Decline in Prophets (23 page)

“Yes, of course.” Rowland looked towards the waves.

Edna slipped her hand into his. “It was Bishop Hanrahan who chose to make a scene, Rowly,” she reminded him gently. “You would never have done that to her.”

“I’m afraid Isobel felt very abandoned and ill-used,” the clergyman continued with an audible note of reproach.

Edna stepped between Rowland and Matthew Bryan. She turned her back on the deacon and did not release Rowland’s hand.

“In the end,” Bryan went on, “she ran out of the chapel. If I’d known what she intended, I’d have never let her go.”

Rowland tensed. Matthew Bryan still thought Isobel had taken her own life.

“Someone killed Isobel, Father.”

The clergyman was clearly startled. “But I thought…”

“The police are sure. Some bastard threw her from the deck.”

Bryan leant back against the wall and crossed himself. “Well, this changes things somewhat.”

“Why?” Rowland asked.

Matthew Bryan was flustered, distressed. “Well, she did not die by her own hand—the bishop will want to know. For that at least, her soul will not be damned.”

Rowland bristled, but he said nothing. The belltower of St Patrick’s Seminary was not the place to challenge Bryan on theological dogma.

Bryan looked at him and seemed to soften. “I’m sorry—I’m being insensitive.” He glanced at Edna’s hand in Rowland’s. “I can see that Isobel meant
a great deal to you.”

“Did you see Isobel again after she left the chapel?” Rowland asked, uncomfortable with Bryan’s scrutiny. “Did you go after her?”

“No,” Bryan replied, perhaps regretfully. “I thought she wanted time alone. I hoped that she had gone to make peace with His Grace.”

“Bishop Hanrahan? She went to see her uncle?” Rowland asked sharply.

“I don’t know what made me think she might have,” Bryan said carefully. “Perhaps it was just hope.” He checked his wristwatch. “I’m afraid I must be
getting back.”

Rowland shook the clergyman’s hand. “Thank you.”

“It was lovely to catch up with you, Matthew,” said Edna. “You must come out and see us sometime.”

“I should be delighted,” Bryan replied warmly. His eyes lingered on the locket, which hung over the neckline of her blouse.

Edna closed her hand over the pendant uneasily.

Again Rowland was irritated. No doubt Bryan had recognised the locket as the one Isobel had worn, but however it looked, Rowland would not tolerate anyone judging Edna.

Bryan turned back to Rowland. “You will let me know if the police make any progress?”

Rowland nodded.

“I must write to Isobel’s parents…” Bryan shook his head. “She came from a righteous, God-fearing home—how could she have strayed so far?”

Rowland did not respond. There was no point.

They let Bryan return to whatever it was that required his attendance and walked the steep road away from St Patrick’s.

“Come on, Rowly.” Edna dragged on his hand. “Shall we take a walk on the beach before we go home? Papa wants some cuttlebone for his pigeons.”

It was clear any resistance to Edna’s decision to collect cuttlebone would be futile, so Rowland removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and allowed the sculptress to lead him down to
the sand. The beach was full of holiday makers, locals and those who had caught the ferry across to enjoy the white sand and sheltered beaches of Manly. Children dug in the sand and played with
balls whilst their parents indulged the recent passion for lying in the sun on deckchairs. Young men paddled out into the foaming surf on long boards under the watchful eye of the surf rescue
volunteers.

Rowland watched as Edna scoured the wet sand collecting cuttlebone, the breeze whipping her copper tresses in all directions. She returned to him with the hair of a madwoman, her hands full. She
smiled triumphantly, as if she had gathered gems.

“I’ll just put these in your pockets, Rowly,” she said, slipping the salt-encrusted shells into the pockets of the jacket he carried over his shoulder. “They’ll
make my handbag smelly.”

Even if Rowland Sinclair had been capable of denying the sculptress anything, it was too late to protest.

They stopped by the kiosk to take tea. Edna tried to smooth her windblown hair whilst Rowland poured. She smiled happily at him. “It’s rather nice to be home isn’t it,
Rowly?”

He nodded, pushing the sugar basin towards her. “It’s rather nice we made it home, the way things were going.”

Edna stirred her tea pensively. “Where do you think Isobel went after she left the chapel?”

“The poor wretch could have gone anywhere, Ed.”

Edna heaped strawberry jam and cream on a scone and passed it to him. “Do you think she might have gone to see Bishop Hanrahan?”

“We could ask him, I suppose,” Rowland muttered, grimacing at the very thought.

“I have a better idea,” Edna replied. “We’ll ask Father Murphy. I’ve not seen him more than two feet from His Grace.”

Rowland smiled. “You’ve got a point.” He looked back up the hill toward the alma mater of the Catholic priesthood. The bells were calling the seminarians to prayer, or perhaps
lunch. It was probably a busy time of year for priests in training. “We’ll get Christmas over with,” he said as he bit into a scone. “And then we’ll go see
him.”

Clyde thumbed through his well-worn volume on the life and work of Max Meldrum, whose theory of art as a science had been controversial for over a decade. Unlike Rowland, Clyde
was not formally trained—the Ashton School had always been beyond his financial reach. He learned his craft by reading and through other artists. Nowadays, Rowland dragged him along to
workshops and classes, but he still found inspiration in the books he’d acquired when his life was hard.

Rowland sat across from him in the first class compartment, behind his
Sydney Morning Herald
.

“Apparently Bradman will be right for the next Test,” Rowland murmured. “Might turn things around.”

The touring English cricket team had won the first match of the series, whilst they’d been abroad. They had returned to find Sydney in the grip of outrage over the tactics employed by the
visitors.

“Do you think they’ll continue with this bodyline thing?” Clyde asked. He’d never played cricket—he wasn’t sure about the rights and wrongs of the English
strategy.

Rowland shrugged. “Why wouldn’t they? It appears to be working. The English seem more interested in winning than playing cricket.”

“Bradman better learn to duck, then.”

“That’s exactly what we don’t want.” Rowland checked his watch. “We’ll be in Yass soon.”

Clyde closed his book. “Better get ready to rejoin the proletariat.”

Rowland shook his head. Clyde insisted on travelling in the second class carriages from Yass, adamant that he couldn’t be seen alighting from the front of the train. To Rowland it was
mad.

Clyde looked at him. “You have no idea of the grief my old mum will give me if she thinks I’m getting above myself.” His voice rose in an imitation of his mother’s.
“The Joneses are working people and working people’s carriages is good enough for us.”

Rowland laughed. He’d noticed that Clyde had put on his oldest suit for the trip home. “You’ll have to introduce me to your mother one day.”

Clyde chuckled. “Oh mate, you know not what you ask.”

The train pulled into Yass Junction. Rowland wished his friend a Happy Christmas and stepped out onto the platform. Midday in Yass, at this time of year, was stifling. Sydney summers were
alleviated by sea breezes, but Yass was a long way inland.

Wilfred’s chauffeur found him and had his trunk loaded into the gleaming black Rolls-Royce. The driver opened the rear door.

“Wil!” Rowland was surprised. It was not Wilfred’s practice to meet him at the station.

“Get in the car, Rowly. We haven’t got much time.”

Rowland climbed in. “Whatever for?”

“Polo match. We seem to be a man short. You can change at the field.”

“I can what?”

“I’ve had ponies taken to the field for you,” Wilfred continued, ignoring the horror in Rowland’s voice.

“You want me to play? Have you lost your mind?”

“As I said, we’re a man short. If I could get someone else, I would.”

“Wil, be reasonable. I haven’t played polo in years. I haven’t been on a bloody horse in…”

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how to ride,” Wilfred dismissed his protest. “Come on, Rowly. I don’t want to cancel the match—people have come from all
round the district.”

“I was shot,” Rowland said feebly.

“You’re barely limping… it’ll be the horse that’s running, not you.”

“It’s the middle of summer—why are you playing now?” Rowland persisted.

“It’s a friendly exhibition match,” Wilfred replied, as the Rolls started to move.

“Who’s playing?” Rowland asked wearily. It appeared he was going to play regardless of what he said.

“English team.” Wilfred sat back. “Some chaps who came out to watch the cricket… thought they’d play a spot of polo between Tests.”

“So couldn’t you have just called in the Ashtons?”

The Ashton brothers were indisputably the elite of Australian polo. Their victorious tour of Britain had already become smug legend in polo circles.

“The Englishmen are staying at
Markdale
,” Wilfred said with reference to the Ashton property near Crookwell. “Using Ashton ponies, in fact. Philip thought some of the
other fellows would enjoy playing them.”

“Jolly decent of him,” Rowland said irritably. Bloody Philip Ashton and his great ideas.

Wilfred smiled. “Chin up, Rowly. It’s only four chukkas. Kate tells me that every young lady in the district is coming out to watch.”

Rowland laughed despite himself. Wilfred never missed an opportunity to throw suitable young women in his path. “I really don’t think I’m going to impress anyone playing polo,
Wil. Have you forgotten?”

Wilfred ignored his trepidation. “Just stay on your horse and you’ll be fine—it’s a goodwill match.”

Rowland looked at his brother sceptically. Goodwill or not, Wilfred was competitive.

“Wil, almost anyone can play better than I can—couldn’t you have found someone else?”

“No time—Penfold only pulled out about an hour ago.”

Rowland knew Skippy Penfold—he was as polo mad as Wilfred. “Why did Penfold pull out?”

“He’s not conscious yet.”

“What?”

“A mishap at practice.”

“What kind of mishap?”

“Got hit in the head with a mallet.”

22

R
owland emerged from the players’ marquee in the knit jersey shirt, jodhpurs and high boots that Wilfred had brought in for him. He carried a
pith helmet under his arm and looked for all the world like a man who could play polo.

The field was on the McWilliamson property. Its boarded perimeter was crowded with spectators in their race-day best. The broad-brimmed sunhats of the district’s ladies surrounded the
playing field like milling beds of flowers. Union Jacks and Australian flags were both waved in politely even numbers. Rowland muttered under his breath. He was about to be publicly humiliated.

He had played polo before, but he had never been very good at it, even when he’d played regularly. Now, it was a couple of years since he’d picked up a mallet.

“Rowly!” Wilfred called him over to where the ponies were being readied, and introduced their teammates. Rowland shook hands with Bradley Wainwright and Jeffery Kynaston, both men of
Wilfred’s ilk.

“Jolly relieved to see you, Rowly,” said Wainwright, smiling broadly. He winked at Wilfred. “This should even up the handicap—the English chaps are a seventeen-goal
team.”

Rowland glared at his brother. So that was it. Polo teams played with handicaps that were an aggregate of each player’s. Having a lower handicap than the opposing team could be a distinct
advantage. Wilfred was a six-goal player. Presumably Wainwright and Kynaston were similar. Rowland’s handicap was one.