Miles Off Course Read Free Page A

couldn’t sit still.
    He waited till Edna had gone to tell the valet that they were ready for tea, before he muttered to Milton, “I’m going to deck bloody Norman Lindsay.”

2
    KIDNAPPED

    LINDBERGH’S BABY
    STOLEN FROM NURSERY
    NEW YORK, Tuesday
    The 19 months old son of Colonel Lindbergh and Mrs. Lindbergh was kidnapped from his home at Hopewell, New Jersey, on Tuesday night.
    The baby was put to bed at the usual hour. Two and a half hours later somebody looked in the nursery and he was gone, clad in his sleeping suit. A wide search is
     being conducted by the police.
    Mrs. Lindbergh discovered that the child was missing about 10 p.m. The nursery window was open and a frantic search of the house and grounds failed to reveal the
     infant, whereupon the police were notified, and the search immediately extended to New York and Pennsylvania, and will undoubtedly extend throughout the Eastern United States unless he is
     found by the morning.
    It is assumed that the kidnappers, if they escape detection, will demand an enormous ransom.
    The Canberra Times, March 1932
    “C lyde, over here!” Rowland hailed his friend as Edna lined up her shot in the fading light.
    Clyde Watson Jones approached with his easel folded over his broad shoulder. He carried a paintbox under his other arm. The wide-brimmed hat he wore when working outdoors cast a shadow on gentle
eyes that had seen a different side of life. At thirty, Clyde was only a couple of years older than Rowland, but his face was etched with experience in a way that aged him. Of course Rowland
Sinclair had seen his own trials—just not the kind that left a physical mark. Now, however, on the lush croquet lawns of the Hydro Majestic, hardship of any sort seemed very distant
indeed.
    Edna knocked Milton’s ball away with her own and squealed in triumph.
    Milton protested vehemently, calling the sculptress all manner of cheat.
    Rowland glanced at Clyde. Edna notoriously and shamelessly bent the rules of croquet when it suited her. The artists had always let it go—it was just croquet after all—but Milton had
known Edna since childhood. A kind of sibling familiarity prevented him from exercising any gracious tolerance in her favour.
    “Any luck today, Clyde?” Rowland asked, as the other two proceeded to bicker.
    Clyde put down the easel and handed over a large folder containing the sheets of cartridge paper on which he had been working. Rowland pulled out the series of watercolours. Clyde didn’t
often work with watercolours but they were convenient when one was lugging equipment any distance. He had wandered down to paint the Megalong Valley from the edge of the clifftops on which the
Hydro Majestic stood.
    Rowland studied the vistas that Clyde had created with muted washes of undersaturated colour. The effect was subtle, almost ethereal. His low whistle was wistful.
    “This is smashing, Clyde… I’d forgotten how still and quiet trees were.”
    Clyde smiled. “Still and quiet? I take it Miss Martinelli was not the best model.”
    “A tree, she is not.” Rowland glanced at Edna, who was still arguing with Milton. “I’ll give you a hand taking this back to the suite,” he said, replacing the
paintings and grabbing the easel. He turned back to the warring croquet players. “We’ll meet you at the restaurant for dinner.”
    They waved him away without pause.
    As they walked back to the Grand Majestic suite, Rowland told Clyde of Rosalina Martinelli and his troubles. Clyde was sympathetic. Rowland worked intensely but he was not unreasonable.
    “Ed’s right though,” he said. “She might get better. When is she sitting for you again?”
    “Tomorrow,” Rowland replied gloomily.

    At the suite, Rowland stowed the easel, while Clyde took a minute to wash up, collect his jacket and put on a tie. They were dining casually this night. Rowland waited in the
darkened sitting room, wondering vaguely why Jarvis, the fastidious valet, had drawn all the