Miles Off Course (30 page)

Jim took the offered hand and motioned to a number of his men to dismount. “You all right to ride, Mr. Sinclair?” He nodded at Rowland’s arm. The wound had reopened in the
scuffle and blood had now soaked through the lining and sleeve of his jacket. Rowland hadn’t noticed. But now that it was pointed out…

“I’ll be fine. But do you have enough horses?”

“Not for you,” Keenan bellowed. “The way you lose them, even King George wouldn’t have enough flaming horses for you.”

“We’re only a mile or two from Pocket’s Hut,” Jim replied, ignoring Keenan. “The fellas will be right to take Shanks pony from here and Mr. Sinclair will be anxious
to see you.”

Pocket’s Hut was a rambling building of tin and timber. It looked more like a homestead than a hut, and was of a different ilk to the rustic shanties in which they’d
recently sheltered. An enamel sign at the gate read “Australian State and Mortgage Company”. The house and sheds were surrounded by well-tended gardens. The naked branches of stunted
fruit trees bordered the house garden, which boasted a large vegetable patch, currently fallow, among the thorny rows of dormant roses.

There were several motor cars outside the main house. Rowland recognised Wilfred’s dark green Continental. There was another Rolls Royce, black and immaculate, amongst a variety of
trucks.

“Mr. Clapton’s the manager here,” Jim said, as they rode in. “That’s his motor… usually just brings it out to go fishing.”

“They’ve found them!” Someone shouted from the verandah. Very quickly many hands emerged to help them dismount and take the horses.

Wilfred Sinclair walked out of the house. He did not move with unbecoming haste but neither did he waste any time in reaching them. He greeted Simpson warmly while Rowland was still
dismounting.

“Harry! Thank God!”

Simpson grinned. “Hello Wil. Sent the kid to rescue me then?”

Wilfred sighed. “Rowly has his own way of doing things.” He turned to Rowland and shook his hand. “Good Lord, where’s your tie?”

Rowland told him where to go, and Simpson laughed.

“I say,” Wilfred noticed the blood on the sleeve of Rowland’s jacket. “Don’t tell me that Miss Higgins shot you again?”

“I did no such thing!” Edna was affronted.

Wilfred had the good grace to withdraw the remark. “Of course not, Miss Higgins, I do beg your pardon.”

“Rowly might need a doctor, Wil,” suggested Simpson.

“Yes, I rather think he might. What on earth happened to him?” Wilfred addressed Simpson as if Rowland was not there.

“Poor bloke was bitten… twice.”

Wilfred took them into the main house. It was most comfortably furnished, a charming if not elegant country home. The main living room had been timber lined and had electric lighting. Clapton,
the manager, expressed his concern and his gratification that they had all been recovered. Rowland gathered that Clapton had served with Wilfred in the Great War. It wasn’t hard to
imagine—there was a certain militaristic neatness and order to the man.

Wilfred directed Rowland to a chair by the fire. “Clapton, would you mind telling Maguire that we require his services?”

“Maguire? What’s he doing here?” Rowland asked, sinking thankfully into the easychair. Wilfred’s ability to produce the surgeon never ceased to amaze him. It was as if he
carried Maguire in his back pocket.

“I received word that you’d managed to burn down Rope’s End,” Wilfred said tersely, “and that someone had been hurt in the process. I thought it might be a good
idea to bring Maguire with me. Of course I didn’t realise it was just that long-haired buffoon.”

“How is Milt?” Rowland inquired, as Maguire strode into the room.

“Some nasty burns, but he’ll be shipshape given time. He was blithering like a damn fool, but your brother tells me that’s the normal state of affairs.” The surgeon
regarded Rowland disapprovingly. “Take off your jacket.”

Maguire removed the rough bandage and inspected the damage. “Hmmph, infected—looks like some kind of wild animal attack…”

Simpson chuckled. Edna stood next to Rowland’s chair, mortified.

Clapton went to the sideboard and poured drinks from a series of decanters. He looked a little uncertainly at Simpson. Wilfred took a glass and handed it to Simpson. “Whisky still your
drink, Harry?”

Simpson nodded and accepted the drink. “I suppose I’d better tell you what’s been going on,” he said, settling into an armchair.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Evans to prepare some refreshments, shall I?” Clapton said. “Better get word out that we’ve found them, too.”

“The authorities…” Rowland murmured, preoccupied with what Maguire was doing to his arm. “Moran…”

“Rowly’s right,” Simpson agreed. “Moran and his gang are still out there doing God knows what… we’ll need to notify the police.”

“I’ll make a telephone call,” Clapton assured them and left the room to put things in order.

“So what happened, Harry?”

Simpson recounted the events as he understood them, telling Wilfred about the rebranding of Sinclair cattle, and the unlikely quest for Glover’s gold.

Wilfred’s face hardened. “So O’Shea is part of this?”

“You can’t tell me he didn’t know what his men were up to.”

“So this character, Moran, is working for O’Shea?” Wilfred asked.

“Doubt Moran and his boys would do anything for nothing, Wil. The cattle stealing isn’t what they’re here for though—they were just earning a few extra quid while they
were looking for this blasted gold.”

Wilfred sipped his drink. “And where the devil have you been, Harry?”

“Moran imprisoned me at an abandoned gold dig. I’d been there for well over a week when Rowly and Miss Higgins arrived.”

Edna told them the series of events which found her and Rowland chained to Simpson at the cave.

Wilfred shook his head. “So what happened to Rowly?”

“He was bitten by a snake, probably a brown,” Simpson replied. “I had to incise the bite with a piece of broken mirror, which is why it’s such a mess,” he
added.

Edna looked away.

Wilfred glanced at Rowland who inhaled sharply as Maguire scraped at the ragged edges of the wound with a scalpel. “That’s his arm you’re carving, old chap, not some flaming
roast,” Wilfred muttered with something that verged on sympathy.

Maguire gave no sign that he had even heard.

Wilfred looked back to Simpson. “You’re jolly lucky you and Miss Higgins didn’t end up chained to a dead man.”

Simpson was thoughtful. “You know I had a dog once, who killed chickens… tied the dead chicken round its neck for a day or two, didn’t go near the chickens again.”

For a moment they stared at him mutely as he smiled over his whisky, obviously pleased with the memory of his own ingenuity.

“Oh…” Edna gasped finally, horrified by the image of the poor dog wearing a dead chicken as a collar, and its tenuous association with Rowland’s corpse.

Wilfred smiled. “I remember when you did that,” he said. “Rather unsightly, but I must say it worked.”

Rowland pulled his arm gingerly out of the sling to knot the tie Wilfred had lent him. The shirt was also Wilfred’s, though he wore his own suit which had been cleaned and
pressed while he slept. Grimly, he forced the minor movement required to secure the Windsor knot. Maguire had lectured him at length about infection, gangrene and amputation. But Maguire was a
surgeon—probably more likely to remove a limb than to develop any sort of bedside manner. Still, his arm was noticeably less painful in the sling.

Fed, bathed, rested, shaved and now properly attired, Rowland was feeling rather well. He was anxious to finalise matters, to see that the gang of present-day bushrangers who had worked the
Sinclair lease were captured and brought to justice. It was six in the morning. For all he knew Wilfred had already taken care of it.

Rowland made his way into the dining room in search of his brother. Wilfred was there, taking breakfast and reading
Smith’s Weekly
.

“Good morning, Rowly—sit down, the cook will appear again in a minute I expect.”

“Did you bring that up with you?” Rowland asked, nodding at the newspaper. It was dated the day before.

“The paper? No, apparently some chap flies over and drops papers into these outposts… made a drop yesterday.”

Rowland thought briefly of Humphrey Abercrombie. He wondered how his neurotic old friend was getting on in Sydney.

“Have they found Moran and the others?” Rowland asked once the cook had taken his request for breakfast.

Wilfred poured him a cup of tea. “Afraid not. They seem to know this country well—it may take a while to catch them… if we ever do.”

Rowland leaned back in his chair. “Blast!”

Wilfred studied him. “You found Harry—that’s the main thing… we’ll catch them sooner or later.”

“The thugs that jumped me at Medlow Bath and then at Caves House—Moran knew about them. Apparently he had expected them to accost us at Rope’s End.”

Wilfred nodded. “I believe Mr. Jones found them bogged en route, but they’d gone by the time he’d returned.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Wil. Why would Moran want me jumped at Medlow Bath before I even knew we had a snow lease? How would he even know I existed?”

Wilfred nodded slowly. “I must say you have a point.”

“Unless we find Moran and get it out of him we’re still none the wiser as to what these chaps want.”

“So these thugs could still have you in their sights?”

“I suppose so.”

Wilfred stirred his tea frowning. “I want you back at
Oaklea
until this is cleared up.”

Rowland shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Rowland smiled. “Wil, I know you think I do nothing with my time but play cards, but I have work to do. I could still get something finished for the classical figures
exhibition.”

“What about your arm?” Wilfred pointed his teaspoon at the sling.

“I only need one to paint.” Rowland waved his right hand.

“I suppose it makes no difference which one you use… but you can paint at
Oaklea.
”

“Do you really want me and my models working at
Oaklea
?”

Wilfred hesitated.

“I’ll be careful,” Rowland promised. “I’ll speak to Detective Delaney. If these chaps are from the city, the Sydney police may have an idea what’s going
on.” He met Wilfred’s eye with a completely straight face. “Perhaps I’m not the only artist they’ve tried to snatch.”

Wilfred bit. “I doubt very much that what you call art has anything to do with it! Unless, of course, the fathers of those poor girls you disgrace on canvas have banded
together…”

“Disgrace on canvas?” Rowland grinned. “Sounds uncomfortable.”

There was nothing in Wilfred’s face that could be mistaken for amusement.

The cook came in with Rowland’s breakfast. Wilfred checked his pocket watch. “I have a meeting this morning. Once it’s finished, we’ll have to ransom that Fritz
contraption of yours from that mad old pirate.”

“You’ve met Mr. Keenan then?”

“He is of the opinion that you did not take due care of his animals, and has unilaterally imposed certain financial penalties.”

Rowland started on his eggs and bacon. He may have been inclined to protest, but Lawrence Keenan’s belligerent arrival had saved them from being shot. As long as the old man hadn’t
damaged the Mercedes, Rowland was happy to pay him whatever he wanted.

“With whom are you meeting then?” Rowland asked.

“O’Shea.” Wilfred’s eyes narrowed.

“Shouldn’t the police…?”

“They’ll deal with Moran and his thugs. I’ll sort the rest out with O’Shea.”

Rowland let it go. He had no doubt that O’Shea had more to fear from Wilfred. His brother could exert much more than just the full force of the law.