A Murder Unmentioned (36 page)

“Well then, I best telephone Lucy—let her know I’m coming.” He looked at Rowland and put his hand out. “I apologise if I offended you, old chap. I sometimes forget that you’ve grown up. Shall we say no hard feelings?”

Rowland stared at his cousin’s hand, still fuming. Reluctantly, because there was no way he could refuse without seeming churlish, he accepted the handshake. Wordlessly, he met Arthur’s eyes. In them, he could see no sign of retreat.

Arthur took the train back to Sydney that afternoon. Elisabeth Sinclair was clearly saddened to see him depart, though he did so with promises that his absence would not be long. She clung to Rowland as she waved away the Rolls Royce. “I was rather getting used to having all my boys home again,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “You mustn’t leave me again, Aubrey. They’ll simply have to carry on this dreadful war without you.”

“Fortunately, Mother, the war’s over,” Rowland said quietly.

“So soon?” Elisabeth Sinclair sighed. “Well, it’s just as well. Perhaps Arthur will be home shortly then. He looked so handsome in his uniform.”

Rowland frowned. Arthur, of course, had not been wearing a uniform of any sort. To date, it was only her youngest son that his mother saw differently, incorrectly. The development worried him.

While Wilfred accompanied his cousin to the station, Rowland and his friends sat in the drawing room, drinking tea and playing euchre with Kate, while Ernest tore about pretending to be a plane. The conversation was relaxed and inconsequential. Kate’s condition, her refined disposition and her allegiance to Lucy Bennett made it difficult to discuss anything frankly in her presence.

Elisabeth Sinclair sat on the settee with a book in her lap. Rowland watched the way she clutched the volume when her eyes became vague and frightened. The book gave her something to hold onto, as she tried to remember where she was and what she was doing.

He left the card game and sat beside her. She took his hand and held it silently for a while. He let her be as he brooded over his
exchange with Arthur. His cousin’s conviction that Wilfred was supporting him was perplexing. Of course Wilfred had managed and expanded his brother’s assets with the greater Sinclair fortune, but…

Elisabeth Sinclair squeezed his hand. “You mustn’t make your father angry, darling. You must be as good as you can be.”

Rowland turned to her, startled. His mother would say those precise words to him when he was a child. Before she forgot who he was.

He looked into her eyes, searching for some faint spark of recognition.

“Aubrey?” she said.

But he saw her hesitate. “No Mother, it’s Rowland. I’m Rowland.”

She gazed up into his face and laughed. “Don’t be silly, Rowland died.”

“No, he didn’t. I’m Rowland.”

“You’re being cruel,” she hissed, pulling away from him, her lips and hands trembling. “You’re playing wicked tricks, Aubrey!”

“Mother, please.”

Elisabeth grabbed his lapel, disintegrating, sobbing. “I know you’re Aubrey! I know!”

Ernest stopped pretending he was an aeroplane and ran to his mother.

“Yes, of course,” Rowland said as he tried desperately to soothe her. “I was being silly.”

Clyde stood and took Ernest from Kate. “What say we play cricket on the verandah, mate?” he said quietly. “We’ll let Milt bowl since he can’t bat to save his life.”

Kate smiled uneasily, gratefully, as they took her son away while Rowland tried in vain to calm his mother who was now both angry and distressed. She lashed out, suddenly unsure who he was altogether.

On the face of it, Rowland stayed composed. Edna grabbed Kate’s hand. “Perhaps we should call for a doctor,” she said.

“That’s a good idea, Miss Higgins,” Wilfred Sinclair stepped into the room, having just returned from the station. He stopped only a moment to assess the situation. “Katie, my dear, I think you’d best telephone Maguire—I believe he’s not yet returned to Sydney.” He spoke evenly, almost severely to Elisabeth. “Mother, perhaps it’s time you had a rest.”

Elisabeth turned to Wilfred in what looked like terror. “No, Aubrey needs me… we’re reading!”

Rowland glanced at his brother. “Yes, we are. Why don’t I read to you for a while, Mother?” Gently, he teased the book from her hands. She stopped fighting him and settled, confused and shaking, back into the settee. “Yes, yes… read to me, darling. Your father would read to me from the bible, you know. He was such a strong man, and so handsome.”

Rowland read, his voice low and metered, betraying almost nothing of his own disappointment and sorrow. It seemed to comfort her.

By the time Maguire arrived, Elisabeth Sinclair had become almost listless. Rowland carried his mother to her room so that the surgeon could treat her in private. She released her grip on her
Aubrey
only as the Laudanum with which the surgeon treated her began to take effect.

Not entirely sure what to do next, Rowland joined the makeshift game of cricket on the verandah. Milton handed him the soft rubber ball with no mention of what had just happened. “You bowl, Rowly. We have a young Bradman on our hands.”

And so they played a game designed to entertain Ernest while breaking no windows, but which also served to distract his uncle a little.

They stopped when Maguire walked out of the house with Wilfred. Rowland tossed the ball back to Milton and joined them.

Frederick Maguire shook his hand. “I’ll leave your brother to relay the details, Rowland, but it would be best if you don’t go in to see your mother right now. Your presence seems to cause her a great deal of conflict and distress. It may be that she’s beginning to remember you as Rowland rather than Aubrey. But that, in and of itself, is, of course, associated with her still unresolved grief. Mrs. Sinclair is very fragile at present. In fact, I would suggest her condition is at the lowest ebb I’ve seen.”

“Of course, I won’t see her. Thank you.”

Maguire took his leave, brusquely in his fashion, before opening a black umbrella to stride out to his awaiting motorcar.

Wilfred polished his glasses which had apparently fogged in the moisture. He regarded Rowland sombrely. “We’d best have a word, Rowly.”

28

DUCHESS OF YORK’S COUSIN AS AUTHORESS

Twelve-year-old Sarah Bowes-Lyon on

‘THE ART OF HORSEMANSHIP’

(By
The Daily News
’ WOMAN WRITER ABROAD)

AUSTRALIANS have a literary treat in store for in London a book has been published which is the essence of “joie de vivre.” Miss Sarah Bowes-Lyon, aged 12 years, a second cousin of the Duchess of York, with her book entitled ‘Horsemanship As It Is Today,’ is likely to achieve world sales and eclipse even ‘The Young Visitors’ by Daisy Ashford…

The etiquette of hunting is expounded at length. “Always have a very good breakfast, as you will only have your sandwiches for lunch,” writes Sarah. “For lunch, it is a good thing to have some ginger biscuits, etc., in as well as they do not crumble as much as sandwiches, and take a few bits of plain chocolate to eat for the hack home. You must always start early for the meet, so that you will not be late if you are delayed on the way. When you get there, go and find your pony, and don’t forget your sandwich case! If your hostess asks you in, always go and have some coffee, it is rude not to. Always say ‘Good Morning’ to the Master, and then the Hunt Servants… Anyway, when you get home from hunting have a hot bath, go to bed, sleep tight, and may you dream of… fox-hunting!”

The Daily News, 3 January 1934

W
ilfred led Rowland into his own study.

“Drink?”

“Anything but whisky.”

Wilfred poured him a generous glass of sherry and kept the Scotch for himself.

“I’m sorry, Wil, that was my fault.”

“Why?”

“I thought she remembered me for a moment. I pushed her. It was stupid, selfish…”

Wilfred sighed. “We’ll talk about Mother directly, but that’s not why I called you in here. I want you to tell me what exactly went on between you and Arthur.”

“That’s between Arthur and me, Wil.”

Wilfred’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be difficult, Rowly. The two of you were shouting at each other on the verandah—I doubt it was particularly confidential. We haven’t time for bloody airs and graces.”

“I suspect he was just trying to provoke me, Wil.”

“For pity’s sake, you’re not going to hurt my feelings!”

“Very well.” Rowland was not in any mood to quarrel over Arthur. “Our dear cousin seems to have got the wrong end of several sticks.” He recounted the conversation, trying to be as fair as animosity would allow.

Wilfred listened carefully without interrupting. When Rowland finished, he stood and retrieved several pages of documents from a cedar cabinet, and placed the sheaf before his brother.

“What is this?”

“Father’s last will. He’d signed it the day he died.”

Rowland remembered the entry in his father’s diary:
Mullins—Execution
. So, Henry Sinclair had not been scheduling the summary murder of some business rival. Relieved, he read through the first
interminable sentence with its multiple whereases, moreovers, and thenceforths. “What is it you wish me to see, Wil?”

“Turn to the next page, second paragraph.”

Rowland read. He sat up, startled. “He disinherited me,” he said, in stunned disbelief.

Wilfred came around the desk and took a chair next to Rowland’s. “Father, as a matter of course, disinherited one or the other of us regularly. Poor Ray Mullins must have drafted and redrafted Father’s will on a monthly basis. It just so happened that he died that night just after he’d cut you off. If you recall, later that evening, he was adamant he’d disinherit me.”

“So this is what Arthur meant when he said you were
supporting
me and my friends.”

“I am certainly
not
supporting your Communist hordes!” Wilfred took the document out of Rowland’s hands. “Look, Rowly, if I’d had my way you would never have known about this. When Father died, I restructured all our assets into the family trust from which you receive your income. The accountants will talk you through all the mundane details anytime you want.”

Rowland shook his head. “All this time I thought…” He stared at his brother. “All these years you’ve been demanding I throw my friends out of
Woodlands
. You could simply have…”

Wilfred’s jaw tensed. “Father controlled us with pounds and shillings. You were too young to know, but it was how he kept Aubrey and me in line—who we saw, what we did, what we thought. I came back from the war only to have him order me about like some…” Wilfred sipped his Scotch. “Now, I sincerely hope that one day you will come to your senses about the way you live, but I am not your keeper, Rowly. I reserve the right to be outraged, appalled and utterly furious with you as the need arises but what you do with
Woodlands
is your affair and your affair alone.”

Rowland said nothing, strangely shaken.

“You may also recall that you were the sole beneficiary of Uncle Rowland’s personal estate, however dubiously it was derived,” Wilfred continued, watching him closely. “And you didn’t think twice about having it consolidated into the Sinclair Family Trust. Let me be clear, Rowly, I will not tolerate you feeling beholden to me in any way!”

Rowland’s brow rose. “It might be too late for that.”

“I do not wish to ever talk about this again, Rowly. As I said, I would have rathered you never knew, but Arthur’s bringing it up with you has raised an entirely different issue.”

Rowland rubbed his face. “What issue?”

“Ray Mullins, as you know, passed away ten years ago. I was the only other person to know the contents of this will which has been kept here under lock and key. I didn’t tell Arthur but he was here, under this roof, while we were both in England last year.”

“So he’s been digging through your files?” Rowland asked.

“More than that, Rowly,” Wilfred said. “You mentioned that the police have an anonymous informant who insists you were disinherited?”

“Yes, that’s what Delaney said. You suspect it’s Arthur?”

Wilfred nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“But why would he—?”

Wilfred tapped the desk with his fingers distractedly. “Perhaps he is angrier than he reveals about his own circumstances, perhaps he wishes to punish us somehow or perhaps he genuinely believes I killed Father. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Wil,” Rowland said, recalling what Hugh McIntosh had revealed. “Do you know that Arthur made some unfortunate investments last year?”

Wilfred’s eyes narrowed. “No, I didn’t. I may need to ask the accountants to check our books for irregularities. I’m afraid I might have been too trusting where Arthur was concerned. Clearly the man is a cowan.”

“Exactly how much does the bastard know about our affairs?” Rowland asked.

“I don’t know, Rowly.”

Rowland told his brother about John Barrett’s information. Wilfred’s face became harder.