A Murder Unmentioned (6 page)

Ernest thus sorted, Rowland stood to greet his sister-in-law. “Hello Kate. You look well.” The swell, which had first become noticeable on Kate Sinclair’s slim frame as they were all sailing home from Britain, had become much more pronounced in the two months since they’d returned.

“Did you have a good flight? We were expecting you earlier, Rowly,” she said as he kissed her cheek. “Wil thought you might have lost your way.”

“Not quite,” Rowland replied.

Kate turned to her son. “Ernie darling, if you’ve quite finished challenging your uncle to fisticuffs, perhaps you might accompany him into the library to see Daddy, while Mrs. Kendall and I see about luncheon. Is that your bag, Rowly? Just leave it here… I’ll have one of the maids attend to it.”

Ernest took Rowland’s hand, pulling him gently but insistently into the hallway.

“Rowly!” Wil was seated on the studded chesterfield. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray of the chrome stand beside him and stood. “We were wondering what had become of you.”

Rowland shook his brother’s hand explaining quickly why he’d been delayed.

Wilfred frowned. “Sheep? Lord knows what that Walling woman is up to now. We’ll be lucky if we have any paddocks left for the bloody stock!”

“Actually I ran into Miss Walling on the walk up to the house,” Rowland said. “I must confess I thought her plans rather splendid.”

Wilfred sighed. “Yes, yes, she does seem to know what she’s doing,” he said vaguely. “Kate’s idea, you know. Apparently this Miss Walling has a popular column in some publication called
Home Beautiful
. McNair is beside himself. I’ve had to intervene to prevent him digging trenches to defend the flaming vegetable garden!”

Rowland smiled as his brother mentioned the intemperate one-armed gardener. Having seen service on the Western Front with Wilfred Sinclair, McNair had returned more than just physically damaged. He’d worked at
Oaklea
for the past decade, obsessively planting potatoes and pumpkins on every unattended square of ground.

Wilfred paused to send Ernest off to play. “It was Miss Walling who found Father’s gun,” he said when they were alone.

Rowland nodded. “She did mention that. And then Arthur called in the police.”

“Naturally.”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. “God, I thought this was finished thirteen years ago, Wil.”

Wilfred gripped his brother’s shoulder. “You mustn’t worry, Rowly. I’ll handle it.”

“I say, Wilfred—oh, hello.” A gentleman of about Wilfred’s vintage strode into the library before Rowland could reply. He
was, in fact, quite like Wilfred physically. His fair hair was slicked sharply back and his tie sat perfectly against a starched white shirt and, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were the same dark, distinct blue that seemed to mark all Sinclair males. He had a similar upright neatness about his person to Wilfred Sinclair, but his smile was more boyish, broad and uncontained.

“Well, well, Cousin Rowland,” he said, extending his hand. “I haven’t seen you since you were in knee pants! Good Lord, look at you!” He glanced up pointedly at Rowland’s height. “They obviously had you on better pasture than Wilfred and me. And the spitting image of poor Aubrey… it’s uncanny!”

“They were always quite alike,” Wilfred agreed.

“Hello, Arthur.” Rowland regarded curiously the cousin whose story had become a precautionary tale in Sinclair family folklore.

Arthur Sinclair had only recently come back into the Sinclair fold after being disinherited before the war for what Wilfred called an “inappropriate association”. It may have been that Edward Sinclair, Arthur’s father, had not intended to permanently cut off his only child—previous generations of Sinclairs had often used disinheritance to control their sons. Unfortunately, Edward’s unexpected death had intervened before the falling out could be resolved or forgiven, and his considerable personal fortune had reverted to his elder brother, Henry Sinclair, becoming part of the great estate that Wilfred now controlled.

Rowland expected that Arthur’s current residency at
Oaklea
was Wilfred’s way of compensating their cousin for the harshness of their fathers and the anomalies of the succession.

“Young Ernest said he saw your biplane over an hour ago,” Arthur continued. “But when you didn’t turn up we thought it must have been the boy’s imagination. He’s been frightfully excited about your visit, hasn’t he, Wilfred?”

“Indeed.”

“I had to bring her down near the billabong,” Rowland said. “Actually I had rather a rough landing. I’m afraid the plane will need a bit of attention.”

“You crashed?” Wilfred said, alarmed. He stepped back to look at his brother, noticing the blood on the knee of Rowland’s trouser for the first time. “Good Lord, why didn’t you say? I thought Kingsford Smith taught you to fly that contraption! I’ll send for a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor, Wil,” Rowland protested. “It’s a graze, that’s all. I just haven’t had a chance to clean up. But if you could send a lorry to pick up
Doris
, I’d be grateful.”

“
Doris
?”

“The plane—she thinks
Rule Britannia
is a daft name. Asked me to call her
Doris
now that we’re on more intimate terms.”

Wilfred stared at him. Arthur laughed.

“Yes, of course,” Wilfred said eventually. “I’ll send some men to bring her in. You’d best get cleaned up. Kate will expect us all at luncheon soon.”

Rowland knotted his tie hastily, aware that Kate was waiting luncheon on him. Still, it would not have done to sit at his brother’s table in a state of dishevelment. He had been given his old bedroom which, aside from new wallpaper and the addition of a shaving mirror to the marble-topped washstand, remained essentially unchanged. The brass bed under which he’d occasionally hidden as a child, still creaked, the oak wardrobe and tallboy still smelled of lavender oil; the heavy Persian rug still caught on the door if you weren’t careful. Perhaps it was this business about his father’s gun, but the familiarity of it was a little unnerving.

He grabbed the cufflinks he’d left on his last visit from the drawer of the dumb valet, and was still adjusting them when he walked into the drawing room for a customary drink before being seated.

“Aubrey! When did you arrive?” Elisabeth Sinclair clapped her hands joyfully as he entered.

Rowland barely blinked. “Just a short while ago, Mother,” he said as he bent down to kiss her cheek. It had been many years since his mother had recognised him for himself, insisting instead that he was the son she’d lost to the Great War. What Elisabeth Sinclair thought had happened to her youngest son was unclear. It appeared she’d forgotten that Rowland ever existed.

The confusion may initially have been born of the marked resemblance between Rowland and the late Aubrey Sinclair, but the delusion had become fixed in Elisabeth’s mind and she would not now countenance that he was anyone else. Rowland had long given up trying to remind his mother who he was.

He talked with her for a while, not really impersonating Aubrey but without challenging her mistake. And so the conversation was easy—until she asked him to play for her. Aubrey had been quite the musician, an excellent pianist, and Elisabeth Sinclair was adamant.

“I don’t play, Mother.”

“Don’t be absurd, Aubrey! You play beautifully.”

Rowland looked to Wilfred for help.

“Kate will want us to sit down soon I expect,” Wilfred intercepted.

Elisabeth Sinclair’s green eyes flashed. She straightened. “Yes, well I don’t want to be a bother. We don’t want to upset Kate, do we?”

“Now I didn’t mean—” Wilfred began.

“I’m afraid I’m feeling rather tired.” Elisabeth stood. The gentlemen followed suit. “I might take luncheon in my room. I’m sure Kate won’t be too upset by my absence.”

“Come now, Mother.” Wilfred tried in vain to persuade her to change her mind.

Elisabeth refused to hear him. “Arthur, darling, would you be a dear and have Mrs. Kendall send something up on a tray?”

“Er… yes… of course, Aunt Libby,” Arthur agreed awkwardly, as she left the room.

Rowland glanced at his brother.

Wilfred sighed. “Mother is becoming more difficult,” he said quietly. “It’s hardest—she’s hardest—on Kate. I suspect she doesn’t remember how much she liked her.”

“What else has she forgotten?” Rowland asked. His mother had been fragile for some time, but they had hoped it would not get worse.

“She has good days and bad days, Rowly. Both seem to be worse than they once were.”

“Can I pour you a whisky, Rowland?” Arthur asked in an apparent effort to soothe the situation with alcohol.

“Whisky… no,” Rowland replied, flinching instinctively at the thought.

“I think you’ll find Rowly would prefer a sherry or whatever it is the ladies are drinking these days,” Wilfred said tersely.

Rowland ignored his brother and helped himself from a bottle of gin. For some reason Wilfred seemed to believe that a dislike of whisky was some unforgivable failure of character.

Arthur laughed. “Give him time, Wil. Young Rowland’s only twenty-eight. I couldn’t bear whisky until I was thirty.” He raised his charged glass. “Then I realised what I’d been missing.”

“One can only hope,” Wilfred muttered.

Arthur nodded towards the portrait of Kate and Ernest Sinclair hanging above the mantelpiece. The composition was tender—Ernest asleep in his mother’s arms. The brushwork was soft, loose. It captured Kate as a young woman becoming aware of her own power and place,
gentle, timid but protective and imbued with a kind of gracious strength. “I believe that particular piece is your work, Rowland.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why it’s simply superb. Quite extraordinary.”

Wilfred cleared his throat.

“It must be said, Wil.” Arthur continued, regardless. “Business and whatnot is perfectly all right for the likes of us, but your brother is a real talent. God knows where it came from… I’ve never heard of another Sinclair who could draw anything more than a cheque.”

“Possibly because they were more usefully occupied?” Wilfred said testily.

“Usefully occupied… Good Lord, Wil, look at that painting and tell me he should have been doing something else! I look at it and think, by Jove, Wilfred Sinclair is the luckiest man in the empire.”

Wilfred glanced at the portrait and despite himself, his eyes softened. “Yes, well I suppose it did come out rather well.”

Rowland watched the exchange silently, bemused by Arthur’s lavish praise and Wilfred’s barely discernible, and hardly unequivocal, approval. The sentiment of the first and the expression of the second were somewhat unexpected.

Kate joined them, having settled the children to eat in the scullery, and they proceeded into the dining room where Alice Kendall had laid out what was more a banquet than luncheon, even at opulent
Oaklea
.

“It appears Mrs. Kendall is pleased to have you home,” Wilfred said, regarding the feast comprised of all Rowland’s favourite dishes.

Over the meal, which, on account of its abundance, was necessarily a long one, Rowland became reacquainted with Arthur Sinclair who had been excluded from the Sinclair family over twenty years before. It appeared that his cousin had sought his fortune abroad with just enough connections remaining to secure a position
articled to a solicitor. The war had intervened and Arthur Sinclair had joined the British army and distinguished himself in France. He had returned to complete his clerkship and had in time established a successful practice of his own in London, returning to Australia just the year before and settling in Melbourne.

“It was rather fortunate that Arthur was able to keep an eye on the place while we were both abroad,” Wilfred said, frowning.

Rowland glanced guiltily at Kate, guessing that Wilfred was referring more to their mother than
Oaklea
. Wilfred, and therefore his wife, had always taken responsibility for Elisabeth Sinclair, managing her frailty in a manner that kept her condition from public knowledge and maintained her dignity.

Despite this, Kate still seemed manifestly frightened of her mother-in-law, and, on occasion, Elisabeth Sinclair forgot that she was no longer mistress of
Oaklea
. In the past, any potential conflict had been tempered, if not completely avoided, by Elisabeth’s genuine fondness for Kate. Now Rowland wondered if that had changed.

He was aware that by refusing to live on the property, he had effectively abdicated shouldering much of the strain involved with his mother’s condition. Perhaps he should take her back to
Woodlands
with him, for a while at least.

Tentatively he suggested it.

Wilfred rolled his eyes. “For pity’s sake, Rowly! Do you propose to have our mother live with you and your idle Communist friends? I suspect, seeing for herself what you’ve done to her house would be one tragedy too far!”

Kate was quiet.

“I’m sure I could—” Rowland began.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Mother doesn’t even remember who you are, not to mention the fact that you run
Woodlands
in a manner that is hardly appropriate for the residence of a lady!”