A Murder Unmentioned Read Online Free Page B

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