A Decline in Prophets

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TERRORISM

Von Papen To Act

SPECIAL MEETING OF CABINET

BERLIN Monday

Declaring that ruthless action was necessary, Herr von Papen called a special meeting of the Cabinet today to discuss measures to defeat political terrorism.

Nine Nazis were arrested today in connection with the bombing outrages at Schleswig-Holstein.

The London Times

The first class Smoking Room on the Aquitania had been decorated in the style of the most conservative masculine establishments. Deep red club lounges and studded Chesterfields were placed in companionable, but symmetric groups, within easy reach of smoking stands. The supporting columns were Corinthian, the high ceiling decorated with ornate recessed domes from which hung opalescent pendant fittings. The paintings were large in scale, traditional in subject and hung against walls of panelled wood.

The oval baccarat tables were crowded.

Rowland and Clyde had left the game for the comfort of the armchairs and after-dinner drinks. Clyde was struggling to light a pipe.

“For pity’s sake, man, just roll a bloody cigarette,” Rowland advised after watching him try unsuccessfully for several minutes.

“I’ll get it… give me a chance… maybe it needs cleaning.”

Rowland shrugged. “I think you need to at least light it before it can become clogged.”

Clyde cursed as he struck a few more matches in an attempt to light the tobacco. In the end he abandoned the pipe and gave his attention to a glass of scotch.

“I wonder what Ed’s doing,” Rowland murmured, glancing at his watch.

“Krishnamurphy’s probably teaching her to talk to the dead.”

Rowland smiled. “Krishnamurti—he’s not an Irishman.”

Clyde looked troubled.

“He’s not a bad chap, you know,” Rowland pointed out. “For a messiah.”

“Oh I know that,” Clyde replied. “Ed’s been infatuated with a lot worse… doesn’t it unnerve you though Rowly? All this black magic stuff?”

“It’s pretty harmless, Clyde.”

Clyde swigged from his glass and shook his head.

“Don’t get me wrong—I like them—I just feel like I should go to confession.”

“Good Lord,” Rowland laughed. “Surely there’s no need to go that far.” He changed the subject, picking up a copy of The Daily Mail, Atlantic Edition, from the occasional table by his chair and tossing it to his companion. The ship’s newspaper published news received from all over the world by the ship’s wireless. “It looks like it’s only a matter of time before Hitler’s made chancellor,” he said.

Clyde studied the article about the leader of Germany’s National Socialist Workers’ Party. “We were bloody lucky to get out in one piece, you know.”

Rowland nodded. They had visited Berlin, naively, unwisely. The avant-garde had once been strong in Berlin, and so the city had attracted them, but they found that the classical tastes of Adolf Hitler had effectively shackled the modernist school. Indeed the political turmoil in which Germany was embroiled had been confronting. Hitler’s Brownshirts roamed the streets in groups, singing Nazi songs and looking for fights. German communists obliged, and gun battles were commonplace. Rowland and his friends were tourists, but Milton Isaacs was one of their number. The long-haired poet was everything that was most unpopular in Germany at the time, and he’d had the word Red tattooed across his forehead.

“It was ugly,” Rowland said, staring at his glass. Germany disturbed him.

“Good thing you can sprecken de Doych—we would never have got Milt out otherwise.”

Rowland winced at Clyde’s dreadful rendition of German, but did not bother to correct him.

“I studied languages at Oxford,” he explained. “Actually I was rather surprised it all came back so easily.”

“Oh,” said Clyde. “Really?”

“You’re surprised?”

Clyde shrugged. “Never considered what you actually studied at University. I thought you’d just gone to play cards and meet the odd girl.”

“Well, there was a lot of that,” Rowland admitted. “But I did get a degree while I was there.”

“Turned out to be a handy thing,” Clyde said thoughtfully. “Who would have thought the King’s English was not enough.” He swirled his scotch. “Kind of an odd skill for a sheep farmer though.”

Rowland laughed. The Sinclairs were pastoralists, but he was hardly a sheep farmer. If truth be told, he spent very little time on the Yass property where the family fortune had been founded. He preferred to reside in Sydney.

“I had to study something—it was either that or read law.” He recalled that his brother, Wilfred, had been quite keen that he study law.

“You would have been a bloody awful solicitor.”

“Good Lord, I wouldn’t have been allowed to actually practise,” Rowland replied, amused by the very thought. Sinclairs did not put up shingles.

“Banco!” Milton’s voice rose above the murmur in the room.

“Sounds like Milt’s winning,” Clyde said.

Rowland looked over. “Splendid. Hope he knows when to stop.”

Clyde grinned. “Somewhat unlikely. I’ll drag him away in a few minutes.”

Rowland put down his glass. “I’m going to turn in.” He stood, rubbing his right thigh unconsciously as he retrieved his stick.

Clyde glanced towards the gaming tables. “I doubt we’ll be long.”

Rowland made his way to the upper decks where the first class accommodations were located, gritting his teeth against the burning in his leg as he climbed the staircase with his stick over his shoulder. He did this when no one watched; each time it was easier than the last.

He shared the luxurious three-bedroom Reynolds Suite with Clyde and Milton. Edna had taken the adjoining stateroom. It was quiet in the corridors—the Depression had seen a decline in the numbers of first class passengers and so, many of the staterooms were empty. It was in any case quite late.

Just as he was about to push open the door of his cabin, Rowland caught Edna’s voice on the draught that came in from the promenade just outside. There was something in her tone that made him stop. He walked to the doors that led out to the deck. He could hear a man’s voice—an Englishman. He could make them out vaguely on the darkened promenade, embracing.

“Come on sweetheart,” the man cajoled. “You’ve been calling me hither all evening. Don’t be coy now.”

Rowland bristled, but he hesitated. Edna would not thank him for interrupting her romantic tryst.

“Orville, stop.”

The couple began to struggle. Then Edna slapped him, hard. She was not playing. Urquhart swore and grabbed her again. He handled her roughly, pressing upon her lewdly.

Rowland moved. He didn’t issue a warning, simply walked up, dragged the Englishman from Edna and hit him. Urquhart tried to retaliate, but years of pulling Milton out of bar room brawls had honed the Australian’s reflexes. Rowland threw a second punch, furious, skinning his knuckles with the force of the blow. Blood spurted from Urquhart’s nose. He struck back, doubled over. The punch was feeble, but it caught Rowland’s leg. It was enough to prompt Rowland to hit him again. By now the noise had brought others. Confused shouts and shocked screams.

It was Clyde and Milton who reached Rowland first and removed him from Urquhart.

“Steady Rowly, I think you’ve made your point.”

Milton grimaced as he looked closely at Urquhart who had collapsed against a wall. “I think you’ve broken his nose… we’d better get some ice—you’ll want something on your hand.”

Clyde inspected Rowland’s bruised hand. “You’ll regret this when you try to pick up a paintbrush,” he murmured. “You should have used your stick.”

There were a few people on the promenade now, others looking out from cabin windows. Crewmen were trying to restore order. This was not something that one would expect on the first class deck.

Milton put his arm around Edna’s shoulders as she stood looking stunned and distressed. “You all right, Ed?”

She nodded.

Urquhart began a litany of threats, demanding that Rowland be arrested for assault. His voice was somewhat affected by his injured nose and the result was rather comical—to Rowland at least.

The staff captain emerged to sort the matter out.

Urquhart complained loudly, nasally.

While the staff captain questioned Rowland, Milton and Clyde took the opportunity to have a quiet word with the bleeding Englishman. In the end, Urquhart withdrew his complaints and allowed the crewmen to take him to the Aquitania’s infirmary. The staff captain left it at that.

“I’ll have some ice sent up for your hand, sir,” he said politely as he left.

They retreated to the opulent sitting room of the Reynolds Suite. A crewman arrived almost immediately with a silver bucket of ice.

Edna perched herself on the upholstered arm of Rowland’s chair. She gazed at him, a little sternly, and then suddenly kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“Thank you, Rowly.”

“Pleasure, Ed.” He plunged his hand into the ice.

“What were you doing with that bastard, anyway?” Milton demanded.

“We were talking with Jiddu,” she replied quietly. “Orville insisted on walking me back to my cabin… I gave in and he seemed to think that was an invitation—”

“’Struth, Ed,” Milton undid his bow tie. “You can’t just flirt with every man in the room. One was bound to get the wrong idea…”

“How did you chaps convince Urquhart to back off?” Rowland changed the subject to waylay an argument.

“Told him he was lucky that you were a gentleman,” Milton replied glibly. “Made it clear that Clyde and I had no such pretensions.”

“Mentioned he could still end up overboard,” Clyde added.

“Subtle. Hope he doesn’t reconsider by morning.”

“How’s your hand?”

Rowland flexed it. “Should be fine.” He looked at the skinned knuckles. “I must have found his teeth… I swear he tried to bite me.”

Edna seemed to find that funny.

“Pommie bastard,” Clyde muttered in disgust. “None of them knows how to fight.”

Rowland grinned. “That’s a bit harsh, Clyde.”

“No, Rowly, he’s right,” Milton said gravely. “They transported the best of themselves in the seventeen hundreds.”

The conversation deteriorated thereafter as Milton waxed lyrical about colonial superiority and Clyde produced a first bottle of port.

It was not until they were ready to leave for breakfast the next morning that Rowland realised he didn’t have his stick. He wasn’t particularly concerned. He didn’t really need it in the mornings—he’d have time to find it before his leg got too bad. It was nearly ten o’clock when they entered the first class dining saloon. They didn’t have the opportunity to sit however.

Captain Godfrey Madding stood before Rowland Sinclair with his staff captain and two senior crewmen by his side.

Rowland was surprised. The captain was an oddly deified presence on the Aquitania. Only the most important of matters and passengers ever elicited his attention. He resisted a ridiculous impulse to salute.

“Mr. Sinclair, would you mind accompanying me for a moment, sir?”

“Certainly, Captain.”

The seaman extended an arm towards the door through which they had just entered. He did not object when Rowland Sinclair’s companions fell into step behind him. They passed Annie Besant and her fellow Theosophists in the first class foyer.

“Isaacs!” Hubert Van Hook hailed Milton. “A gentleman would have given me a chance to even the score before turning in.”

Milton spoke briefly to him and kept walking. Annie Besant frowned as she watched them go. They were on the second class gangway before Captain Madding addressed Rowland again.

“I understand you injured your hand last night, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland glanced at Clyde—so Urquhart had decided to pursue his complaint.

“I was involved in an altercation,” Rowland said carefully.

“Can I ask what precipitated this altercation?”

“Mr. Urquhart was taking unwelcome liberties with Miss Higgins—I took offence.”

“That’s right, Captain,” Edna interjected, skipping to keep up with the long stride of the men. “Mr. Urquhart was behaving like a cad. Mr. Sinclair’s arrival was nothing but fortuitous…”

Madding smiled and nodded at the sculptress, but returned to Rowland.

“Is that how you deal with those who cause you offence, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Not always. Mr. Urquhart was just lucky.”

Captain Madding glanced down at Rowland’s leg as they walked. The limp was slight, but noticeable.

“You don’t have your walking stick, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t always need it.”

Madding stopped them at the end of the deck. The area, which held a number of lifeboats, was cordoned off. Crewmen were posted around it.

“What is this about, Captain Madding?” Rowland asked suspiciously.

“Perhaps I should show you, Mr. Sinclair.” The captain took down the chain so they could step through. “Maybe you should stay back, Miss Higgins.”

When Edna made no move to do so, Clyde grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. Rowland followed Madding closer to a lifeboat, which had been draped with a large canvas. A crewman, who stood directly in front of it, stepped back to allow them access.

“This is Dr. Yates—the Aquitania’s medical officer,” Madding introduced brusquely.

Rowland nodded. The physician seemed very young—red haired and freckle faced… and visibly nervous.

“All right, Yates,” the captain instructed. “Proceed.”

The doctor pulled back the canvas.

Rowland was aware that both Madding and Yates were watching his reaction carefully.

Urquhart was in the boat. He was dead. Still in his dinner suit, the Englishman’s shirt was soaked crimson, and the bottom of the lifeboat was pooled with blood. His eyes were open, vacant. His face was bruised, but it had been attended to—his nose still bandaged. Protruding from his neck was a silver-handled walking stick.

Edna, who had come forward, stifled a scream. “Orville!”

“Dr. Yates,” Madding prompted.

Yates put a handkerchief over the handle of the stick and pulled it out. It squelched. The stick had been snapped, splintered. The jagged end had been used to impale the unfortunate Urquhart.

“Is this your walking stick, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Yes, I think it probably is.”