Give the Devil His Due (27 page)

Rowland looked down and buttoned his waistcoat over the ink stain. “There, fixed.”

Mollie shook her head. “I'm not sure Mrs. Sinclair is going to think so.”

“Mrs…? Oh, I'm not married.”

“A nicely turned out gentleman like you? Why ever not?”

“Ink stains, I expect. I say, Mollie, did you know Crispin White well?”

“Depends what you consider well, I suppose. He was sweet, ruthless in pursuit of a story—a real old-fashioned honest-togoodness newshound. He liked the odd drink and the odd flutter. A perfectly ordinary, decent bloke really.”

“Do you know what story he was pursuing that might have led him to the Magdalene's House of the Macabre?”

“Roie loaned him some books about the occult. She was most put out because they were library books and Crispy had not returned them when he died. If she gets fined, not even death will excuse Crispy!”

Rowland glanced at his watch. “I really ought to let you get back to work. I don't suppose I could impose upon you to see that Miss Norton gets her folio?”

“Of course.” Mollie swung her long legs around and stood to walk Rowland out. “It's been a real treat seeing you again, Rowly. You let me know if you want to think seriously about becoming a black and white artist. It's not a bad way to earn a crust.”

Rowland handed her his card as he kissed her on the cheek. “It's been grand, Mollie. Would you let me know if you discover anything about what Crispin White was doing at the Magdalene's?”

“If I discover anything you'll be able to read about it in the paper,” Mollie replied. She smiled. “But I'll telephone you, too.”

ERIC CAMPBELL DEFINES
UNIFICATION PROPOSALS
REPRESENTATION ON FASCIST LINES

SYDNEY, Tuesday

The policy and aims of the Centre Party, a newly-formed political party, were explained by Colonel Eric Campbell at a largely attended meeting tonight.

Col. Campbell told his audience that the middle section of the community was at the moment without adequate representation in the affairs of the country and the aim of the new party was to endeavour to remedy that defect. He added that they had no confidence in professional politicians and party politics.

“Australia is grossly over-governed and there are too many laws,” declared Col. Campbell, “and we are out to simplify matters.

“The present organisation is of only a preliminary nature and none of us is after jobs, and we will leave them to better men if they will come along.”

Referring to constitutional reforms, Mr. Campbell said the first plank on the platform of the Centre Party is the abolition of State Parliaments and the redistribution of Australia into provincial areas, administered by provincial councils with powers of taxation strictly limited. There would also be a Federal Government which would direct the major issues which faced the nation. All governing bodies would be elected by a system of vocational representation, giving the employer and the employee equal strength in the Legislatures.

Col. Campbell suggested that one method of unifying the continent would be to petition the King to appoint one of the Royal Princes as a permanent Governor-General of Australia.

“The dole and relief work are only making proud citizens descend to the coolie levels,” added the speaker.

He suggested that the only method whereby the unemployment problems would be solved would be by the settlement of the unemployed on abundant surplus land. He had it on the best authority that given the opportunity, a million families could be transferred from Great Britain over a period of years for settlement on land and each family would have a capital of £1,000…

…Replying to a question, Col. Campbell said that he did not think that the system of Government obtaining in England was better than it was in Italy. He added that he was satisfied that the system of Italian representation would be in force in Great Britain within five years.

The Canberra Times, 1934

____________________________________

“R
owly, thank goodness you're here!” Edna met him at the portico before he reached the door of
Woodlands House
. “We have to go!”

“Where?”

“Central Police Station. Milt and Clyde have been arrested.”

“Arrested?” Rowland turned on his heel. “Whatever for?”

“Disturbing the peace, apparently.”

“Were they at a rally?” Rowland asked. Gatherings of the Communist Party were routinely invaded by the New Guard or likeminded militant groups. When this happened, it was not uncommon for skirmishes to get out of hand. Of course, Milton—ever the crusader—had been arrested on a number of occasions, but sensible Clyde usually managed to avoid police detention. The fact that both his friends had been arrested struck Rowland as unusual.

“No,” Edna said. “As far as I know, Clyde was calling in at the soup kitchen in George Street to see that friend of his, and Milt was just tagging along as Milt does.”

Rowland frowned. This was odd.

They took the Rolls Royce again. Rowland apologised to the chauffeur whose workload had risen sharply with Rowland's newfound reluctance to use the Mercedes, not to mention the resumption of social order brought about by the residence of Elisabeth Sinclair. “I'm afraid Clyde's adjusting the tappets again. I'm sure things will go back to normal after the race.”

“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnston said as they pulled out of the driveway. “In your late father's day the bell rang every quarter hour.” He sniffed. “You'll find I'm quite able to do my job.”

“Of course, Johnston,” Rowland said hastily, realising the chauffeur had read an unintended slight in his words.

“Do you prefer driving motorcars to carriages, Mr. Johnston?” Edna asked, knowing the chauffeur had started work at
Woodlands
in the stables.

“Well, I don't know, Miss. They both have 'vantages and problems. Some folks believe there's less work in motorcars, but they take a darn sight more polishing than any horse.”

Rowland listened, as his normally tight-lipped chauffeur chatted to Edna about the pros and cons of carriages and automobiles. Though he'd known Johnston all his life, the chauffeur rarely spoke so freely to him. Indeed, Johnston seemed always to have regarded him with a vague air of profound disappointment.

“Shall I wait, sir?” Johnston asked as he pulled up outside the station.

“No, thank you. We'll find our own way home once we get this nonsense sorted.” He stepped out of the Rolls Royce, pausing at the chauffeur's window as he walked around the vehicle. “Don't worry, Johnston, I'll attend Miss Higgins' door.”

Johnston's lips pressed into a disapproving line, resigned to the lax conduct of his employer. The younger Mr. Sinclair had never observed protocol. “Very good, sir.”

Rowland offered Edna his hand as she alighted. “Come on, we'd best see what trouble Milt's got them both into.”

Although it had been less than three months since Rowland had been taken to Central Police Station in handcuffs and under arrest for murder, he showed no sign of hesitation or embarrassment. He approached the desk sergeant as a Sinclair. Polite and unfailingly courteous, his manner was nevertheless that of a man who understood the power behind his family name.

The drowsy desk sergeant was decidedly flustered, but within minutes a more senior officer was called. From him, Rowland ascertained that Clyde and Milton had been arrested at a public event at the Town Hall where Mr. Eric Campbell was launching his new book.

Rowland's face was unreadable, his tone calm and reasonable. Surely this kerfuffle could be sorted out between gentlemen? Perhaps Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Watson Jones had been a little strident in their literary criticism—Mr. Isaacs was a poet, after all. Rowland would be happy to personally pay any fine to settle what was, on balance, a misdemeanour at most.

The chief inspector had only recently been assigned to Central Police Station and so he did not recognise Rowland Sinclair as a past prisoner. He assessed on face value the man who spoke for the two he had in the holding cells. Sinclair was clearly a man of means and well bred. He could tell that not only by the superior cut and fabric of his suit, but by the fact that his waistcoat was buttoned, not left to hang loose as was the style with the supposedly fashionable young larrikins of the day. No, this was a man who valued order and had a respect for authority. Perhaps it hadn't been necessary to arrest his friends… Eric Campbell did have a tendency to overreact and demand the incarceration of all and sundry who criticised him. It was quite possible that whatever penny dreadful Campbell had written, was just that. The state of New South Wales was not in the business of locking up people for hurting Campbell's feelings.

In the end, the fine was paid and Elias Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones were released without further action.

Edna waited until they were out of the station before she slapped Milton on the shoulder. “What did you do?”

“Me?” Milton said indignantly. And then, “All right, it was me. Clyde was just trying to stop Campbell's goons from killing me.”

“What were you trying to do?” Edna asked again.

Milton groaned. He looked quite despondent. “I don't know, Ed. We noticed there was something going on at the Town Hall so we went in to have a look and found ourselves at some kind of Boo Guard event. Bloody Campbell was on the stage talking about his time in Germany and spruiking his book,
The New Road
… some kind of manifesto for Australia under Fascism. When he started talking about how the Jews he met in Germany were fat and rich, I lost my rag… started shouting… Not even sure what I said.”

“He called Campbell a bloated, Nazi-loving, sycophantic Fascist fool,” Clyde said by way of clarification. “Then he grabbed one of Campbell's books from the display and threw it at him.”

“Only just missed him,” Milton added. “Would have got him with the second book if the police hadn't arrested us.”

Clyde sighed. “Was the fine huge, Rowly?”

“No,” Rowland said quickly, if not entirely truthfully. “I don't suppose the chief inspector holds a particularly high opinion of Campbell.” He swallowed a curse. “I'd hoped Eric Campbell was a spent force. Were there many people at the Town Hall?”

Milton nodded. “All the seats were taken. There were stands and sign-up sheets for his new Centre Party and every man and his dog there seemed to have a copy of the colonel's bloody book under his arm.”

Rowland cursed. He had no doubt that Campbell had written
The
New Road
in imitation of Adolf Hitler's path to political domination. The leader of the New Guard obviously hoped it would become for Australian Fascists what
Mein Kämpf
was for the German counterparts. A good part of Rowland wanted to laugh at the idea, to ridicule the notion that something so absurd could find adherents in Australia, among Australians, but he was no longer as sure of his fellow man as he once had been. Germany had been the centre of culture and art and Berlin its vibrant, progressive heart. But no more. The Nazis had put an end to that.

Milton suggested a drink. Rowland agreed, realising suddenly that he was famished. They elected to eat in town, rather than incurring Mary Brown's reproval by requesting luncheon so late in the day. And so they made their way to Romano's on York Street. The restaurant had been Sydney's premier dining venue since its opening, and so it was crowded even at three in the afternoon. They enjoyed a drink in the lounge as they waited for a table to become available in the extravagant dining room. Milton and Clyde recounted in more detail the events that led to their arrest.

“Rowly, Charlotte Linklater was there… sitting on the stage beside Campbell.”

“That shouldn't be surprising, I suppose,” Rowland said after a moment's pause. “The Linklaters are friends of Oswald Mosley. They're quite possibly members of the British Union of Fascists, which would, of course, endear them to our Mr. Campbell.”

“Perhaps, but it does give you more reason to be careful of Miss Linklater on the track,” Clyde warned.

The tail-coated maître d' came out to inform them that their table was ready and seated them on the edge of the dance floor. It seemed that dancing in the afternoon was catching on, as a dozen or more couples moved to the subdued strains of a string quartet.

A gentleman in white tie and tails and a fez stopped by their table. A pencil-thin moustache defined a smiling lip beneath an aquiline nose. He greeted them each by name, kissing Edna's hand and complimenting her so lavishly that Milton threatened to leave if he did not desist.

“Milt's just jealous, Mr. Romano,” Edna said. “You must tell him he's pretty too, or he'll sulk.”

Azzalin Romano laughed. “It has been too long since you beautiful people were last here. We have been bereft.”