A Murder Unmentioned

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SUED LEADER OF NEW GUARD

£401 5/8 FOR ALLEGED LEGAL EXPENSES

SYDNEY, Sept 21

The case in which John Francis Dynon had sued Eric Campbell, leader of the New Guard, for £401 5/8, alleged to have been expenses incurred in the defence of the plaintiff and other members of the New Guard who were convicted at the Central Court of having assaulted Alderman J. Garden in May of last year, was brought to an end by the announcement of Mr. Justice Halse Rogers in the Supreme Court today that the matter had been settled out of court. The terms of the settlement were not disclosed.

Kalgoorlie Miner, 1933

The barrel-chested men who guarded the entrance to the hall were noticeably uniformed by their lack of jackets and the coloured armbands which stood out against the crisp white of exposed shirtsleeves. They stopped Rowland and Edna, silently cutting them out of the crowd of New Guardsmen and curious citizens streaming into the hall.

Rowland cursed under his breath, grabbing Edna’s hand and turning to leave.

“Sinclair!” One of the jacketless guardsmen smiled broadly as he barred Rowland’s way.

“Hodges,” Rowland replied pulling Edna behind him. The guardsman was one of many Rowland had met when he’d infiltrated the New Guard. His cover was, of course, no longer intact and the New Guard knew well that Rowland Sinclair had been a spy in their midst. Many believed he had tried to assassinate their leader.

Hodges conferred quietly with a couple of his colleagues.

“You’d better come with me,” he said curtly.

“I don’t think so,” Rowland replied. “We might just be on our way.”

Hodges’ eyes narrowed. “There are three thousand right thinking men here… what do you suppose would happen if they knew who you were, that you were the Red mongrel who tried to kill the commander?”

Rowland said nothing, furious with himself for so carelessly bringing Edna into danger. Campbell’s men were not averse to violence.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “But allow Miss Higgins to leave first.”

“No, I think I’ll stay,” Edna was defiant.

“Ed—”

“We’re not going to let your young lady go just yet,” Hodges interrupted. “If you make us drag you, she could get hurt.”

Rowland flared. “Touch her and I’ll—”

“Ten seconds and I’ll announce who you are and leave you to it,” Hodges threatened.

“Rowly…” Edna glanced back into the hall at the packed assembly of guardsmen all chanting for Campbell.

Rowland squeezed her hand. The sculptress was right. They would have to take their chances with Hodges.

A dozen guardsmen escorted them to an anteroom adjoining the hall. Hodges entered first, and after a brief interval Rowland and Edna were ushered in. Eric Campbell stood before a full-length mirror, grooming his moustache.

“Sinclair,” he said coldly, regarding them first in the mirror. He turned. “And your charming fiancée… or has Miss Higgins become Mrs. Rowland Sinclair since we last had the pleasure?”

“No,” Rowland said curtly. He was fairly sure Campbell knew that Edna had never been his fiancée. “What do you want, Campbell?”

“I could ask the same thing of you,” Campbell said turning back to the mirror to adjust his tie. He didn’t wait for Rowland to respond. “This is a day of significance Sinclair, an historic day. Today we will take the first step towards smashing the corrupt machine of party politics from within. Democracy has had its chance. Australians deserve a better system.”

“This won’t work,” Rowland said. “Not here.”

“I met some gentlemen in Germany who might disagree,” Campbell replied. “Mr. Hitler’s government worked within the system to deliver the change the German people wanted… I see no reason why the Centre Party supported by the New Guard can’t do the same here.”

“You can’t seriously be looking to emulate the Nazis!” Rowland said angrily. “For God’s sake, man, Hitler is—”

Hodges pushed him back. “Shut your Red trap, Sinclair.”

Rowland might have thrown a punch then and there if Edna was not still holding onto his hand.

“You’ll find, Sinclair,” Campbell said, with a restraining grip on Hodges’ shoulder, “that there’ll be no receptive ear for your Bolshevik slander here.”

Edna tried. “Mr. Campbell, you don’t understand. We were in Germany…”

“So was I, Miss Higgins. And let me tell you I was impressed. In orderliness and cleanliness, the Germans have no equal! They are happy and content and prosperous.”

“And what about the German Jews, Mr. Campbell—are they happy and content?” Edna asked.

Campbell’s reply was smooth, practised. “The only Jews I saw were eating in restaurants… fat, well-dressed people who scoffed at notions that they were persecuted in any way!”

Rowland shook his head. “Don’t bother, Ed. The man is an i***t, too vain to recognise what’s in front of his nose.”

Campbell’s face hardened. “What’s in front of my nose, Sinclair, is a spoiled Red sympathiser, a traitor!” He took a step towards Rowland. “You are not welcome here amongst the noble and decent men of the New Guard, comrade. Go back to your shirking Commie mates and wait for the judgement day that’s coming to you!”

“I won’t be waiting quietly, Campbell,” Rowland’s voice was thick with contempt. “You go ahead and follow Mr. Hitler’s plan, copy his every move, but you’ll find it won’t work in Australia!”

Campbell smiled. “You might care to watch yourself. Some of the lads quite earnestly believe you got off too lightly last time we crossed paths. They may decide to deal the justice that most loyal, right thinking men believe you deserve.”

“Rowly, let’s just go,” Edna said before he could respond. She grabbed his arm. “Rowly!”

Rowland nodded slowly. They’d already pushed their luck.

Four guardsmen, including Hodges, escorted them out of the anteroom, accompanying them down the street, well away from the crowds gathered around the hall in which Eric Campbell’s parliamentary ambitions would be launched.

“Right, Sinclair,” Hodges snarled. “Get lost!” He half turned away and then changed his mind.

“Rowly!” Edna screamed as the guardsman swivelled and swung.

Rowland ducked, pushing Edna back with his left arm whilst he led with his right. Of course, there were four New Guardsmen, and they closed in.

“Oi!” A shout from behind them.

“Harry!” Edna responded as she recognised the first of the two burly men now charging the affray. Harcourt Garden would help them.

With the odds now almost equal, the guardsmen pulled back and the confrontation turned into a heated skirmish of words, and even that was curbed in profanity by the presence of Edna.

After a sufficiency of threats had been duly exchanged, the guardsmen departed, telling themselves and each other that they had put the fear of God into Rowland Sinclair.

Harcourt Garden slapped Rowland on the back and introduced him to his companion, Paul Bremner, a solid swarthy Union man with a Communist badge pinned to his flat cap. “This is the bloke who tried to shoot that Fascist bastard Eric Campbell a couple of years ago… before old Jock got worked over by the bloody Boo Guard!” he told Bremner proudly. Harcourt’s father, Jock Garden, was a founder of the Communist Party of Australia and a vocal proponent of the Left. He’d been brutally ambushed outside his own home by a group of hooded vigilantes whose connection to Campbell and the New Guard was widely known, if never proved.

“I didn’t shoot anyone,” Rowland corrected the record as he shook hands with Harcourt Garden’s mate.

“We’ve given you points for trying,” Garden said, slinging his arm around Rowland’s shoulders.

“What happened? Did ya miss?” Bremner asked, grinning.

“No. I got shot,” Rowland said wearily.

Edna looked at him in horror. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up again!”

Rowland smiled. Edna hated being reminded that she’d shot him. “I should buy you gentlemen a drink, I suspect,” he said, judiciously changing the subject.

The task of so thanking their saviours was, however, complicated by Edna whose presence, and refusal to sit by herself in the ladies’ bar, precluded a simple stop at the nearest pub. It was Bremner who suggested the wine bar not far from Trades Hall. The décor was on the sparse side of rudimentary, but the venue was full. Men and women gathered about the small round tables in conspiratorial groups. Whether or not they were actually conspiring was hard to tell—they could well have been discussing the cricket—but in the smoke filled haze of the Communist haunt it was not hard to imagine that the odd plot was being hatched. Rowland Sinclair’s party shared a bottle of McWilliams red while they talked of Campbell’s political aspirations. Garden and Bremner were inclined to dismiss them as a joke. Rowland, less so. He told Garden of the persecution of trade unionists and dissidents they had seen in Germany, of Dachau and the men forced into hiding. Garden ranted his outrage, Bremner smouldered quietly. And so the morning was passed.

It was nearly noon before Rowland and Edna stood to depart under a chorus of protests and entreaties that they stay for one more drink.

Rowland purchased another bottle for Garden and Bremner to enjoy in their absence.

Bremner raised his glass in thanks. “You watch yourself, Sinclair. The Boo Guard is looking for an enemy. With Premier Lang gone they may just decide that you’ll do in a pinch.”

The black police vehicle was parked conspicuously in the driveway.

Edna sighed. “What do you suppose Milt’s done now?”

“It’s probably Delaney,” Rowland replied hopefully. He and the detective had helped each other in the past and Delaney occasionally dropped by for a drink.

But it was not Delaney. Detectives Gilbey and Angel had just arrived and were on hand to meet Rowland at his door.

Mary Brown’s lips were pursed tightly as Rowland greeted the policemen and introduced Edna. “I’m so glad you’re back, Master Rowly—Mr. Sinclair has telephoned thrice this morning!” the housekeeper exclaimed, determinedly dealing first with what she believed the more important matter.

“Wil…?” Rowland stood aside for the detectives to enter. Mary Brown had allowed Wilfred the title of Mr. Sinclair when their father had passed—to her mind there could only ever be one. “If you’d step this way, gentlemen. Thank you, Mary. I’ll telephone Wil shortly.”

Gilbey and Angel declined refreshments, scrutinising the drawing room as they took the seats Rowland offered. Tubes of pigment, brushes, palettes and various items of artistic paraphernalia sat atop French polished sideboards. The light, coming through the large bay windows by which Rowland’s easels were positioned, was softened by the generous canopies of the jacaranda trees outside. Even so, the view of Woodlands’ manicured lawns was not obscured. Rowland’s latest work sat on the largest easel… a dark, moody piece of a naked nymph asleep on a forest floor—a strangely elevated perspective like that of a voyeuristic god. Rowland had begun the painting leaning precariously over the balustrade of the staircase with Edna posed below, on the floor of the hall.

“And how may I be of assistance, gentlemen?” Rowland asked, sitting beside Edna on the settee.

“We’d like you to assist with some enquiries, Mr. Sinclair.” Detective Angel cleared his throat and glanced at Edna.

Gilbey studied the sculptress. “The matter is somewhat sensitive, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps Miss Higgins should—”

“Please go ahead, detectives,” Rowland said, mildly curious now.

Angel nodded curtly and proceeded. “What can you tell us about the evening your father, the late Henry Sinclair, was murdered, Mr. Sinclair?”

Edna stiffened. She looked to Rowland for some sign that there was a mistake. Henry Sinclair had died of a heart attack, or old age or something equally unremarkable.

For a moment, Rowland didn’t say anything. Then, “That was thirteen years ago, detectives.”

“Are you saying you don’t remember the night your father was killed?” Gilbey asked.

“I’m wondering why, after all this time, you are questioning me about that night?”

“There’s been a development.”

“What development?”

“Your father’s gun has been found. We believe it was the weapon that killed him.”

“I see.”

“Aren’t you going to ask where it was found, Mr. Sinclair?” Angel studied him too sharply.

Rowland answered calmly, coldly. “I assume you’re going to tell me.”

Gilbey and Angel exchanged a glance. “At the bottom of the dam closest to the main house at Oaklea.”

Rowland sat back slowly. “When? When was it found?”

“Early yesterday. They’re draining the dam for some landscaping works apparently.”

Rowland paused and then he nodded at each of the policemen. “Thank you for letting me know, gentlemen.”

“Regrettably, Mr. Sinclair, we did not come to inform you, but to ask you about what you remember from that night. A question you’ve not answered as yet.”

“I was fifteen at the time, detective. I believe I was in bed when Father died. I’m not sure I remember anything at all.”

“That seems unlikely if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”

“It may indeed seem unlikely to you, sir, but it is so.”

“Why were you in Yass, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey took out a notebook. “Your father was killed during the school term. You were at Kings were you not?”

Rowland’s face hardened perceptibly. “I’d been sent down.”

“You were expelled?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Rowland rolled his eyes. “I’d started a poker club among the boarders—I was fifteen.”

“Are you saying you’ve reformed, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Not at all, detective, but I am more discreet.”

Gilbey looked archly at Edna. He stood and, stepping over to the easel, inspected the painting. “Is this your work, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked scrutinising the naked nymph so closely that his nose collected some still wet oil paint on its tip.

“Yes.”

“Interesting subject. Do you often paint dead bodies?”

Rowland’s brow rose.

Edna left the settee to join the detective. “That’s Shakespeare’s Titania, Detective Gilbey,” she whispered. “From A Midsummer Night’s Dream—she’s asleep. Rowly’s been painting a series inspired by literary heroines… only Ophelia is dead.”

“Of course,” Gilbey said brusquely. “I am myself very familiar with the works of William Shakespeare. This is quite an interesting, may I say, lustful depiction, both poignant and shocking in its dedication to the intimacies of the female form.”

Rowland blinked. Apparently the detective was also an art critic.

Angel stared at his colleague, clearly appalled.

Gilbey stood back from the painting and moved his attention instead to the portrait of Henry Sinclair. “Is this—”

“Yes,” Rowland replied.

Gilbey nodded slowly, though he did not seem inclined to examine that painting in the same depth.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Sinclair, you don’t seem particularly excited by the discovery of your father’s gun,” Angel quite decidedly directed the conversation away from the artwork.

“Excited?” Rowland made no attempt to hide his scorn. “The burglar who killed my father has had thirteen years to make his escape!”

“Why do you believe a burglar killed your father, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey asked sharply.

“There were some valuables taken from the house… I can’t remember what exactly they were.”

Gilbey wrote in his notebook.

“Is there something more, detective?” Rowland asked suspiciously.

“Several items of silverware and an antique carriage clock were found with the gun.”

“Well, there you go.”

Gilbey raised his hand. “It’s understandable that a killer would seek to rid himself of the murder weapon, but why would he discard the fruits of his burglary?”

“Perhaps he panicked.”

“Perhaps he never had any interest in the silver.”

“What are you saying, detective?”

“Do you have any idea, Mr. Sinclair, who might have wanted your father dead?”

The pause was so slight that only Edna noticed it.

“I really wasn’t privy to my father’s affairs.” He shrugged. “But I have it on good authority that he was a paragon of virtue and respectability.”

Gilbey studied Rowland, his eyes piercing beneath a furrowed brow.

Rowland exhaled impatiently. “If there’s nothing further, detectives…”

“Not for now, Mr. Sinclair,” Angel said, closing his notebook as he stood. Gilbey followed suit.

Rowland waited as Mary Brown showed the policemen to the door, stepping into the hallway as soon as he heard the door close. Wordlessly he picked up the telephone receiver to book a call through to Oaklea.