Decline in Prophets (38 page)

“And you want me to come? It’ll mean leaving the house you know.”

“Don’t be smart, Rowly,” Wilfred said, irritably. “You seem to know a bit about motors—you may as well make yourself useful.”

Rowland stood. He recognised the olive branch. “Of course.”

Wilfred still held the photograph of Rowland at Aubrey’s grave in Ypres. “Miss Higgins, would you mind if I kept this?”

“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair.”

“What picture is that, Wilfred?” Mildred asked. Her hearing was not the best and distracted by Kate and Edna, she had not caught the conversation of her nephews. “Why do you
want it?”

Wilfred slid the photograph into his jacket. “It’s just a photograph of Rowly, Aunt Mildred.”

“I should think we’ve seen quite enough pictures of Rowland in the papers,” Mildred said haughtily. “It’s altogether unseemly—your father would certainly have
had something to say about it.”

“But Rowly takes such a lovely picture,” Edna said smiling impishly at Rowland, who had become resigned to this kind of open censure. “He’s really rather
photogenic.”

“The Sinclairs once knew what it was to be respectable. It’s a shame poor Henry didn’t live long enough to show you a firmer hand, Rowland—our good name has suffered for
it!” Mildred continued regardless. “Of course, that’s just my opinion, but we are all entitled to an opinion.”

“You were telling us about your time in Italy, Aunt Mildred,” Kate intervened.

“We should be off,” Wilfred decided. “Let’s go, Rowly.”

And so the Sinclair brothers spent the afternoon in the luxury motor showrooms of William Street. Rowland tried valiantly to interest Wilfred in the latest Buicks and Cadillacs, even the
celebrated Hispano-Suiza, but the elder Sinclair remained determined that only the British could build cars. There was a moment of tension when Rowland informed his brother that the Armstrong
Siddeley did not amount to “updating”. Wilfred dismissed the supercharged “Blower” Bentley as a racecar designed for “young louts”, and inevitably they found
themselves back in the more staid Rolls-Royce dealership, in which the Sinclairs were well known.

In the end, Wilfred Sinclair purchased a Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental. As a somewhat reluctant concession to the modern tastes of his brother and son, he did take the unprecedented step of
buying the floor model, which was British Racing Green. The car was a bargain of sorts, having been originally ordered and commissioned by a Sydney surgeon called Waterman, who had since fallen on
hard times.

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E
rnest Sinclair giggled. The child was normally so solemn that Rowland was almost startled. They were reading Paterson’s
The Animals Noah
Forgot
. The book would not be published for a few months, but Rowland had procured a signed, advance copy from Norman Lindsay who had illustrated the volume. It was to be a christening gift for
his youngest nephew but, as was often the way with such things, it was Ewan’s elder brother who was getting the benefit of the book.

“Read another one, Uncle Rowly. The one about the Pladipus.”

“Platypus. I think we’ll be going soon, mate.”

“Oh.” Ernest frowned. “Will it take long?”

“I’m afraid so, Ernie, but it’s got to be done.”

“Why?”

Kate saved him from what was getting dangerously close to a theological question by arriving with Ewan in her arms. The child was dressed in the long, linen christening gown that had now been
worn by three generations of Sinclairs. A piece of shortbread was pinned by a ribbon to the heavily smocked bodice—apparently a Scottish tradition.

Lucy Bennett flounced in behind them, wearing a pink dress printed with some kind of large swirling floral. Rowland wondered if it was chintz.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Doesn’t Ewan look just delectable?”

Rowland glanced at Ewan who was drooling on his frills.

“Quite.”

Kate smiled. “All the Sinclair men are frightfully handsome—don’t you think so, Lucy?”

Lucy blushed and laughed. Rowland cringed. Why was Lucy Bennett the only person in Sydney who didn’t read the
Truth
?

In her way, Kate Sinclair organised for her eligible brother-in-law and the marriageable Lucy to travel to the church together. Consequently Rowland arrived at St Mark’s, Darling Point, in
a state of amused irritation. For the first time in his life, the church was a refuge. Once inside the gothic chapel they could go about the business of getting Ewan christened and he would no
longer have to listen to the tedious adventures of Lucy Bennett.

The church was already full of Sinclairs, Bairds and their related families. Kate’s people had chosen a more conventional attire for this occasion, but they had compensated by installing a
lone piper near the font. They clutched their Presbyterian bibles in front of them like some sort of shield against the corrupting extravagances of the Church of England.

Rowland shifted uncomfortably under disapproving austere gazes from pews of Bairds. It was as if he had sprouted horns. He glanced up at the triptych of arched, stained-glass windows at the head
of the church and thanked the Lord that they weren’t his in-laws.

Despite the dubious reputation of his uncle and godfather, young Ewan Dougal Baird Sinclair was quite adequately christened into the Church of England, without incident.

The families both returned to
Woodlands House
for a celebratory luncheon. By two in the afternoon, Ewan, and the more elderly members of the Sinclair family, were having afternoon naps.
The remainder gathered in various parlours and sunrooms, playing cards, drinking tea and reminiscing. The garden became a sanctuary, free of relatives.

“The Bairds left rather early,” Edna whispered as she lined up the wooden ball with her mallet. “Is it because of you?”

Rowland shook his head. “No—they’re going to church.”

Edna took her shot, knocking Rowland’s ball into the roses. “Wasn’t that where you were all morning?”

Rowland smiled. “They don’t feel like they’ve been to church apparently—they’ve gone to the Presbyterian chapel in Edgecliff.”

“Oh, they’re very pious.”

“More belligerent than pious, I think.” Rowland retrieved his ball. “It’s rather a team sport, this religion thing.”

“Colin Delaney called,” Edna said, changing the subject. “Mr. Leadbeater is still unconscious but he’s alive.”

“Have they found Hu?”

“No—they think that the Theosophists may be hiding him. He wants you to be careful until they arrest him.”

Rowland frowned. He still couldn’t believe Hubert Van Hook wished him dead—it didn’t make sense.

Edna laughed, poking him playfully with the handle of her mallet. “You look a bit like Wilfred when you scowl.”

It was midnight.
Woodlands
was quiet. Even the servants were asleep. Rowland closed the door of his bedroom quietly behind him. He had dressed hurriedly and in the dark
after tossing sleeplessly for the few hours since he retired. It had been just a thought, but it plagued him. He had not wished to wake Milton and Clyde on what might be a fruitless fancy.

Under normal circumstances, he may have wandered down in his robe—it was his house after all. He was, however, unsure of the nocturnal habits of his houseguests. The sight of a man in
pyjamas and a robe could well shock his Aunt Mildred into a heart attack, or at least a scene.

He knocked gently on Edna’s door. There was no answer. Turning the handle carefully, he went in. The bed was still made and the sculptress was not there. Rowland did not stop to wonder who
she was with. Edna did not belong to him, and she would walk away if he ever let her suspect how deeply he loved her. He’d learned to shut his mind to her lovers. Somehow he’d accepted
that Edna was not his, though not that she might never be.

He found her boxes of photographs. Stacking them atop one another, he carried them downstairs.

Rowland went through the boxes, quickly finding the collection he was after. There was something there—he was sure. The pictures from the
Aquitania
—the photograph of Isobel
and the deacons, and the other of Annie and Urquhart which had caught his attention before he had been distracted by Wilfred.

He stared at them under the light and laughed. It seemed obvious now.

Lenin whined and nudged his leg insistently.

“Len, go away… What? Do you need to go outside, mate?”

He put the photographs into his pocket and moved into the hallway. “Come on then, I’ll open the back door—just don’t start barking or Wil will have us both.”

He let the dog out through the conservatory. Insistently eager to get away, Lenin bolted into the grounds as soon as the door was opened.

Rowland cursed. He would have to go out and find Lenin now, or the dog would start barking as soon as he lost interest in the rabbit or whatever it was that he was currently chasing.

He ducked back into the kitchen to find a torch and shortly thereafter emerged into the grounds in search of his hound. Faintly, he could hear the high-pitched squealing sound Lenin made when he
was particularly excited and happy. Rowland was surprised. He didn’t think his ungainly, track-rejected dog would actually ever catch a rabbit.

He headed off towards the sound.

“Len, Lenin—here boy,” he called softly. Just more joyous squeals in response.

He was coming towards the old tack shed that Edna used as a studio. It was a fair way from the main building and, at the moment, crammed with the sculptures that had been removed from the garden
and the paintings banished as unsuitable, during the transformation of
Woodlands
back into a house of repute.

The beam which lit his way had not yet revealed the dog, or the source of Lenin’s happiness. He reached the tack shed—where the hell was…?

Someone grabbed him from behind. A thick wad of material pressed against his face. Rowland reacted fiercely, twisting to get himself free. The assailant had the advantage, pulling him backwards
till he fell heavily onto the cobblestone path. Still the material was clamped against his face. He couldn’t shout, he couldn’t breathe. Lenin was growling but the dog was obviously
restrained. Rowland’s lungs felt ready to burst. His attacker was saying something but now there was a roaring in his ears as he struggled for breath… and then the sounds grew faint
and he knew nothing more.

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