Decline in Prophets (30 page)

“Rowly, I’d like a word. Would you be so good as to follow me?”

“Certainly,” Rowland stood and followed his brother out.

Wilfred took him out to the verandah. The Rolls-Royce was stopped in the driveway. Johnston polished the bonnet as he waited.

“I thought I told you to do something about your flaming paintings,” Wilfred accused.

“I did.
Woodlands
looks like a nunnery.”

“I’m talking about
Roburvale
.”

Rowland grimaced. He’d forgotten. A large nude of Edna hung in the drawing room at
Roburvale
. He’d always considered it his best work, but it was undeniably naked.
“Sorry.”

“The Bairds are Presbyterian, Rowly.”

Rowland stifled a laugh. “Sorry… I’ll have it taken down.”

“I’ve already seen to it,” Wilfred replied. “It’s in the car—just put it somewhere where no one will see it… bury it if you have to.”

Rowland sighed. “You’re dashed lucky I’m not easily offended, Wil.”

Wilfred smiled faintly. “You do take offence a lot less than you give it.” He checked his pocket watch. “You’d better get changed—Lodge is at seven. I’m
assuming you have a clean dinner suit.”

Rowland groaned.

“Don’t be difficult, Rowly. They’re a number of chaps I want to introduce you to. They’ll help you settle in at Dangar’s.” He glanced at Rowland.
“I’m having an airstrip built at
Oaklea
,” he said casually, skilfully quelling any rebellion.

Thus reminded of their bargain, Rowland left to have the offending painting taken up to his room and to change.

He showered and dressed, rummaging for cufflinks and gloves. With Clyde and Milton now sharing his room, things were somewhat disordered. Rowland tied his bow tie with the ease and speed of a
man who did it often. He found the small black case that held his Masonic regalia. Shoving the white gloves grudgingly into his pocket, he ran his fingers, rather than a comb, through his hair, and
went back to the drawing room to wait for Wilfred.

“Are we dressing for dinner?” Clyde looked distinctly panicked.

“No, you’re fine,” Rowland replied. “Wil’s dragging me to Lodge.”

“Why?”

“It appears I made a bargain with the devil,” Rowland muttered, as he poured a glass of sherry.

“Oh, Rowly,” Kate chided. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. I know Wil will enjoy having you with him. He’s the District Grand Inspector of Workings now,
you know.”

“Good Lord… does he get a cape?” Milton asked

“Milt!” Edna glared pointedly at him, but Kate smiled.

“I’m not really sure—does he, Rowly?”

“I think he gets his own goat,” Rowland replied.

Wilfred cleared his throat. Rowland winced and turned to see his brother had entered the room, resplendent in white tie and tailcoat. The attire was symbolic of his office. Even within Masonry,
Wilfred Sinclair was an important man, and he was clearly not amused.

“I suppose we should be going,” Rowland said with appropriate chagrin.

“Quite.” Wilfred farewelled his wife and wished them all a terse good night. Rowland winked at Edna and fell into step beside him.

The ride into the city was short and, in that time, Wilfred apprised Rowland of the names of the Dangar Gedye Board members that he would meet that night. Rowland struck a pose of attention,
whilst he searched his mind uneasily for recollection of the Masonic ritual he would need to get through the meeting. It had been well over a year since he had last attended. Standing at the back
of the membership at his home Lodge in Yass, he could follow the man in front of him. Tonight he would be visiting Brother—they were seated in the front row. This could be awkward.

“North, South, East, West…,” he recited mentally, trying to remember what came next.

All too soon, they were standing in the antechamber to the Inner Lodge. Visiting brethren were called to enter only after the ordinary business of the Lodge was done. Rowland placed his case
beside Wilfred’s and they donned their regalia.

Both the Sinclair brothers wore aprons that had been passed down through the generations. Freemasonry had long been a family tradition. They were from a long line of Worshipful Masters and Grand
Lodge members. Of course, Rowland Sinclair was neither of these.

Rowland glanced at the door to the Inner Lodge room, intricately carved oak with a heavy brass knocker at its centre. Seated beside it, ready to test every man who sought entry, was the
ceremonial Outer Guard. Rowland’s spirits sunk further as he met the elderly man’s piercing eye, the stony defensive set of his mouth. This was clearly a man who would die to protect
the secrets of the Craft from the uninitiated—the test was not going to be easy.

It was possibly because of his preoccupation that he did not notice the other visitors who had entered the room.

Rowland decided he’d better prepare Wilfred for the fact that his Masonic ritual was exceedingly rusty. “I say, Wil, I’m afraid it’s been a while since…”

At that point they heard a voice, they both recognised. Wilfred put a steadying hand on Rowland’s shoulder as they turned. Rowland’s eyes were stormy before they were even laid on
Colonel Eric Campbell.

The leader of the New Guard stood before them adjusting his regalia. He looked a great deal older than Rowland remembered, but then Campbell’s fascist revolutionaries had fallen from grace
in the time he had been abroad. Still, Rowland did not think the fall far enough.

Eric Campbell looked up, obviously as surprised as they were by the chance encounter. His eyes narrowed and grew steely. He was not a man to retreat.

“Sinclair,” he said, nodding curtly at Wilfred. To Rowland, “I’d heard you were back. What exactly are you calling yourself these days?”

Rowland felt the pressure of Wilfred’s hand on his shoulder as he bristled. The room was beginning to fill with other visiting brethren arriving to don regalia.

“Remember where you are, Rowly,” Wilfred cautioned calmly.

“I guess the regional Lodges are not so particular about their membership,” Campbell’s voice was cold, derisive.

“It’s been a long time, Brother Campbell,” Rowland virtually spat. “Have you seen Poynton lately? I always thought him a capital fellow…”

Wilfred pulled Rowland back before he could continue. “I believe we are being called,” he said.

He took Rowland aside as the brethren stepped forward, one by one, to be questioned by the Outer Guard and admitted to the Inner Lodge.

“Rowly, you don’t need any more enemies.”

Rowland looked at him incredulously. “You can’t possibly expect me to greet Campbell with goodwill and brotherhood?”

Wilfred almost smiled. “No. Just don’t give him a reason to declare war.”

For a moment Rowland resisted, but in the end he nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll try to avoid him.” He glanced towards the door. There were now only a few visiting Masons left in
the anteroom. He knew that as a member of the Grand Lodge, Wilfred would be called last.

“Brother Rowland Sinclair.”

He stepped up for interrogation by the Outer Guard. The old man looked him up and down, sizing him up, deciding what test to put.

Rowland’s face relaxed visibly as the first was asked. He remembered how to respond. The second question came as soon as the first was answered. Rowland recognised the ritual but, this
time, he had no idea how to answer. He rubbed his forehead and looked frantically for his brother.

Wilfred looked briefly to the ceiling, and interceded to the rescue. He spoke quietly to the Outer Guard. “I’m afraid Brother Rowland’s been abroad for a while… I can
vouch for him.”

The Outer Guard glanced at the jewels of office that hung from Wilfred’s collar. He nodded. “Happy to take your assurance, Most Worshipful Brother Sinclair,” he said
respectfully. The door to the Inner Lodge was opened and the younger brother of the District Grand Inspector of Workings announced.

Rowland followed the Master of Ceremonies across the rule and compass inlaid in the timber floor. The raised stage at the opposite end of the hall was burgeoning with Masonic officialdom. The
Lodge’s Worshipful Master sat on a wooden throne at centre-stage. Other office bearers were seated to either side. Immediately to the right of the Worshipful Master was an empty
chair—presumably to be filled by Wilfred.

Rowland Sinclair was guided to a place on the front bench, just beside the chair of the Senior Deacon. Campbell was on the front bench opposite. Rowland took stock. He could vaguely remember the
ritual of the third degree but he knew that either the first or second degree would see him undone. He could follow the Masons across the hall or on the stage, but he would have to remember to
reverse the movements.

Wilfred was announced and welcomed. He walked to his seat on the stage.

The brethren remained upstanding as the charges were given and the ritual of the second degree begun. Rowland glanced at the letter G hanging from the ceiling, the symbol of the Supreme
Architect. He was going to need whatever divine help he could get.

29

“W
hat the blazes were you doing out there?” Wilfred kept his voice down, but it was not happy.

The meeting had closed and the brethren were gathered in the South for supper, fellowship and “moderate mirth”. “Was it that noticeable?” Rowland squirmed.

“Yes.”

“Could we just go home now?”

“No.” Wilfred steered Rowland towards the supper table. “There are some chaps I want you to meet—if only to prove you weren’t drunk.”

And so Rowland Sinclair was introduced to the esteemed men of the Dangar Gedye Board. They imparted wisdom at length on matters of business, and the Craft. Brother Dooley suggested he practise
his ritual to music, so that the rhythm could assist his memory. It seemed Dooley had memorised twenty-nine Masonic degrees to the songs of George Gershwin.

Fleetingly, Rowland imagined he saw Wilfred smile.

Other Brothers joined the conversation. They were not members of the Dangar Gedye Board, but directors of the company’s business partners. Very quickly, Rowland saw first hand how business
was done. He wondered what they did to pass the time at board meetings. No doubt he would find out.

Brother Campbell entered the commercial fray. It appeared his firm was engaged from time to time to advise Dangar Gedye on matters of legal concern. On this occasion he remained cordial when he
had cause to speak to Rowland. Neither was under any illusion, however. They would remain wary of each other, with good reason.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when they finally left the South. Johnston seemed to recognise his employers among the crowd of men in dinner suits, and pulled the Rolls-Royce to stop smartly
in front of them.

Wilfred frowned as Rowland walked around the car, flung open the door and climbed in. Johnston held the door open for the elder Sinclair who entered as a gentleman should.

They drove in silence for a while and then, unconsciously, Rowland began to hum Gershwin’s
Embraceable You
.

Wilfred took off his glasses, looking hard at his brother. It was only then that that Rowland realised he was humming aloud. In his mind’s eye the song was accompanied by Dooley and the
machinations of the third degree. Wilfred began to laugh. Rowland was more than a little surprised—Wilfred took Freemasonry very seriously and the Sinclair brothers did not often laugh
together. But now they did. For that alone, the meeting had been worthwhile.

They returned to find Milton, Edna and Clyde at cards. Kate had long since retired. A tray of Mrs. Kendall’s shortbread sat on the sideboard.

“That’s for you,” Milton informed him. “Mrs. Kendall was very specific—apparently you’re still growing.”

Rowland took a biscuit and smiled. Suppers of shortbread and milk had been a feature of his childhood. Thankfully, Alice Kendall had realised that he no longer needed the milk. He was not averse
to the biscuits.

Mary Brown was clearly disgruntled. She glanced at the plate of shortbread and sighed, sweeping the crumbs from around it with a cloth. Curtly, she told Rowland that Hubert Van Hook had
telephoned for him twice, and seemed quite anxious to speak with him.

“I’ll call him tomorrow, Mary,” Rowland assured her. “It’s a bit late now.” He helped himself to more shortbread.

“There was also a call from a newspaper journalist, sir.”

“Are you sure it was for me, Mary?” Rowland remembered Edna had a suitor who was a journalist.