Decline in Prophets (4 page)

“All right, Yates,” the captain instructed. “Proceed.”

The doctor pulled back the canvas.

Rowland was aware that both Madding and Yates were watching his reaction carefully.

Urquhart was in the boat. He was dead. Still in his dinner suit, the Englishman’s shirt was soaked crimson, and the bottom of the lifeboat was pooled with blood. His eyes were open,
vacant. His face was bruised, but it had been attended to—his nose still bandaged. Protruding from his neck was a silver-handled walking stick.

Edna, who had come forward, stifled a scream. “Orville!”

“Dr. Yates,” Madding prompted.

Yates put a handkerchief over the handle of the stick and pulled it out. It squelched. The stick had been snapped, splintered. The jagged end had been used to impale the unfortunate
Urquhart.

“Is this your walking stick, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Yes, I think it probably is.”

3

M
ilton was the first to break the heavy silence. “You couldn’t possibly think Rowly…,” he started.

“I treated Mr. Urquhart for a broken nose and other injuries just after eleven last night,” Yates interrupted, holding the remnants of Rowland’s stick. “We have to deduce
that he was killed sometime between then and now.”

Brilliant! The doctor fancied himself a detective. Rowland shook his head.

“You understand that we are still three days from port and the authorities, Mr. Sinclair.” Madding still gazed at him. “I am responsible for the safety of my
passengers.”

“I had nothing to do with this, Captain,” Rowland said calmly.

“It is your walking stick…”

“I left my stick somewhere last night,” Rowland responded. “I had already dealt with Mr. Urquhart—I had no reason to kill him. I certainly would not have chosen such a
barbaric way of doing so.”

“How does one kill a man politely, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Dr. Yates,” Rowland said, beginning to get mildly alarmed by the situation. “Would you give the handle of my stick a sharp twist and pull on it?”

Yates looked for the captain’s consent and, having got it, did so. The handle pulled off completely to reveal a six-inch blade which slid into the hollowed shaft of the stick.

“An interesting walking stick, Mr. Sinclair.”

“It was a gift from a friend who finds such curiosities amusing,” Rowland replied, without so much as glancing at Milton. The poet had found the stick somewhere in France, just as
Rowland was discarding his crutches. “My point is, Captain, why would I run a man through with a piece of splintered wood if I knew I held a blade in my hands? Whoever killed Urquhart had no
idea that he held a weapon.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Sinclair?”

“In my suite.”

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

Rowland turned towards his travelling companions.

“We were all there,” Clyde attested, stepping closer to Rowland. “We drank three bottles of port between us and, by then, we weren’t really in a fit condition to go
anywhere.”

“There was that valet,” Milton threw in. “He came up to get our suits for cleaning. We were still wearing them, so he waited. We’d had a few by then so the poor bloke was
waiting a while.”

Captain Madding sighed.

“So…,” ventured Edna. “What do we do now?”

“Are you going to throw Rowly in the brig?” Milton laughed.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Isaacs.” Madding was curt. “And I fail to see what is amusing. A man is dead.”

Milton stopped grinning.

“What about Orville?” Edna asked, flinching as she looked at the body again. “You can’t leave him here. Someone should tell Annie and Jiddu…”

“We’ll see to Mr. Urquhart,” Madding assured her. He stared hard at Rowland.

Rowland looked around at the open sea. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“Considering what a louse Urquhart proved to be,” Milton proffered, “I’d reckon he had other enemies on board, Captain… or at least people who knew him better than
we did.”

Madding said nothing for a moment, and then, “I shall let you return to your breakfast. I trust I will have the pleasure of your company at my table this evening.”

Rowland looked down, smiling. “It would be an honour, Captain.”

And so, the interview was concluded.

“I’m not sure I understand why the captain wants to have dinner with us?” Clyde muttered as they made their way back towards the first class deck.

“Why not?” Milton returned. “We’re charming.”

“He wants to keep an eye on us… well, me anyway.” Rowland looked back and tipped his hat to the crewman who followed them. “Can’t blame him really—they did
find my stick in a man’s neck.” He put his arm around Edna. “You all right, Ed?”

“Of course I am,” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you had a lot more to do with him… I thought you might…”

“I didn’t like him!” She sounded angry. Rowland left it.

Edna pulled idly at the fingertips of the long black gloves that clad her arms. A wide silver bracelet with Egyptian motif fell loosely around her wrist, and a long scarab bead
necklace hung below the low neckline of her evening gown. The latest popular revival of all things Egyptian had begun in the last decade with the excavation of Tutankhamen’s tomb, but Edna
had only just discovered the fashion. In her usual way, she embraced the craze with childlike zeal.

She knew Rowland was watching her, sketching. It didn’t trouble or embarrass her. She was a life model who lived with artists—she had long become accustomed to scrutiny. Rowland drew
her often and, she thought, rather well.

“You know, it would be rather fun to paint you against the sea… a nod to Botticelli’s
Venus
…,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Edna laughed, knowing well the nude painting to which he referred. “No, Rowly, it’s too cold.”

Clyde was struggling with his bow tie, cursing under his breath. Milton was rifling through drawers, searching for cufflinks.

“Rowly,” he shouted from the other room, “do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead. Try to choose ones that match this time.”

They were about to dine at the captain’s table. A crewman had been posted discreetly in the corridor outside the Reynolds Suite and another followed them about the
Aquitania
.
Officially, Orville Urquhart’s death was an accident, but rumours were rife. The atmosphere on board was tense.

“You going to be all right without your stick, mate?” Clyde asked, as he emerged with his bow slightly askew, but tied.

“I’ll be fine.” Rowland replied, determined that he would be so.

Clyde raised his brows sceptically, but he did not argue.

“Oh Rowly,” Edna sighed. Rowland had already set back his recuperation a couple of times by refusing to give his injury time.

“I’m fine,” Rowland repeated without looking up.

In time, they were all ready, and proceeded to the dining room where they were ushered to Madding’s table. The captain stood to greet them, gazing appreciatively at the
young sculptress.

“Miss Higgins,” he said as she sat down. “You are without doubt a shining ornament to the
Aquitania
.”

Edna accepted the tribute with the practised grace of one who often received such compliments. She even managed to blush a little.

Madding introduced the other guests at his table. They were dining with an American couple, the Hickmans, whose well-coiffed, obviously unmarried daughters seemed excessively pleased to see
them. Also present was the clergyman who had taken such offence at Jiddu Krishnamurti the previous evening. Bishop Hanrahan was accompanied by two lesser-ranked men of the church. The taller was a
fair-haired, bespectacled priest, introduced as Father Murphy. The second, clean-cut and square-jawed, was Father Bryan.

Rowland sighed as he regarded the trio of black-cassocked men standing by their chairs like rigid sentinels of virtue—the company promised to be awkward.

Bishop Hanrahan glared at them. Milton already looked belligerent, and Clyde nervous.

Edna was ushered to the chair between the Bishop’s young frocked offsiders. She smiled devastatingly at each, ignoring their holy status and treating them as men. Rowland smiled as he
observed the effect.

Milton and Clyde were each seated with a Miss Hickman to their left, and Rowland directed to the chair on Milton’s right, beside the captain. He assumed it was so that Madding could just
reach out and grab him should he try to kill anyone.

“Will I say grace then, Captain Madding?” Hanrahan asked with no question in his voice.

Madding looked startled. Grace was usually the captain’s prerogative.

Hanrahan began before he could reply, launching into prayer in a booming Irish accent.

“Bless, O Lord, this food we are about to eat; and we pray thee, O God, that it may be good for body and soul; and if there be any poor creature, hungry or thirsty, walking along the road,
direct them to walk into us…”

“We’re on a boat,” Milton muttered for Rowland’s ear. “They’d drown.”

“… that we can share the food with them as thee share thy gifts with all of us.”

Rowland straightened, happy to move on… but Hanrahan was not finished.

“Bring thy righteous fury down upon those among us who have strayed from thy word and commit blasphemy in the name of evil doctrines and false prophets, who consort with the devil and
summon the spirits of the dead.”

Again, Rowland raised his head, only to have to lower his eyes once more.

“Remind the sinful, the unchaste and immoral of the power of thy wrath, O Lord, instil in them a fear of eternity and bring them to thy divine justice. Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.”

Rowland looked up, carefully, unsure whether Hanrahan had finally concluded. It seemed he had. The clergymen were busy crossing themselves. The extraordinary grace left the table in a stunned
silence. Under his breath, Rowland thanked his Protestant God that it was over.

“Bishop Hanrahan and his colleagues are on their way to Sydney,” Madding said in an attempt to initiate conversation as the first course was served.

“How wonderful!” Edna directed her enthusiasm at Father Bryan. “Sydney is the most delightful city—you’ll have a fabulous time.”

“No doubt, it will have its share of souls to be saved from eternal damnation,” cut in Bishop Hanrahan.

Edna looked at him blankly. “Oh—yes… I’m sure you’ll find one or two at Government House.”

Milton laughed. Clyde looked to the ceiling in disbelief. The bishop glowered, moving his eyes from the sculptress to Milton Isaacs. He squinted at the poet, trying to make out the shadow of the
word Red, in the subdued light of the dining room. His upper lip curled with distaste.