Give the Devil His Due Read online

  First published in 2015 by Pantera Press Pty Limited

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  Text copyright © Sulari Gentill, 2015

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  ISBN 978-1-921997-57-0 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-921997-58-7 (Ebook)

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  To my husband, Michael, who in a less fuel-injected, power-windowed, air-bagged era, was the undisputed king of the car yard.

  Novels in the award-winning

  Rowland Sinclair series

  A Few Right Thinking Men

  A Decline in Prophets

  Miles off Course

  Paving the New Road

  Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

  A Murder Unmentioned

  Give the Devil His Due

  MAROUBRA SPEEDWAY SENSATION

  SYDNEY, Monday

  The Maroubra speedway has claimed another victim. R. G. (Phil) Garlick, well-known racing driver, dashed over the embankment, crashed into an electric light standard and was then hurled 20 feet to his death during the final of the All Powers Handicap on Saturday night.

  Garlick was trying to pass Hope Bartlett and was travelling at 93 miles an hour when the car swerved and left the track. He was dead when help arrived.

  The dreadful fatality is the sole topic among motorists today. There is a difference of opinion as to the safety of the track, but the view is held that it is necessary to make some alterations in order to obviate the likelihood of any further accidents of a similar nature.

  The Richmond River Express and

  Casino Kyogle Advertiser, 1927

  ____________________________________

  Rowland Sinclair’s dealings with the press were rarely so civil. To date, his appearances in the pages of Sydney’s newspapers had been, at best, reluctant, and more frequently, the subject of legal proceedings for libel. On this occasion, however, Rowland’s conversation with Crispin White of Smith’s Weekly began most cordially.

  The reporter was, in fact, the fourth whom Rowland had received that day. Heavily built, White’s broad, lax countenance belied the wily acuity of his manner. A newshound who resembled a somewhat overfed lap dog, but a newshound nonetheless.

  Crispin White had written about the wealthy young artist before. He’d covered the various skirmishes and scandals in which the gentleman had become embroiled over the preceding years. More recently he’d reported on Rowland Sinclair’s arrest for murder, though the charges had been dropped and the story conveniently buried on page twelve when the family’s solicitors had contacted his editor. White might have been bitter if he were not so intrigued by the polite, unassuming man who seemed to somehow wield the might of the establishment without abiding by any of its rules.

  Woodlands House, where White was calling on Sinclair, had once been among the premier homes of Sydney’s better suburbs, a sandstone declaration of tradition, privilege and stately decorum. These days, however, the Woollahra mansion and its acreage were rumoured to be teeming with naked women and Communists. Regrettably, White had not been able to verify that personally, having been met at the gatehouse by a servant and escorted directly to the converted stables where his subject was waiting.

  Though he could not attest to the state of the main house, the reporter had noted the nude sculptures that challenged decency throughout the grounds—urns with breasts, naked nymphs and lovers entwined in the fountain. All very fine indeed, and exquisitely improper.

  White’s pencil scratched quickly to capture an impression of Sinclair himself. Tall, athletic build, clean cut—good jawline despite the determination of the upper classes to breed out chins—dark hair, and blue eyes… startlingly, intensely blue. They would print a photograph with the article of course, but the writer’s words would be the only thing to convey colour. Sinclair wore a dark grey three-piece suit, expensively tailored. There was a conspicuous smear of yellow paint on the sleeve, and several on the waistcoat.

  Rowland offered Crispin White his hand. “Rowland Sinclair, Mr. White. How d’you do?”

  If White’s hand had not been in Rowland’s grip, he would have duly recorded that Sinclair’s handshake was both firm and single handed. His inflection was certainly refined but not excessively so, and his smile, slightly bashful.

  “I am sorry to receive you out here,” Rowland apologised. “It must seem a little irregular, but I thought you might like to see the old girl.” He stood back to allow White to behold the gleaming yellow 1927 Mercedes S-Class.

  The reporter walked around the vehicle, making the admiring noises that were clearly expected. In a few weeks, Rowland Sinclair would take his prized automobile out on the notorious Maroubra Speedway—for a charity race in aid of the Red Cross. Plainly, Sinclair believed the motorcar deserved equal billing in any media profile.

  “German engineering.” There was a slight reproach in White’s voice, an unspecified criticism.

  Those blue eyes regarded him sharply. “Yes,” Rowland said. “The Germans make excellent automobiles.”

  “It’s never bothered you then…?” White asked, identifying an angle and pursuing it now. “I believe you lost a brother in the Great War didn’t you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Aubrey, from what I remember, was not shot by a Mercedes, Mr. White.”

  “But how would he feel about his brot
her driving a German motorcar, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rowland sighed. “I think you’ll find the war is over.”

  “I understand you were in Germany last year,” White continued. “Is that when you acquired your vehicle?”

  “No. I won her in a card game when I was at Oxford.”

  White’s face lifted. This was good. “You don’t say! So you’re not averse to a game of chance, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I don’t know that poker is a game of chance. Not if it’s played well.”

  “But you don’t object to a wager?”

  Rowland paused and studied the reporter. He laughed suddenly, shaking his head. “Just what are you trying to get me to say, Mr. White?”

  The reporter’s smile was sly. “Something wicked would do very nicely, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Why?”

  “Every contest needs a villain to stir emotion and get the public involved—someone to boo and hiss. It’s all part of the show.”

  “And you’ve decided the villain ought to be me?”

  “Well, you are driving the German car.”

  Rowland couldn’t quite tell whether Crispin White was in earnest.

  White grinned. “Just pulling yer leg, sir, but you understand your car may upset the odd digger. I’m not prejudiced myself, but some folks don’t see it that way.”

  “Quite.” Rowland leaned back against the mudguard of his car, his arms folded as he tried to discern just how badly this interview was going.

  White tapped the lead of his pencil against the notebook. “So, tell me Mr. Sinclair, how did you get involved in this charity race caper?”

  “My mother,” he replied, thankful the reporter was moving on. “She’s a patron of the Red Cross.”

  White made a note. “Can’t fault a man who loves his mother,” he said with a breathy note of disappointment.

  “Mr. White, if it is necessary to portray me as some kind of melodrama villain, I’m sure you’ll need to look no further than the archives of your paper.” Rowland couldn’t help but be slightly amused by the reporter’s approach.

  “Are you asking me to leave, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Not at all. We could continue to stand here while you ask ridiculous questions, or you could join me at the house for a liquid refreshment.”

  White’s large head bounced from side to side as he considered the proposition. “A drink you say? Inside the house?”

  Rowland smiled. He could see that White had not yet given up on uncovering a scandal. One had to admire the man’s commitment. “If you’d care to follow me, Mr. White?”

  White did indeed care to do so, and they walked amiably to the conservatory via the meandering wisteria walk. “Good Lord, they’re women!” the reporter murmured, reaching out to touch the cast posts that supported the arched iron trellis upon which the wisteria was trained. He pulled his hand back hastily when it came too close to the small pert breasts of one elongated figure.

  “You can touch it,” Rowland said, entertained by White’s reaction. “Miss Higgins’ work is designed to be handled.” He ran his fingers over the curve of a sculpted hip in demonstration. “She likes to try out ideas here before she finalises a commission. You’ll find a walkway strikingly similar to this one, though somewhat bigger, at the Botanical Gardens in Adelaide.”

  “Miss Higgins resides here, then?” White asked, puffing to keep pace with Rowland’s long stride. Of course, he knew full well that Edna Higgins was a member of the hedonistic artistic set who had taken up residence at Woodlands House where they lived at Sinclair’s expense. Some said she was his mistress, an opportunistic Communist siren with her eyes not only on Rowland Sinclair’s fortune, but his political soul.

  Rowland’s response was brief and affirmative, his tone warned against any attempt to pursue the enquiry.

  He offered White one of the wicker armchairs that furnished the conservatory through which they entered the house. The early evening was decidedly crisp but the room caught the fading light. Sunset bathed the parquetry floor in a warm glow, and patterned it with a lace of shadows thrown by fretwork brackets.

  “I’m famished,” Rowland said, pulling on the servants’ bell. “Are you hungry, Mr. White?”

  “Oh… I… Yes, I am actually,” White said, surprised by the invitation. Sinclair seemed an exceedingly unaffected sort of chap, but perhaps he was trying to sway the coverage in his favour. Well, he’d find that Crispin White was not going to lose his objectivity so easily.

  Rowland’s summons was answered by a strong, straight woman, well into middle age, whom he called Mary. She addressed him as Master Rowly, as if he were a child, and when he told her that Mr. White would be joining him for dinner, she responded with a sigh.

  “Since it’s just the two of us, we might eat in here, Mary.”

  The housekeeper shook her head firmly. “Mr. Watson Jones telephoned to say he and Miss Higgins will be back for dinner after all, Master Rowly.”

  “Oh.” Rowland glanced at White. He hadn’t intended to give the press quite so much access to his personal life, but it was probably too late now to withdraw the invitation. “I guess we’ll have to use the dining room then.”

  “I’m not sure when exactly they intend to come in, sir.”

  “I daresay they’ll be back directly.” Rowland responded to the unspoken complaint in Mary Brown’s voice. The housekeeper believed tardiness to be a symptom of ill-breeding. “Mr. White and I might have a drink while we wait.”

  All this White dutifully recorded in his notebook.

  A large misshapen greyhound padded into the conservatory, pausing to nuzzle Rowland’s hand before turning to investigate his guest.

  “Lenin’s harmless,” Rowland said when White pulled back.

  “I’ve heard Lenin called many things but never harmless,” White muttered as the bony one-eared dog tried to climb into his lap.

  “Len, lay down,” Rowland commanded, handing the reporter a glass of sherry.

  The hound obeyed, settling at Rowland’s feet with a distinct air of indignation.

  So, tell me, Mr. Sinclair,”—White was all business again—“have you raced before?”

  “No,” Rowland admitted. “But this is a charity invitational. I’m hoping at least a few of the other drivers will be equally inept.”

  “Well-heeled men with supercharged cars and no sense. A certain recipe for disaster, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s for a jolly good cause, Mr. White.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re bothered by rumours that the Maroubra Speedway is cursed?”

  “Cursed?” Rowland laughed. “My good man, you can’t be serious?”

  “Seven men have lost their lives on the circuit—it’s been called the killer track.”

  “Rowly, where are you?” A woman’s voice. White sat up. This was more like it.

  Rowland stood and called into the vestibule adjoining the main hallway. “In here, Ed.”

  Despite rumours that the women at Woodlands House were customarily naked, the young lady who walked in was attired—a plain green frock, not drab yet certainly not the latest style. But she could well have worn a sack… indeed, the simplicity of her dress only served to accentuate the fact that she was beautiful—unusually, unforgettably so. There was a complete lack of self-consciousness in the way she moved: a natural informal grace. She’d already removed her hat, shaking out tresses of burnished copper as she greeted Sinclair with casual warmth.

  White swallowed, hastily closing his notebook as he stood. Rowland introduced him to Miss Edna Higgins and Mr. Clyde Watson Jones.

  It was only at that point that White even noticed Watson Jones— solid, sturdy with a face that wore the years plainly and the calloused hands of a worker. “Sorry we’re so late, Rowly.” Clyde helped himself to sherry. “Ed came across some bloke trying to drown a sack of kittens and their mother in the harbour. She insisted I rescue them… wanted me to thump the bloke too—”

  “Oh do stop comp
laining, Clyde. You didn’t even get wet!” Edna said, perching on the arm of Rowland’s chair.

  “Where are they?” Rowland asked. “These felines that Clyde liberated.”

  Edna directed her smile at Rowland. “Out in the tack room,” she said. The old tack shed near the stables had served as Edna’s studio for some years now. “Clyde thought we should give you a chance to tell Mary before we brought them into the kitchen. She’s still cross about Lenin.”

  Rowland blanched. His housekeeper did not approve of his tendency to give refuge to what she called “ill-bred strays”.

  The Red Flag, sung stridently, boomed down the hallway.

  “Good! Milt’s back,” Rowland said. “I’m ravenous.”

  The revolutionary anthem grew louder and a second voice became discernible, female, thin and tentative with the words. Milton Isaacs walked in laughing with an elderly woman on his arm. He was not a subtle presence, with dark hair that fell long to his purple velvet lapel, under which sat a carefully knotted gold cravat. His companion was elegantly dressed in a tweed skirt suit, her soft white hair coiffed neatly beneath a brown felt hat.

  The seated gentleman stood. “Mother,” Rowland said, alarmed. He did not want White’s profile on him to invade his mother’s privacy.

  “Aubrey, my darling, I’ve had the most thrilling afternoon with your Mr. Isaacs.” Elisabeth Sinclair resided in her own wing of Woodlands House, with her own staff, including three private nurses. She had for some time been suffering from a malady of mind that often left her confused and distressed. Elisabeth had forgotten a great deal, including the existence of her youngest son, insisting instead that Rowland was his late brother, Aubrey. Some days were worse than others. Today, however, she seemed well. Her cheeks were infused with rosy colour and she beamed like an excited girl. “We’ve been to a splendid show at the Domain!”

  “It wasn’t really a show, Mrs. Sinclair—” Milton began.

  “May I introduce Mr. Crispin White from Smith’s Weekly.” Rowland interrupted before Milton could reveal that he’d taken Elisabeth Sinclair to a Communist Party rally. “Mr. White will be our guest for dinner.”

  Milton frowned as he regarded the reporter. “Crispin?”