Decline in Prophets (33 page)

“He’s waiting in the conservatory,” Milton informed him.

“What! You let him in… if someone sees him…” Rowland made for the door.

“Steady on, Rowly. I’m not a fool. Your guests are all on the verandah… I sent Ed and Clyde in to make sure they stay away from the conservatory.”

“I’d better go down and tell Jeffs to sod off then,” Rowland muttered.

Milton replied quickly, seriously. “Don’t be stupid, Rowly. You don’t want to insult Jeffs. He’ll slash you to pieces in front of your entire family and he’ll still
beat the rap.”

Rowland cursed Leadbeater. The old fool had no idea of the trouble he’d caused. This was an absurd predicament. “Fine, I’ll tell him to sod off politely.”

Phil Jeffs was not alone in the conservatory. There was a young woman with him. Overtly beautiful, she, like Jeffs, was stylishly attired. Jeffs had made himself comfortable, seated in a wicker
armchair with his feet upon another.

“Sinclair!” he said, a grin spreading across his dark features. “Or should I say
Your Majesty
.”

“Sinclair will be just fine,” Rowland replied.

Jeffs jumped to his feet and offered Rowland his hand. “Just came by to offer yer my congratulations. Don’t want nobody saying that
The Jew
don’t observe the
proprieties.”

Glancing at Milton, Rowland shook the man’s hand. “Very considerate of you, Mr. Jeffs, but I’m afraid there’s been some sort of mistake…”

Jeffs waved off his words. “I’ve brung you something to celebrate yer recent elevation,” he said, smiling smugly. “Come over here, Nellie.”

The young woman stood and taking a final drag on her cigarette, she walked over to them. The smoke curled softly from her scarlet lips. She moved elegantly, and regarded Rowland with large China
blue eyes. .

“May I present, Miss Nellie Cameron. Yer won’t find a better looking dame in Sydney.”

Nellie Cameron smiled and put out a gloved hand. “So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sinclair.” She was soft-spoken, her accent refined… her presence with Jeffs the
only sign that she was anything but well bred.

“Likewise, Miss Cameron,” Rowland replied, giving no indication of his growing alarm. Nellie Cameron had a reputation almost equal to Jeffs’.

“I knew you’d take to her,” Jeffs sprouted triumphantly. “Nell grew up posh you know. Reckon she knows a few things about how to please a swank gentleman such as yer good
self.” He pushed Nellie Cameron into Rowland. “With me compliments, Sinclair.”

“I’m afraid…,” Rowland started as Jeffs’ gift stroked his shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” Nellie interrupted. “I can be gentle.”

Milton choked on a laugh.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” Rowland repeated, glaring at Milton.

“Yer’ll need to keep this on the quiet though, Sinclair,” Jeffs warned. “Nell’s old man don’t like her making arrangements if he ain’t getting his cut.
Frank’s gotta bit of a temper where Nell’s concerned.”

“Don’t you worry, darling,” Nellie crooned. “Frank’s inside at the moment. We can keep this between ourselves.”

“We’re going to be late, Rowly,” Milton said pointedly. “I believe His Honour is already in the drawing room… you know the judge doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.”

Rowland accepted the lifeline. “I have a rather pressing engagement, I’m afraid,” he said firmly. “As kind as it is, I’ll have to decline your…
invitation.”

Nellie looked affronted. Despite his part in the offer, Jeffs was clearly delighted by her discomfit. “Been a while since yer were turned down, eh Nell? Losin’ yer edge, I
reckon…”

“Please don’t be offended Miss Cameron.” Rowland tried to keep the encounter pleasant. “Regrettably,, I do have a previous appointment… did you come by taxi? Why
don’t I have Johnston drive you home…?”

Phil Jeffs chuckled. “Fair enough, Sinclair.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Just yer remember to call on
The Jew
if yer need any devine intervention on yer
behalf.”

“Yes, of course… thank you.”

Later, Rowland would wonder how on earth he managed to get
Phil the Jew
and Nellie Cameron out of his house without a scene. It might have been that the idea of arriving back at
Darlinghurst in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce pleased her, or maybe she was simply uncomfortable with the magistrate “waiting” in the drawing room. Or perhaps the whole thing had been
Jeffs’ idea of a joke. At that particular moment, however, Rowland didn’t especially care why they went, just that they did.

Milton ushered the pair out of the house by a side entrance so that they slipped anonymously into the black saloon before it passed the gathering of Sinclairs at the front of the house.

Rowland headed back upstairs to once again change his shirt, the collar of which, he fortuitously noticed, had somehow become smeared with red. Nellie’s scarlet lipstick, no doubt. He was
muttering and cursing when Milton checked in on him.

“It’s all right, Rowly, they’re gone.”

Rowland shook his head. The day was just getting worse.

Milton tried to distract him. “Where were you this morning? What happened to you?”

Rowland told him the events at Rookwood.

“Bloody hell!” Milton sat down on the bed. “He hit you with an angel? Why would Hu want to kill you?”

“I don’t know that he did. I could very well be wrong and in any case he might have been trying to warn me.”

“If that were the case, why didn’t he help you out, or at least check that you weren’t dead?”

Rowland shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll catch up with Hu at Leadbeater’s—I’ll ask him.”

“We’ll do more than bloody ask him.” Milton stood and, pushing Rowland away from the mirror, began fussing with his cravat. “I think Clyde and I had better go with you.
Grab my green velvet jacket from the wardrobe, will you, Rowly.”

Rowland obliged, looking on dubiously as Milton fitted a feather to the front of his favourite black beret. Now that they were back in Sydney, Milton’s attire had returned to its previous
flamboyance. Rowland thought of Charles Leadbeater. At least the poet wasn’t wearing a cape.

Clyde and Edna were still on the verandah taking tea with the Rowland’s new houseguests, when he and Milton finally emerged. The sculptress seemed perfectly at home, chatting happily with
rounded vowels, and pouring tea as Kate handed young Ewan among the ladies. To Rowland, Edna appeared to treat any interactions with the Sinclairs as an opportunity for theatre. Clyde sat
uncomfortably, and quietly, with a dainty teacup in his large calloused hands. Ernest peered out from under the table, safe behind the crisp fall of white linen.

The conversation was being dominated by Roger Castlemaine, a cousin of Rowland’s father. A man well in his seventies, he considered himself the family patriarch, and dispensed loud advice
like a font of conservative wisdom. They entered at the end of a monologue. “… of course that was during the real war. It’s not something you lads would understand.”

Rowland glanced at Wilfred who maintained a stony-faced mask of stoic civility. Castlemaine’s
real war
was the Boer War—the old man had always considered the Great War a
skirmish of sorts, during which the Empire had given in to the more brutish warfare of lesser peoples. It was one of his favourite subjects.

Rowland suppressed a surge of ire—if Wilfred could endure the old fool, then he could do likewise. His head was throbbing again, however. Courtesy demanded that he spend some time greeting
his guests despite his impatience to confront Leadbeater.

He welcomed them each politely, making vague enquiries and giving equally vague responses to theirs. Milton took a seat beside Wilfred, who studiously ignored him. The poet seemed to find that
amusing.

Rowland sat beside his mother, casually deflecting any questions about the
Truth
article as “nonsense”. His Aunt Mildred, who had a nose for scandal, was persistent, but
Rowland had become expert in evading the inquisitive probing of his relatives.

“And how precisely are you occupying yourself these days, Rowland? Your father had always thought you suited to the legal profession.”

“Had he? He was mistaken, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense, Henry was never mistaken. He would be most disturbed that you have not yet settled down.”

“Just weighing my options, Aunt Mildred.”

“Young people these days have too many options.” Mildred wagged a gnarled finger at her nephew. “It will be your undoing… that’s just my opinion but I’m
entitled to it.”

“For goodness sake, Millie, leave the poor boy alone!” Elisabeth Sinclair patted Rowland’s hand. “Aubrey’s always made Henry very proud.”

There was only a slight pause. Rowland barely blinked.

“I don’t know how proud Henry would be right now,” Mildred went on, ignoring the fact that she and Elisabeth were talking about different men. “It does not pay to be
careless of one’s reputation.”

“Ernie, come out from there and show Aunt Mildred your yo-yo.”

“Your reputation is very important, you know.”

“He’s really getting to be quite clever with it—show everybody that whirling thing you do.”

Ernest obliged.

“A man’s reputation is… oh my Lord!”

It was probably not the best place to be whirling a wooden object about one’s head. The impact was inevitable: shattering the Royal Doulton teapot and sending the tepid brew in all
directions. Mildred screamed and sat down, lamenting her nerves, as Mary Brown emerged to see that the mess was cleaned up and a fresh pot made with the minimum of fuss. The conversation moved from
Rowland’s reputation to china patterns.

Rowland pulled Ernest onto his lap. “Well done, mate,” he whispered.

The boy nodded solemnly. “Uncle Rowly,” he asked gravely. “What happened to your repustation?”

“Reputation, Ernie. Met the same fate as that teapot, I think.”

“Can you paste it?”

“It will probably always leak.”

He kept Ernest on his lap after that, in the hope that the boy’s yo-yo would fend off his Aunt Mildred at least.

Eventually he stood, hoisting his nephew over the rail of the verandah and on to the lawn so that the boy too could escape.

“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to this afternoon, so you’ll have to excuse me…,” Rowland began.

Stanley Onslow, an uncle on his mother’s side, laughed, a vibrating, jarring cackle that was hard to overlook. “I can only imagine what kind of business you young men are engaged
in,” he said in a whisper that was too loud and pointed for discretion. The genteel gathering tittered. Aunt Mildred seemed about to unleash another diatribe on reputation.

“Now Stanley, you mind your manners.” His wife, a matron of extensive girth, spoke reflexively, as if it was an admonishment she made often.

In response, Onslow lowered his voice and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, as he looked meaningfully at Edna. “I must say, old man, I like the look of the business
you’re doing here.”

Now Rowland bristled immediately. “Just what do you mean?”

“I’ve asked Rowly to take care of some matters for me,” Wilfred intervened, standing to place a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You best be on your way,
Rowly.”

Clyde put down his cup and stood hastily, in case they should attempt to leave without him.

Rowland felt a touch of guilt over abandoning Edna to contend alone with his family, but the sculptress seemed entirely unperturbed by the notion. The conversation had moved now to polo and Edna
was doing an admirable job of feigning interest.

“The reception commences at seven sharp,” Wilfred informed him quietly. “Just make sure you’re back in plenty of time… and let Leadbeater know that if he
doesn’t retract his nonsense he will be hearing from our lawyers.”

They walked briskly outside, relieved to finally get away. Rowland told Clyde about
Phil the Jew
and Nellie Cameron. Clyde whistled in disbelief. “Good thing you got rid of them
Rowly. You would have been exuding a lot more than an aura if old Frank Green had got wind of this. He slashed the last bloke who messed around with Nellie.”

“If I’d accepted Miss Cameron’s offer, I have no doubt Wilfred would have beaten him to it.”

Milton slipped eagerly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. It was not a liberty he would normally have taken; Rowland rarely gave up the wheel of his beloved car. On this occasion,
however, Rowland was still suffering the after-effects of the morning’s assault.

The generous Teutonic engine roared to life—she was not a subtle machine. It was only as they were driving out in full view of the verandah that it occurred to Rowland that his brother
would have preferred he use the Rolls-Royce, at least while the family was at
Woodlands.
The German origin of the S-class Mercedes-Benz had always been a cause of contention between the
Sinclair brothers.

There were still a couple of persistent reporters outside the gate. Milton engaged the supercharger and gave them little chance to photograph Theosophy’s latest World Prophet.

The mid-afternoon traffic was light in the city and they made good time across the Harbour Bridge and then to Mosman. To Rowland’s dismay there were also several reporters outside the
entrance to
The Manor
.

“Open up! It’s His Holiness, come to see Mr. Leadbeater,” Milton called to the man at the gate.

“For God’s sake, Milt, shut up,” Rowland muttered as he observed a reporter scribble the statement down.

The gates were opened immediately and the yellow Mercedes pulled up to the entrance of
The Manor
.

It seemed Rowland’s new status had some benefits for they were admitted without question and shown directly to Leadbeater’s study. The Theosophist was not alone and appeared to be
engaged in some form of heated exchange, audible through a slightly ajar door.

“Look, you bloody fool—if you don’t listen to me you’ll end up like Frannie.”

“I really don’t see what more I can do, Richard,” Leadbeater’s voice was calm in reply.

“Well, don’t say you weren’t warned, you mad bastard…”