Miles Off Course (41 page)

“Rowly?” Wilfred got to his knees first and nudged his brother.

Rowland pulled himself up onto his elbows. The ground was soft. They’d fallen into a vegetable garden, flattening a rather splendid crop of silverbeet. He glanced over at the staked
tomatoes in an adjoining bed. All in all, they’d been lucky.

Wilfred hauled him up. “Come on.”

An elderly gentleman wearing a wide straw hat burst out of the terrace, berating them in Italian and waving a tea towel. Rowland tried to calm him, to explain why two men in dinner suits had
fallen from the sky into his silverbeets. His words fell on ears too angry to hear them.

“Rowly, tell him we need help,” Wilfred said, pulling his brother under the verandah.

The old man was bemoaning the destruction of his crop. Suddenly he turned and threw his towel at them. Rowland ducked the gingham cloth, and then the straw hat, and then carrots pulled straight
from the ground.

“I don’t think he’s going to help us, Wil.”

The door into the house opened to reveal a quite substantial, roughened woman who had squeezed through the opening to investigate the commotion. She wore an oversized hat and, despite the heat,
a silver fox stole. Bejewelled and bedecked she glared at them with small eyes set in a broad red face.

“Madam, please don’t be alarmed. We mean you no harm,” Wilfred started.

The woman answered with profanity, loudly and consecutively. Wilfred stepped back, appalled.

“Look sweetheart, it’s not the first time some stuck-up ponce has thought he could put one over on me—but Katy Leigh didn’t come down in the last shower…”
She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a gun. “Now, just suppose you tell me what Matilda Devine sent you two gents to my joint for.”

Wilfred frowned. “I assure you, Madame…”

“You shut up,” Kate Leigh snapped. She pointed the gun at Rowland. “You talk. Who the hell are yer?”

“Rowland Sinclair.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What are yer trying to pull? Sinkers is dead. I knew him well… a good bloke all things considered.”

“My uncle,” Rowland said uncomfortably. He was aware that Rowland Sinclair the elder had always had a fondness for the seamier side of life. Indeed, the old man had left him a
half-share in one of Sydney’s most notorious sly-grogeries… it had been an unwelcome legacy. But now it appeared that illicit nightclubs were not the extent of his misbehaviour.

Wilfred looked completely mortified.

Kate Leigh stepped closer and stared intently at Rowland. “Well my giddy aunt, you’re that kid old Sinkers would take to the track! Gawd, aren’t you just a chip off the old
block!”

Rowland wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His uncle had taken him to the track several times as a child, but he had no recollection of this very large, very loud woman.

“You don’t remember old Katy, do yer? I was in my prime back then, a good sort.” She laughed, a harsh uncouth cackle which exposed a halfpenny-sized gap between her two front
teeth and a great deal of gold between the others. “You share your uncle’s tastes then? Don’t worry sweetheart, Katy’ll take care of yer.”

Admirably, Rowland managed to keep the horror from his face. Wilfred turned purple.

“Might have to clean yer up a bit first,” she went on, looking a little distastefully at Rowland. She winked and adjusted herself to lift her ample bosom. “The first time will
be for old Sinkers… after that it’s two quid.”

Wilfred looked like he was about to choke.

Rowland decided he’d better say something. “Actually, we’re here on another matter.”

“What other matter?” Kate Leigh asked suspiciously.

“We were escaping, to be honest.”

At that point a young woman in nothing but a slip rushed out of the house. “Kate! The police are at the door, Kate!”

Kate Leigh’s congeniality evaporated. Still brandishing the gun, she fished a razor from her pocket as she exploded. “Sneaks! Sneaks and spies. If you fellas have brought the ruddy
constabulary to my joint, I’ll cut you ear to flaming ear!”

Wilfred grabbed Rowland’s arm and pulled him back as the woman waved the razor threateningly. “Miss Leigh,” he said firmly. “If we were to meet the constable at your
front door then I presume there would be no need for him to set foot in your… establishment.”

She squinted at them, her eyes becoming slits in her bloated face. She flicked the razor shut and dropped the gun to her waist. “Go on then… I’ll be right behind you. If that
copper comes in you’re both dead men.”

T
here were several policemen standing outside the side door to Kate Leigh’s Surry Hills grogery when Wilfred opened it. They seemed ready
for a battle.

The first constable looked Wilfred up and down, clearly concluding that he was one of Kate Leigh’s more well-to-do customers. The officer informed them that he was investigating a burglary
in one of the adjoining houses during which a man in pursuit had fallen from the roof and died.

“If you wouldn’t mind if we stepped inside, sir, I’d like to…”

The gun clicked behind them as Kate Leigh readied to make good her threat.

“There’s no need, constable,” Rowland said, pushing in front of Wilfred. “We’re the men you want. We’ve been trying to hide out in this… home…
but we can see now that the game is up. We’re quite happy to come quietly as it were…”

The officer studied him. “That’s very good of you, sir.”

“Well, a man’s been killed, constable. Giving ourselves up seems the decent thing to do… right, Wil?”

“Quite,” Wilfred agreed, looking anything but agreeable.

“Shall we then?” Rowland smiled brightly. “It’s about time we stopped imposing on Miss Leigh’s hospitality.”

The police officer seemed dubious, but with both suspects surrendering outright, there was really nothing he could do but allow them to walk into his custody.

And so the Sinclair brothers were arrested.

Detective Sergeant Colin Delaney handed Rowland a cold compress. Superintendent Bill Mackay sat behind the desk watching him thoughtfully.

“So who exactly is this chap Abercrombie working for?”

“Some Communist group he met in Cambridge—classicists probably, they were always a bit mad.” Rowland glanced at his brother. Humphrey Abercrombie had confirmed all of
Wilfred’s paranoid tirades about the insidious plots of Communists. Instinctively he reacted against it. “I doubt the ACP even knew about this scheme of his.”

Wilfred snorted.

“You can’t really be sure of that, can you, Mr. Sinclair?” the superintendent said, scowling. “After all, you didn’t even realise you were harbouring a spy. Only
Mr. Abercrombie knows who his masters are.”

“Well, why don’t you just ask him?” Rowland snapped. His head ached, his entire body was bruised and he hadn’t slept.

“I’m afraid we haven’t apprehended him as yet,” Mackay said tightly.

“We can’t find him,” Delaney admitted.

Mackay glowered at his detective.

“What about the others?”

“Well, one of them’s dead… broke his neck in the fall. We have three of the others. A German and two Irishmen—all here illegally. No links here as far as we can
tell.”

Rowland felt vaguely vindicated.

“I’m not sure I understand Abercrombie’s connection with this chap, Moran.” Delaney took the hard-backed chair beside Rowland’s. “Don’t tell me your
stockmen were Communists.”

“It wasn’t a real connection,” Rowland replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mentioned Moran to Humphrey. Must have approached him—mutual benefit I suppose.
When we got away, Moran started making demands and Humphrey shot him… to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in self-defence. Humphrey’s more likely to kill a man in
panic than cold blood.”

“Well, one thing’s clear—this Communist vermin, Abercrombie, was trying to take advantage of your past acquaintance,” Wilfred said angrily. “I’ve always said
your so-called friends would ruin you.”

“He wasn’t a Communist back then for God’s sake,” Rowland muttered. “He was the bloody Honourable Humphrey Abercrombie. If he hadn’t been a chap, you would
have wanted me to marry him!”

Delaney coughed.

Mackay cleared his throat. “Senator Hardy has taken charge of the prisoners for the moment—national security.” The superintendent was clearly unhappy with his authority being
overridden. “Some special committee looking into the matter.”

“I’ve met them,” Rowland said contemptuously.

Mackay stood. “We should allow you gentlemen to get cleaned up. Don’t worry, we’ll find Mr. Abercrombie.”

“His mother,” Rowland asked, remembering suddenly. “Lady Abercrombie… he said she was visiting a cousin in Melbourne. Does she exist?”

“We’ll find out,” Mackay assured him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sinclair, he won’t give us the slip.”

Rowland lay on the couch in the main drawing room of
Woodlands House
staring idly at the ceiling rose. He could feel his muscles stiffening in the wake of the exertions
and trials of the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t yet caught up on the lost night’s sleep.

He leafed through the handwritten manuscript which rested on his chest. Sarah Brent had sent him Aubrey’s novel, along with a letter which outlined her expectations for the illustration of
her monkey book. As much as he wanted to read his brother’s writings, he was not able to concentrate.

A long hot shower had washed away the remnants of the vegetable garden into which they’d fallen, and Wilfred had once again summoned poor Maguire from his Macquarie Street surgery to patch
up his brother. Milton had taken such great delight in his friend’s embarrassed account of Kate Leigh’s invitation that Rowland, too, had come to see it with amusement rather than
horror. But Abercrombie was still unfinished business and the whereabouts of the Englishman played on Rowland’s mind.

Edna left Clyde and Milton to play the next hand without her, and came to sit by Rowland. She picked up the compact she had left on the side table and opened it, posing, admiring it quietly in
the light. It was a handmade piece, engraved silver with her initials inlaid in seed pearls. A gift from Rowland to replace the compact which they had turned into a makeshift surgical
instrument.

Rowland smiled as he watched her. Edna had been playing with the compact all day. She’d always been like that, taking such a singular and childlike delight in every new acquisition that
giving her anything was a joy.

She closed the compact and placed it carefully back onto the table. “Where do you think Mr. Abercrombie is, Rowly?” she asked, sensing what was troubling him.

“I wish I knew, Ed,” he said frustrated.

“They’ll catch up with him.” Milton spoke from behind his cards. “The Party’s none too happy with some Lord Muck from the mother country interfering with things
here without consulting them. Harry Garden’s put the word out. Abercrombie won’t have many friends in Sydney.”