Give the Devil His Due (48 page)

Three days later, Rowland's doctors came to the conclusion that he was out of any danger and strong enough to recuperate perfectly well at home. The decision may or may not have been encouraged by the patient's campaign to that end, and the fact that he had taken to sketching nurses in a manner that the matron feared would turn their heads.

While the enforced bed rest, imposed by the hospital, had tested Rowland's patience, it had done much to restore his strength. When he walked out to the waiting Rolls Royce, he moved a little more slowly than usual, but without assistance.

On a whim, Clyde had Johnston drive them out to the Maroubra Speedway before returning to
Woodlands
. “You might take doctor's orders more seriously if you see what happened,” he said. They took him to the sand dune first, and the light pole upon which the Mercedes had met her end. The remains of Rowland's motorcar had been removed, of course, and signs warned that the light pole was no longer safe.

Rowland stared at the shattered fragments of windscreen at the base of the pole, yellow paint embedded in the damage inflicted yards above the ground. There were flowers laid at the spot where he'd been found, and someone had even made a rough cross out of driftwood to which they'd attached a mangled Mercedes mascot. Rowland removed the mascot and slipped it into his pocket. He could remember nothing about the actual accident, and seeing this, it seemed inconceivable, even to him, that he'd survived.

Edna took his hand. “Are you all right, Rowly? Do you need to rest?”

He shook his head. “No, I'm glad you brought me. I don't remember much of the race.” He looked back at the buckled pole. “God, the poor old girl. She deserved better.”

Edna pressed Rowland's hand sympathetically as she searched for the appropriate words. “She had a wonderfully adventurous life for a motorcar, Rowly, and we'll always remember her.”

“She was a beautiful machine, comrade,” Milton said squinting up at the point where the Mercedes had met the pole. “But for a while there, we thought she'd taken you with her.” He considered the distance between the pole and where Rowland had been found. “You must have been thrown out before impact… you couldn't have survived otherwise.”

They drove into the bowl next. The speedway was empty and eerily quiet though the concrete bowl seemed to hold a faint echo of the ripping scream of supercharged engines. The odd newspaper blew across the deserted infield and seagulls picked over stale food scraps. Johnston took them to the pit they'd used. Clyde checked with Milton and Edna. “It hasn't rained since the race, has it?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Good, it might still be there. Come on, Rowly, I want to show you something.”

He took Rowland to the bay in which the Mercedes had been parked awaiting the race's start. “Do you remember the shifty bloke Joan saw under your car?”

Rowland nodded. “We were concerned he'd sabotaged the engine.”

Clyde pointed to the cement.

The word “Eternity” in blue and white chalk… a little scuffed but still plainly visible.

“I only saw it when you pulled out,” Clyde said, grinning. “I reckon it must have been Stace under the car writing his damn word. He's even spelled it correctly.”

“What was he doing here?” Edna asked.

“He probably came to the races, saw Rowly and decided to bless his motorcar with the correct spelling this time.” Clyde squatted down to touch the epigraph in a manner that was quite reverent. “To be honest, when you went over the top I thought he might have hexed you with his flaming word, but perhaps it was just the opposite.”

Rowland smiled. “It seems that way.”

Milton groaned. “For pity's sake, it's 1934. Rowly was not saved by some magician with a stick of chalk!”

Clyde called Milton a godless Communist who believed in nothing, and Milton began a speech on science over superstition. But Rowland wasn't so sure.

There was a familial reception committee gathered at
Woodlands
when Rowland finally got home. Ewan, who'd not been allowed to go to the hospital, greeted his uncle with all the boisterous exuberance of childish joy.

Wilfred took his middle son from Rowland's arms. “Your uncle Rowly is not really up to being bounced on just yet, sport.” He shook his brother's hand. “Welcome home, Rowly. Are you sure you're—”

“Quite well, Wil. I could even go another round with Ewan, here.”

Ernest Sinclair did not greet his uncle with the same high spirits. Indeed, he said nothing, simply taking Rowland's hand and holding on. Rowland made no attempt to escape the boy's grasp. Elisabeth Sinclair wept and, though she still called him Aubrey, Rowland was moved by his mother's rare show of emotion. They had simple luncheon in the breakfast room with the children—finger sandwiches, sausage rolls and jam tarts, and for Rowland, stout, prescribed as a restorative of some sort.

“Do you remember what happened, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest whispered.

“I'm afraid not, Ernie.”

“I saw it. You drove off the racing track and hit a pole.”

“I see. That'd explain what happened to the car, I suppose.”

“Nobody could wake you up.”

Rowland glanced briefly at the Lucky Devil II which, at Joan Richmond's insistence, graced his mantel with all its dubious glory. “I'm awake now.”

“I don't like motor racing.”

“I'm not so keen on it myself anymore.”

“Do you miss your motorcar, Uncle Rowly?”

“Yes, I do rather.”

“She was a capital vehicle.”

“I always thought so.”

“Will you get another one?”

“Another car?” Rowland faltered. “I expect I will, eventually.” The idea seemed indecent.

Ernest appeared to understand. He selected a tart with the hand that was not firmly in his uncle's.

After lunch Wilfred took his young family home insisting as he left that Rowland should rest. “Maguire will call by at about five o'clock.”

Rowland didn't protest, though he thought the house call unnecessary, accustomed to the fact that Wilfred expressed concern through the attendance of Maguire.

Edna waited till they were just themselves before she told Rowland that she had found Frances Webb.

“Really? How?”

“I asked the maid at the house next door. I thought they might be friends. I mentioned I was looking to hire, and that Mrs. Bocquet had told me she needed to let Frances go.” Edna's smile was triumphant. “She's living with her mother in Woolloomooloo.”

“Well, let's go talk to her,” Rowland said, pushing himself up from the chair.

“Tomorrow,” Milton said. “You look done in, comrade.”

“I'm—”

“Going to listen to the doctors, just for today,” Edna finished for him. “Tomorrow we'll regroup.”

Domestic Servants' Wages

Sir,—

May I say a word in defence of Australian domestic servants? Like “Common Sense,” I have lived in other countries and other States, and can say, from my own experience, that the average Australian domestic worker is a very fine type of girl, hard-working, capable, trust-worthy, and obliging. Of course, there are exceptions. I have seldom found that any training or enlightenment is received with scornful resentment by the maid. As a rule she is eager to learn and is grateful to a mistress who can instruct her. Any young girl likes amusements and dancing. If she works an honest eight hours a day, has she not a right to so many hours of liberty every day, as well as her six halfdays and one full day a month? Let mistresses treat these fine young Australians as we would like our own young daughters to be treated, and there will be less of this dissatisfaction with domestics and with domestic service.

Yours, &c,

FRANCIA
The Argus, 1936

____________________________________

F
rances Webb was more than willing to talk about her time in the employ of Les and Beryl Bocquet. She had been sacked unfairly, she believed, with no notice and barely a week's pay. The strength of her resentment was such that she did not even ask why the posh gentlemen and his friends wanted to know.

“They thought they was so good, they did, living in Lindfield like Lord and Lady Muck. But that Beryl Bocquet was no lady. I knew there was something going on… that Dr. Something Jones calling, and their nibs suddenly giving me the afternoon off.”

“Do you mean Dr. Stuart Jones?” Edna asked.

“Yes. And I know why people call him too, and it ain't for a cold.”

“And they sacked you after that?” Milton asked.

“They knew that I knew and that I weren't of a mind to approve. It were murder, plain and simple, and Mrs. Bocquet will be answering to the good Lord for it!”

“What about the tiepin?” Clyde asked, flinching as he heard his own position come so harshly out of Frances Webb's mouth. “The one they accused you of stealing.”

“Why I never and they never!” Frances put her sturdy arms indignantly upon her hips. “Nobody said nothing about any tiepin!”

“You said Mrs. Bocquet wasn't a lady,” Rowland ventured. “May I ask what you meant by that?”

“She were stepping out on him. Waiting till he were at the track and then she'd powder herself up and go out. A couple of times he got back before her and then it were on… not so lord and lady then! But it didn't stop her. Alley cat that one!”

“When Dr. Stuart Jones called,” Rowland asked, “did Mr. Bocquet know?”

“Of course—he called him, told him to come.”

Rowland thanked Frances Webb for her assistance, slipping her a couple of pounds to help until she found work.

“That's real decent of you, sir,” she said. “I'm a good worker, and I didn't say nothing the whole time I were with the Bocquets. It weren't right them sacking me.”

“What do you think?” Clyde asked as they made their way back to the Rolls Royce.

“I think I'd better stay on the good side of Mary Brown,” Rowland replied.

“Bloody oath! For all our sakes,” Milton muttered.

“I was talking about Stuart Jones' visit,” Clyde chuckled. “Why would a married couple need his services?”

“Well clearly Lesley Bocquet was not the father,” Edna said.

“How could they be sure of that?” Rowland asked.

“Perhaps Mr. Bocquet knows he can't father children. Perhaps he's just sure he didn't father this one, or perhaps knowing that someone else may have was enough.”

“Crispin White was Mrs. Bocquet's lover.” Milton opened the door for Edna. “Lesley Bocquet was cuckolded and took his revenge by killing White.”

Rowland agreed. “But how on earth do we prove it? Delaney can't do anything officially and Hartley isn't going to listen to our theories on the crime.”

“Mrs. Bocquet,” Edna suggested as she climbed into the vehicle. “She loved Crispin White. Perhaps she'll turn on her husband.” Milton shrugged. “If she didn't kill White herself. It's worth a shot.”