A Murder Unmentioned (14 page)

Mrs. Drosher paused. It was a moment before Rowland realised that the silence was in expectation of some response from him. He feared arguing with the delegation would only prolong their visit
and yet he could not bring himself to even feign agreement. So he attempted to return the S.D.L. to Wilfred.

“Perhaps you should be talking to my brother?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Sinclair,” Oberg said. “It’s you, with your contacts amongst the working classes, whom we believe would be ideal for our program.”

“We wouldn’t be here, Mr. Sinclair,” Ludowici assured him, “if we didn’t believe you were the kind of patriotic citizen who could make a difference. This would be an opportunity to demonstrate to your countrymen that you are not a Communist.”

Rowland’s brow rose. “And why would I wish to do that, Mr. Ludowici?”

“Because the rumours surrounding your loyalties are dangerous to your interests, and those of your fine family. And because you could set an example to those in the arts community, persuade them of the errors of a Socialist life.”

“I see.”

Oberg leaned towards Rowland. “Mr. Sinclair, we understand from your brother that you have never been a member of the Communist Party, that you are not a Communist.”

“That’s true.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you not a Communist? I imagine that you have very good reasons why you have chosen not to join your friends.”

“It depends what you call a good reason, Mr. Oberg.”

“I think it’s because you value the British system of government, because you value democracy. Our league considers that a very good reason.”

“Indeed. I don’t mean to be rude, gentlemen, Mrs. Drosher, but what exactly do you want from me?” Rowland said irritated to have
a stranger tell him about his reasons. Oberg was not entirely wrong, but the presumption vexed him nonetheless.

“We’d like to invite you to attend a function the league will be hosting at the Wesley Methodist Hall in Burwood in the new year.”

“I’m flattered that you’d come here personally to issue an invitation, but it seems rather a lot of trouble to ask me to a dance.”

For a moment they stared blankly at him, and then, glancing at each other for confirmation, they laughed in unison.

“Very good, Mr. Sinclair, most amusing,” Ludowici said, slapping his knee. He winked conspiratorially. “Of course it’s not a dance but an educational debate, though might I say that our events do serve an invaluable social function—introducing young men and women of like minds.”

“Your friends would be welcome as well,” Mrs. Drosher added. “Your brother mentioned that you don’t like to go anywhere without them.”

Rowland blinked. It did sound like something Wilfred would say but he wasn’t sure quite how he should respond.

“What you must understand,” Mrs. Drosher persisted, “is that with information and education, otherwise decent men and women may be saved from the dry rot of Socialism. It is our duty to guide their thinking.”

Rowland took a steadying breath. “With respect, Mrs. Drosher, some of the most informed and decent people I know are Socialists for that very reason—I feel no compunction to save them.” Diana Drosher’s hands flew to her mouth in a futile attempt to smother a gasp.

“I was in Germany recently,” Rowland continued, his eyes flashing. “Mr. Hitler’s Minister for Propaganda and Enlightenment is also very committed to warning people against Socialism, to guiding their thinking. May I be so forward as to suggest your organisation
may better serve democracy by warning otherwise decent men and women about the dangers of Fascism!”

“The National Socialists of Germany—” Oberg began.

“Whatever it chooses to call itself, the government of Germany is not Socialist! It has far more in common with the system Eric Campbell and his New Guardsmen are advocating.”

Why Lenin decided to emerge at that moment from beneath the table was hard to tell. Perhaps it was the anger in Rowland’s voice, perhaps he assumed that his master needed help. The greyhound’s long angular nose came first through the folds of the tablecloth. Rowland was unsure whether Mrs. Drosher was afraid of dogs, or whether the good lady did not recognise Lenin’s one-eared, sharply conical head as that of a dog, but she screamed and dropped the teapot she was holding. Oberg, who was closest to her, was duly splattered with hot tea, as were the pamphlets and publications of the Sane Democracy League which he’d previously set out before him. Lenin, startled by the commotion and possibly a touch jumpy after being shot, panicked and attempted to climb into Rowland’s lap.

Rowland tried valiantly to calm both the dog and Mrs. Drosher. And Ludowici extracted his handkerchief to mop tea off the pamphlets and Oberg.

Fortunately the scream had also summoned both Kate Sinclair and Mrs. Kendall.

“Oh dear,” Kate said, taking in the wreckage. “What happened?”

Somehow, Rowland managed to pry Lenin off his lap so he could stand, apologising for his dog and introducing his sister-in-law at the same time.

“Please, think nothing of it,” Oberg said, still dabbing tea from his jacket. “We really should be going in any case. We’ll leave this material with you, Mr. Sinclair, and look forward to seeing you at the
Burwood debate.” He glanced at the greyhound who was devouring the various cakes he’d upset onto the verandah boards. “A dog called Lenin,” he said, smiling. “I like your sense of humour, Mr. Sinclair. I must say I can’t think of a better name for a mongrel cur.”

Rowland’s eyes darkened a shade, but he elected not to defend Lenin’s pedigree, such as it was. It was not really a fight he could win.

And so the esteemed executive of the league departed, leaving Rowland Sinclair to wonder what on earth his brother was up to now.

11

“ENGINEERED BY COMMUNISTS”

SYDNEY, Wednesday

Mr. O.D.A. Oberg, president of the Sane Democracy League, says the strike movement has been secretly engineered by the Communist Party, whose agents have been at work for months among the miners, the transport workers, and generally in what are known as the “key” unions. Of this he had positive evidence.

Barrier Miner, 1932

R
owland sat in
Oaklea
’s well-lit parlour sketching Edna Walling at work through the window. The garden designer was dressed in what he’d come to observe as her customary style: a man’s shirt, riding breeches and boots. A broad-brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the December sun as she directed a team of young men working on the construction of an arbour.

The spring had been warm and dry but the immediate grounds of the homestead were irrigated. The lush green of its lawns and beds was almost startling against the yellowed hills in the distance. The contrast served as a reminder that
Oaklea
was removed from the world outside.

Ernest sat with his face cupped in his hands, watching the movement of Rowland’s pencil intently.

Wilfred and Clyde had not yet returned, and Kate’s manner towards her brother-in-law had become distinctly cool and distant.

Ernest’s admiring company was consequently a particularly welcome distraction. The boy demonstrated no interest in drawing, himself, but remained fascinated with what his uncle was doing.

Rowland glanced up when he heard the motor. A powder-blue Riley Lynx stopped hard in the gravelled driveway.

“I wonder who that is?” Rowland mused aloud.

“Oh, that’s Aunt Lucy’s motorcar,” Ernest informed his uncle. “Her daddy bought it for her last month. It has special leather seats and came with wing screen swipers.”

“I think you mean windscreen wipers, Ernie,” Rowland said as Lucy and Arthur emerged from the sleek four-seater sedan. They stood by the automobile for a while chatting. Arthur leaned in to whisper in Lucy’s ear and she laughed, patting his lapel as she did so.

Rowland raised his brows. “Good old Arthur,” he said quietly.

Ernest pushed his nose against the window to watch the couple. “Aunt Lucy’s not sad anymore,” he reported.

“I’m glad to hear it, Ernie,” Rowland replied, hoping the development would mean Kate might speak to him again.

Arthur and Lucy did not come into the house immediately but strolled arm-in-arm through the garden, stopping to talk with Edna Walling and the workmen.

“Daddy and Mr. Jones are back too,” Ernest said, his face still glued to the glass.

“Capital,” Rowland replied, closing his notebook and slipping the pencil into its spine. “Would you like to come out and see my aeroplane, Ernie?”

“Yes, Uncle Rowly, I would.” Ernest nodded most emphatically.

“Very well, you’d best go tell Nanny de Waring that you’re coming out with me. I must have a word with your father.”

Ernest zoomed off, his arms outstretched, shouting for his nanny as he went. Rowland stepped in to the hallway just as Wilfred and Clyde entered the vestibule.

“Oh Rowly, hello.” Wilfred hung his hat on the rack. “How was your meeting with Oberg?”

“We should probably have words about that.”

“Don’t you mean a word, old boy?”

“No, I mean words. What the devil are you playing at, Wil?”

Wilfred restrained a smile. “Shall we step into the library?” he suggested. “I’m sure Mrs. Kendall will bring Mr. Watson Jones a well-deserved cup of tea while you and I speak.”

Clyde accepted the gentle nudge and announced he was going to check on Lenin.

“Right,” Rowland said as soon as Wilfred closed the library door behind them. “What would possess you to give those people the impression that I might join them?”

“I take it they did not convince you of the importance of their purpose.”

“For God’s sake, Wil, I am not going to join some band of right-wing missionaries intent on converting the savage masses to what they consider the moral path.”

“They are somewhat zealous, true.”

Rowland stopped, surprised by Wilfred’s vague agreement.

“I didn’t arrange the meeting, Rowly. That was poor Lucy. Before the two of you fell out.”

“What?”

“I believe she hoped the S.D.L. could
educate
you, and that your involvement with them would demonstrate to Colonel Bennett, once
and for all, that you were not beyond redemption.” He sighed. “Kate was possibly involved.”

“But why did you—?”

“Remove Mr. Watson Jones and leave you to it? It was too late to tell Ollie Oberg and his colleagues not to call—they had come all the way from Sydney after all. And there truly was another breakdown with that blasted harvester. Mr. Watson Jones is quite a handy chap with machines. I can’t imagine how he manages to remain unemployed!”

“Mr. Sinclair!” Edna Walling waved as Rowland walked towards his car.

He diverted to speak with her, leaving the driveway and walking down to the lawn where her gang of workers were constructing a substantial stepped pergola cutting through the axis of the garden.

“Good afternoon, Miss Walling,” he said, removing his hat as he admired the progress.

The garden designer had installed round concrete pillars at ten-foot intervals, softened by sapling crossbeams. The walkway beneath was paved with bricks that led to stepping stones which themselves led to a small circular bed defined by a hedge planting of lavender. There was a gentle sculptural quality to the design.

“I have a friend who would love to see your work,” Rowland said, thinking wistfully of Edna Higgins whose own art was so often created for gardens.

Edna Walling smiled. “And how is your dog, Mr. Sinclair? We heard that he was shot.”

“I’m trusting Len will be perfectly well in a short while, Miss Walling, aside from becoming outrageously indulged.”

“Can I ask who shot the poor creature, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I wish I knew, Miss Walling. Wil is convinced it was some poacher who thought Len was a rabbit.”

“Blimey—he must’ve been blind!” The labourer’s whisper was loud enough to carry the few yards from where he worked on one of the pergola’s pillars. A lean, wiry man with snow white hair and a short grizzled beard.

“Blind drunk, more likely,” added the younger man assisting him.