Give the Devil His Due (17 page)

“I see.”

“Go on, read it!”

Milton took the cutting from Rowland. “Allow me,” he said clearing his throat. He read then, giving the work its due in his characteristically theatrical style.

The Painted Horror
was the story of a young artist called Peter Raynham, who, inspired to paint a life-sized demon, becomes consumed by the task and the evil that surrounds his subject. Despite advice that he should stop, Raynham continues to paint until the demon is painted into life and devours him. Milton finished the recitation screaming the final line, “I know what killed him!”

The ensuing silence stretched uncomfortably. Rosaleen smoked and Rowland fought the impulse to smile. The story reminded him of the kind that passed about the dormitory when he was in boarding school. Inevitably one of the younger boys would go to the housemaster in terror and they'd all be in for it.

“Do you see?” Rosaleen said finally, her dark eyes gleaming. “You are Peter Raynham. That painting is going to kill you.”

“Which painting?”

“The one with the hellfire in the background. The one you can't seem to finish.”

“I'm not painting a demon, Miss Norton.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Sinclair?” She came around the desk and looked up to meet his eye. “I foresaw Crispy's death. Do not dismiss me.”

Rowland took the story from Milton. “May I keep this for a little while, Miss Norton?”

Rosaleen's narrow shoulders relaxed. “Yes, of course. Mummy bought dozens of this edition too.”

“Thank you. And thank you for your concern about my welfare.”

“You'll be in touch once you speak to Mr. Lindsay?” Rosaleen asked, nodding as she did so.

“Most certainly.”

They took their leave of the reporter soon after.

“You're not starting to believe she can see the future through short stories, are you, Rowly?” Milton asked as they walked out onto Phillip Street.

“Lord no!”

“You asked for the cutting.”

“It's not a bad tale, and she seemed so desperate to be taken seriously. To be honest, I couldn't think of any other way to get out of there politely.”

“Oh yes, manners,” Milton muttered. He glanced at his watch. “What now, Rowly?”

“We ought to go back and check on Clyde.”

“Do you suppose one of your paintings has devoured him by mistake?”

Rowland laughed. “I'll telephone Delaney from
Woodlands
and tell him that Crispin White's notebook has turned up.”

…“Queer thing the way the police hushed it up—a sensational murder like that! Most of the public never heard of it at all. My brother (he's connected with the police) told me that Raynham, poor devil, was literally torn to pieces, and chewed! As if by a wild beast. Seems to me as if no man could have done it. “Funny, too, the way a big canvas (he was found in his studio you know) had a great hole in it, as though something had jumped right through it…

Smith's Weekly, 1934

____________________________________

C
lyde and Edna were in the conservatory poring over her photographs from Germany when Rowland and Milton returned. Edna had progressively posted prints and films back to Sydney, and so, despite having fled Munich, her record of their time had, for the most part, been saved.

Clyde compared the snapshots to sketches he'd made, trying to gather enough recollection to inspire a painting. Edna's photographs gave him composition, shape and detail, his own sketches gave him movement and in his memory there was colour.

“Good,” Clyde said, looking Rowland up and down. “You seem to have recovered after last night's lapse.”

“Lapse?” Rowland asked, bemused. He had not been drinking alone.

“You're driving again tomorrow, Rowly. You've got to be alert, your reflexes must be in top form.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Motor racing is a sport like any other, mate. You'll need some sort of training regimen to get you race ready.”

“I expect you're right,” Rowland conceded, without any real conviction. Clyde seemed to be taking the race a little too seriously, but Rowland was not of a mind to argue with anything that took his friend's thoughts from Rosalina Martinelli. Rowland had already made enquiries about the painting that had caused the young model so much regret. But that was something they could talk about later. For now the issue of White's murder pressed.

Rowland excused himself to telephone Delaney.

“They have his actual notebook?” The detective was furious.

“It seems someone handed it in.”

“Who?”

“A vagabond, apparently. They didn't have a name.”

“Did you see the notebook?”

“No. I wasn't really in a position to demand they show it to me.”

“Don't worry, I'll speak to Detective Hartley and if he's not interested, I'll fetch it myself.”

“Why wouldn't he be interested?”

“As I said, Rowly, he's got his gun trained on Milton. Anyway, thank you.”

“Pleasure, Colin. You will keep me informed, won't you?”

“You know I can't do that, Mr. Sinclair, but the odd classified snippet has been known to slip out over a social drink now and then.”

When Rowland walked back into the conservatory Milton was reading
The Painted Horror
to Clyde and Edna.

“So Miss Norton believes Rowly is this Peter Raynham character?” Clyde asked, shaking his head.

“She seems to,” Rowland replied, taking a seat beside Edna.

“And you're going to be murdered by something in your painting?” Edna said smiling.

“To be fair, I was very nearly murdered by the man I'm trying to paint, but that was before I had any thought of painting him. Perhaps Miss Norton's psychic sphere is a little confused as to chronology.”

“Still, it is a bit of a coincidence,” Milton mused.

Rowland sighed. “I'll keep the turpentine on hand in case any of my paintings come to life. I'm more interested in this nameless ‘vagabond' who returned White's notebook.”

Milton agreed. “But I don't know how we'll find him. Slessor didn't seem to have the vaguest clue who he was.”

“Perhaps the notebook wasn't returned to him personally. Who gave this vagabond the guinea?”

“I expect it was the editor, Frank Marien.”

“Well then he might have a name… or at least a description.”

“Hopefully Delaney will be able to extract that information,”

Rowland said. As much as it seemed incumbent on them to offer an alternative to Milton, he was well aware that they were not policemen and had no real right to demand answers of anyone.

Rowland pulled on his driving helmet and leather driving gloves. He depressed the starter button and brought the six cylinders to life. Revving the motor, he checked the gauges.

Clyde ran around the Mercedes in a last visual check before signalling that all was well. The British Racing Green Vauxhall with the Honourable Charles Linklater at the wheel was also ready. Joan Richmond and Hope Bartlett had arranged the practice races to give the less qualified members of their teams some experience driving against another car of similar engine capacity and horse power.

Linklater had been less than pleased that he was being relegated to what he called the “dunces' class” but had eventually conceded to the practice race for “young Sinclair's sake”. He was at pains to make it known that he had accrued extensive touring experience in the British Isles and on the Continent. Consequently Rowland was determined to win. Milton and Edna watched the proceedings with Flynn and Joan Richmond.

A whistle sounded, the flag was dropped, and they were away.

Both cars went out hard and for the first ten laps the lead changed regularly. Then the yellow Mercedes extended the gap, pulling ahead as the supercharged motor engaged. Rowland allowed the vehicle to settle into the bank, pleased. She still had plenty in her and he suspected that Linklater was on the ropes. He moved the car higher on the wall of the bowl to avoid the worst area of deterioration, as he did each lap. Later, he could only assume that Linklater had, in the heat of the moment, forgotten about the danger.

The Vauxhall surged to come through. The motorcars were abreast when the Vauxhall lost control and spun. Rowland pulled the Mercedes hard to the left to avoid a collision and she skidded as he fought to bring her safely out of the path of his careering competitor. A jolt as the Vauxhall clipped his rear bumper. Rowland was thrown hard against the steering wheel and the windshield. Dazed he fought to correct the steering and keep his car upright. It was only when he'd finally stopped that he saw that Linklater had hit the outer wall. The Vauxhall was on fire.

Rowland kicked open the door of his own car in an effort to lend aid but found himself unsteady. The track seemed to be spinning. Men were jumping the fence to get to the Vauxhall in which it appeared Linklater was trapped.

Rowland staggered towards the flames. Milton grabbed him. “Whoa, Rowly, there's nothing you can do, mate. They'll get him out.”

The poet sat Rowland down on the track as the crowd began to build around him. “Rowly, can you hear me? Rowly?”

“I'm all right, Milt… just a little dizzy. Linklater…”

Milton craned his neck. “They've got him out of the car.”

Frantic, Edna broke through the concerned circle of onlookers.

“I'm fine,” Rowland said, seeing the panic on her face.

“You're bleeding, Rowly,” she said, kneeling to get a closer look at his face.

Rowland touched the abrasion on his brow gingerly. “Must have hit the windscreen,” he said. “But I'm not hurt.” He stood to prove it, being careful not to grimace as the bruising impact of the steering wheel on his chest asserted its presence.

By then an ambulance had arrived for Linklater. Rowland flatly refused any attempt to take him to the hospital, insisting he was perfectly well. Joan Richmond might have pressed the issue if not for the fact that they were all preoccupied with Charles Linklater, who it appeared was quite dangerously injured. The Vauxhall was beyond repair.

The track was a bedlam of police, race officials, the media and inquisitive locals.

Clyde drove the Mercedes off the incline of the track so he could properly inspect her. Edna poured Rowland a cup of sweet black tea from the picnic thermos that Mary Brown had packed for them, and, worried that he still seemed too quiet, watched while he drank it.

“There's a dent on the rear mudguard and bumper and a crack on the windscreen to match the one on your head, but otherwise she seems in good shape, Rowly.” Clyde flinched as he glanced at the mangled remains of Linklater's motorcar. “You're bloody lucky, mate!”

Rowland nodded slowly, playing the accident over in his mind.

“You!” The woman who stamped up to Rowland was nearly as tall as he. Pearls and the Peter Pan collar of a pink blouse were visible at the open neck of her racing suit, which bore a crest of some sort. “What the hell did you think you were doing out there?”

Rowland stepped back startled. She turned around and kicked the grille of the Mercedes.

“I beg your pardon, Miss…”

“Linklater, Charlotte Linklater!” She turned back to him, shaking. “That was my dear brother you nearly killed out there.”

Rowland faltered, wounded by the accusation. “Miss Linklater, I'm—”

“I saw what you did. You, sir, drove him into that wall! You cheating blaggard! You won't get away with this!” Charlotte Linklater pulled back her fist and swung. Not expecting fisticuffs from someone called Charlotte, Rowland failed to duck and took the full and considerable force of the blow. He fell back and she went after him again.

“Steady on!” Clyde leapt between the two before the enraged young woman could have a second go.

The press photographers missed the punch but they swarmed now, and Charlotte Linklater repeated her accusations, breaking down in the midst of her tirade against the man who'd raced her brother. Hope Bartlett and Joan Richmond tried to restore calm, to reason with Charlotte.