Give the Devil His Due (18 page)

In the end, Joan pulled Clyde aside and told him to take Rowland home. “And for pity's sake make sure he's seen by a doctor,” she instructed. “I'll call with any news about Charlie Linklater.”

Edna tapped and poked her head around the door. “Rowly, are you decent?”

“Decent enough,” Rowland said as he pulled on a fresh shirt. The doctor, upon whom Edna had insisted, had just left. “I'm fit and well, nothing broken,” he added, before she could ask.

“I met Dr. Yates in the hallway,” Edna said, staring at the impression of the steering wheel turning blue on his chest. “That's not quite what he said.”

Rowland smiled. “It's the gist.”

Edna hesitated. “Joan just telephoned.”

“Oh yes?” Rowland buttoned his shirt.

“Rowly, Charles Linklater has died.”

“What?”

“He died. They couldn't save him.”

Rowland swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He sat down on the bed, horrified, shaken. For the hundredth time the accident replayed in his mind. Had he made a mistake? Had he somehow forced Linklater onto the dangerous part of the track?

Edna sat beside him and held his hand in both of hers. “Rowly, this wasn't your fault. Mr. Linklater lost control of his car and there was a terrible accident. It's a wonder you weren't more badly hurt, but if you had been it would have been his fault, not yours.”

“Miss Linklater—” he began.

“—Has one heck of a right hook,” Edna finished, reaching up to touch the swelling around his eye. “She was distraught, Rowly. She knows it wasn't your fault… she was just angry and scared.”

“God,” Rowland squeezed her hand, “what a flaming mess!”

“It is rather,” Edna said. “Come on, finish getting dressed. Joan will be here soon.”

Joan Richmond sat down and addressed Rowland in her no-nonsense way. “Now Rowly, regardless of what Miss Linklater said, you are not responsible for the tragic passing of her brother. I say this without equivocation or reservation. The fool was so determined to pass you that he took the worst part of the track at quite ridiculous speed. I could see that, so could Hope. And once Charlotte is calm enough to be reasonable, she will see that too.”

Rowland nodded. He was grateful that Joan had called simply to reassure him. “Would you tell Miss Linklater that if there's anything at all I can do…?”

“Of course, of course. But what I need to know, Rowly, is how soon you'll be ready to drive again.”

“Drive? They're still running the race?”

“Motor racing is a dangerous sport, Rowly. These mishaps, accidents, acts of God—call them what you may—they happen. And there's a great deal invested in the Maroubra Invitational. The Red Cross is relying on us.”

“It just seems…”

“I don't mean to sound callous, but if we cancelled events every time a driver was injured or hurt, motor racing would not exist.”

“But Charlotte Linklater… Surely she wants the race cancelled?”

“Charlotte is an Englishwoman. Her upper lip is admirably stiff and she's keen to race in her late brother's memory.”

Rowland exhaled. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to get you back on the horse as soon as possible, old boy. Your man, Clyde, tells me that your car is in good shape aside from a dent or two. We shan't be able to use the speedway for a couple of days but I'd like you to get behind the wheel as soon as possible.” She looked critically at the damage to his brow, now cleaned and dressed. “Tonight, if you're able.”

Rowland shrugged. “I'm quite able to drive, Joan. I do have a short errand to run—will that do?”

Joan nodded. “Yes, I just want you in the saddle before you begin to doubt yourself or anything equally daft. This sort of mishap can make you quite shaky.” She reached over and patted his hand. “Hope is terribly cross with Charles Linklater, if you must know. Charles knew the issues with the speedway as well as you did and he tried to pass anyway. He might have killed you, too. As it is, he's left us all with a dog's breakfast.”

…Given the conditions I have tried to explain as constituting good art; —then, if it be devoted further to the increase of men's happiness, to the redemption of the oppressed, or the enlargement of our sympathies with each other, or to such presentment of new or old truth about ourselves, and our relation to the world, as may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn here, or, immediately, as with Dante, to the glory of God, it will be also great art…

From “Style,” by Walter Pater
Advocate, 1934

____________________________________

T
he white-washed corridor was hung with smaller works—lino prints and etchings for the most part. Rowland and Clyde followed the prim young woman who led them from the reception area. It was after opening hours and so the gallery was almost entirely empty of people.

The main exhibition room was not particularly large but interestingly shaped, with multiple alcoves and nooks which lent themselves to displaying sculpture as well as paintings. It was here that Rowland's painting,
Psyche by the Styx
, had hung for nearly a year.

A diminutive man in a fine suit and white gloves stood before the canvas, studying it with his arms folded. His cologne was noticeable from about six feet away.

“Mr. Frasier,” Rowland said. “How do you do, sir?” He spoke loudly because the gallery's proprietor was partially deaf.

Frasier turned and enclosed Rowland's hand in both of his. “Very well, Mr. Sinclair, very well indeed.” He peered at the gauze dressing on Rowland's brow. “My dear fellow, what have you done to yourself?”

“An accident,” Rowland said tersely, not wanting to go into the incident. He introduced Clyde, lowering his voice a little now, as Frasier could see his lips.

“I have seen your work, I believe, Mr. Watson Jones,” Frasier said regarding Clyde over the top of his half-moon glasses. “In fact, I'd be very interested in acquiring a piece for the gallery.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Clyde said, wrong-footed. They had not come to sell paintings.

“Actually, Mr. Frasier, we're here to acquire a painting,” Rowland said.

“Georgina did mention something of the sort.” Frasier nodded at the corridor down which the young woman who'd let them in had long since disappeared. “What piece are you interested in, Mr. Sinclair?”

“The one you're looking at actually.”

“But that painting is yours, Mr. Sinclair. I acquired it from you.”

“I've decided I want it back, Mr. Frasier.”

The generous space between Frasier's two front teeth was exposed as he smiled. He clicked his tongue against the gap. “I'm afraid I've become rather fond of this painting,” Frasier said sweetly. “I'd be loath to let it go, even to you.”

“I'm not expecting you to gift it to me, Mr. Frasier. I ask only that you name your price.”

“Rowly…” Clyde said, alarmed.

Rowland placed a reassuring hand on Clyde's shoulder.

Frasier beamed. “I don't think I could possibly part with it for less than, say, three hundred pounds…”

“Are you out of your mind?” Clyde exploded. “Why, that's got to be fraud. That's what it is—fraud!”

“Done.” Rowland reached into his breast pocket for his chequebook.

“Rowly, this is ridiculous. He's taking you for a fool!”

“It's all right, Clyde, really.” Rowland turned back to Frasier. “I do have a condition.”

“Oh yes?” Frasier eyed him suspiciously.

“I would like you to let it be widely known that you sold this painting for three hundred pounds, but you are not to let anyone know who bought it. I do expect the strictest confidentiality in that respect.”

“You want me to publicise the sale price, but the purchaser, he is to be anonymous?”

“That's correct.”

The gallery proprietor played with the edges of his moustache as he considered the proposition. “I'll want to sell your next work,” he countered.

“That can be arranged, Mr. Frasier. In fact, I'll need a gallery for an exhibition I'm planning. I believe this fine establishment will do nicely.”

Frasier beamed. “I think we can do business, Mr. Sinclair.”

And so the transaction was done. Rowland and Clyde removed
Psyche by the Styx
from the wall themselves and carried it out to the back seat of the Mercedes. Rowland negotiated a date for his exhibition, in late April, some weeks after the race.

“Right then,” Rowland said as they turned the Mercedes back towards
Woodlands House
. “Miss Martinelli's modesty is saved!”

Clyde shook his head. He looked unwell. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph; Rowly, you paid three hundred bloody pounds for it. How the hell am I going to burn it now?”

Rowland laughed. “Consider it an investment.”

“In what?”

“What do you suppose is going to happen to the asking price of my work when it gets around that Frasier just sold a piece for three hundred pounds?”

“Mate, that would comfort me if I didn't know for a fact that you've never cared what people pay for your work. You give most of it away, for pity's sake.”

“The rumour of this sale won't hurt the exhibition, Clyde.”

“But three hundred pounds, Rowly.”

“I don't particularly mind being fleeced by Randolph Frasier, to be honest,” Rowland confessed. “He knows full well that I can afford it. He would never have charged you that for a painting.”

“That makes it worse! How the devil did you get involved with such a crook?”

“The usual way. Milt introduced us.” Rowland could see that the sum involved was causing his friend considerable distress, so he tried to explain. “Frasier has, for the last twenty years, brought the homeless and the destitute into his gallery with the promise of a meal and a couple of shillings. All he asks in return is that they look at what's on the walls. He's determined that art has some kind of redemptive, transformative effect, and that it ought to be for everyone. He hands out pencils and chalk and drawing paper to street children. In order to do that, he takes advantage of people like me. Milt would call it an equitable redistribution of wealth. On the whole it seems fair.”

“You're saying he's some kind of artistic Robin Hood?”

“Except that his victims are usually complicit, I suppose.”

“I can't burn it now.”

“It is still the same painting, Clyde.”

Clyde's face dropped into his hands. “I know. What was I thinking? I can't burn it. It would make me as bad as the Nazis.”

“You're not burning it to stifle ideas and oppress minds, Clyde. You're doing it for Miss Martinelli.”

Clyde clenched fistfuls of his thinning hair. “I can't—not even for Rosie. I love her but I won't be turned into a vandal… I won't.”

“What say you just give her the painting, then,” Rowland suggested. “She can do with it what she wants.”