Free Give the Devil His Due by Sulari Gentill Page B

the car herself. He was annoyed with himself for having become complacent about where he parked the automobile. “It’s only the tyres,” he sighed. “They’re replaceable.” He shook his head. “We had better see about getting her home.” Rowland left Milton and Ernest with the Mercedes and went back into the waxworks in the hope of using their telephone.
    The old woman with the patch and pipe was initially reluctant, but she was eventually persuaded by the gentleman’s willingness to pay compensation. The ticketing booth was so small she had to step out in order for him to use the wall-mounted telephone. Rowland rang through to
Woodlands House
, looking curiously around the inside of the booth while he waited for connection. All manner of objects had been pinned to the walls: the usual pamphlets and notes as well as medallions and a large poster on which columns of numbers had been written within the triangles of a pentagram. A large jar of dead spiders sat on a shelf and a dagger lay on a pile of opened envelopes.
    When
Woodlands House
came on the line, he spoke to Johnston, the chauffeur, explaining what had happened and asking him to arrange for a lorry to collect the Mercedes.
    â€œI’ll be out to fetch you directly, sir,” Johnston declared when Rowland told him of his intention to call a motor taxi.
    Rowland conceded. He did not want to offend the old chauffeur, and he was aware that Johnston felt slighted by the fact that the current master of
Woodlands
generally preferred to drive himself.
    And so it was in one of the family’s Rolls Royces that Ernest Sinclair was driven back to Tudor House. There were no tears, just a fleeting sadness as they said a manly goodbye. The first time Rowland had returned his nephew after a weekend outing, Ernest had only been at school a couple of weeks. He’d sobbed bitterly and pleaded with Rowland to take him home.
    Despite the protests of the housemaster, Rowland had taken Ernest back to
Woodlands
and, determined to rescue the boy, telephoned his brother in Yass. Wilfred had told him not to be an idiot. “Of course he’d rather live with you and have every whim indulged, Rowly. He’s seven years old. If you’re going to take him out on weekends, you’re going to have to learn to deal with this sort of thing.”
    Even so, Wilfred had come up to Sydney the following week, to check that Ernest was settling in at boarding school.
    Over the weekends that had followed, both Ernest and Rowland had become accustomed to the parting, so that now it was conducted with a simple and dignified handshake.
    When the Rolls Royce finally pulled into the stables behind the house, the Mercedes had been returned and was jacked up on blocks.
    Clyde popped up from under the bonnet. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.
    â€œSomeone slashed the tyres,” Rowland murmured as he greeted Lenin who had woken from his slumber in a shaft of fading sunlight when he heard his master’s voice.
    â€œWell, I can see that! Bloody oath Rowly, did you park her next to the Cenotaph?”
    â€œCan we get another set of tyres before tomorrow?” Rowland asked, a little surprised. Clyde was the most even-tempered of them. He occasionally found cause to call Milton the odd name, but that was probably understandable.
    â€œI got in some extra tyres and wheels because of the race, but I didn’t expect to have to use them already,” Clyde growled, kicking one of the ruined tyres.
    Rowland remembered then that Clyde should have been dining with Rosalina Martinelli’s family. “I say, what are you still doing here, Clyde?”
    â€œWhat did you do?” Milton said, glancing over his shoulder to see that Johnston had discreetly retired.
    Clyde swore. They let him do that for a while and they asked again. “What happened, mate?”
    â€œThe Martinellis didn’t just come to Sydney to see Rosie.