Give the Devil His Due (31 page)

"No. I'm saying we should make your brother's lot aware of how dangerous Campbell is. He only got as powerful as he did because the establishment found him useful against Lang. They need to know he's more of a threat to democracy than the Labor Party or the Communists will ever be.”

“I don't know, Milt.”

“Look, Rowly, I've had a read of Campbell's manifesto.”

“You bought his book?” Rowland asked surprised.

“God no. Let's say I borrowed it. I'll throw it back at him when I see him next. Anyway, I can see what he's doing. He's appealing to the middle classes, the petite bourgeoisie. Those who haven't been born to the establishment, but who are privileged enough to feel that they are on merit somehow better than the working stiff. The more the Left rails against Campbell, the more they'll flock to his side. The establishment are tolerating him because they hope in the end to bring his minions across to them, because they are convinced New Guardsmen could be moderated and tamed to become loyal Old Guardsmen in time. They expect they can bring Campbell to heel the way they brought Hardy to heel.”

Senator Charles Hardy had once been the leader of the Riverina Movement, and a self-avowed Fascist. He had roused the rural masses against Communists and Jack Lang, inciting mobs to reach for the tar and feathers. Cromwell of the Riverina, as Hardy had been known, was as revolutionary and charismatic as Eric Campbell. But the Old Guard had won him over with a senate ticket, and the men of the Riverina Movement had been quietly absorbed into the armies of the establishment. Rowland knew all this, but he had not before considered the strategy behind it. He was reminded that Milton Isaacs' understanding of politics far exceeded his, and that as frivolous as his friend often seemed, Milton's intellect and insight were rarely surpassed.

“I reckon,” Milton continued, “that Campbell would still love to be welcomed back into the bosom of the landed gentry.”

“You're saying we should—”

“I'm saying that your brother and his mates could best neutralise the bastard by throwing him a bone.”

“I don't know, Milt, there's a lot of bad blood there.”

“I'm not suggesting they do it because they like him.”

Rowland could see the sense in Milton's words. “I'll speak to Wilfred,” he said. His brother was a political player. Perhaps Wilfred would be able to put aside his personal feelings to ensure Campbell didn't wreak any more havoc than he already had.

“It's worth a try,” Milton said. “If it doesn't work, we'll just tell Hartley that Campbell killed Crispin White.”

BENEFIT IN MODERATION

“Most wives know that a smoker lets off his temper on his pipe, rather than on his family—having no hope of the last word, he resolves to vigorous puffing and blowing of smoke,” said a well-known Brisbane doctor. He considered there was room for further scientific investigation, and no scientific obstacle to the new theory, as cabled from London, that nicotine stimulates the adrenal glands, which help to regulate the amount of sugar circulating in the blood. It was a rational explanation of why a cigarette relieved fatigue and irritability, which were associated with a low level of sugar in the blood. He smoked so much himself that he had taken it for granted that the effect was that of a sedative on the nervous system. There was much yet to be learned about the glands, and the new theory might have a valuable medicinal incidence. In excess, tobacco first stimulated then paralysed the motor nerves, and the secreting nerves of the glands. In moderation—and that might mean for a healthy man a good deal—smoking was of benefit in relieving exhaustion, calming excited nerves, aiding digestion, and increasing the pleasure of life. Sherlock Holmes smoked extensively in solving his problems. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, his creator, was a medical man, in direct touch with scientific thought and practice.

The Braidwood Review and District Advocate, 1934

____________________________________

T
he Bocquet residence was typical of the architecturally pleasing houses of middle-class Lindfield. Not a mansion by any means, but the tidy, well-maintained dwelling of the comfortably well-off with double street frontage and a tennis court. Rowland recalled that Rosaleen Norton, too, lived in Lindfield. It intrigued him that the strange young reporter came from what seemed to be such a picture of suburban respectability. Perhaps Lindfield was not as conventional as it appeared at first glance.

Milton checked the address against the one that Delaney had scrawled. “This is it.” He spotted a movement of the curtains. “Someone's home.”

A swarthy solid gentleman answered their knock, with a folded newspaper under one arm and a briar pipe in the other.

Rowland introduced both himself and Milton. “I know this is a frightful imposition, Mr. Bocquet, but I hoped we might talk to you about your stolen tiepin.”

“My tiepin?” Bocquet said incredulously. “You want to talk about my tiepin!”

“Yes, if you'd be so kind.”

“Can you tell me why you're so interested in my tiepin, Mr… Sinclair, was it?”

“Yes. Crispin White was a good friend of mine,” Rowland said, exaggerating the case. “As you're probably aware, your tiepin was found on his body. The fact is, Mr. Bocquet, I can't imagine that Crispin was a thief—I certainly don't want him to die as one. I had hoped that by talking to you I might be able to work out how he came to have your property… to clear his name, as it were.”

Milton nodded in agreement, impressed by the smooth manner in which Rowland justified their interference.

Bocquet seemed moved by Rowland's claim. “Would that every man had such loyal friends!” he said, inviting them in. He directed them in to a cosy drawing room, insisting they take the armchairs and offering them drinks and seats. Rowland accepted tea and Bocquet called for his wife who had been hovering with some intent in the hallway.

The gentlemen stood as she came into the room. Mrs. Bocquet was a good deal younger than her husband, blonde and plump and dimpled. Rowland apologised for imposing unannounced. She made a point to explain that they were temporarily without staff before excusing herself to make tea. She spoke with an accent more refined than her husband's and, to Rowland, seemed quite embarrassed by the fact that she to do for herself.

“Can you tell us when you first noticed your tiepin was missing, Mr. Bocquet?” Milton opened the questions.

“A couple of weeks ago, but it may have been missing for a good while, to be honest. I don't wear it very often… it's a trifle loud,” he said, his gaze lingering on Milton's beret and gold cravat. The poet had fortunately divested himself of the scarf and Communist paraphernalia he had worn to satisfy Digby Cossington Smythe.

“I see. Well, when did you wear it last?”

“About a month ago. I took Beryl out for a meal. It was our anniversary, you see, and she likes me to wear the tiepin seeing as she gave it to me. We got a table at Romano's. Beryl was the most beautiful dame in the room, you know. A man can't help but be proud.”

“Are you sure you didn't lose the tiepin that evening, Mr. Bocquet?”

Bocquet hesitated. “I thought I'd put it back in my cufflinks drawer, like I always do… that's why I thought we'd been burgled.”

“But you're not sure?”

“Well frankly, I thought it was the girl who comes in to help Beryl with the housework. Things had been going missing for a time— money mainly. I thought the police might get her to confess.”

“And did she?”

“No, but they never do, do they, that type? You try to give them the benefit of the doubt and you get robbed for your trouble.”

Mrs. Bocquet entered the room with a laden tray.

“Thank you, pet.” Les Bocquet said, rushing to help her. She swatted him away.

“You'll only drop them, Les. Remember the Wedgwood!”

“She's right, I'm all thumbs. Broke the Wedgwood,” Les explained. He stood back as his wife poured and handed out cups of tea.

“Frances swears she's innocent,” she said. “Maybe Les did lose it after all. We let her go, of course.”

“We couldn't really keep her on after dobbing her in to the police,” Les protested, puffing industriously on his pipe. “Beryl's too tenderhearted. Makes her vulnerable to people taking advantage.” He sighed. “But maybe I did just lose it. Perhaps your friend White simply found it. That'd explain it if you say he's not the kind of man to thieve it.”

Rowland directed his question to the lady of the house. “Do you think Frances would have stolen from you, Mrs. Bocquet?”

She glanced at her husband before answering. “I suppose she might,” she said folding her arms. “We didn't trust her. She was a busy body… always poking through my things.”

“And you're sure Crispin White's never been here?” Milton asked.

“No.” On this point Beryl was definite. “Never. Not once.”

They stayed to finish their tea, though those minutes yielded nothing more by way of information. Rowland left his card as they thanked the Bocquets for their hospitality and took their leave. The couple stood together on the porch, Les waving congenially until the Mercedes had pulled out of their driveway.

“So what did you think of that?” Milton asked.

“He's friendly enough. But I feel jolly sorry for Frances.”

“Yes, me too.”

“I presume the police have already spoken to her,” Rowland mused.

“If the maid did take the pin perhaps she was White's mystery woman. He wouldn't be the first man to fall in love with the help.”

“She wasn't his help,” Rowland murmured.

“No, that's true. If she was sacked for a tiepin she stole to give White, she'd probably be very angry if he jilted her.”

“That's true… if she knew him at all. We're guessing at much of this. We don't even know for certain that White had a lover.”

Milton groaned, frustrated. “We should speak with Frances.”

Wilfred Sinclair rubbed his chin as he perused the watercolours spread out on the long dining table. Studies of flowers, and paintings of the garden, executed with a discernibly increasing degree of proficiency and confidence.

“Aubrey found me some brushes and paper, and Mr. Watson Jones has been ever so helpful,” Elisabeth said, laughing nervously. She pointed to a painting of yellow roses in a vase. The flowers were delicately rendered, a gentle explosion of colour against the crazed porcelain of the vase. “The shading is wrong in this one, I fear.”

“They're tremendous, Mother,” Wilfred said quietly. “Quite marvellous. I wasn't aware you painted.”

“Oh, I don't really… not since I was a girl. But I have been enjoying it.”

“That pleases me greatly. Will you allow me to drag you away from your easel to take luncheon at
Roburvale
? Kate and the children would love to see you.”

“Children? What children, Wilfred darling?”

A pause cut with fear. “My children, my boys.”

“Oh yes, of course. What was I thinking!”

Wilfred smiled. “Why don't you get ready while I have a word with Rowly,” he said, refusing to pander to his mother's delusion by calling his brother anything else.

“Well, don't be too long.” Elisabeth Sinclair did not seem to notice.

“How long has she been…?” Wilfred began as he accompanied Rowland from their mother's wing.

“Only a few days,” Rowland said. “She's quite good, actually.”

“I suppose you must get it from somewhere.”

Rowland was a little surprised by the vague compliment. For the most part Wilfred regarded his brother's artistic proclivities as a bad habit. “We might use the study,” Rowland said, diverting from his studio.

“Why?” Wilfred asked suspiciously. Their father's study was one of the few rooms left untouched since Rowland had become master of
Woodlands
. Wilfred was well aware that the reason was not sentimental.