A Murder Unmentioned (45 page)

Milton glanced at Clyde. “Not
Oaklea
. Templeton headed out with one of the first groups to
Emoh Ruo
.”

“Dammit!” Rowland closed the notebook. “Dammit! How could I…?” He stood. “I’m a flaming idiot!”

“Rowly, what is it?” Edna asked.

“I think I know where he took Ernie.” Rowland cursed, furious that he had not seen it before. “Of course, Ernie wouldn’t be found
if Templeton made sure he was the one that searched there, if he reported back that there was nothing there…”

Clyde stood. “What do you—it doesn’t matter. I’ll get Wilfred.”

“No!” Rowland grabbed his arm. “Wil’s barely hanging on. If I’m wrong…”

“Let’s go,” Edna said, standing. “It’s dark.”

For the second time that day the yellow Mercedes pulled up outside the shed at
Emoh Ruo
. They took torches for they would go on foot from there.

Setting out across the paddock they headed towards the creek in search of the folly which Rowland had recommended to the young lovers in
Oaklea
’s kitchen. It was not difficult to find once you knew it was there. A crumbling concrete structure built to resemble a classical temple, it was a folly in more senses than one. Erected before the war when Jefferies had been fascinated with ancient architecture, it became a symbol of the whimsical self-indulgent expenditure that saw him lose everything in the end.

The dark outline of the faux relic became visible as they reached the top of the gully in which it was hidden.

Rowland broke into a run. “Ernie! Ernest! Can you hear me?”

There was no response.

Almost completely hidden among a thicket of willows, the building was much larger than it had seemed at first—cement columns on a parapet and large stone blocks arranged to look like ruins.

“Rowly—over here.” Clyde shone the beam of his torch on a new padlock which secured a wooden door to the only walled part of the folly. The blackberry which had started to engulf the building was disturbed here, recently removed.

Rowland banged on the door and called Ernest’s name again. Still no reply. “We’ll force the door,” he said.

“You’ve just been stitched back together,” Milton reminded him. “Clyde and I will do it.”

The padlock may have been new, but the latch itself was old and rusted. It gave way almost immediately and the door moved in. Then came the blast, a boom that seemed to shake the walls of the folly. Clyde and Milton recoiled, dropping to the ground, and Rowland turned to shield Edna. But the explosion seemed contained, confined within the building. Nobody came out.

Rowland moved first. “Ernie!”

Milton grabbed him before he reached the door. “Rowly—stop! You don’t know what else he’s rigged up in there.”

“Ernie could be hurt…”

“Just be careful, Rowly. Go slowly.”

Rowland nodded. “You chaps and Ed stand back.” Gently, very gradually, he pushed open the door. Plaster showered down from the ceiling. Clyde handed him a torch.

Rowland played the beam of light around what was a windowless cabin. A shotgun lay smoking on the floor, the gardener’s twine which had been used to rig it, a tangled mess. The bullets had hit the wall above the door—perhaps the Enfield had jerked up when it discharged.

They all stepped in now, adding their torches to the search to find Ernest motionless on what seemed to be a sheepskin in the far corner.

Rowland reached him first and bent to lift the boy into his arms, terrified that his body would be cold and rigid.

“He’s breathing,” he said, leaning back against the wall, suddenly weak. But his grip on Ernest was sure.

“Oh Ernie…” Edna stroked the boy’s head. “Why won’t he wake up? Oh God, was he hurt when the gun went off?”

Milton swung his torch back to the shotgun and the place where
the bullets had impacted. The damage seemed fairly contained to the door’s side of the room. “Can you find an injury? Is he bleeding?”

Edna checked the child quickly. “No.”

Clyde retrieved an enamelled tin cup from the floor and sniffed it. “Templeton must have given him something.”

“Probably Laudanum,” Rowland said, remembering his mother’s missing medication. Perhaps Templeton had asked Nanny de Waring to procure it for him somehow.

Milton removed his jacket and placed it over Ernest as he lay in Rowland’s arms. Though the boy’s eyes remained closed, he murmured and sighed.

“Come on, mate,” Rowland said as he carried his nephew out. “There are some people at
Oaklea
who desperately need to see you.”

Clyde raced the Mercedes back to
Oaklea
, blasting the horn with Milton singing the Internationale in full voice out of the window so that by the time they pulled into the driveway, half the household had emerged to investigate the commotion.

Rowland handed Ernest to his father.

There was a moment when Wilfred simply stared at his brother and the band of grinning Communists who had ensconced themselves in his home.

“Templeton must have given him a sedative of some sort, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, beaming, unable to contain her joy, “but he’s already starting to stir.”

“How—” Wilfred began.

“We’ll explain later,” Rowland said. “Take him to Kate.”

The kitchen at
Oaklea
had rarely been so festive. Rowland and his friends had felt the need to celebrate Ernest’s return, but aware that
Oaklea
was not theirs they had abandoned the more formal parts of the house for Mrs. Kendall’s kitchen. There they celebrated with the servants of the grand house, toasting young Ernest and drinking heartily to his health. Milton brought down the gramophone and Wilfred’s record collection, and they danced to Crosby, Armstrong and Duke Ellington. In time, the party spilled out onto the back lawn, and Edna Walling and her workers and even Harry Simpson joined the impromptu celebrations. Alice Kendall opened her pantry, feeding all comers.

It was past midnight when Wilfred came down to find his brother. He watched quietly for a while as Rowland danced with Edna, and Milton led yet another toast to Ernest Aubrey Baird Sinclair who, he announced, would one day be Prime Minister of the Workers’ Republic of Australia.

Rowland was a little merry when Wilfred approached them on the verandah which had become a dance floor. “Good Lord, Wil!” he said, catching Edna around the waist as she came out of a twirl. “You’re the last person I’d expect to cut in!”

“I think it’s you Mr. Sinclair wants, Rowly,” Edna said, laughing.

Rowland’s brow rose. “You can’t dance with me, Wil… I’m a man.”

Wilfred rolled his eyes, but he smiled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Higgins, but I would like to speak to Rowly while he’s just vaguely sober.”

Milton overheard from the tabletop from which he had been making toasts and raised his glass yet again, declaring defiantly, “Fill all the glasses there for why, should every creature drink but I, why, Man of Morals, tell me why?”

“Cowley,” Rowland responded.

“Of course, you may speak with Rowly, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, removing Rowland’s hand from her waist. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you and Mrs. Sinclair. We are all just so happy that Ernest is home and safe.”

Wilfred nodded. “It’s not at all inappropriate, Miss Higgins. If Mr. Isaacs has not already ransacked my cellar, please let him know that he’s very welcome to do so.”

Wilfred beckoned his brother to follow, pausing only to ask Mrs. Kendall to bring a pot of coffee to his study as soon as possible.

It was in the hallway that Rowland first heard the screams. Wilfred only just grabbed him before he ran upstairs.

“Wil, that’s Kate!” he said. Clearly, she was being attacked.

“I know, Rowly,” Wilfred said calmly. “The baby’s coming. It is a couple of weeks early but, with all that’s happened…”

Another blood-curdling scream.

“For God’s sake, Wil, that can’t be right,” Rowland said, glancing up to the staircase. “We can’t just allow…”

“Her doctor and the midwives are with her, Rowly, don’t worry—it’s all well in hand.”

Rowland blanched as Kate screamed again. “What the hell are they doing to her?”

“I’m afraid this part of the business can be rather grim,” Wilfred said. “Let me assure you, Rowly, this is one occasion on which you cannot charge in to save the day.”

Rowland clenched his hands in his hair, horrified. “God Wil, how do you stand it?”

Wilfred sighed. “Usually, I drink. But right now I need you to sober up a little.”

He took Rowland into his study and, when the pot of coffee arrived, poured him a cup. “How’s your arm?” he asked.

“It stopped hurting a couple of drinks ago,” Rowland replied, hoping the coffee wasn’t going to reverse that particular effect. He told his brother where they had found Ernest and why he had thought to look there. Rowland braced himself for Wilfred’s fury, but he was honest about his part in it. “I’m sorry, Wil. I told Templeton about the folly to give him and Miss de Waring somewhere private to… meet.”

Wilfred blinked. “Look, Rowly,” he said finally. “I’m not thrilled that you felt the need to assist in the corruption of a young woman, but perhaps if Templeton hadn’t known about the folly, Ernie would, in fact, have ended up in the dam.” He closed his eyes. The thought was still too recently real. “I intend to say this again when you are not compromised by drink, but thank you. If Ernie had woken before you got there, he may have tried the door himself. Thank you for not despairing, as I had.”

Rowland flinched as another agonised scream penetrated the door of Wilfred’s study. It was by far, more sobering than the coffee. “How long does—?”

“Hard to say, but each of the boys took several hours.”

“Good Lord… I think I might need another drink.”

“Not yet. There are some people we need to talk to.”

“Now? Who?”

“Arthur and Lucy are waiting for us in the drawing room.”

36

ANOTHER PRINCE IN THE BRITISH ROYAL FAMILY

It is an interesting piece of news, especially to women. The arrival of a baby in any home—or should it be a private hospital?—is an item of conversation among the women in the neighbourhood. They must see the infant. Of course, it is cute—all babies are cute—and so, like its mother or father, even though it might not resemble either parent. This interest in other people’s children is a feminine characteristic. Father celebrates the arrival of a baby in a different way. He invites his friends to the bar counter for a drink, the ceremony being known as wetting the baby’s head. It is worthy of note that this enthusiasm on the part of father cools off as later children come to share his pay roll and add to his anxieties.

The News, 1935

E
lisabeth Sinclair had been entertaining her nephew and his fiancée while they waited. Lucy looked distressed and quite frightened by the sounds of childbirth which intermittently reached the drawing room. It was an awkward time to visit.

“Should I look in on Kate?” Elisabeth asked as she stood to leave. The nurse, now her shadow, stood also.

“No.” Wilfred was firm. “The doctor has it all in hand. You should try to get some sleep, Mother.”