Give the Devil His Due Read Free

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—”
    â€œOh do stop complaining, Clyde. You didn’t even get wet!” Edna said, perching on the arm of Rowland’s chair.
    â€œWhere 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.
    â€œGood! 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.
    â€œAubrey, 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!”
    â€œIt wasn’t really a show, Mrs. Sinclair—” Milton began.
    â€œMay 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?”
    â€œElias Isaacs… I didn’t know… Hello,” White pulled at the already loosened knot in his tie.
    Rowland’s brow rose. It appeared the reporter was well enough acquainted with Milton to know his real name. The reunion did not appear to be a fond one, but neither seemed about to elaborate.
    â€œWill you be joining us tonight, Mother?” he asked.
    â€œI believe I shall decline, darling. I’ve had such an exciting afternoon with Mr. Isaacs, I think I might need a quiet night. I’ll leave you young people to it. You’ll all forgive me my old age, I hope?”
    â€œOf course,” Rowland said, relieved.
    â€œI have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight,” Milton proclaimed, turning his back on White to escort the old lady from the conservatory.
    â€œShelley,” Rowland said quietly. Milton’s reputation as a poet was built principally on a talent for quoting the works of the romantic bards and a practice of not actually attributing the words. He didn’t seem to feel obliged to write anything himself. Rowland smiled as he heard his mother object, “I