Everything To Hide

By K.V. Martins

Sydney, Australia, 1933: Wealthy impresario and amateur Egyptologist Roland Cuthbert Barry is murdered on his 60th birthday, and everyone attending the evening's celebrations is a suspect.

Detective Senior Sergeant Harold Chesterfield of Sydney Central Police has been sent by Chief Inspector Ron Thompson to Barry Island on the Hawkesbury River and the rambling sandstone house of the wealthy Barry family. Thompson is a longtime friend of Roland Barry, who has confided in him about threatening notes he has received, suggesting he will be held to account for past actions.

Harold Chesterfield discovers a curious cast of characters at Barry Island: a long-suffering wife and an ambitious young mistress; a Russian ballet dancer who isn't what he seems; Roland's daughter and her lover, an Egyptian woman; the family doctor with a secret past; Roland's two troubled sons; and the evening's entertainment, a psychic medium, who, from the moment she steps foot on Barry Island, declares something terrible will happen.

With Harold is Ben, an English Pointer with a nose for crime; together, Harold and Ben will face their most challenging case.

Australia is in the grip of the Great Depression, and Harold is surrounded by opulence: tuxedos, sequined dresses, and sumptuous food. But when a severe storm hits and the electricity and telephone are cut off, Harold and the guests find that Roland Barry's vast wealth cannot protect him, and Harold must uncover secrets, discover motives and find the killer.

Who knows more than they're telling? Who has everything to hide?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aroona Group Press
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738592319

K.V. Martins

K.V. Martins is originally from Sydney, Australia but now lives in New Zealand. Her work has been featured in various literary journals and she has won writing and poetry competitions. She has a B.A. (Hons) in History.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Sydney Central Police Station

Monday, July 17, 1933

I spotted him coming down the corridor, his long, purposeful strides a telltale sign that he was on a mission. It was one of those oddities in life that a man as bulky as Chief Inspector Ron Thompson could move with the elegance of a gazelle.

A bulging file was tucked under his arm, some of its pages threatening to spill to the floor. Should I dash over and relieve him of what is probably a case file on Troppo Malone, the head of Sydney’s most notorious razor gang? Troppo runs a prostitution ring while his thugs fix bets on the horses at Randwick Racecourse.

For years, I’d been working on Malone’s case but hadn’t been able to crack his vice-like grip on Sydney’s underworld, and Thompson was irritated — so irritated that he’d often threaten to send me back on foot patrol to the seedy laneways of Surry Hills if we didn’t get a breakthrough soon.

I ducked into the tearoom to see if Mrs Rooney, the stout tea lady with red devil hair and an Irish brogue broader than the young lad on the front counter, had switched on the tea urn. The warmth of a piping hot cup of tea would go down well on this chilly, blustery July day when even the leaves on the trees in nearby Hyde Park shivered.

The insistent ticking of the wall clock in the tearoom competed with the hissing, metallic ping of the tea urn as it cranked itself up.

7:30 a.m. Unusual for the chief inspector to be heading to his office at such an early hour.

Mrs Rooney fluffed up the black and orange tea cosy she’d knitted, preparing to slide it over the most enormous teapot I’d ever seen. ‘Took me a whole weekend to knit this for you lot,’ she’d said when she’d brought it into the station a few years ago. ‘Should have been knitting socks for my grandson, shouldn’t I?’

She was a gruff woman, but she looked after the police officers and detectives at the station as though we were her brood of wayward ducklings, keeping us in line with a sharp reprimand should anyone dare to complain that the tea was lukewarm.

All I could think about was the buttery, puffy pastry in the brown paper bag with the satisfying greasy spots that Luigi had handed me not ten minutes before. I’d stopped in to say good morning to him at his café across from Sydney Central, wondering if I should once again try to down an espresso, a strong beverage that left a burnt and bitter aftertaste.

The Miramar Café buzzed with expressive Italian accents mixed with the Australian way of speaking that seemed to end every sentence as though a question were being asked.

Luigi stretched across the crowded counter to give me what he said was a cornetto. ‘In Naples, we have it for breakfast with a cappuccino. Try, try. You don’t know what you’re missing, Detective Senior Sergeant.’

I hadn’t had a decent breakfast since Frances left to go up to Maitland to stay with her ailing mother for a few weeks. There are only so many slices of charred toast slathered with vegemite a man can stand before he longs for the succulent roast lamb and rice pudding his wife effortlessly sets on the dinner table.

Mid-bite and dusting the cornetto’s icing sugar off my jacket lapel with a handkerchief in need of a good iron, I sensed the looming presence of Thompson filling up the tearoom’s doorway. We made eye contact, his pouchy eyes squinting at me as he snatched an Iced VoVo from a round biscuit tin.

‘Chesterfield, drop whatever that is in your hand,’ Thompson said, eyeing the custard-oozing cornetto. His deep voice could command any situation, and as it boomed down the corridors of Sydney Central, hardened police officers were known to scurry in all directions like frightened mice. ‘My office. Now.’

Mrs Rooney, never one to show sympathy, wrinkled her snub nose as she passed me my tea. Black. Two sugars. ‘Here, take this cuppa with you, Detective Senior Sergeant.’

She headed out the door with her usual determination, teacups rattling on her trolley as I threw the cornetto in the bin and followed Thompson so closely I could see the veins on the back of his neck.

‘Close the door and sit down.’

Thompson’s office was as hot as a furnace, the stuffy air tinged with a whiff of stale tobacco and sweaty socks. He tossed the folder onto the one clean spot on his desk amid a mountain of case files threatening to topple over at any moment and a half-eaten apple. His expression was thunderous, and as I crossed and re-crossed my legs at the ankle, I wondered if I had the stamina at fifty-five to patrol Surry Hills on foot as I had done in my early twenties, right before war broke out. Perhaps I could transfer to the mounted unit, select a sturdy chestnut mare with a barrel chest and —

Thompson cleared his throat just as I rushed to fill the unnerving silence, ready to plead my case. ‘Chief Inspector, sir. I know Troppo Malone’s case has taken longer . . . ’

The chief inspector raised his hand. ‘Troppo Malone? What are you on about, Chesterfield? We’re here to talk about a friend of mine, Roland Barry. Roland Cuthbert Barry, to be precise.’

Thompson patted the thick file on his desk, his stubby fingers with their yellowish but fastidiously trimmed nails beginning a rhythmic, annoying drumming I’d come to learn meant Thompson was in no mood to be trifled with.

My tea was too hot, so I blew on it, waiting for the chief inspector to carry on at his own pace.

‘You’ve heard of Barry, of course?’

I shifted in my seat. Was this some sort of test? But yes, I’m sure the Sydney Morning Herald had a recent feature on Australia’s well-known impresario, not to mention a gossip column about his latest dalliance with a much younger woman. I also read that Roland Barry collected Egyptian antiquities.

‘He owns the Constellation chain of picture theatres, doesn’t he, sir? Very wealthy man.’ I decided it best to leave out the part about Barry’s alleged adultery.

‘More wealth than you or I will see in a lifetime, Chesterfield. He invited Lois and me to a Christmas pantomime last year. Top-notch affair my missus can’t stop going on about.’

It started to rain, with beads of water flinging themselves at the office window that looked out over Liverpool Street. Passersby struggled with their umbrellas as a strong gust of wind picked up, turning one umbrella inside out. A discarded newspaper rolled like a tumbleweed along the pavement outside the Miramar Café.

The pop of what sounded like gunfire overhead startled us both before fading into the distance. ‘Blasted Sydney electrical storms,’ Thompson muttered as the electric lights went off and then sputtered into life again. He glanced at the hanging frosted glass ceiling light, his drooping jowls reminding me of a Basset Hound.

‘Is he a victim of crime, sir? Robbery, perhaps?’

Such was Thompson’s mood that it took several moments before he realised I had said something. ‘Robbery? I wish it were that simple, Chesterfield. No, this is what we’re dealing with.’

He puffed out his cheeks as he opened the file in front of him, pulling out scraps of paper that could fit into a small envelope. ‘What do you make of this?’ he said, sliding them towards me.

Despite the overheated office, a chill ran up and down my spine like an army of ants because I’d seen anonymous notes like these before — usually, ransom notes with threats to kill an abducted child if a large bag of loot or jewels wasn’t handed over. Only last year, the infant son of American aviator, Charles Lindbergh, was taken from an upper-floor bedroom of their New Jersey home. That case didn’t end well. Kidnappings were always difficult to solve.

Whoever had cut out the letters from newspapers was sloppy, for each letter was a different height, and the inked words were higgledy-piggledy across the page, but the message was clear.

It’s your fault.

You will meet the same fate.

You will pay for what you did.

Thompson’s brow wrinkled, and he had an expectant look on his face as though he assumed I knew who had gone to the trouble of cutting and pasting threatening words on a page.

‘Roland Barry received these, sir?’

‘Yes, I had lunch with him last week at the Australia Hotel over on Castlereagh. Have you been there, Chesterfield? They do a marvellous beef sirloin with creamed potatoes. You must try it next time you’re there. Anyway, the reason for the lunch was that Roland had been receiving those notes for some time. Those are only three examples you have in your hands.’

My thumbs were smudged from the newspaper ink as I examined the way the words were formed and how they referred to something Roland Barry may have done. Thompson started his finger drumming again, a clear sign that I needed to get going with the detective work I was paid to do.

‘Sir, does Mr Barry have any idea who might have sent them? Or does he know why the sender mentions something that is supposed to be his fault?’

Thompson stopped his drumming and looked at me as though I had just asked the king of England whether he knew he was, in fact, the reigning monarch.

‘That’s why I’ve called you in here, Chesterfield. You’re going to find out. He wonders if it’s a member of his family or someone he’s had business dealings with over the years. I’ve known Roland for many years, since before the war. He asked me to send one of my men to investigate discreetly, and you’re my best man.’

Although pleased to hear I wasn’t about to be transferred to foot patrol duty, investigating threatening notes was not my purview. ‘But, sir, the Troppo Malone case —’

‘Will wait,’ Thompson said, reaching for the notes and slipping them back in the file. ‘Malone’s been a thorn in our side for years. All of Sydney’s razor gangs have been. Malone will probably end up with a slit throat in some darkened laneway by the time you get back. Crims have a habit of dealing out their own justice.’

‘Get back? From where, sir?’

Thompson stabbed the file with a thick finger. ‘Take this with you to Barry Island. It has all the information you need to know about Roland Barry, his wife and three children, and his business empire.’

The electric lights may as well have gone out because I was in the dark, not following what Thompson was talking about. Barry Island?

The chief inspector opened a top drawer of his desk and drew out a long envelope. ‘In here is your train ticket. You’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I’m afraid the New South Wales public service doesn’t foot the bill for a first-class compartment, but it’s a short ride up to the Hawkesbury River. Very scenic.’

I adjusted the navy tie Frances had given me for Christmas last year. It felt a little tight around the throat now that the air in the office seemed even more claustrophobic.

‘If I may, sir. You want me to travel to this place called Barry Island and find out —’

‘Quite so. Roland is having his sixtieth birthday soirée tomorrow night. He owns Barry Island, you know. It’s out in the middle of the Hawkesbury River somewhere. Never been there myself. A chap will be there to meet you when you get off the train. You will observe the guests gathered at the dinner party because Roland believes it could be one of them threatening him. Oh, I should warn you . . .’

There was a clunk as the front two legs of the chair Thompson had been leaning back on made contact with the floor, and the chief inspector’s elbows smacked the desk. ‘We might be in the middle of an economic downturn, but it’s bypassed Roland Barry and his family. You’ll be seeing how the other half lives, Chesterfield.’

No one in Australia needed to be reminded of the severe, worldwide economic slump that began when Wall Street panicked after stock prices plummeted in ‘29. Unemployed men were sleeping rough in Hyde Park under a blanket of stars, getting up as dawn broke to make their way to the wharves down at Darling Harbour — the Hungry Mile as it’s known — where some of Troppo Malone’s boys would bully the foremen into selecting a strapping young man or two, who would then be asked to commit a crime to put food on the table.

‘You have a tuxedo, I hope?’

‘A tuxedo, sir? Yes, but I haven’t worn it since the opening of The Ambassador’s Café back in ’24.’ The thought of wearing a tuxedo and hobnobbing it with the wealthy on some island at a time when people were eating stale bread and dripping for dinner was absurd.

Thompson fixed me with those solemn eyes of his, which he narrowed when he was determined to get his way.

‘1924? You might look a bit less fashionable than the Barrys, but you haven’t put on an ounce of fat over the years. It’ll fit.’

I’d known Thompson since 1923, when I joined the New South Wales police after a six-year stint in New Guinea as a patrol officer in remote highland districts. The chief inspector might be heading for sixty, and he was certainly wider around the girth these days, but the years had been kind to him.

"Chief Inspector, sir. I can’t drop the Troppo Malone case and go on a jaunt to some rich man’s island and sit around a swanky dinner table with high society types —’

‘Detective Sergeant Floyd Harris will take over Malone’s case while you’re gone. It’s only for a few days. And I need you to find out what’s going on. After all, Roland funds our youth programmes. Kids need to be kept active, off the streets, or else they’ll turn to mischief.’

‘And what do I do about Ben, sir?’

‘Ben?’

Thompson looked perplexed, tilting his head to the left like Ben does when he wants something, and then a spark of recognition flared in the chief inspector’s eyes.

‘Surely you don’t mean the dog that helped solve the Julian Bartholomew case back in ’24? He’s still alive? And what on earth does a dog have to do with anything?’

We were back to the finger drumming as Thompson waited for my reply. It felt somewhat melodramatic to tell the chief inspector that I couldn’t possibly be away, even on a short trip. Nor did I have any intention of meeting Roland Barry or finding out who was behind the cryptic notes he’d been receiving.

‘Ben is eleven now and still as spritely as ever, sir. You’ll recall that Julian Bartholomew adopted him after we solved the case, proving him to be innocent of the murder of his wife . . . ’

The drumming became more urgent, and Thompson’s eyes had narrowed almost to slits. I hurried on.

‘Bartholomew’s in Cairo at the moment, buying antiquities, and there was no one else to look after Ben. We’ve stayed in touch over the years, and Frances is in Maitland, looking after her elderly mother, so you see .  .  .’

But the chief inspector didn’t see my dilemma. In fact, his mood brightened considerably.

‘Eleven years old? Rather like you, Chesterfield. Your sandy hair may have a lot more grey, and you have that bald spot on top, but you’re still a fit fellow for your age. I dare say taking a dog with you would be a brilliant disguise.’

‘Disguise, sir?’

‘No one on that island except Roland is to know who you are. So wear civilian attire. Not our usual navy suits and white shirts that scream police.’

Thompson took out a gold watch from his vest pocket and flipped it open. ‘Where is Mrs Rooney? She’s here religiously at eight every morning.’

He stood, drawing himself to his full height of five feet ten, two inches shorter than me, and strode towards the door, flinging it open and calling out for the tea lady.

‘You’re dismissed, Chesterfield,’ the chief inspector said as he returned to his desk, surprised to see me standing in the middle of the room looking, no doubt, like a lost child.

‘Well, Ben. Looks like we’re both off on an unexpected train ride. What do you think about that?’

Ben greeted me at the door of my Surry Hills terrace as he’d done for the last two weeks since Julian Bartholomew had sailed for Egypt, his tail wagging and his big paws thumping on my chest as he reached up, trying to lick my face.

‘Okay, down, boy. We have to pack and I mustn’t forget your leash. It’s around here somewhere.’

It wasn’t on the hook in the hallway where we kept keys, hats and umbrellas, nor could I find it under any winter coats heaped like a collapsed tent over the staircase newel cap.

‘I’d better tidy up before Frances gets back, eh?’ I said, half-expecting Ben would nod his head in agreement. Fifteen minutes of searching, with Ben at my heels, revealed the leash and red leather collar stuffed behind a plump sofa cushion.

After a quick dinner of soggy toasted cheese sandwiches washed down with a flat ginger ale, I went upstairs and packed what I needed, including the tux I’d last worn in 1924, in a slim suitcase, buckling its leather straps firmly. Ben was sprawled on the bed, yawning, having claimed Frances’s side without a hint of guilt. I’ve never had the heart to tell him he’s a dog and should sleep outside.

Before retiring, I picked up the telephone, poised like some Roman statue in its niche in the hallway, its beige Bakelite cold to the touch.

‘Exchange? Could you put me through to Maitland JJ1167, please?’

The Sydney exchange operator routed my call through to the country exchange, and after a few minutes of clicks and ringing tones, Frances’s husky voice came on the line. It was the best sound I’d heard all day.

‘Sweetheart? You won’t believe where I’m going.’

CHAPTER TWO

Central Railway Station, Sydney

July 18, 1933

7:55 a.m. Fifteen minutes before the 8:10 steam train to Hawkesbury River was due to depart — enough time to pick up a Sydney Morning Herald from one of the kiosks in the cavernous grand concourse before finding the northbound platform.

Ben trotted beside me, straining at his leash and lifting his nose to the air. He was as fascinated by the unfamiliar sights and smells as travellers hurrying past were seeing a dog sniffing and whining on his way to catch a train.

‘I’ve brought along some snacks, boy. Liver treats,’ I said to Ben as a woman approached, clutching the small hand of a toddler in a blue and white sailor suit.

‘Is your dog friendly?’ She crouched but held her child back as the little boy tried to thrust an ice cream cone in Ben’s face.

‘Yes, very. But I suspect . . .’

Ben snatched the ice cream off the cone, swallowing it in one greedy gulp.

‘I suspect,’ I continued, giving Ben a palms down signal that Julian Bartholomew had mentioned meant sit, ‘that I will have to buy your child a new ice cream.’

Ben did indeed sit but on the cone that had dropped to the hall’s concrete floor.

‘Oh, never mind.’ The woman laughed, adjusting the woollen scarf around her neck and hoisting her child up to settle on her hip before walking off. ‘Too much sugar, anyway.’

I glanced at the enormous clock suspended from the ceiling, looming like some bird of prey. 8:05 a.m. ‘Come on, Ben. We’ll have to high-tail it if we’re to catch that train to the Hawkesbury.’

The twenty-two-panel wooden indicator board gave me the platform number and the station stops:

Platform 3.

Hornsby. Asquith. Berowra. Cowan. Hawkesbury River. Gosford.

The world beyond Hornsby was a mystery to me. I vaguely imagined it would be full of screeching cockatoos and minty-smelling eucalyptus trees, creating the blue haze so common in Australian bushland.  I have fond memories of my time in New Guinea but admit that my comfortable life with Frances in the inner city had made me somewhat less enthusiastic for adventures.

Luckily, platform three was a short jog away, the steam locomotive puffing like some prehistoric beast, eager to set off. A guard blew his whistle, waving a white flag around like he was cheering on his favourite rugby league team, before dropping it to his side just as Ben and I sprang into the vestibule area of the fourth carriage from the front, the train lurching forwards.

I opened the door to the smoked-filled seating area, thinking I should have paid the difference for a first-class compartment because the carriage was almost full, but there were seats towards the back. I crammed my suitcase and hat in the overhead luggage rack, taking Barry’s file out before making myself comfortable.

‘Tickets, please.’

A heavy-set man with a ramrod straight posture stood in the aisle, inspecting the tickets of four young men in facing seats, who were shuffling and dealing cards, using a briefcase as a table.

I settled Ben at my feet, patted my jacket pocket, and drew out the envelope Thompson had given me: Detective Senior Sergeant Harold Chesterfield was typed on the front. Thompson’s secretary would have arranged this ticket, and the repetitive clack-clack of the railway track as the train glided out of Central reminded me of her typewriter keys as she typed up notes for case files.

The conductor reached my seat as I took the ticket out of the envelope and handed it to him. There wasn’t a crease or speck of dirt on his navy uniform with its bright silver buttons. For a moment, I felt like I was back with the Australian Light Horse in the Sinai, Major Pinkerton barking orders at me. He clipped my ticket but not before running a critical eye over Ben and saying, ‘Dogs are not allowed on this train, sir. I’m afraid he’ll have to get off at the first stop.’

Having anticipated this, I flashed my warrant card and said, "Police dog on official police business.’ It was most satisfying to see a man, who reminded me so much of my infantry brigade’s major during the war, scurry off down the aisle as though he’d seen me pick up a rat by its tail.

Ben was tired from the morning’s excitement and crossed his paws elegantly, resting his chin on them, while I picked up the file I’d placed on the vacant seat next to me, settling in to read up on Roland Barry’s history. On my right, the sandstone Mortuary Station came into view, a funeral train heading out on its journey to Rookwood Cemetery. Above the Mortuary Station, heavy-bellied iron-grey clouds drifted by, reminding me that I should have packed a raincoat.

The usual array of train travellers was on display: a harassed mother trying to soothe an infant bellowing its lungs out; an elderly man wearing a beret that was more a dirty grey than white; a young woman wearing red-bead earrings that swayed with the movement of the train; a man with sharp cheekbones and a lean, hungry look, wearing a loose-fitting, double-breasted charcoal-grey suit that did nothing to hide his tattered shirt cuffs. He was absorbed in reading a book.

Everyone except the wailing infant and the young chaps playing cards lapsed into silence as the train chugged its way to Hornsby. Like Thompson’s office, the carriage was overheated, so I opened Barry’s file to avoid nodding off. Whoever had put it together had been thorough. It was stuffed with newspaper articles about Barry’s background before he started organising musical theatre and operatic productions after the war had ended. There were photographs of his lavish wedding and his children, an estimate of his wealth (eye-watering), and gossip columns that suggested all was perhaps not rosy with Barry’s marriage.

This is what I discovered:

Roland Cuthbert Barry was born in 1873. Clawed his way up from the slums in The Rocks to build his theatre chain empire. In June 1915, at the age of forty-one, he volunteered to fight and was sent to Egypt. Married a much younger woman, Sydney socialite and theatre actress Cordelia Etta Mason, in 1905, at the age of thirty-five. Considered to be the world’s leading amateur authority on Egyptian mummification practices. Rumoured to be involved with Rosalee Foxton, a visiting soprano from England.

First child, Claudine Cynthia Barry, born in 1906. A son, Hartland Lucian Barry, born in 1909, and a second son, Grayson Evans Barry, born in 1911.

Purchased an island in the Hawkesbury River after the war, where the local Dharuk people used to hold ceremonies in caves on the island and fish.

The photographs showed a family blessed with good genes, the children sharing their mother’s strong, straight nose and eyes so intense they bored into you, the sons slicking back their dark hair like Roland Barry.

The thought of sharing dinner with three children in their twenties, whose conversation would probably revolve around the latest fashion styles, and a rich businessman who couldn’t keep his trousers on was far from appealing. Despite my best efforts to keep my eyes open and my concentration on the Barry family, I must have dozed off somewhere past Pymble station, where Frances and I had once alighted and were met by a talkative chap who was selling a half-acre of land near the Chinese market gardens in St. Ives. As his motor car bumped over the dirt roads and the man couldn’t stop going on about how the upper North Shore would be the place to live, neither Frances nor I needed to look at each other to know we were better suited to inner Sydney city life.

Somewhat embarrassed to find a thin thread of drool at the corner of my mouth, I wiped it off with my handkerchief before peering out the window to establish my whereabouts.

‘Cowan,’ said the beret-wearing man, who was seated across the aisle, facing in my direction. He was leaning almost halfway into the aisle, his eyes scrunched, no doubt curious about the white tail and twitching paws visible from his vantage point. ‘A while yet ‘till we get to Gosford. You travelling with your dog?’

Ben was in the throes of a canine dream that probably involved chasing butterflies — his favourite activity. ‘Yes, we’re off to an island on the Hawkesbury River for a few days.’

‘You’d best get ready then. That’s the next stop.’

I don’t know what gave away that I’d never travelled this far up the Central Coast railway line, but I thanked him as I bolted from my seat, crammed Barry’s file into my suitcase, and woke Ben, looping his leash around his neck. The liver treats came in handy because Ben wasn’t too happy about being disturbed.

The train chugged into the smallest station I’d ever seen, out in the middle of nowhere — beyond the Black Stump, as Frances would say — leaving Ben, me and three other passengers in a cloud of steam as it headed on its journey to Gosford.

I waited on the footpath outside the station for the car Chief Inspector Thompson said would collect me. Ben yawned, showing an impressive row of sharp teeth, and sniffed the air that held a hint of freshly mown grass. He whined deep in his throat before relieving himself on a nearby bush, something I was also tempted to do, but my three fellow passengers stood like silent sentinels not far away from me. Their occasional stolen glances told me they did