Give the Devil His Due (8 page)

“You do know I didn't kill him, don't you?” Milton said irately.

“Of course I do,” Clyde replied. “But that might not be enough to keep you out of prison. They arrested Rowly last year despite his impeccable connections. Your connections, old mate, are not impeccable and you have a habit of falling out with the authorities.”

Rowland had to concur on that count. Milton's politics and his nature had seen him arrested on a number of occasions— misdemeanours, as far as Rowland knew, aside from the time the poet had assaulted a police officer so he could accompany Rowland to gaol. That police officer had been Colin Delaney. Rowland suspected that the detective was avoiding looking at Milton, but he would have to do so if no other candidate presented. “I'll telephone Delaney,” he promised, though he wished he could do so with more than a young girl's claim that there were witches at the end of the garden.

Milton changed the subject. “When are you trying out the speedway, Rowly?”

“Joan Richmond's arranged for our team to practise laps at Maroubra tomorrow,” Rowland replied. He was looking forward to testing the Mercedes on the bowl. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. “I'm taking Ernie out today. Would you all care to join us?”

Ernest Sinclair, Rowland's nephew, was seven years old. He had that year started at Tudor House near Moss Vale, where his father and uncles had attended before him. Like most boarders, Ernest would go home to the Sinclair estate in Yass at the end of each term, but rarely a weekend went by where he didn't see his uncle. Ernest would catch the train up to Sydney or Rowland would collect him from the school to take him on some outing or other. Often the other residents of
Woodlands House
would come along, and together they would give Ernest a time that made him the envy of his school chums.

“Rosie's parents are in town,” Clyde said miserably. “She wants me to come to dinner at her cousin's house so I can spend some time with her father.”

Rosalina Martinelli had once found gainful employment as Rowland's model; a job for which she proved temperamentally unsuited. Now she was Clyde's sweetheart; a role that suited her much more and which she was determined to convert into something more permanent.

“I thought her father didn't like you…” Edna began. They'd all heard Clyde's accounts of the man he swore was a retired Fascisti.

“The man loathes me,” Clyde groaned. “But Rosie's convinced he'll get used to me.”

“Well, you don't want that.” Milton's warning was in earnest. “Once Martinelli gives you his blessing, it's all over, mate.”

“Luckily, he hates the very idea of me.” Clyde's mood lifted a little. “He'll never let Rosie marry someone like me.”

“Perhaps you should ask for her hand before he changes his mind,” Milton suggested.

Rowland offered no advice, he had none to give. His friend's love life had become inexplicably complex of late. It was not that Clyde wasn't devoted to Rosalina, but that he was not in a position to get married. Certainly not as an artist. And he was not ready to not be an artist, even for Rosalina. Rowland could have helped, would gladly have helped, if Clyde would allow him. But for reasons that were probably more than simple pride, Clyde would not hear of it.

Milton was less circumspect than Rowland. “Be sure to tell them you're not hungry.”

“What?” Clyde demanded wearily.

Milton leaned in and outlined a plan. “At dinner, claim you're not hungry. Pick at a couple of things, but eat nothing. And screw up your face a lot.” He nodded confidently. “Then her mother will hate you as well. My granny cried once because I wouldn't have a second helping. They take it very personally.”

“I don't want to make Rosie's mother cry.”

“It's self-defence, comrade, just in case the old man has a change of heart.”

Clyde called the poet an idiot.

“Poor darling,” Edna said, rubbing Clyde's arm. “I'm afraid I have another engagement as well, Rowly.”

“Where are you off to?” Milton asked.

“I'm not really sure. Errol's collecting me.”

“Flynn?” Clyde said. “You're stepping out with Flynn?”

“Well, yes?”

“You realise he's on Rowly's team?” Clyde threw his arms in the air. “If we lose because you break the poor blighter's heart, Ed…”

“Oh for heaven's sake, don't be absurd. I don't care about the race!”

They were still arguing when Milton and Rowland rose to leave.

Ernest Sinclair was ready when his uncle's flamboyant motorcar pulled up. Half a dozen boys waiting to be collected for weekend visits stood in an orderly line at the designated collection point, just outside Central Station, after catching the train from Moss Vale. Ernest paused only to have his name signed off by an older boy before running to the yellow Mercedes.

Rowland stepped out and shook Ernest's hand. “How are you, Ernie?”

“I'm very well, thank you, Uncle Rowly. Oh hallo, Mr. Isaacs.” Ernest peered in through the window. “Aren't you getting out of the car?”

“Should I?”

“Nobody can see you in there, Mr. Isaacs.”

Slowly, Milton alighted, glancing questioningly at Rowland who was equally bewildered. The poet shook hands with Ernest and then they all climbed back into the car and set off.

“Righto, Ernie, why did Mr. Isaacs need to get out of the car?” Rowland asked when it became clear that Ernest was not about to volunteer the information.

“Digby Cossington Smythe's never seen a real Communist up close. He gave me two shillings.”

Rowland smiled.

“I believe you'd best give me one of those shillings, Ernie,” Milton said looking back at the boy. “Since it seems that I am the means of production!”

Ernest fished a coin out of his pocket.

“I'm not sure you ought to be taking your classmate's pocket money, Ernie,” Rowland said, trying to sound stern.

“I'd call it an equitable redistribution of wealth!” Milton laughed, handing back the shilling. “Keep it, Ernie mate, but you remember you made your first shilling off the back of a worker!”

Ernest nodded solemnly, committing the poet's words to memory. “Where are we going, Uncle Rowly?”

“I thought perhaps we might catch the ferry across to Manly.”

“Can we go to the Fun Pier?”

“I don't see why not.”

Ernest beamed. “That's so very kind of you, Uncle Rowly!”

They left the Mercedes at Circular Quay and boarded the ferry to Manly, standing on the deck and taking in the glorious blue of the harbour on a clear day. Ernest pointed out landmarks and described them with potted histories as if Rowland and Milton were first-time visitors to the city. He told them of the day the Sydney Harbour Bridge had been opened, forgetting entirely that he'd seen it all from Rowland's shoulders. Being a Saturday, the ferry was full with weekend trippers to the state's premier seaside venue. The sea air seemed festive, a cheerful anticipation of sand and sunshine.

The Fun Pier itself was a crush of families and sweethearts strolling arm in arm.

“Keep your eyes peeled for pickpockets,” Milton warned as he glanced sideways at a band of youths moving through the crowd. Rowland grabbed Ernest's hand and kept him close. They rode the Ferris wheel first, and then watched as Ernest took a turn on the carousel. They split up to race through the mirror maze, accepting the tin medals awarded at completion with gravitas and acceptance speeches. Once they'd been through every exhibit and entertainment at least twice, they left the Fun Pier for the Shark Aquarium next door. That done, the party of three found a table at Burt's Milk Bar which stretched across the wharf frontage.

“May I have a milkshake, Uncle Rowly?” Ernest asked, having seen the American fad drink advertised on sandwich boards outside the milk bar.

“If it's not a cocktail,” Rowland said, signalling a waitress. She assured him there was nothing stronger than flavouring in a milkshake and recommended the Girvana Sling for him and Milton. Apparently it was a specialty of the house.

“So what part of the Fun Pier did you like best, Ernie?” Milton asked as they enjoyed their respective beverages.

“The Ferris wheel, I suppose. The mirror maze was smashing too!” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The wax museum was appalling, don't you think?”

“It wasn't that bad, surely,” Rowland protested, defending the handful of wax fairytale characters out of some vague inexplicable sense that it would be impolite not to do so.

“It was pretty poor,” Milton confirmed.

“The statues weren't frightening at all, and nothing looked real,” Ernest complained.

“I do believe Madame Tussaud's has made your standards a little high,” Rowland said wryly. He had taken Ernest to the iconic waxworks when they were in London the previous year. Expecting Tussaud's at Manly Beach was probably optimistic.

The boy's deep blue eyes brightened on mention of the London wax museum. “Remember the werewolf? He was my favourite!”

“I thought you were frightened?”

“I'm seven years old now, Uncle Rowly,” Ernest replied fiercely. “You'll find I've grown up quite a lot. And I do like being scared.”

“It's a shame Magdalene's is closed,” Milton sighed. “Plenty of ghouls and monsters there. Guaranteed to frighten even men of Ernie's advanced years.”

“Is it closed?” Rowland asked, forgetting about his nephew for a moment.

“I expect so… after White.”

Rowland frowned. “That was a couple of days ago. They probably wouldn't close down the entire waxworks.”

“We could drop in on the way home.”

Rowland winced. “I can't take Ernie to—”

“Oh yes you can!” Ernest interjected. “I'm seven!”

Milton pulled on the goatee he was currently sporting. “We could just drive past and have a gander. Ernie won't be out of our sights.”

“I don't know.” Rowland hesitated. “It seems a little macabre.”

“It's a House of Horrors, Rowly. It's supposed to be macabre.”

“Please Uncle Rowly. Please, please, please!”

Rowland made a valiant attempt to resist Ernest's pleas despite his own curiosity about the scene of White's grisly end. Eventually, however, he was defeated by the fact that his nephew and the poet joined forces to make the case for Magdalene's.

“Very well, if it's open we might stop in for a bit,” Rowland conceded. Ernest was, after all, completely unaware of the murder, so there was no danger that he would be unduly disturbed, and anything they could learn about Magdalene's could well prove useful.

They finished their drinks and a plate of chipped potatoes before catching the next ferry back to Circular Quay. From there it was barely ten minutes' drive to Kings Cross and Magdalene's House of the Macabre. The waxworks was open and, indeed, busy.

They parked the Mercedes and joined the queue at the door which spilled out onto Macleay Street.

“Eternity.” Ernest read out the word inscribed in chalk on the concrete as they waited for the line to move. “It's spelled wrong.”

Rowland looked. Eternity had indeed been spelled with a “u” in place of the second “e”.

“What's it mean, Uncle Rowly?”

“I'm not sure,” Rowland admitted. He'd seen the word chalked in the same copperplate hand, with the same spelling mistake, a couple of times on pavements in the city. He'd never given it a great deal of thought.

The elderly cashier who took their money and passed out tickets from a narrow booth window at the hall's entrance was, to Rowland's mind, ideally suited to employment in an establishment like Magdalene's. Her face was more crumpled than wrinkled, her hair a wild mane of frizzled grey. She wore a patch over one eye and glared at them with the other while she puffed on a chipped black pipe. Rowland noticed that Ernest's eyes had widened already.

They shuffled into the first exhibit room, which had been designed to resemble a crypt. Some of the sarcophagi were open to reveal wax corpses inside. One contained a mummy. Ghouls and vampires inhabited the shadows. On closer examination, Rowland could see that the statues consigned to the gloomy corners were damaged or unfinished in some way. Count Dracula was little more than a vampire scarecrow with a wax head. The cobwebs, while fitting, were real. Still, Ernest seemed impressed.

The second hall housed a fearsome collection of historical figures: Genghis Khan, Napoleon Bonaparte, unnamed Vikings and a caveman. Skeletons hung from wires in the internal courtyard. Rowland stopped, surprised, as they happened upon a young woman sobbing inconsolably as she perched on the edge of a rocking chair.

Rowland offered her his handkerchief, which she took though she didn't stop crying.

“She's an exhibit, Rowly,” Milton whispered as he hoisted Ernest onto his shoulders, so the boy could get a closer look at the tusked boar's head mounted above the door.

“Oh, I see.” Rowland laughed, but did not attempt to retrieve his handkerchief. Instead, he observed the other visitors to Magdalene's. Several families, as one would expect, quite a few young courting couples as well as a surprising number of single men. Nobody who looked like they might belong to a coven. The attendants, however, all looked like they dabbled in black magic, but he presumed that was a requirement of employment. A narrow stairwell leading to the second floor was cordoned off. Intrigued, Rowland peered up in the hope of catching a glimpse of what was up there.

“I'm sorry, sir, the second floor is not open to the public.” The young woman who had accepted his handkerchief tapped him on the shoulder. It seemed she had been relieved by another girl in a similar white dress, who wailed in her stead while she partook of a cigarette.

“Oh, pardon me.” Rowland smiled contritely as he removed his hat. “I don't suppose that's where that poor chap was killed?”