland didn’t think he was badly wounded, but moving his arm was painful. He’d hoped that, out of frustration or impatience, Templeton might be tempted to help, to let down his guard and point the gun away from Wilfred. Instead the gardener secured Wilfred to the post while Rowland used the Caterpillar to pull the plane out.

Eventually the
Rule Britannia
was ready and waiting on the flat of the paddock outside, but still in view of the shed. Rowland climbed up onto the fuselage to switch on the fuel lines. Templeton backed out of the shed and clambered into the second cockpit, the revolver now aimed directly at Rowland.

“What are you doing?” he demanded as Rowland moved to jump off.

“I have to swing the propeller to start the engine or we are not going anywhere.”

“Remember that I’ve got the gun. Try anything and I’ll get out of the plane and shoot your brother.”

“Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear.”

From his elevated position on the fuselage, Rowland had caught sight of the convoy in the distance. He dropped onto the ground before Templeton saw it too. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wilfred struggling against the ropes. Determined to keep Templeton in the biplane, he spun the propeller.

Now Jack Templeton saw the vehicles hurtling down the farm lane to
Emoh Ruo
. “Get in!” he shouted. “Get in and fly this bloody contraption!”

Rowland declined in terms that were profane and certain. He ducked, ready for the shot this time. A second shot splintered the propeller blade. He moved under the fuselage.

The motorcars reached the gate. Templeton launched himself out of the cockpit and ran for the shed. Rowland went after him, charging him to the ground just short of the doors. They grappled for the gun. Rowland slammed Templeton’s hand to the ground as the gardener pulled the trigger.

Rowland wasn’t sure where that bullet went, nor the next. Pinning Templeton, he forced open the gardener’s hand and disarmed him. And then he punched him, repeatedly.

It was Clyde who pulled Rowland off.

“What have you done with him, you bastard?” Rowland was desperate. “What the hell have you done with Ernie?”

Templeton shook his head. Rowland lunged for him again.

Milton helped Clyde hold Rowland back this time, and it took the both of them. Detective Gilbey arrested Jack Templeton. Delaney uncuffed Wilfred, but held him back, in an effort to ensure that he, too, did not attack the prisoner.

“Rowly, you’re bleeding,” Clyde said, noticing the wound.

Rowland staggered, a little light-headed now. Milton steadied him.

“How did you—” Rowland began.

“We found Miss de Waring… the nanny,” Delaney replied.

“Thank God,” Wilfred said quietly. “She and Ernest are unhurt?”

Delaney flinched. “Ernest wasn’t with her, Mr. Sinclair. We located Miss de Waring at the railway station waiting for Mr. Templeton. She said he was coming out to meet her as soon as he’d taken Ernest back to the house. They were planning to elope.”

Nobody spoke as Wilfred Sinclair approached Templeton; nobody tried to stop him. “I understand, Templeton. I understand
my part in all this. I swear I will do what I can for you, but for the love of God, man, tell me where my son is.”

Rowland watched Templeton’s face. First surprise and then the return of suspicion. His eyes hardened. “Drag the dams,” he said.

35

CHILDBIRTH AT HOME

Possible Hospital Danger

OPINION OF DOCTOR

Is Dr. H.G. Dain (chairman of the British Medical Association Committee on the National Maternity Service Scheme) right in stating that women are safer in childbirth at their own homes than they are in maternity hospitals? Dr. Dain declares that the danger from puerperal fever is great in hospitals, and that freedom from it in the home outweighs other disadvantages.

The News, 1930

S
ilently, Maguire stitched and dressed the lesion in Rowland’s arm. Having passed cleanly through the flesh, the bullet, at least, had done no lasting damage. The rest of it was the worst kind of mess.

Wilfred sat behind the desk staring at a glass of whisky and smoking. Periodically he retrieved the watch from his pocket and checked the time, monitoring the hours since he’d last seen his son. Maguire finished with Rowland, and, pausing only to press Wilfred’s shoulder, left them alone.

“He was lying, Wil, I know he was lying.” Rowland said vehemently, pulling his blood-stained shirt back on. He slung the tie angrily around his neck.

“Then where is Ernie?” Wilfred’s voice was brittle, ravaged with the enormity of his tragedy. “Every skerrick of the property’s been systematically searched, every building, every shed, every flaming hollow log…”

“What about Bates? He and Templeton were friends. Perhaps—”

“The police have questioned him. Bates didn’t know Templeton before they were both hired here. He doesn’t know anything.”

Rowland closed his eyes. This was unbearable. “There must be places we’ve not yet looked.”

“There are,” Wilfred replied. “The dams.”

“Wil, no.” Rowland turned away. He could not bring himself to think of his nephew as gone. It was incomprehensible. “Templeton liked him. He wouldn’t have hurt him.”

“You say that because that’s what you want to believe!” Wilfred lashed out. “You and your set see only what you wish to see—good when it suits you, evil when it doesn’t. Why the hell didn’t you tell me Templeton was having an affair with Ernest’s nanny?”

Rowland faltered. He was flogging himself for that already. “It didn’t seem to be any of our business…”

“None of our business!” Wilfred stood and came after his brother. “Since when is the immoral conduct of the woman I have entrusted with the care of my children not my business, Rowly?” He exploded, grabbing Rowland by the collar. “If I’d known… but no—you decide that it’s perfectly acceptable for my staff to engage in the kind of debauchery to which you and your Communist ne’er-do-wells devote your miserable lives!”

“Wil, I’m sorry—”

“You’re always sorry. It’s never your fault.” Wilfred seized Rowland’s arms, shaking him. “Bloody hell, Rowly! That bastard’s murdered my son and all you can offer is that he liked him!”

Rowland felt each of his brother’s words more keenly than any blow. He knew that Wilfred was near crazed with grief, but that did little to shield him.

“I don’t know that I can forgive you for this, Rowly.” Wilfred couldn’t stop. “If you’d said something we would have at least been wary—”

“I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself, Wil. I’m sorry. I know that’s worth nothing now. Oh God, if I could change it…”

Wilfred stopped, aware suddenly that his hand was wet. He looked down at his grip on Rowland’s arm. The stitches had broken, the wound had reopened. Blood now seeped anew through the gauze and fabric and Wilfred’s fingers. He stepped back, jarred, recognising the damage in Rowland’s eyes and, even in the blackness of his own sorrow, regretting that he’d inflicted it.

“God, Rowly,” Wilfred’s voice broke now. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Kate.”

In time the Sinclair brothers emerged from Wilfred’s study together. They didn’t speak. What resemblance they bore to each other was accentuated by a wretched grief, and yet they were both contained, rigid with the grim need to carry on. The sleeve of Rowland’s jacket was torn, but the blood stains were less visible on the dark wool fabric and his tie was straight. Maguire had repaired the stitches on his arm without once asking how they’d come to be disturbed. Wilfred started up the stairs to speak with his wife.

Rowland wandered into the drawing room, unsure what to do. He extracted his notebook more out of habit than any idea of sketching. Folded in its pages, he found the drawing that Ernest had presented to him so solemnly.

It was some while later that his friends found him there, staring at the picture, unable to move away from it. Edna simply curled up on the couch beside him. Absently he put his arm around her.

“How’s Kate?” he asked.

“She was holding up… terrified but… Wilfred’s with her now… She refuses to believe the worst.”

Rowland blanched. Unsure whether he could say anything without swearing, he said nothing.

Edna rested her head on his shoulder. “We’re so sorry, Rowly.” Her tears were hot and wet as they soaked through his shirt. He held onto her. It was easier to comfort Edna.

Clyde and Milton sat opposite. Milton broke. “I’m sorry we pulled you off the scheming bastard, Rowly. We should have let you beat the useless life out of him. We should have helped!”

“Milt…” Clyde cautioned, unsure that Rowland was ready to discuss the man who killed his nephew.

But the poet saw the guilt in Rowland’s anguish. “He fooled us all, Rowly. He seemed like a good bloke. God, the mongrel even joined the search, knowing…”

Rowland looked sharply at the poet. “That’s right… Templeton joined the search from the very beginning…” he said slowly. Wilfred’s words came back. Every part of the property has been systematically searched. “What part of
Oaklea
did Templeton search?” Rowland asked, straightening. “Did he go anywhere in particular?”