Decline in Prophets (27 page)

“This is going to be a long month,” Rowland muttered.

“It’s only a month, mate,” Clyde said reassuringly. “How bad could it be?”

“I had beds for Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Jones put into your rooms, sir,” Mary Brown informed him.”

“I guess we should move a couple of easels up there,” Rowland said to Clyde. “We’ll need to paint somewhere. We’ll move the rest of our gear into Edna’s
studio.”

“The sculptures moved from the grounds have already been stored in Miss Higgins’ studio, sir,” the housekeeper warned. “It was rather a tight fit.”

Clyde smiled. “Ed’s going to love that,” he murmured.

“I suppose we’ll have to take them up to the attic,” Rowland sighed.

Since Mary Brown was clearly anxious to reorder the rooms, they removed their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and began the task of moving the heavy easels to new locations. Rowland’s
bedroom was large. Even with the extra beds there was enough room for two easels in front of the large arched window. More challenging was the bedroom’s situation on the third floor.

Thus, when Edna and Milton arrived back at the house, they found Rowland heaving a cumbersome, oak H-frame easel precariously up the staircase.

“Rowly,” Edna gasped as soon as she saw him. “I’m so glad you’re back. Put that down and come and look at this.” The sculptress waved
The Sydney Morning
Herald
in her hand.

Of course, Rowland was unable to put the easel down halfway up the stairs, so he was compelled to carry it down again. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck.
“What?”

Edna handed him the paper. “It’s horrible, Rowly. Poor Father Murphy.”

Rowland looked at the front page. The headline splashed, “Boxing Day Tragedy”. He read the subheading: “Deacon falls to his death from the belltower of St Patrick’s
College.” Father Murphy was dead.

25

R
owland returned the phone’s handpiece to its cradle, and turned towards his friends’ expectant faces.

“Delaney doesn’t seem to know a great deal,” he said. “Murphy appears to have fallen from the belltower late on Boxing Day. Nobody knows what he was doing up
there—his body wasn’t found for a couple of hours.”

“Did he jump?” Milton asked.

Rowland shrugged. “I gather that the police are being pressured to call it an accident.”

“But Delaney doesn’t think so?”

“Rather stretching the realms of coincidence, one would think,” Rowland replied, shaking his head. “Apparently the police are having a hard time getting any of the priests to
talk to them. There was some kind of ecumenical dinner that night—place was teeming with clergy but no one saw anything. The archbishop’s been on the phone to MacKay. Delaney’s
questioning all the seminarians and visiting clergy—trying to find out as much as he can about Murphy without getting excommunicated—apparently not easy.”

Clyde smiled. “You’re not suggesting the church has secrets?”

“Delaney would like us to speak to Bryan—see if he knows anything.”

“He’s deputising you?”

“Ed, actually. Bryan’s always been drawn to her,” Rowland replied. “What do you think?” he asked the sculptress, unsure how she’d feel about trying to extract
information from the deacon.

Edna shrugged. “Why don’t I invite him to dinner tomorrow—are they allowed out, do you think?” She looked to Clyde for an answer.

He looked back blankly. “I don’t know. He’s a grown man—surely he’s not a prisoner.”

“Just ask him,” Rowland advised. “Presumably, he’ll let us know if we need to break him out.”

Edna made the call and, as it turned out, Father Bryan was both able and willing to join them for dinner the following evening.

She put down the phone. “He seemed quite keen to get out of the Seminary.”

“No bloody wonder if they’re throwing priests from the belltower,” Milton observed.

Clyde shrugged. “Bryan’s a pretty regular sort of bloke in any case.”

Edna smiled prettily. “And so handsome.” She frowned at the tragedy of it. “It’s wasteful.”

They spent the rest of the day reversing the impact that their residency had made on
Woodlands House
. The timing was probably fortunate. Rowland was unsure how a clergyman, however
handsome, would view the more provocative pieces that usually adorned his walls. At the very least, it would make the poor man question his calling.

He went out to fetch Father Bryan from the ferry himself. Finally reunited with his beloved yellow Mercedes, he was enjoying being behind the wheel whenever possible, even if it was just a run
to the Quay. Edna came with him.

They waited in the car as the ferry docked and its passengers disembarked. Bryan, distinctive in the black suit and collar of priesthood, walked off the ferry in the company of another man. They
were in heated discussion.

Rowland climbed out of the Mercedes and squinted at the two men. “That’s Hu,” he said to Edna.

“Really? What’s he doing here? I didn’t know he knew Matthew.”

“Perhaps they met on the
Aquitania
,” Rowland suggested, though it was not something he could recall. Aside from Van Hook’s altercation with Bishop Hanrahan, the
Theosophists had generally given the clergymen a wide berth. He waved and caught their attention. “Father Bryan, Hu!”

Hubert Van Hook seemed a little startled at first, but he accompanied Bryan over to the car. He shook Rowland’s hand enthusiastically.

“Well, well, Sinclair… the people you meet standing on a dock.” He winked at Edna. “Hello doll. You been missing me?”

“Why Hu,” Edna jumped out of the car to greet the American and the priest. “How delightful to run into you. We’re just about to take Matthew back for dinner—you
must come, too.”

“Yes, do.” Rowland added.

“Well if it ain’t my lucky day!” Van Hook replied. “First I run into the Father here and then you two… and now an invitation to dine.”

“You’ll come then?”

“Swell! I don’t have my glad rags on, though,” he said, glancing at Rowland’s dinner suit. He moved on. “This your jalopy then, Sinclair?”

Rowland looked at him. Jalopy indeed. “Yes, she’s mine.”

Van Hook let out a low whistle. “You travel in style, Sinclair. I’ll say that much for you.”

And so they returned to
Woodland’s House
with an extra guest.

“Humpty-doo, Sinclair! What gives? You didn’t mention you were the ruddy president?” Van Hook exclaimed as they drove up the long winding drive with
Woodlands
looming
majestically before them.

Rowland laughed. “We don’t have a president, Hu.”

“No kidding. Who runs the joint then?”

“It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

Clyde and Milton met them at the front door and they went into the now pristine drawing room where Milton poured drinks.

Matthew Bryan studied the portrait of Henry Sinclair which dominated the room with its stern image. The likeness had been painted in its subject’s later years. Henry Sinclair’s hair
was grey; the years had lined his face with a kind of fierce severity, which silently and uncompromisingly declared power. Only his eyes, intensely blue, spoke of his youngest son.

“My late father,” Rowland said, as he handed the clergyman a glass of sherry.

Bryan inspected the painting closely from just inches away. “He looks like a gentleman of stature, a man of conviction.” His tone was approving, perhaps a little awed.

Rowland glanced up briefly. “Yes, I suppose he was.”

“Aside from your eyes, there’s little resemblance.”

“Rowly hasn’t any convictions,” Milton assured the clergyman casually. “Hasn’t even been arrested.”

“I’m glad you don’t look like him, Rowly,” Edna said, raising her eyes to the portrait. “I always thought him a little frightening.”

Rowland couldn’t imagine the sculptress being frightened of anybody. Still, his father had been quite accurately depicted. Henry Sinclair had died whilst Rowland was still a boy, but the
man in the portrait was the one he remembered.

Rowland noticed Mary Brown standing at the doorway, looking perceptibly put out. She still considered Henry Sinclair the master of
Woodlands
.

“Perhaps we should go in to dinner,” he suggested.

Edna took Matthew Bryan’s arm and led the way into the dining room. Despite the late addition of Hubert Van Hook, the table had been set elegantly and appropriately for a party of six; the
polished silverware placed precisely around china monogrammed with the Sinclair crest. They took their seats as soup was served. The conversation was, for most of the meal, light and
inconsequential.

When dinner was complete they returned to the drawing room, where Milton sat at the piano and Van Hook entertained with a repertoire from the music halls of America. Clyde was doing battle with
his pipe, which it appeared was uncommonly difficult to light. Whilst they were thus engaged in performance, Rowland and Edna spoke to Matthew Bryan of the death of his colleague.

“What was he doing in the belltower at that time of night?” Rowland asked.

Bryan shook his head. “It’s hard to know. He was looking for Bishop Hanrahan, but he wouldn’t have been in the belltower…”

“Bishop Hanrahan was there?” Rowland asked surprised.

“Just that evening,” Bryan confirmed.

“How long had Murphy been working for the bishop?”

“We were both assigned to His Grace about six months ago.”

“Poor Father Murphy,” Edna murmured. “What could have been so wrong that he…”

“Father Murphy was a man of God,” Bryan corrected her sharply. “Only the Heavenly Father has dominion over life or death—he would not have committed such a
sin.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…,” Edna started hastily.

“Surely you don’t think one of the other seminarians pushed him?” Rowland’s voice held a note of challenge. Every now and then the righteousness of the deacon irritated
him.

Bryan was unsettled. “Well no… an accident… he might have slipped…”

“We’ve been up there,” Rowland reminded him. “It’s hard to see how he could possibly have slipped over the balustrade.”

Bryan struggled. Finally, he said quietly, “Michael Murphy joined the church after some kind of romantic disappointment.”

“Did he confide in you, Matthew?” Edna asked.

“More poor Isobel than me. They were both from Dublin, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Rowland replied. “Not about Father Murphy at least.” He lowered his eyes. “Isobel, where was she…?”

“Rookwood,” Bryan told him. “Isobel was laid to rest in Rookwood. It wasn’t a big funeral.”

“What do you think happened, Matthew?” Edna asked. “To Father Murphy and to Isobel?”

Matthew Bryan was visibly uncomfortable. For a while he said nothing, and then, he chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult to say. I would not slander either of them. Neither
would I wish to defame those around them. I think it was a sad and tragic episode. It’s hard to know what evil lurks in friendly guise.”

Rowland glanced at Edna.

“What on earth are you talking about, Matthew?” she demanded.

Matthew Bryan smiled. “It is not a conversation for such pleasant company,” he said, sipping his brandy. He turned towards the impromptu recital being rendered by Milton and Van
Hook. “Particularly when we are being so well entertained.”

“I think you’re using the term ‘well’ rather loosely,” Rowland muttered.

Edna tried again to bring the clergyman back to Michael Murphy’s sad end, but he would no longer be drawn on the subject.

“Leave it,” Rowland whispered in her ear as he drew her away. He did not want Bryan to feel interrogated, and it was unlikely that a man in his position would say more.

They passed the remainder of the evening casually, talking mainly of cricket and films. The subjects of Isobel Hanrahan and Father Murphy were now both politely and conspicuously avoided.

Rowland stood to drive his guests home, whilst there was still time to make the last Manly ferry.

Bryan and Van Hook took their leave of Edna and Clyde whilst Rowland brought round the car. The Mercedes’ Teutonic engine was loud in the stillness of the hour, disrupting the peace of
leafy Woollahra with its attention-seeking roar. Milton climbed into the back with Van Hook, and Father Bryan took the seat beside Rowland.

The ferry had already docked when they reached Circular Quay. Bryan jumped out, waving them away as he boarded the craft.

Hubert Van Hook was staying at
The Manor
in Mosman, also on the other side of the harbour. It was a fair drive but Van Hook had missed the last ferry and as the Harbour Bridge had been
opened only just before they had gone abroad, crossing it was yet a novelty.

“And so how are you getting on with Charles Leadbeater?” Rowland asked, turning the Mercedes into
The Manor’s
driveway. The large federation mansion, the Australian
headquarters of the Theosophical movement, was outwardly traditional, overlooking the harbour from one of Sydney’s most conservative addresses.