Decline in Prophets (26 page)

T
he next days at
Oaklea
passed in a congenial blur, fuelled by eggnog and goodwill. Unashamedly besotted, Rowland took Kate and Ernest to
visit his plane, extracting from them the excitement and admiration he so felt the aircraft deserved. He relegated to the back of his mind the promise Wilfred had extorted in return for the
indulgence. He knew full well that his brother had manipulated him—but then, it was just a quarterly meeting. Wilfred probably had the right to expect that much from him.

His good humour survived even the onslaught of suitable young things, to which his well-meaning sister-in-law subjected him. By Boxing Day he had been introduced or re-introduced to every young
debutante in the district.

“You know, Rowly, my dear friend Lucy is still very taken with you,” Kate confided, as the family shared breakfast.

Wilfred snorted as he ate his eggs. It was unclear whether it was in response to Lucy or the fact that she was taken with Rowland.

“Lucy Bennett?” Rowland asked, stirring his coffee. “Hasn’t someone married the poor girl yet?”

“I believe, she rather hoped you would,” Kate said pointedly.

Rowland laughed. Lucy Bennett and her well-rehearsed charm. He couldn’t remember giving her any reason to assume her interest was reciprocated. In fact he was sure he’d offended
her—unintentionally of course, but fortuitously.

“Good Lord—she won’t do. I couldn’t let Wil have the prettier wife,” he said, winking at Ernest who noted everything.

“You may just have to get used to it,” Wilfred muttered without looking up from his plate.

Kate blushed and glanced shyly at Wilfred. She stood, flustered. “Excuse me… I should check on Ewan.”

Wilfred didn’t appear to notice.

Rowland smiled. Kate had always seemed unable to remain in the same room as a compliment from her husband. It was a good thing that Wilfred Sinclair was not an effusive man or they would never
see her.

After breakfast, Rowland rang through to Delaney in Sydney. He spoke quietly, not wanting his interest in Isobel Hanrahan’s murder to be overheard. He was unsure how much of the affair
Wilfred had told Kate.

Delaney informed him that he was looking into the background of several of the passengers who had sailed on the
Aquitania
, but to date had discovered little.

“I don’t know, Sinclair,” the detective admitted. “One would expect there to be a connection between so many murders in such proximity, but there doesn’t seem to be
anything consistent. Urquhart and Waterman were Theosophists, but Isobel Hanrahan was a Catholic… and then someone shot at you. As unlikely as it seems, perhaps the incidents are
unrelated.”

Rowland told Delaney of his conversation with Matthew Bryan, and his plans to speak to Murphy about whether Isobel found her uncle the morning she died.

“Good,” Delaney agreed. “You do that. I have to be careful going after Hanrahan in an official capacity. Archbishop Mannix is already alleging religious persecution… and
Mannix has enough connections in the Force to threaten more than just damnation. You let me know what you find out.”

Next, Rowland called St Patrick’s Seminary. After going through a succession of intervening clergy, he spoke with Father Murphy. The young deacon seemed nervous but agreed to meet with him
on the 29th of the month.

Satisfied, Rowland returned to being gracious as guests began to arrive for
Oaklea’s
annual garden party. The marquees had been festooned in red and white bunting, the arbours and
walkways more naturally decorated with wisteria in full bloom. The gardeners had dressed the fountain with plantings of primrose and violas, nurtured to be at their best on this day.
Wilfred’s beloved roses were resplendent.

Once again, Rowland was introduced to an inordinate number of young women. He bore it stoically, guessing that his entanglement with Isobel Hanrahan must have intensified Wilfred’s
determination to see him settled with an appropriately well-bred Protestant.

Wainwright and Kynaston also arrived, apparently intent on reminding him of his dismal performance on the polo field.

“Of course, Wilfred told us you were a one-goal player,” said Kynaston. “We thought it must have been an aberration. You’re a Sinclair, after all.”

Wainwright took over. “Imagine our surprise, old man, when we realised that one goal was in fact optimistic.”

“Yes, imagine,” Rowland replied.

“I daresay your stroke needs work,” Kynaston informed him, “but some solid days in the hitting pit might sort that out.”

“Your main problem is that you’re a tad skittish,” Wainwright speculated. He looked Rowland up and down, perplexed. “I was sure Wilfred said you boxed at
Oxford.”

“The point of boxing is to avoid getting hit,” Rowland said flatly. He had tried his hand at boxing, quite successfully in fact… because he knew how to move out of the
way.

Wainwright was not convinced. “You can’t flinch every time the ball comes near you. Five times out of ten it won’t hit you.”

“And the other five?” Rowland asked curtly.

Kynaston looked at him. “Well, you have a helmet, old boy. You didn’t see service did you? That would have sorted you out.”

Rowland had never before considered war as preparation for polo. Images of Wainwright and Kynaston in the trenches with their mallets and pith helmets came too easily to mind. Between the
sycophantic admiration of the unmarried minions and the brutal honesty of Kynaston and Wainwright, he was drinking rather a lot.

At some point Wilfred took him aside. He seemed a little amused.

“You’re looking a trifle beleaguered, Rowly. Come on—we’ll have Mrs. Kendall make us some coffee.” He looked out at the party now in full swing amongst the
marquees. “I think they might cope without us for a while.”

Rowland followed his brother into the library. Mrs. Kendall, who had served at
Oaklea
since well before the war, brought in a tray of coffee and another of the shortbread he had loved as
a child. The housekeeper beamed, gratified by the enthusiasm with which he helped himself to a handful of the dainty biscuits.

“It’s so lovely to have you home, Mr. Rowland,” she said warmly. “You always did like a nice biscuit—I’ll have a tin packed into your trunk… now
don’t you eat too quickly…” She looked at him, clucking like he was one of her chicks. Wilfred cleared his throat, and finally she left them to it.

“It’s astounding she doesn’t still cut your meat,” Wilfred grumbled.

Rowland sank back into an armchair and brushed the crumbs from his tie. Alice Kendall had started excessively mothering him when Aubrey had been killed, and his own mother had become distant. He
had been a bewildered child then, but even now he found her fussing rather sweet and comforting in its way. He was, in any case, very fond of his brother’s housekeeper.

It was nearly nine o’clock. His train would leave from Yass Junction in the early hours of the morning. He had hoped to get a couple of hours’ sleep first.

Wilfred pulled a number of volumes from a shelf and placed them onto the table beside Rowland.

“Here, you’d better read these.”

“What are they?” Rowland asked, too busy eating shortbread to actually open the books.

“Reports—they’ll give you a bit of background to Dangar’s company affairs.”

“Oh.” So it was time to start paying for the Gipsy Moth.

“I reminded Mrs. Kendall to make sure your regalia was packed.”

“My regalia! Whatever for?”

As Rowland only attended Lodge when Wilfred dragged him to a local meeting, he had never taken his Masonic regalia back to Sydney. There was no need.

“Rowly, you are about to join the board of Dangar’s. You’ll need to go to Lodge occasionally—how else do you expect to do business?”

Rowland groaned.

Wilfred ignored him.

“You can come with me to Lodge Victoria at the Masonic Centre in January… it’ll be a good opportunity to introduce you to the rest of the board… I’ll make the
arrangements and have you affiliated there. You might be wise to brush up on your charges.”

Rowland, whose resistance had been mitigated with an afternoon of champagne, was feeling a bit under siege. He decided to retire before Wilfred told him that marrying Lucy Bennett was included
in his agreement to become a director of Dangar, Gedye and Company.

“I’ve ordered you a kilt,” Wilfred added as his brother stood to leave. “I’ll have it delivered to
Woodlands
.”

“A kilt! Have you lost your mind?”

“The Sinclair tartan,” Wilfred said calmly. “You know what Kate’s people are like.”

“Yes. They’re mad. There’s no reason we should be too.”

“It would be a nice gesture…” Wilfred did not dispute that his in-laws were mad. “They want some sort of formal dinner in Ewan’s honour, before the
christening.”

“Kilts?”

“It would make Kate happy.”

Rowland groaned again. He was very fond of his sister-in-law, but she wasn’t his wife. Surely that had to count for something.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered.

When Clyde came up to the first class compartments from coach, Rowland was seated somewhat uncomfortably, with part of Lenin in his lap. The remainder of the rather large dog
was stretched out on the leather seat.

The dog launched himself at Clyde, pushing off against Rowland’s ribs and winding him in the process. Clyde laughed. He was sure that animals, particularly those as ugly as Lenin, were not
permitted in the carriages. Of course such rules did not seem to apply to the Sinclairs or their dogs.

“Hello, Clyde.” Rowland shook his hand warmly once he could breathe properly again. “How was your Christmas?”

Clyde sat down and stretched. “We fixed the roof,” he said contentedly. “The yo-yos were a big hit with the kids. Mum thought the other stuff was too extravagant—but
she’ll get over it. Oh… she wants me to get married.”

“To whom?”

“No one in particular—as long as she’s Catholic. She’s afraid you’re introducing me to loose-moralled Proddie girls.”

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong there.”

“And I’m not entirely ungrateful,” Clyde replied. He shook his head. “You look tired, mate,” he said studying his friend critically in the dim light. “What
have you been doing?”

“Of course, I’m tired,” Rowland said, yawning. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.” He proceeded to tell Clyde of his time at
Oaklea
: the polo
match,
Rule Britannia
and what he found himself promising in return for her.

Clyde laughed at him. “Wilfred will have you in parliament next. I hope it was worth it, Rowly.”

“You should see her, Clyde,” Rowland smiled at the very thought of his Gipsy Moth. “I’ll organise hangar space at Mascot.”

“Careful,” Clyde grinned. “The Mercedes won’t be happy about sharing your attentions.”

Rowland’s supercharged, S-class tourer had to date been his great passion. The spoils of a poker victory, he had brought the extravagant Mercedes back from Oxford, and despite the post-war
antagonism towards German motorcars, he had been loyal to her.

Rowland rubbed his brow thoughtfully, almost guiltily. “I’m sure the three of us can come to some arrangement.”

It was still early when the train pulled into Central Station. Johnston had their trunks loaded into the waiting Rolls-Royce. Lenin climbed into the front with the chauffeur,
his misshapen, one-eared head lolling happily from the window.

They arrived at
Woodlands
to find that Mary Brown had already begun the process of returning the Sinclair mansion to the propriety it had once enjoyed. The series of large urns modelled
on the naked female torso, were gone. They had just recently lined the driveway like earthen nymphs beneath the jacaranda trees. The intertwined lovers, who once graced the formal pond, had also
vanished.

Rowland’s mood darkened. This seemed a bit excessive. Wilfred was turning his house into a monastery. When he walked in, he saw that the housekeeper had also been busy inside the building.
Every nude and abstract had been taken down from the walls, leaving only the austere family portraits that had hung in
Woodlands
House since before his time. The rooms seemed large and
stark. Some of the heavy Victorian furniture Rowland had put into storage had re-emerged in the hallway, ready to reclutter the drawing room once he had removed his easels and paint. Mary Brown
knew better than to touch those. Rowland Sinclair was not finicky about many things but he was particular about the tools of his trade.