Decline in Prophets (37 page)

Rowland had forgotten. He told Delaney of the conversation they’d overheard the day before between Richard Waterman and Charles Leadbeater.

“Well, that is interesting,” Delaney mused. He tapped his fingers on the table.

“The first murder,” he said suddenly, flicking back through his notebook to find the name. “Orville Urquhart. Tell me what you know about him again.”

“Raised in the movement, like Hu,” Rowland replied.

“How did Van Hook get on with him.”

“I gathered they were not friends.”

“Urquhart was involved with Isobel Hanrahan,” Milton volunteered, apparently unsure of whether Rowland’s good manners would keep him from mentioning this.

“Was he the father of…?”

“I guess only Isobel really knew.” Edna answered as the men beside her were clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “But I don’t think she’d known him for long
enough. My guess is that she was in trouble before she ever boarded the
Aquitania
.”

“This is where Father Murphy may be our man,” nodded Delaney. Rowland had called him previously with what they had discovered of Murphy’s past connection with Isobel Hanrahan.
“The coroner estimates that Isobel Hanrahan was at least three-and-a-half months pregnant when she died. It can’t have been anyone she met on the boat.” Delaney looked directly at
Rowland here.

Rowland did not respond. To his mind the matter had been concluded beyond any sort of public speculation with Isobel’s confession that he could not have been the father.

“Have you determined what happened to Father Murphy, Detective Delaney?” Edna asked.

Delaney shrugged. “Well, he didn’t slip.” He rubbed his nose. “Van Hook and the girl—did they know each other?”

“I don’t think so.” Rowland was intrigued by the question. “Why?”

“It’s the only thing that doesn’t fit with Van Hook… but I suppose we could be looking at two different murderers.”

“You think Hu killed the Theosophists?”

Delaney pulled a folder from the briefcase at his feet. “We’ve been checking backgrounds since I spoke to you prior to Christmas… we had to send abroad which held things
up—but we found some interesting things about your Mr. Van Hook.” He opened the folder and pulled out a photograph. “This was taken before the war.”

Rowland looked carefully at the picture. A younger Charles Leadbeater stood at its centre with a number of boys about him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Rowland spent so much time
studying and painting faces, he might not have recognised the youthful visages. As it was, he thought he could pick Orville Urquhart. Even as a child there was something arrogant about his face,
the way he posed in front the bespectacled boy beside him. A couple of the other faces seemed familiar too, but most of all he recognised the young Hubert Van Hook, standing with Leadbeater’s
hands on his shoulders.

“That boy there,” Delaney pointed at Van Hook, “is the child Leadbeater first declared as the World Prophet.”

“But that’s Hu.” Clyde took the photo from Rowland and examined it closely.

“It seems that Leadbeater’s identification of her son as prophet convinced Mrs. Van Hook to leave Mr. Van Hook and take the boy to India for training,” Delaney said shaking his
head. “And then of course, Leadbeater changed his mind.”

“So it was Hu, not Krishnamurti, who accused Leadbeater of indecency,” Rowland pondered.

“It seems,” Delaney pulled out various reports on the matter. “Said Leadbeater misused him. Leadbeater was cleared—apparently young Orville Urquhart spoke in his defence.
Essentially, he called Van Hook a liar.”

“That explains why Hu hated Urquhart, I guess.” Rowland was reluctant. Despite everything, he liked Hubert Van Hook.

“Why would Hu want to kill Rowly?” Edna asked.

“Dunno.” Delaney looked at Rowland. “Did he have a problem with you?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t see him…”

“Perhaps he wanted to be World Prophet again,” Clyde suggested. “Maybe that’s his gripe with you, mate.”

Rowland shook his head. “I still can’t believe…”

“Well, where is he?” Milton demanded. “He arranged for you to be here, Rowly.”

“We’re looking for him,” Delaney assured them. “My guess is he’s on the run—but we’ll flush him out.”

“And till then?”

“You should be careful, Sinclair. Don’t agree to any more meetings.”

Rowland leant back in his chair casually. “If it was Hu, he’s a bloody awful shot. In at least ten shots he’s only managed to get Leadbeater.”

Delaney checked his watch. “I’d better get back to headquarters.”

“What about Leadbeater?” Milton asked. “Is he going to pull through?”

“I’ll keep you posted.” Delaney stood. “You folks go home and keep a low profile. I’ll increase the patrols near your house.”

Detective Constable Delaney walked them out to the Mercedes. “I’ll have the boys clear out the reporters so you can get out without being front page again.”

Rowland shook his hand. “Thank you, Colin—you know where to reach me.”

“Of course.” Delaney smiled faintly. “Technically speaking, you’re still a suspect.”

35

“G
od, Rowly!” Wilfred slammed his fist on the desk in frustration. “How can a grown man stumble from one compromising situation
to another?”

“I’m not particularly happy about it either, Wil.”

“You’re not happy about it! You don’t intend it! And yet you carry on moving around in the midst of your own personal crime wave!”

Rowland rubbed his forehead. His head throbbed again. He really just wanted to shower and change. His waistcoat was still spattered with Leadbeater’s blood.

“Kate’s upset, the Bairds are about to declare war, I’ve spent the entire morning trying to keep you from being blackballed from every respectable establishment in the state;
and now, it looks like it’s just going to get worse!”

“I’m sorry,” Rowland said quietly. He was sorry. He felt bad for Kate.

Wilfred leant back in his chair. “Damn it, Rowly, if Father were alive, he would have had you committed by now!”

Despite himself, Rowland smiled. Wilfred was right. Their father would not have been nearly so understanding. Henry Sinclair might well have sought a clinical solution for the behaviour of his
youngest son.

“What would you have me do, Wil?”

“Nothing! I don’t want you to do anything at all!” Wilfred sat forward. He spoke slowly, uncompromisingly. “Until we’ve got through this christening, I don’t
want you to leave the house. If you can’t step out of the door without getting into some sort of trouble, well then you can bloody well stay here!”

Under normal circumstances Rowland would not have tolerated such directives from Wilfred or anyone else—but Delaney had already advised him to keep a low profile and Ewan’s
christening was the next day. Still, he did not agree graciously.

He stormed out of the library gladly, and took the stairs two at a time to his own rooms. The prattle of relatives gathered in conversation on the landing faded as he approached. Rowland nodded
but otherwise ignored them. His house had become a hotel of sorts and he had no doubt that the guests found the warring Sinclair brothers entertaining, if nothing else.

He had showered and changed, and was in the process of searching for a suitable tie, when Clyde came in.

“If you’re looking for your navy tie, Milt borrowed it,” he said, as he closed the door.

“Oh…” Rowland pulled a green one from the rack instead, and slung it around his neck.

Clyde cleared a space before one of the easels placed in front of the bay window, and began rummaging through his paintbox for colours.

“How did it go?” he asked, as he set out a basic palette. Wilfred had summoned Rowland as soon as they had walked in the door.

“It appears I’m under house arrest.”

“Delaney?” Clyde asked, surprised. “He doesn’t seriously suspect…?”

Rowland smiled. “No, it’s Wil.”

“Well at least
Woodlands
is a bit more comfortable than the central lock-up.”

“There is that… where are Milt and Ed?”

“Milt’s taking some girl out to the pictures—he just left. Ed is showing your Aunt Mildred the photos from our trip abroad.”

“Aunt Mildred?” Was there no one the sculptress could not charm? “I’d better go down, in case she needs rescuing,” he murmured.

Clyde laughed. “Mate, you can’t rescue Ed.”

“Nevertheless,” he replied, adjusting the knot of his tie, “a man’s obliged to try.”

Edna was in the drawing room that had been his studio, with Mildred and Kate. Boxes of photographs sat on the coffee table and the three women were on the couch chatting over a selection that
Edna had taken in London. Mildred was expounding on how aspects of the city had changed since she had last been home to England.

“Rowly, hello.” Edna greeted him brightly. “You’re all cleaned up then?”

“Cleaned up?” Mildred’s ears were sharp. “What have you been doing that you need cleaning up in the middle of the day?”

“Artists!” Edna replied without missing a beat. “They’re always covered in paint.”

Mildred sniffed. Clearly, artists did not warrant her good opinion. Rowland smiled. His aunt might have preferred to know he was covered in blood.

“I didn’t realise you’d taken so many pictures, Ed.”

“Oh there were more… these are just the ones that came out properly… I was just sorting them into boxes… I’m thinking of having an exhibition.”

“Of photographs? Surely not?”

“Oh Rowly, don’t be so territorial. I’m sure there’ll always be some sort of place for you painters.”

“How comforting.”

“I’m sure your brother could find you an appropriate position, Rowland,” Mildred Sinclair intoned from the couch. “Something with prospects.”

Rowland chose to ignore her. He sat down and shuffled through a pile of photos from the
Aquitania
as he listened to a surprisingly amiable conversation between his Aunt Mildred and the
younger women. He’d always found her an old dragon. Clyde was right. Edna didn’t need rescuing.

He glanced through photos of their staterooms, the decks, various members of the crew. Milton, Clyde and himself posing in front of lifeboats, playing shuffleboard, and at the swimming bath.
Annie Besant with Krishnamurti and Urquhart. He studied a photo of Isobel with Fathers Bryan and Murphy. There was something about that photo that caught his particular attention, but exactly why,
he wasn’t sure.

“Katie… oh, Aunt Mildred, Miss Higgins. What are you ladies doing?”

Rowland looked up as Wilfred came in.

“Edna’s just showing us the pictures from abroad,” Kate replied. “Come and have a look, Wil.” She glanced anxiously from her husband to his brother. It was in her
nature to make peace where she could.

Wilfred took the armchair beside Rowland’s. There was a small box of photos on the floor near Edna’s feet. He took those.

Edna started. “Mr. Sinclair, those are…”

She left it. Wilfred was already looking through them—the pictures she’d taken in France. Rowland hadn’t seen them yet.

Wilfred worked through the sheaf engrossed—Ypres. The Menin Gate. The grave of Aubrey Sinclair.

“My God, Ypres,” he said quietly. “You didn’t tell me you…”

“Of course I did,” Rowland replied, glancing uneasily at the photograph his brother held. He hadn’t been aware that Edna had taken it.

Wilfred stared at a picture of Rowland standing by the white cross that bore the name of Lieutenant Sinclair. “I’m glad you did.” He smiled faintly. “Aubrey would have
got a shock—you were just a lad when we sailed.” Wilfred shook his head as if he had only just realised. “You do look like Aubrey, you know. It’s uncanny.”

Rowland said nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being his brother’s physical twin.

They talked for a while of the war cemetery at Ypres, the town and the people. Rowland wondered what Wilfred was really thinking. His brother never spoke of the war, what he had seen, what he
had done. He never spoke of Aubrey as a soldier though, for time at least, the Sinclairs had served together.

Eventually Wilfred stood. “Come on, Rowly, Ernie’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“We’re going to William Street. Ernie’s so taken with that Fritz monstrosity of yours that I thought it’s about time we updated.”