Decline in Prophets (31 page)

“Yes sir. They wished to ask you some questions.”

“Could be to do with the
Aquitania
,” Wilfred murmured, frowning. “Let me know if there are any further calls, Mary.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Certainly, sir.” Once more she wiped the crumbs from the sideboard.

Rowland considered the advisability of taking a third piece of shortbread. His hesitation was enough. Mary Brown took the tray of biscuits and holding it before her as if its contents had long
ago spoiled, she left the room.

“I’ll find out what paper this journalist is from and call his editor,” Wilfred told his brother quietly. “The last thing we need is a scandal whilst the Bairds are
here.”

Wilfred said good night and left his brother to join the late night game of poker.

Rowland divested himself of his dinner jacket and unfastened his tie as Milton dealt him in.

“Kate didn’t want to play?” he asked.

“She joined us for a couple of hands of whist before she called it a night,” Clyde replied. “She seems a bit nervous about her folks arriving.”

“Oh,” Rowland nodded. “The Bairds.” His tone spoke volumes.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing really—they’ve just never really left Scotland.” Rowland smiled. “Kate’s father finds the Sinclairs a bit English for his taste… apparently
we’ve forgotten our Scottish origins.”

“He disapproves of Wilfred?” said Edna, shocked.

“Not exactly… though I think he rather hoped his wee Kate would find a Scot.”

“How did Wilfred meet Kate?” Edna asked, intrigued. “She’s from Glenn Innes, isn’t she?”

“Wil knew her brother in the war.”

“So he introduced them?”

“No—he didn’t return. I think Wilfred went to see his family when he came back. I suppose he and Kate had the loss of a brother in common.”

Edna reached over and rubbed his arm. “Don’t worry, Rowly. We won’t do anything to upset Kate’s family.”

Rowland smiled. “That’s quite an ambition, Ed. They’re Presbyterian.”

Rowland rose early the next morning. He wanted to leave before Wilfred had a chance to ask where he was going. Clyde was already about, fixing a window sash in the drawing room,
which he claimed was sticking.

“Where are you off to, Rowly?”

Rowland grabbed his hat. “Rookwood. I thought I should pay my respects.”

“Isobel?”

Rowland nodded. “I feel badly that I didn’t attend her funeral.”

“You wouldn’t have been welcome at the funeral, mate.”

“I know. But still…”

“You’re right,” Clyde said, shutting the window he’d just repaired. “We knew her, poor kid. I’ll come with you. You’ll never find the Roman Catholic
section on your own anyway.”

Afraid that the distinctive roar of the Mercedes’ supercharged engine would alert Wilfred and lead to awkward questions, Rowland left the his car behind. Rookwood was in any case most
easily accessed by rail. They took a train from Central out to the Rookwood Necropolis, where most of the departed citizens of Sydney lay at rest. The Necropolis sprawled across nearly eight
hundred acres, divided into denominational sectors. They alighted at Cemetery Station No. 2, which some still referred to as the Roman Catholic Platform.

Rowland lingered for a while to study the sculpted majesty of the platform, and the ornate sandstone arches which stood over the line. The Cemetery Stations were the most elaborate railway
buildings in Sydney. Adorned with angels and cherubs, detailed carvings of foliage—pears and pomegranates—the sheer beauty of this stop on the deceased’s final journey may well
have given comfort to those who accompanied the coffin. The peal of the station bell added to the hallowed air. Whilst Rowland had been to Rookwood before, he had never stopped here. Protestants
were generally interred in the cemeteries closest to the first station. Milton’s grandfather was buried in the new Jewish Cemetery which was serviced by the last station. Each of the
buildings was constructed with a similar sombre magnificence, but the denominational details were distinct.

They walked towards the newer part of the Roman Catholic Cemetery, keeping a respectful distance from the graveside services being conducted. There was a hush to Rookwood, broken only by the
background murmur of prayers, the chime of the station bells and the rattle of the mortuary trains.

Isobel Hanrahan’s grave was barely marked, but she did lie in consecrated ground. A solitary figure stood before it, deep in personal reverie.

“Father Bryan.”

“Oh, I say, hello.” He looked down at the flowers they both held. “How thoughtful—there aren’t many people over here to leave flowers for Isobel.”

Rowland said nothing, glancing down at the new grave, lost and unadorned amongst the headstones and monuments. He thought fleetingly of Aubrey who lay unvisited in Ypres; but his brother was
buried among comrades, those who had fallen with him. Isobel’s final rest was in ground on which she had never set foot, among strangers.

“Good morning, Father.” Clyde shook the clergyman’s hand. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”

Bryan smiled. “Isobel was a wild one, but she was still one of God’s children. It is for our heavenly father to judge her. We can but pray for her soul. I choose to do so here where
I can visit a while with her.”

Rowland wasn’t really sure what Bryan meant. He placed his flowers at the base of the small wooden cross. The grave was devoid of the telltale wilted blooms that might have indicated
someone cared about Isobel Hanrahan. “And His Grace?” Rowland challenged quietly. “Does he visit his niece?”

Bryan regarded him directly. “No, he does not. His Grace is a very busy man.”

“Does he care who killed Isobel?” Rowland demanded, aware that he was venting his ire unfairly.

“His Grace is convinced that certain unsavoury elements contributed to both the moral compromise and the death of his niece,” Bryan replied carefully.

“Unsavoury elements? You mean me?” Rowland asked outraged.

Bryan shook his head. “No, not at all… well, maybe a little… His Grace believes that the occultists on board the
Aquitania
were involved in Isobel’s disgrace,
and in her death.”

“Occultists?” Rowland was perplexed. “You don’t mean the Theosophists?”

“They dabble in matters forbidden to God-fearing men. They commune with spirits and perhaps the devil himself. Surely it’s not surprising that His Grace would be suspicious of
them?”

Rowland’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he stopped. He was not going to have this argument at Isobel’s graveside. It was in any case Bishop Hanrahan, and not Bryan, with whom he
should be taking issue.

Father Bryan seemed oblivious to the reception his revelations were receiving.

“His Grace has already spoken to your constabulary at length about his suspicions. I must say he is a little frustrated with the response.”

“I daresay he is,” Rowland said evenly, in truth pleased that Delaney was ignoring the bishop’s nonsensical theories.

Bryan glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I must be going. Can’t tell you how much I enjoyed dinner the other evening, Rowly.”

“Yes, we must do it again sometime,” Rowland agreed absently, shaking the clergyman’s proffered hand.

“And you must give my regards to Edna,” Bryan continued warmly. “The cloth is a righteous life, but sometimes a lonely one. I do appreciate the friendship you have all shown
me.”

Rowland was again a little unsure of Bryan’s intent. He felt a bit sorry for him—he seemed so eager for the company of others. He wondered how committed the deacon was to a life in
the church.

They watched him walk away.

“You don’t think he might have been in love with Isobel?” Clyde asked suddenly.

Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps… or perhaps he just feels sorry for the poor wretch. I thought he spent more time with Ed than he did with Isobel.”

“I guess he did.”

Clyde put his flowers beside Rowland’s. He regarded his friend carefully. Rowland was immersed in his own thoughts as he looked down at the mounded earth where the bishop’s niece
lay.

“What happened to Isobel is not your fault, mate. I know you feel guilty because of how it all came out—but she didn’t leave you with many options.”

Rowland shook his head. “Maybe. But it is somebody’s fault. Some heartless bastard threw her into the harbour.”

“Delaney’s working on it. They’ll figure it out.”

Rowland looked again at the wooden cross. It seemed to him, inadequate. “Do you think this is all…?” he started.

“They have to wait for the ground to settle before they lay a headstone,” Clyde replied. “I’m sure this is just temporary… but we can come back and make
sure.”

Rowland hoped that was true. Not that he could do anything about it if it wasn’t. How Isobel Hanrahan was commemorated was the prerogative of her uncle.

“My great-uncle Percy’s in here somewhere,” Clyde murmured scanning the rows of headstones. “I might try and find him while I’m here—it’ll make my
mother happy—give me something to write to her about that doesn’t break her heart.”

Rowland smiled. “What on earth have you been doing?”

Clyde sighed. “I was the son for the Church, mate. The Joneses still owe God a clergyman and none of my brothers has stepped up.”

“Oh—I guess you’d better go find Percy then.”

“I’ll meet you back at the platform in an hour?”

Rowland nodded as he checked his watch.

Clyde set off, walking briskly. Rowland spent a little more time at Isobel’s graveside, and then wandered amongst the rows of trees lining the paths.

He found a seat in the formal gardens surrounding the chapel of St Michael the Archangel. Mourners walked in the landscaped surroundings finding solace amongst the topiary and roses. Rowland
reached inside his jacket for his notebook, and flicked through. He paused as he opened the sketches he’d made of Isobel—vibrant, mischievous, innocently displaying her swelling belly
with no idea that it would give her away.

He turned to a clean page, and removed the artist’s pencil he always stored in the spine. He sketched what he saw, finding his own form of comfort and seeing more in the process.

He drew the black-frocked matrons who came with sewing baskets to continue the ritual of years, the recent widows and widowers who carried their grief in barely composed countenances. He was
unnoticed. The eyes of the bereaved were not focussed on a man sitting quietly with his notebook and pencil.

Rowland became engrossed in the study of a small girl in her best frock, who was conversing earnestly with a stone angel as she twirled and skipped about the statue. Her father sat watching from
a nearby garden seat, cross and beads in his hands. Rowland drew the girl, simple gentle lines which caught her childlike glee in the angel. He sketched her father, the protective helplessness in
his eyes, the way he gripped the beads wound around his hand.

“Sinclair!”

Rowland started toward the sound. The blow caught him as he turned. He staggered to his feet, disoriented, aware only of his inability to focus before he fell.

30

I
f Rowland Sinclair had been a particularly religious man, he might have assumed he was dead. The first thing he saw once the blackness receded was
saints. The flicker of candles gave their sculptured faces a kind of ethereal life.

He was lying on a pew. There was something cold and wet on the side of his head, and something hammering within it.

“Rowly, are you all right, mate?”

Clyde.

Rowland groaned and sat up.

The wet compress against his head fell away. Clyde put it back. “It’s only just stopped bleeding, Rowly. Best hold it there for a while longer—it might need
stitching.”