Miles Off Course (33 page)

Edna gasped, dropping immediately to her knees to embrace the battered greyhound.

Rowland’s face hardened as he too knelt to inspect Lenin’s head more carefully. Clyde and Milton clustered around the dog as well. Lenin whined happily, delighted by the
attention.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rowland asked.

“It’s a bloody dog, Rowly,” Wilfred said gruffly. “I was hardly going to send a telegram.”

Rowland scratched Lenin’s single ear. “You’ve pulled up all right, haven’t you, old boy?”

Edna grasped Lenin’s face and kissed his muzzle. “You’re a hero, aren’t you, Len?”

Wilfred shook his head and cleared his throat impatiently.

Kate Sinclair came down the wide stairs and Wilfred’s attention was drawn away by his wife. Ernest trailed after his mother. He pulled on Rowland’s sleeve. “Don’t worry,
Uncle Rowly, I looked after… Lenin.” He whispered the dog’s name as if it was a profanity. Rowland supposed that in his brother’s house, it was.

“I knew I could rely on you, Ernie.”

Ernest nodded solemnly. He leaned over to whisper again in Rowland’s ear. “Daddy pats him when no one’s looking.”

Rowland ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I thought as much, mate.” It was only then that he noticed the number of cars parked in the drive. Mostly Rolls Royces. A conservative
collection of chrome and black.

“Say Ernie, who’s here?”

Kate broke in before her son could reply. “Oh my, whatever have you done to yourselves?” Her eyes widened with horror at the bedraggled state of them. “This is terrible. Do
come inside… Wil, you didn’t tell me they’d been hurt. You shouldn’t be standing out here… what in heaven’s name happened up there?”

Kate shepherded them into the drawing room, called for tea and fussed. Edna apologised profusely for the state in which she would be returning Kate’s riding habit.

“Don’t be silly, darling,” Kate said. “I’m just glad you’re all right. What a frightful time you’ve had.”

“Oh I’m fine,” Edna said, smiling at her hostess. “It was poor Milton who got hurt, and then Rowly…”

For a time Rowland listened as his sister-in-law questioned Edna; concerned, kind and, as always, gracious. Tea was poured and plates of sandwiches and fruitcake were passed around. The nurse
brought in Ewan Sinclair, who had just woken from his nap, and Ernest tried to teach his little brother to walk. He was not patient about it.

“Isn’t your godson clever, Rowly?” Kate asked, as she watched her boys proudly.

“A genius,” Rowland replied, as the child tried to stand once again.

He glanced out of the large bay window at the motorcade parked just outside. “Have you guests, Kate?” He suddenly realised that both Wilfred and Maguire had disappeared shortly after
their arrival.

Kate nodded. “Senator Hardy and some other gentlemen. They’ve been waiting for Wil in the library.”

“Hardy,’ Rowland said quietly.

Kate smiled nervously and shrugged. Rowland didn’t press her any further. It was unlikely she knew why Hardy was there, and even if she did, he wouldn’t ask her to break her
husband’s confidence. He let it go and drank his tea.

It was nearly dark when Wilfred stepped into the drawing room. There was something in the set of his jaw that made Rowland wary.

“I’m sorry, Katie, we’re not finished quite yet,” Wilfred said, as Kate spoke of dinner. “You might go in to dinner without us I think. Rowly and I will have
something later.”

“Rowly?” Milton asked, stiffening. “What does Hardy want with Rowly?”

Wilfred ignored him. “Would you come with me, Rowly? I need a word.”

Rowland put down his teacup, and stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He followed Wilfred towards the library. From the top of the long hallway, he could see that there was a man posted outside the door. It was all reminiscent of the meetings at
Oaklea
when
the Old Guard was bracing for revolution. But surely that hysteria had now passed.

“What’s going on, Wil?”

Wilfred turned on him fiercely. Startled, Rowland backed up.

“Just what have you been…”

The library door opened suddenly.

“I say, there you are.” Senator Charles Hardy stepped out. “We were wondering what was keeping you.”

Wilfred turned stiffly. He moved away from Rowland. “Charles, you remember my brother, Rowland.”

“Senator Hardy.” Rowland offered his hand.

Hardy paused just a moment before he took it. “Rowland… Good Lord, man, you look like you’ve been in the wars.”

“I seem to have become accident prone,” Rowland replied carefully.

“Shall we step in here?” Hardy invited them into the library as if it were his own house.

The library at
Oaklea
was a large masculine affair, oak-panelled and furnished with studded leather armchairs. The domain of the Sinclair men, Kate’s renovations had been minimal
here. A grandfather clock metered the tension as they walked in, the haze of tobacco smoke a testament to cloistered hours of meeting. The door was closed behind them.

Hardy introduced his colleagues. There were three: Middlemiss, who impressed Rowland as a peacock, vain, consciously posed in the leather armchair. David Drummond, the New South Wales Minister
for Education sat on the Chesterfield settee. Some years ago he had made a futile attempt to enlist Rowland Sinclair in the junior farmers’ movement. Rowland had been careful to avoid him
since then. The third gentleman Rowland knew well—Michael Bruxner, hero of the Great War, Leader of the New South Wales Country Party and the Deputy Premier. They all remained seated, their
manner formal and stiff. Maguire stood sullenly by the fireplace. Rowland glanced uneasily at Wilfred, aware now that he was about to be interrogated.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, taking a seat though he had not been invited to do so. Rowland was not about to be bullied in his brother’s home.

Wilfred took the chair beside him.

Hardy was the first to speak. “I understand you’re on the Board of Dangar, Gedye and Company.”

“I am.” Rowland watched as Middlemiss extracted a cigarette from a decorative gold case. His face was soft, almost pretty, his lips too red. He sucked on the cigarette and exhaled in
flamboyant rings of smoke.

“Capital organisation, Dangars,” Hardy said, pacing the room. Clearly he was running this meeting. “One of our very best firms. Important to the prosperity of the entire
state.”

“Just get on with it, Charles,” Wilfred said irritably.

Hardy dropped a file onto the desk. “Do you know what this is, Rowland?”

“How could I possibly know?” Rowland asked, annoyed by the senator’s theatrics.

“This is just one of the files we have on Communist activity in New South Wales.” Hardy sat on the desk’s edge and looked down at him. “This particular file contains
intelligence gathered on a Communist plot to undermine Dangar, Gedye and Company.”

“Just how do the Communists propose to do that, according to your intelligence?”

Hardy continued to stare at him. “We have reason to believe that the Reds have infiltrated the board.”

Rowland laughed.

“You find that funny, Mr. Sinclair?” Middlemiss asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“Rowly…” Wilfred cautioned.

“Why do you find that funny, Mr. Sinclair?” Middlemiss leaned forward, dragging slowly on his cigarette.

“I know the board quite well, Mr. Middlemiss. I doubt any one of them has the imagination to be a Communist spy.”

“For God’s sake, Rowly!” Wilfred muttered.

“You’re an artist, aren’t you, Rowland?” Hardy smiled affably. “I suppose it goes without saying that you have an admirable imagination.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Rowland demanded.

“Your brother mentioned that you were at Oxford. Is that right, Rowland?” Michael Bruxner, the Deputy Premier, spoke for the first time.

“Yes.”

Hardy opened his file. “The High Commissioner advises that Scotland Yard has been looking into Communist cells at the better English universities.”

Drummond pulled at his tie. “Can we assume you saw a lot of this Communist activity in your time at Oxford, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I saw a lot of things at Oxford, Mr. Drummond,” Rowland said evenly. “Most of them were a good deal more alarming than the odd Communist.”

“But you did know Communists at Oxford?”

Rowland glared at him. “Yes.”

“Your friends, Mr. Sinclair…” Middlemiss waved his cigarette at Rowland.

“What about them?”

“They are not the kind of people one would expect a man of your breeding to associate with.”

“What can I say… they’re willing to overlook my breeding.”

Wilfred cleared his throat.

“Rowly, this is a very serious matter,” Michael Bruxner warned. “Any man found to be conspiring with the Communists to cause strife in his own country would be guilty of
treason.”

Rowland stood, angry now. “This is ridiculous. Just what are you gentlemen accusing me of?”

Middlemiss jumped instantly to his feet. “We’re not finished, Sinclair.” He grabbed Rowland’s arm to emphasise the point and drag him back.

Rowland swore and recoiled as Middlemiss’ grasp closed tightly on his wound.

Wilfred moved in. “Let him go, Freddie. I agreed to let you chaps talk to him, nothing more.”

“Hell’s bells, Wil… how are you going to get him out of this? We’re talking about treason!”

Wilfred placed himself between Rowland and Middlemiss. “Choose your words carefully, Freddie.”

“I think we should all calm down, gentlemen,” Hardy asserted over the top.

“I’ll say this once,” Rowland gasped, wondering if Middlemiss had broken the stitches Maguire had inserted at Pocket’s Hut. “I am not a Communist. Perhaps Stalin is
fool enough to want a seat on the Board of Dangar, Gedye and Company, but he has not sent me to prepare the bloody way.”

“But your friends,” Middlemiss insisted. He moved to the desk and flicked through the file. “Elias Isaacs… well known to the police, possibly a dangerous
insurgent.”

For a second Rowland was perplexed. “Elias?… God, you mean Milton… he’s a poet for pity’s sake—they’re all Communists.”

Freddie Middlemiss shook his head. “Could it be you’re so bloody arrogant you don’t realise…?”

Rowland was thinking seriously about hitting him.

“Tell me,” Middlemiss asked. “Does Isaacs take a particular interest in your work on the board of Dangars? Does he love to hear the detail of your meetings, the cut and thrust
of business?”

Rowland stared at him, incredulous, convinced now that the man was an idiot. “I don’t talk to Milt about Dangars.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s bloody dull!”

“So what do you and your Communist mates discuss, Sinclair?”

“Art mainly, women occasionally… not things that would interest you, Mr. Middlemiss.”

Middlemiss reared, affronted. Bruxner tried to soothe matters.

“Rowland, it is in acknowledgement of the sacrifices the Sinclairs have made for King and Empire that we are here tonight. If you have found yourself involved with the wrong people then it
is not too late to do the honourable thing. We can help you extricate yourself from this situation without embarrassing your good family.”

Rowland had had enough. “Go to hell, Bruxner!” He didn’t wait, shaking off Wilfred’s hand and storming out of the library.

Kate and the others were at dinner when he found them in the dining room.

“Rowly, you’re finished… I’ll have Mrs. Kendall set a place for you.”

“Don’t bother, Kate, I’m not hungry.” He was aware that his friends were staring at him. Rowland tried consciously to make his face relax. “I just came to say good
night actually… I might turn in.”

“Rowly darling, are you all right?” Edna’s was not the only concerned face at the table.

He smiled briefly. “Yes, of course.”

“Where’s Wil?” Kate asked hesitantly.

“He’s not quite done with his guests,” Rowland hoped that his fury with Wilfred was not betrayed in his voice.

“You’re sure you don’t want to play a hand or two after dinner?” Milton ventured.

Rowland shook his head. “Don’t play too late,” he said. “We’re leaving for Sydney in the morning.”

R
owland dropped the bandage, startled by the knock on the door. Before he could answer, Edna entered, balancing a plate, generously but
precariously piled with shortbread.