A Murder Unmentioned (47 page)

WILLIAM BECKWITH McINNES

William B. McInnes was born at Malvern in 1889. He began his art studies at the early age of 14 at the Melbourne Gallery, where he worked first under Fred McCubbin, and afterwards under Bernard Hall. In 1912 he went to Europe and stayed for two years during which time he devoted himself almost entirely to landscape. This was new ground for young McInnes as hitherto he had been trained chiefly as a portrait painter. McInnes has a fine sense of colour and a keen eye for the essential in a landscape, and is extraordinarily dexterous in his handling. McInnes has had the distinction of winning the Archibald Prize for three consecutive years. He has had many commissions as a portrait painter and has painted several notable “group” pictures.

The Mercury, 1926

R
owland poured drinks from the pitcher of chilled punch that Mary Brown had left on the sideboard. He and his
friends had spent a good part of the day painting the black walls of the dining room, using white pigment to inscribe dense, detailed figures and patterns. Milton had contributed borrowed verse along the line where the wall joined the skirting boards and cornices. The result was dramatic, somewhat Beardsleyesque, and quite breathtaking.

The exercise had been a whim, begun in jest, but had quickly consumed them all. The residents of
Woodlands House
had never before applied their art together, blending their styles and ideas into a single, quite extraordinary piece upon the four walls of the room.

While they’d worked, they had discussed the issue of Rosalina Martinelli and her determination to marry Clyde with what they all considered an unseemly haste. Strategies were postulated, debated and eventually dismissed for one reason or another. Keeping Rowland out of gaol, it seemed, was less problematic than keeping Clyde out of wedlock.

Eventually they withdrew to Rowland’s studio with their drinks. Rowland’s paintings had been returned to the walls and it once again looked familiar, if somewhat tidier than usual.

Mary Brown brought in a platter of sandwiches and cakes since the dining room could not be used for eating. She communicated her disapproval of the unusual redecoration through a series of world-weary sighs.

Rowland grinned. His housekeeper’s disapprobation felt comfortingly normal after the past weeks.

Despite Wilfred’s misgivings about the manner in which his brother ran
Woodlands
, Rowland had directed that they should carry on as usual. He was certain that his mother, when she arrived, would simply get used to them, ignoring anything that did not match the world in her mind. She appeared not to notice, after all, that
everybody else called him Rowland in her determination that he was Aubrey. It was only when the fantasy was directly challenged by him that she seemed to break down.

His friends were unperturbed about the impending addition to the household. Indeed Milton declared openly that his grandmother was madder than Rowland’s mother any day. “It’s not just pistols you have to keep from my granny, mate,” he confided. “We’ve been hiding the knives for years. Upper class lunacy has nothing on the proletariat variety!”

“What’s that?” Edna asked as Clyde lugged in a large flat box which had just been delivered to the door. The sculptress wore overalls, and a shirt belonging to one or another of the gentlemen she lived with. Her hair was pulled back under a scarf and yet the only indication that she’d been painting was the faint smear of white on cheek. Rowland’s unprotected suit was, on the other hand, completely splattered. Lenin too, had, in solidarity with his master, collected several drips of white paint on his brindle coat.

“This,” Milton said, gleefully cutting open the box, “is the portrait that Rowly and I had done at Central Police Station.”

“You don’t sit for portraits in a prison!”

Milton made space and sat the large framed photograph on the mantel, stepping back to admire it.

“You can’t put that up here!” Clyde exclaimed.

“Why not? It’s an excellent photograph,” Milton said. “Captures a certain camaraderie, a joie de vivre in the face of injustice!”

“There’s a height scale on the wall… it’s a police mugshot!”

“I like it,” Rowland said, tilting his head to consider the image. “It’s a very fitting memento.”

“Wilfred won’t like it.”

“Wil never looks too closely at what’s on my walls. I think it frightens him.”

Edna sat cross-legged on the armchair with a sandwich. Henry Sinclair’s portrait stared thunderously down from the wall. Now that she knew, she could make out William McInnes’ signature. “Rowly, do you keep that painting because it’s a McInnes?” she asked. Rowland was a portrait painter after all. The quality of McInnes’ work might well have overridden the subject of it.

Rowland glanced up from his notebook. He had been sketching the sculptress, but that was not unusual. “In a manner of speaking.” He closed the notebook and stood to examine the oil painting. “I was about twelve when my father sat for McInnes. He came to the house. When Father wasn’t actually sitting, I’d watch McInnes work. It was my first experience of portraiture.”

“So that’s why you hang it here?”

Rowland smiled. “It’s also my first foray into painting.”

“You painted this?” Edna asked surprised. Aside from the fact that the portrait was not the work of a child, Rowland’s style was different.

“Of course not.” He beckoned her over. Standing her before him, he put his hands on her shoulders to direct her gaze. “Do you see anything odd about that painting? A mistake perhaps?”

They all stared at the portrait. Clyde picked it first. “There’s a highlight on his earlobe that doesn’t belong,” he said, pointing out the dot of titanium white paint. “It doesn’t really fit with the direction of the light.”

“After that day in the woolshed when Father sacked John Barrett and… well you know the story.”

“Yes,” Edna said leaning back against him.

“I was forbidden to set foot outside the house. McInnes called me into the room he was using, to show me the finished painting before anyone else. He felt sorry for me, I suppose.” Rowland frowned slightly. “Then he left the room for some reason I can’t recall.”

“And you painted that highlight to flaw the portrait?” Edna asked tentatively.

“Actually I painted pearl earrings and a tiara on his head.”

They turned to gape at him. Milton laughed first. “Bloody oath, Rowly, you had a death wish, but I’m so proud of you!”

“What happened?” Edna said fearfully. She did not want to hear again that Rowland had been barbarically punished.

“McInnes painted over it. My father never saw what I’d done,” Rowland replied. “But he left that point of white so I’d always know there were earrings and a tiara under there. Sometimes that helped.”

Edna looked back at the painting, seeing it differently suddenly. It was more Rowland than his father now. A symbol of a boy’s defiance, a precursor to the man he’d become. She smiled, delighted. “Does Wilfred know?”

“No. Wil believes I hang the painting here to taunt my father’s image with naked women in his favourite armchair.”

“Will you ever tell him the truth?”

“Good Lord, no!”

“But with everything that’s happened…”

“With everything that’s happened,” Rowland said, laughing, “I’m rather looking forward to going back to not talking about things again.”

Epilogue

J
ack Templeton revealed the whereabouts of Ernest Sinclair within twelve hours of his arrest. He had, as Rowland suspected, always liked the boy and intended him no direct harm. Of course, Ernest had, by that time, already been rescued by his uncle and a band of Communists.

Templeton was duly charged with the murder of his father, Charles Hayden, and the kidnapping of Ernest Sinclair. On the charge of murder, the defence argued successfully for mitigation, and he was convicted of the lesser charge of manslaughter as well as that of kidnapping. The charges against Rowland Sinclair were dropped.

Elisabeth Sinclair sent out beautifully illuminated cards announcing her return to Sydney. Three nurses moved with her and worked tirelessly in shifts to ensure she had around-the-clock care. While she was never again the toast of Sydney society, Elisabeth settled well at Woodlands enjoying the idiosyncrasies of her son’s social connections. She established a particular rapport with Milton Isaacs, whom she believed to be related somehow to Sir Isaac Isaacs, the then governor-general. For his part, Milton did nothing to disillusion her.

Once established, the grounds and parklands developed by Edna Walling at
Oaklea
became a showpiece of garden design. The rose
beds that Wilfred Sinclair had planted for his new bride remained, an eccentricity of box-edged formality in the rambling country estate.

The picture Ernest Sinclair drew for his uncle was duly framed and hung beside the Picasso at
Woodlands House
. It remained the pride of Rowland’s collection.

The Sane Democracy League continued to pursue Rowland Sinclair in an attempt to recruit him, his fortune and his connections to their cause. Rowland continued to resist. On occasion, however, Milton Isaacs would attend one of their debates or information sessions for his own amusement.