Give the Devil His Due (30 page)

The country people of the State are fortunate in their seasons, fortunate in the arrangement of the Easter holiday period, and fortunate that they may spend their holiday in the third greatest city of the British Empire, which offers attractions and delights unsurpassed by any other city in the world.

Farmer and Settler, 1934

____________________________________

“I
do believe this might be them,” Rowland said as they caught sight of the train from the country platform.

Ernest Sinclair held tightly to his uncle's hand and leaned forward as far as he could to see around the press of milling bodies. The housemaster at Tudor House had put him on a train from Moss Vale early that morning so that he could join his uncle and meet his parents' train in the afternoon. The platform was crowded: Sydneysiders meeting country relatives coming to town for the Royal Easter Show, eager faces anticipating reunion. Life-battered men and ragged boys collected discarded cigarette stubs and pounced on fallen change. Tobacconists and flower vendors walked the length of the platform with their wares. Rowland had bought Ernest a bunch of roses for his mother and slipped the change into the calloused hand of an old man competing with brash youths to earn a coin carrying travellers' bags.

Metal ground against metal as the Yass train slowed to a stop in a screeching cloud of steam. Rowland lifted Ernest up so the boy could see over hatted heads and they made their way to the front of the train and the first-class carriages. Ernest caught sight of his mother through the windows and waved and shouted excitedly, “Mater! Mater!”

“Mater?” Rowland looked at his nephew quizzically.

“It's Latin for mother, Uncle Rowly.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I'm studying Latin.”

“Capital.”

Wilfred Sinclair was the first to alight onto the platform. At fortythree he was the uncontested patriarch of the Sinclair family. The epitome of dignity and conservative power, Wilfred wore the mantle well, astutely commanding a pastoral empire that now extended beyond Australian shores.

“Daddy!” Ernest shrieked wriggling out of Rowland's arms. He ran to his father and extended his hand. “Welcome to Sydney, Pater.”

Wilfred shook his son's hand solemnly. “Why thank you, son. You're looking well.”

“I'm taller I think.”

Wilfred tousled his son's head affectionately. “I do believe you are.” He turned to help Kate Sinclair down the carriage steps. With his mother, Ernest lost all pretence at decorum and Latin, throwing himself into her arms crying, “Mummy, I missed you, Mummy.”

Rowland stood back for a while allowing his brother this time alone with his family. As much as Wilfred was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the country, it had always been clear that he valued his young wife and sons above all else. It was in stark contrast to the priorities of their own late father.

Two nannies, attired in crisp grey uniforms, followed Kate Sinclair from the carriage, each bearing one of Wilfred's younger sons. Though he had grown considerably from the newborn Rowland had last seen, Gilbert was still a babe in arms. Ewan, Rowland's godson was now nearly two and not impressed with the confinement of his nanny's iron grip.

“Rowly, there you are!” Wilfred shook his brother's hand.

“Hello Wil. Good journey?”

“Tolerable.” Wilfred signalled the porters he'd already paid to take the luggage as Rowland kissed Kate's cheek.

“Good Lord,” Rowland murmured as trunk after trunk bearing the Sinclair crest was unloaded from the luggage carriage.

Wilfred sighed. “How many cars did you bring?”

“Just two, and mine,” Rowland said a little concerned. Then a possible solution occurred. “We can put the extra trunks in Beejling's vehicle. He may as well be useful.”

“Who's Beejling?”

“He's one of the men you're paying to follow me about.”

“I see.”

“In fact, if you ride back with him he could probably apprise you of everything I've been up to.”

“You're too old to be petulant, Rowland. I acted for your own safety, and the safety of anyone who might be with you, for that matter.” He glanced pointedly at Ernest who was reciting Latin roots to his mother.

Rowland stopped. He winced. “Yes, of course,” he said sheepishly.

“But since he's here,” Wilfred said, signalling the bodyguard, “he might as well take a trunk or two.”

And so they arrived in convoy at
Roburvale
. Not quite as large as
Woodlands House
, the Sinclairs' second Woollahra mansion was nevertheless a substantial property. Its gatehouse was already occupied by Wilfred's security. Rowland had deployed Bessie to assist the elderly Mrs. Donnelly in preparing for the arrival of the greater Sinclairs. The more risqué artwork which Rowland's late uncle and namesake had hung throughout his home had been taken down, and a nursery prepared for the children. A cook and a scullery maid had been borrowed from another grand house whose family was abroad to cater for the needs of Wilfred Sinclair's household. Bessie had ensured all the rooms were prepared and fresh flowers set in every vase. The staff were lined up by the portico to meet and greet the family.

Rowland stayed a while to play with his nephews. Young Ewan was a much less contained and more physical child than his elder brother. He demanded to be hung upside down and squealed in delight.

“For pity's sake, Rowly, I thought someone was murdering the children,” Wilfred muttered as he entered the room to find Rowland on the floor with both Ernest and Ewan on top of him. Ernest got off his uncle immediately but Ewan simply chanted, “Again, again, again…”

Rowland stood up and swung the two-year-old into the air one more time. “Would you like me to take Ernest back to school?” he asked.

Ernest's face fell, his shoulders slumped but he said nothing. Rowland felt like the worst kind of traitor.

“Do you have the time? I could have my driver take him back?” Wilfred asked. “I'm afraid I have to get straight down to Moore Park to make sure everything's in order for tomorrow when the Show opens.”

“I haven't anything pressing to attend to, and long runs are good practice.”

“Oh yes, the race.” Wilfred put his hand on Ernest's shoulder. “Chin up, Ernie. I'll come and get you Friday evening for the whole weekend.”

“But…” The boy's lower lip trembled as he tried valiantly not to cry.

Wilfred took his son's hand. “I must say, I'm looking forward to hearing all the new Latin words you will have learned by then. Still, we'll have to be careful that Ewan isn't jealous that you are allowed to go to school with other boys, while he has to stay here with his strict old nanny!”

“Is she very strict?” Ewan asked quietly.

“Dreadfully. Your Uncle Rowly's positively terrified of her.”

“What about you, Daddy?”

“I'm like you, Ernie. I'm not afraid of anything.”

Ernest nodded gravely.

“Maybe you ought to escape before Nanny gets back from the kitchen, but run and say goodbye to your mother first. I'll stay with your uncle in case Ewan's nanny gets back early.”

Ernest giggled now and set out to find his mother. He paused at the door. “Can we pick up Mr. Isaacs on the way, Uncle Rowly?”

Rowland smiled. It appeared Ernest was turning Milton into quite a lucrative sideshow. “If he's at home, we'll ask,” he promised.

“I'll call at
Woodlands
tomorrow morning to see Mother,” Wilfred said as he lit a cigarette. “Is there anything for which you might need to prepare me?”

“Prepare you? No, I don't believe so.”

“Very well,” Wilfred's voice was dubious. He had agreed to allow Elisabeth Sinclair to live with his brother in a moment of weakness and was yet to be convinced that it would not end in disaster. “We do need to speak about this latest trouble in which you've managed to become embroiled, but that can wait till tomorrow.”

“Bloody oath, Wil!” Rowland murmured indignantly. “Someone shot at me, not the other way around!”

“I do occasionally wonder, Rowly, what it is about you that makes so many people want to do so.”

Milton was more than willing to accompany Rowland and his nephew on the long drive to Tudor House. He paused to collect a red neck scarf and a beret, on to which he had pinned a Communist star badge.

“What are you doing?” Rowland demanded as the poet added a hammer and sickle pin to his lapel.

“Looking the part,” Milton said. “Gotta give the people value for money.”

Ernest nodded solemnly. “Can you say something Communist, Mr. Isaacs? Digby Cossington Smythe said he'd give me an extra shilling and his pudding on Wednesday, if I could get you to say something Communist.”

Milton stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “How about… Come the revolution, the worker shall rise up and crush the capitalist—”

“Steady on, Milt,” Rowland said alarmed. “You'll get us killed!”

“They're seven-year-olds.”

“I was talking about Wil.”

“Oh. I suppose you're right. I could just sing The Red Flag. Would that do, Ernie?”

“Yes please, Mr. Isaacs!”

And so Ernest Sinclair was delivered back to Tudor House by his uncle and an increasingly conspicuous Communist who was belting out the people's song. The housemaster came out to glare at Milton, but the egg-shaped boy whom Rowland assumed was Digby seemed adequately impressed.

Rowland checked the time. The run back to
Woodlands
from Moss Vale would take at least a couple of hours. They'd get back to Sydney well after dark but before eight o'clock. The reporters who had followed him for days seeking comment, seemed finally to have given up.

“Do you have an appointment?” Milton asked.

“I thought I might finally drop in on this chap, Bocquet, who claims White's tiepin was stolen from him. He lives in Lindfield.”

“Haven't the police talked to him already?”

“Yes, but I get the impression that it was a very cursory interview.”

“Even so, why would he talk to you?”

“Can only ask.”

“Fair enough. Let's go.”

They spent the time in the car talking about the mystery of White's death, the race, the shooting and the latest machinations of the New Guard. Milton was predisposed to blame Eric Campbell for everything including the murder of Crispin White. “For all we know, Rowly, the Fascist Legion took issue with White. You remember what they did to me… to you.”

“I'm not sure the Fascist Legion still exists, Milt, and White wasn't a Communist as far as I know.”

“You weren't a Communist either, they still belted you half to death. And whatever he called himself in recent years, White was Jewish.”

Rowland's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. There was that. But the New Guard had not to date followed its European cousins into anti-Semitism—at least not publicly.

Milton pressed on. “How do we know that White wasn't writing a story on Campbell? You know how Campbell feels about the press these days. Anyway the New Guard still might be behind the shot fired at your studio window.”

“They might,” Rowland conceded. “Though why they'd suddenly want me dead badly enough to do something about it, I don't know.”

“What do you reckon about this book of Campbell's?”

Rowland frowned. “I expect it depends upon whether Campbell's Centre Party is successful at the election. If it is, then the book may become a manifesto of some sort. The fact that Campbell seems to be following the Adolf Hitler School of Dictatorship is more concerning than his bloody book.”

Milton swore his agreement. “How long do you think it'll be before he takes on Hitler's other tactics?” he asked.

“Against Jews? He hasn't yet, as far as I'm aware.”

“But you believe he may?”

“He might if he gets desperate. Or he may decide to vilify the Chinese, or the Irish or some other scapegoat.” Rowland shook his head as he thought of Norman Lindsay. “God help me, I'm no longer sure Australians would just laugh at him.”

Milton glanced at his friend. He'd always believed Rowland Sinclair naïve—doggedly romantic, conditioned by a privileged upbringing to expect the best from the world. That Rowland was coming to doubt his fellow man was probably inevitable but alarming, nevertheless. “So, we'll have to stop him.”

“How exactly?”

“Relax, Rowly. I'm not suggesting we shoot him. Not yet anyway.”

Rowland smiled. “What then?”

“We let the establishment destroy him.” Milton stroked the dark hair on his chin. “The Old Guard sent us to Germany to make sure Campbell didn't make friends with the Nazis. How about we let them finish the colonel's ambitions of becoming Australia's Führer?”

“You're suggesting we should do nothing?” Rowland said uneasily.