A Murder Unmentioned (10 page)

“Please sit down, Mr. Sinclair,” Angel said. “You’ll want to hear the rest of this.”

Rowland stepped away from the table, seething. Clyde moved to go with him.

It was Arthur who reasoned with his cousin. “Let’s hear him out, Rowland,” he said quietly. “We’ll deal with him later, once we know what exactly it is we’re contending with.”

Rowland glanced at Wilfred, who himself seemed in two minds as to whether to stay or walk out. Slowly, Rowland resumed his seat. He glared at Hayden until the man met his eye. “You’d do well to remember, Hayden, that I’m not fifteen anymore.”

The informant cringed.

“I must caution you, Mr. Sinclair, that it is a crime to threaten or intimidate a witness,” Gilbey warned.

Rowland did not respond, but there was nothing in his face to give Hayden any form of comfort.

“Go on, Mr. Hayden,” Angel prompted as Hayden quailed.

“There was a row… one helluva row. Mr. Wilfred wanted me sacked. Threatened to rip off my arm if I ever raised it against his brother again. I won’t repeat what he said to his father but he was bloody disrespectful. Mr. Sinclair said he would cut Mr. Wilfred off. Mr. Wilfred said he didn’t care, then Mr. Sinclair said disciplining the boy was his right and duty. He told Mr. Wilfred to get out. Mr. Wilfred said he was not going to leave his brother to the mercy of a tyrannical bastard again. I left then… went home. I always tried
not to get involved in the family’s falling outs. You know, I was just doing my job.”

“And then.” There was a vaguely triumphant note to Angel’s voice which heralded the point of Hayden’s testimonial.

“I report for work the next morning and find that Mr. Sinclair was shot during the night. Mr. Wilfred tells me he’s in charge five seconds before he sacks me… hands me my wages and another month’s in an envelope and tells me to take my family and get off the property that day. I thought Henry Sinclair was hard but Mr. Wilfred put him in the shade. After he was done, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. My wife took the children to live with her people—she never came back. I was just doing my flaming job!”

For a time there was silence, and then Angel said, “You can see gentlemen, that this puts a slightly different complexion on the assumption that your father was the victim of some random burglary.”

8

“SPARE THE ROD?”

… “spare the rod and spoil the child,” sometimes to his complete undoing. In the “absence of the birch behind the door,” say some students of criminology, lies the explanation of why so many “young hopefuls” go wrong and end their days in prison… a writer in
The New York Herald
quotes Judge Alfred J. Talley, of the Court of General Sessions, New York, as saying that “there is just one kind of discipline that does work and that is corporal punishment. Lax parents make boy criminals…” Physical punishment has gone out of fashion; “moral suasion has taken the place of a whipping.” But “what does one of the little fellows care about moral suasion? He would care a good deal about a sound thrashing… old-fashioned ideas of parental authority should be insisted on, and where it is resisted I see no better or surer way to enforce it than by judicious corporal punishment.”

The Register, 1922

“S
o, gentlemen.” Gilbey pressed his fingertips together. “Perhaps you would care to tell us about your movements that night.”

Wilfred replied with a kind of ominous calm. “Delighted to answer your questions, detective, but Mr. Hayden can leave. His business is concluded and I see no reason to suffer his presence any longer.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Hayden exploded. “It’s been nearly fourteen years. You’ve already destroyed me… replaced me with that bloody blue-eyed Jackie… and don’t think I don’t know why
he was elevated above his station! That’d be a fine bloody scandal, wouldn’t it?”

“That’ll do, Mr. Hayden!” Gilbey said as both Rowland and Wilfred rose from their seats.

“I was just doing my job,” Hayden whined, cowering as the Sinclair brothers loomed over him.

“Get off my property!” Wilfred spat.

Gilbey signalled to one of the constables. “Perhaps you could take Mr. Hayden to the car.”

“That’s right, get rid of Charlie Hayden. That’d be bloody right!”

Wilfred turned his back, refusing to acknowledge him any further. Rowland’s wrath was barely contained. The constable grabbed Hayden by the arm and took him out.

“Do you deny any part of Mr. Hayden’s account, gentlemen?” Angel asked when the door was closed.

Wilfred retook his seat. “No.”

Angel waited for Rowland.

“No.”

“Let’s begin with you, Mr. Sinclair.” Gilbey looked directly at Wilfred. “What did you do immediately after Mr. Hayden left that evening?”

“I took Rowly up to his room and sent for Dr. Oliver.”

“How badly injured was your brother?” Angel asked.

“Badly enough. He was bleeding and confused.”

“Did you stay with him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For pity’s sake… to make sure he was all right,” Wilfred said irritably.

“Did you believe he was in any further danger?”

“I was determined that he would not be.”

“When did you leave?”

“After Rowly fell asleep. Dr. Oliver had given him something, I expect.”

“And what did you do then, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I telephoned our Uncle Rowland… my father’s brother—he was Rowly’s namesake. I was hoping he might speak to our father.”

“To dissuade Henry Sinclair from cutting you off?”

Wilfred bristled. “If you knew my father, Detective Gilbey, you would know that threats of disinheritance were not unusual. No. I was trying to sort something out for Rowly. He and Uncle Rowland were close. I thought… to be honest, I can’t recall what exactly I thought. It was over thirteen years ago.”

“And what about you, Mr. Sinclair?” Gilbey said, turning to Rowland. “Perhaps Mr. Hayden has managed to jog your memory. When last we spoke you seemed to have forgotten rather a lot.”

Rowland’s voice was flat. “I was in my room, asleep, until Wil came in to tell me about the burglary.”

“You didn’t hear the gunshot?”

“Not that I can recall. It had been a long day, detective. I was exhausted.”

“Did you know where your father kept his gun?”

“It was not a secret. Father stowed the guns in the utility room of the pantry.”

“Did you know how to use a gun?”

“I was a cadet during the war.”

“How did you feel about your father, Mr. Sinclair?”

A pause—silence strained by expectation. Rowland sat back in his chair. A single bead of sweat glistened on his brow.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It sounds like your father was very hard on you, Mr. Sinclair. Did you resent him for that?”

“I was fifteen, detective. I hated him.”

It was nearly midday by the time they all emerged from the library. Wilfred had brought the interview to an abrupt close after Rowland’s rather too honest declaration.

“For the love of God, Rowly,” he whispered as they watched the police vehicle pull away. “What possessed you to say that? Can’t you see how it looks?”

Rowland met his brother’s eye. “After what that bastard Hayden told them, if I’d said anything else, Wil, they would have known I was lying.”

“Yes. I expect you’re right.” Wilfred shook his head. “I should make some calls.”

“To whom?”

“It’s been far too long since I had a conversation with the Commissioner of Police. And I think it’s time I spoke to our lawyers.”

“In case this gets ugly.”

“To make sure it doesn’t.”

“Wil.” Kate Sinclair came out of the breakfast room into the hallway. She had Ewan in her arms. “Arthur said you’d finished. Have you eaten? I can have Mrs. Kendall prepare something.”

Wilfred took Ewan from her. “You shouldn’t still be carrying Ewan about, Katie,” he said.

“You worry too much,” she said, dusting some speck off his immaculate lapel. “I’m quite capable of hauling your giant son around.”

Wilfred tapped Ewan on the nose. “Did you hear that, McDuff? Your mother has the strength of a horse.”

Kate laughed. “Oh you think you’re funny now, but you wait till he starts telling people his name is McDuff Sinclair! You’ll only have yourself to blame!”

Rowland smiled.

“Lucy thought that she and Rowly might take the boys on a picnic today,” Kate said. “They’re Ewan’s godparents after all.”

“I’m afraid I’ve a damaged plane to work on,” Rowland said quickly.

“But couldn’t you attend to that tomorrow, Rowly?”

“Clyde needs to get on, and I’m not sure I could repair
Doris
without his help,” Rowland lied. He was perfectly capable of changing the tyre and patching the canvas body on his own.

“Well, perhaps early this evening?”

“Rowly’s had a rough morning, Katie,” Wilfred intervened, hoisting Ewan onto his shoulders. “He might not be in the best mood to deal with this scamp and his brother. Let him go tinker with that aeroplane of his for a while.”

“Oh dear, Rowly, I am sorry.” Kate was too discreet to enquire what exactly had occurred that morning. She knew the police had called and assumed that Rowland had found himself in some scrape which required Wilfred’s intervention. Her brother-in-law was, in some respects, wild, but Kate was convinced that with the right woman he would settle down.

Rowland glanced gratefully at Wilfred. “I’d better grab Clyde and get moving before the day is completely wasted,” he said, checking his watch.

Wilfred nodded. “Go.”

The day was hot and dry, unremarkable for Yass in December. Sheltered from the warm movement of air which passed locally for a breeze, the heat in the makeshift hangar was stifling. Rowland’s greyhound lay under the plane looking balefully at the master who’d
taken him from
Oaklea
’s cool verandahs to this place. Clyde had stripped down to his cotton singlet, Rowland to shirtsleeves, which he’d rolled to the elbow. Both men were damp with perspiration. Rowland had also managed to acquire quite a large amount of axle grease on his person.

Smiling, Clyde tossed him a rag. “You work like you paint, Rowly. I’ve never seen anyone make such a mess.”

“You left all the filthy jobs to me,” Rowland protested, wiping the oily graphite off his hands and neck. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to get grease on his neck.

They had worked in almost total silence till now. For some reason, Clyde had decided to give the biplane a complete service, checking bungee straps and fuel lines in addition to replacing the tyre and repairing the fuselage. Rowland had been glad of the distraction, and Clyde’s quiet, practical company.

“We’re nearly done,” Clyde said, ladling a drink out of the bucket they’d collected earlier from the rainwater tank attached to the shed. “Bloody hell, it’s hot.”

Rowland nodded. He took the ladle from Clyde, splashing the now tepid water on his neck and face.

“Rowly, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That bloke, Hayden, and your father… how long did that go on?”

Rowland stopped. He leaned against
Rule Britannia’s
lower wing. “My father was always strict. Wil and Aubrey protected me before the war, kept me out of his way… But then they all enlisted.”