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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2020, 2022 by Sulari Gentill

Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

Cover images © Tetiana Lazunova/Getty Images

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

sourcebooks.com

Originally published as A Testament of Character in 2020 by Pantera Press.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Excerpt from Shanghai Secrets

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For Larry Vincent, who showed me around Boston at great personal risk.

And Leith Henry, who didn’t let me chicken out of writing that scene.

Chapter One

SINGAPORE BASE

LONDON, Tuesday: Speaking at the 1912 Club, Lord Halisham’s private secretary, Captain Grahame said: If we lose Singapore as a base, we lose every part of the Empire east and south of Singapore.

—Goulburn Evening Penny Post, 13 February 1935

***

The doors leading out to the suite’s balcony were open to the brewing storm outside. Heavy clouds churned overhead without releasing their burden, but the wind already carried the scent of rain and jasmine. The gentleman who leant on the railing wore a dinner suit—traditional black, as opposed to the white jackets that were popular in the tropics. The sharp part of his dark hair had been lost in the building gusts. Yet he seemed oblivious to the oncoming tempest.

Rowland Sinclair unknotted his bow tie with one hand as he read the letter he held in the other. The missive summoning him back to Sydney at the earliest convenience had been issued by his elder brother, Wilfred, upon whom the mantle and burden of family power had settled. The letter mentioned that there were papers and affairs that required his attention. Rowland doubted that was true—the commercial machinations of the Sinclair fortune had been designed by Wilfred to require little from Rowland beyond an occasional directed signature. It was an arrangement with which they were both happy.

Pulling the tie free of his collar, Rowland folded the page and shoved both into his pocket. Rowland and his friends had been in the East for six months now, most of it in Shanghai, the last four weeks here in Singapore.

The animosity which had made his exit from Australia to China seem expedient and timely, would, by now, have settled…surely. Clearly, Wilfred believed so, or he would have sent his brother on some other errand abroad. Of course, the sojourn to Shanghai had not proved to be as effective in keeping Rowland out of harm’s way as Wilfred had hoped—the treaty port was rife with violence and treachery, in which they’d found themselves embroiled. But they had come out of it more or less intact.

They’d lingered in Singapore longer than intended. Wilfred had asked his brother to look into the progress of the massive naval base being built on the island. The construction, begun well over a decade before, had been fraught with delays and changes in policy, but had, with the increase in Japanese aggression in the region, been given new priority. Rowland was not sure of the exact nature of Wilfred’s interest in the massive dry dock, but he had toured the facility, gaining access via his brother’s connections, and reported back as asked. It had not been uninteresting, and he had found himself fascinated with the engineering might behind the build.

Throughout their time in Singapore, the Raffles Hotel had provided a very comfortable place of repose, with pleasant evenings of cards and conversation fuelled by gin-slings, but Rowland had been ready to go home for some time. Of course that was impossible now. He reached into his other pocket and extracted the telegram he had received at the same time as Wilfred’s letter. The thin paper was creased, crumpled in grief and shock. But now here, alone, he allowed the impact of its message to wind him with loss.

A tentative knock on the door to the suite, was followed by a head peering cautiously around it—long hair for a man, dark features, and a white dinner jacket embellished with a feathered buttonhole of the flamboyant wearer’s own making. Rowly, are you alone? Milton Isaacs came in. The poet shook his head in disgust to find that Rowland was indeed on his own. Where is—?

Rowland’s gaze remained fixed on the impending squall. I accompanied Lady Woolridge to her room and said goodnight, he replied vaguely. He’d been handed both envelopes as he and Persephone Woolridge had left the Long Bar in search of somewhere more private. Naturally, Rowland had read the telegram immediately. And Persephone had been somewhat unhappy when he’d withdrawn from their plans for the evening.

Milton heard something in Rowland’s voice that startled him. He noticed now the distinctive pink leaf of telegram paper. What’s happened?

Two more people entered the suite before Rowland could answer, laughing as they stepped into the room.

Brawny Clyde Watson Jones, who even after all these years in Rowland Sinclair’s company looked out of place in formal attire—his sun-lined face spoke of a much harder life than that experienced in the luxury of hotels such as Raffles—and Miss Edna Higgins, the beautiful, uninhibited sculptress who had been Rowland’s muse since the day they met. They made up the rest of Rowland’s party—a tight, loyal set who lived and created and played together under the benevolence and almost incomprehensible wealth of the Sinclairs. It was not to any of their minds an uneven relationship. They all shared everything they had, it was just that Rowland had so much more.

Milton shot Clyde a glance. Something was wrong. Edna didn’t need Milton’s warning. She sensed it immediately. The laughter fell silent, and she unhooked her arm from Clyde’s to go to Rowland. She reached up to turn his face towards hers. Rowland’s dark blue eyes seemed grey—like the storm; there was a kind of restrained anguish in his face.

Rowly, Edna said, frightened now, what is it? She looked down at the telegram. Who is it?

Rowland handed her the page. Danny.

Cartwright? Edna read—We regret to inform you that Daniel Fullerton Cartwright died this morning… There was more, but she could not see because of the tears—for Danny Cartwright, who years ago had welcomed them into his home in New York, who had been kind and generous and absurd. And for Rowland, who had known him for years before that and who carried his friendships close to his heart. Oh, Rowly, I’m so sorry.

He placed his arm around her shoulders.

Clyde took the telegram from Edna, and he and Milton read the notice in dismay.

Cartwright! God! Had he been ill, Rowly?

Rowland shook his head. Not as far as I know. But I haven’t had a letter from him in a while.

Milton went to the drinks cabinet to find something that might dull the sharp edge of this news. Daniel Cartwright had been distinctly odd—a Francophile artist who only painted himself—but they had all genuinely liked him. Cartwright had been perhaps five years older than Rowland, thirty-five at the most, fond of comfort and not given to dangerous pursuits. This was most unexpected news.

Edna pulled Rowland in from the balcony onto the settee beside her. He handed her a handkerchief, strangely comforted by the impulsive honesty of her tears. Daniel Cartwright had been a good friend. They’d navigated Oxford society together as outsiders, an American and a Colonial, both despised to some degree. Cartwright had introduced him to painting and, once it had been established that they did not share the same proclivities, to girls. They had not seen each other very often since Cartwright had returned to New York and Rowland to Sydney, but he would miss him nonetheless. Quite terribly.

Milton distributed tall glasses of gin, and raised a sombre toast to the late artist. Farewell to thee, but not farewell to all my fondest thoughts of thee: Within my heart they still shall dwell; and they shall cheer and comfort me.

Rowland smiled faintly. The words were not Milton’s, whose reputation as a poet had been gained through his ability to repurpose the works of the great romantic bards without attribution, guilt, or hesitation. Still the selection was apt. Rowland did have many fond memories of Daniel Cartwright. Brontë, he said quietly.

For a while they sat silently, until Rowland spoke again.

I must go to America.

Will you make it for the funeral? Clyde asked sceptically. Even flying it would take at least two weeks. Two months by ocean liner.

Rowland sighed. Apparently, Danny cannot be buried till I get there. He nodded at the telegram still in Clyde’s hand. It seems Danny made me his executor.

Clyde looked back at the paper and read beyond the statement that Daniel Cartwright was deceased. The telegram had been despatched by lawyers and informed Mr. Rowland Sinclair that he had been named as the sole executor of Daniel Cartwright’s considerable estate. And that Daniel’s body could only be released to him. Did you know about this?

Rowland shook his head. No.

Didn’t Danny have any family? Edna asked. It seemed strange to appoint an old friend who lived abroad.

Rowland frowned. They’re from Boston, I believe. He rubbed his face. There was a falling out some years ago. I don’t know that Danny had a lot to do with them since.

Clyde groaned. So he appointed you to spite his family?

Or to disinherit them, Milton added darkly. Either way, he’s sending you to war.

Edna took Rowland’s hand, but she said nothing.

Rowland swirled the gin his glass. His friends were probably right, but what choice did he have? I don’t know why Danny appointed me his executor, he said, draining the glass. What’s more, I’ve no idea why his body can only be released to me…or who has his body, for that matter. It’s all a bit of a blow, to be honest. But I owe Danny a lot, and if this is what he—

Of course. Edna pressed his hand. We have to go.

Milton stood. I’ll speak to the concierge now about booking our passages. He braced Rowland’s shoulder as he passed on his way to the door. I assume you want to fly, comrade?

Rowland nodded. You know you don’t have to— he began half-heartedly. He knew they had all been thinking of home lately, and this was his duty alone.

Danny was a good bloke, Clyde said firmly. We’d like to send him off, mate. It’s the very least we could do.

Chapter Two

Reputation and Character

By William Hersey Davis

The circumstances amid which you live determine your reputation; the truth you believe determines your character.

Reputation is what you are supposed to be; character is what you are.

Reputation is the photograph; character is the face.

Reputation is a manufactured thing, rolled and plated and hammered and brazed and bolted; character is a growth.

Reputation comes over one from without; character grows up from within.

Reputation is what you have when you come to a new community; character is what you have when you go away.

Your reputation is learned in an hour; your character does not come to light for a year.

Reputation is made in a moment; character is built in a lifetime.

Reputation grows like the mushroom; character grows like the oak.

Reputation goes like the mushroom; character lasts like eternity.

A single newspaper report gives you your reputation; a life of toil gives you your character.

If you want to get a position, you need a reputation; if you want to keep it, you need a character.

Reputation makes you rich or makes you poor; character makes you happy or makes you miserable.

Reputation is what men say about you on your tombstone; character is what the angels say about you before the throne of God.

Reputation is the basis of the temporal judgment of men; character is the basis of the eternal judgment of God.

—Word and Way (Kansas City, Missouri), January 3, 1935

***

The Douglas DC-2—American Airlines’ daily flight from New York—touched down at the East Boston Airfield and taxied to a stop. Four Australians disembarked for the last time after a journey which had brought them from Singapore in a series of hops. Still, it had taken only fourteen days.

Rowland was the first to step out onto the muddy airfield and turned to offer Edna his hand. The autumn wind was bracing and cut like a wet lash. Edna clamped a sage-green cloche to her head and smiled as she accepted his hand. Rowland inhaled. In the grey of the day, she was sunshine. Warm, and welcome, and belonging to no man.

Clyde and Milton climbed out of the DC-2’s cabin.

Milton nudged Edna down the steps. Hurry up, Ed. It’s too wet to make an entrance.

Edna rolled her eyes, but she made her way down the last two rungs quickly. Rowland held his umbrella out to shield her from the rain, and they proceeded into the airport building, invigorated by the fact that there was no new leg on which to embark, that they would sleep that night in beds.

There was a party to receive them at the airport. Rowland was surprised by just how many gentlemen were lined up to shake their hands and welcome them to Boston. He had expected one of Daniel Cartwright’s lawyers to meet them, perhaps two, but this was a reception committee in great coats and scarves. The first to introduce himself was a gentleman of advanced years who sported the mutton-chop whiskers that had been popular in the previous century. Oliver Burr of Burr, Mayfair and Wilkes, who had once had the privilege of representing the late Mr. Cartwright and now discharged that duty for his estate. He introduced John Mayfair, Lawrence Wilkes, George Burden, and Percy Herbert, all of whom had some experience dealing with Mr. Cartwright’s holdings and would be at Rowland Sinclair’s disposal in the administration of the estate. Rowland introduced his companions.

We took the liberty of making reservations for you at the Copley Plaza Hotel, Burr said. I’m sure you’ll find it very comfortable.

Rowland thanked him. He’d not been to Boston before, and they’d embarked from Singapore so quickly that there’d been no time to make arrangements. Cartwright had based himself in New York for as long as Rowland had known him and had rarely even spoken of Boston. When he had, it had been brief and with bitterness. They’d never discussed the falling out which seemed to have estranged him from his hometown and his family.

Perhaps it was that which had connected Rowland and Daniel Cartwright so strongly—they’d both been exiles. Rowland had been sent to England, and Cartwright, it seemed, had fled to it.

They were shown to waiting cars. Uniformed chauffeurs jumped out to load luggage and open doors. Clyde and Milton went in the first; Edna and Rowland climbed into the second with Oliver Burr.

Tell me, Mr. Burr, Rowland said slowly as the Buick pulled out, how did Danny die?

Burr cleared his throat and glanced nervously at Edna. Perhaps this is not a conversation suited to present company, Mr. Sinclair.

Please do not be concerned about my constitution, Mr. Burr, Edna insisted. It is not as delicate as you might expect, and we have all been wondering what happened to poor Mr. Cartwright. He was not an old man.

No, indeed he was not, Miss Higgins. Burr turned again to Rowland, as if he was looking for leave.

Was he ill? Edna pressed.

Mr. Cartwright’s body was found beside the Charles River.

Rowland tensed. He drowned?

No, sir. It appears he was shot.

A moment. By whom? Rowland asked.

Burr shook his head. A vagrant, perhaps, or a tramp, or a robber of some sort who waylaid Mr. Cartwright.

I take it that no one has been arrested, Mr. Burr?

I fear not, Mr. Sinclair.

Rowland exhaled. He wasn’t sure what he’d thought, what he’d hoped about the manner in which his old friend had died. The anger that had lurked unsaid since the first telegram had reached him, that had been held in check by grief, seemed to focus now on an unknown murderer. He could feel the press of Edna’s palm against his, a reminder that she was there. Do the police have any suspects at all, Mr. Burr?

We are not privy to that, Mr. Sinclair, but if you wish, we can arrange for you to talk to the detective in charge of the case.

I do wish that.

Rowland looked out the window. They were crossing a bridge. He shook his head. Forgive me, Mr. Burr. This news is something of a shock.

Of course, Burr said gravely.

Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Cartwright was concerned for his safety? Rowland asked suddenly.

Burr was startled. No, he said carefully. But you must understand, Burr, Mayfair and Wilkes were the late gentleman’s attorneys, not his confidants. I can tell you that if Mr. Cartwright was concerned, he did not respond to that concern by putting his affairs in order.

He died intestate? Rowland asked confused.

Not at all. I didn’t mean to imply… Burr sighed. You may find, Mr. Sinclair, that the family—and we are talking about one of Boston’s best families—are somewhat surprised by the fact that the late Mr. Cartwright named you as his executor.

How long ago did Mr. Cartwright make his will? Rowland asked.

Mr. Cartwright finalised his most recent will and testament two months ago—Burr guessed what Rowland was thinking—at which time he appointed you his executor.

Rowland decided to just ask. Do you have any idea why, Mr. Burr?

Burr stroked his whiskers. He was adamant it be you. To be honest, I advised Mr. Cartwright that a member of his family or even a Boston-based firm might be a more practical and judicious choice, but he would have none of it. The solicitor removed his spectacles and misted them with his breath. To be frank, he trusted you, Mr. Sinclair.

Are you telling me there was no one else he could trust, Mr. Burr?

I expect Mr. Cartwright did not believe so.

Rowland heard Edna inhale. That’s so very sad, the sculptress said softly.

They had turned into Arlington Street and were now proceeding past the Boston Public Garden in the heart of the city. For a while they kept their own counsel. Rowland was struck by a sense of having failed his friend already. If he had known that he had been made Cartwright’s executor, he might have recognised that there was something wrong.

Copley Plaza was in the Boston district of Back Bay. The grand public square was bordered by some of Boston’s most prestigious and beautiful buildings, among which the Copley Plaza Hotel was not embarrassed.

The Buicks pulled up and the lawyers accompanied them into the hotel foyer.

The Copley was raised on what was originally the site of the Museum of Fine Arts and named to honour John Singleton Copley, the eminent American portrait artist, Burr said as they walked through the entrance hallway into a vast lobby with a high coffered ceiling, gilded and painted with clouds and sky. Mr. Cartwright thought you’d find it fitting?

Danny? Rowland asked perplexed.

Mr. Cartwright left instructions that should we ever have call to find you, then we were to put you up here. All accommodation, costs, and expenses will naturally be borne by the estate.

Rowland smiled faintly. It did sound like the kind of ridiculous thing with which Daniel would concern himself. Rowland took in the marble columns, the matching Empire-style crystal chandeliers. In them, he could see his old friend’s love of opulence and detail.

Burr, Mayfair and Wilkes had arranged two adjoining suites on their behalf. Once they’d checked in, Oliver Burr requested a moment, for which he arranged a private room off the foyer. Therein Percy Herbert produced a tape measure and took their measurements. We expect you did not have the time or opportunity to acquire attire for the funeral, Burr explained. With your permission, we have tailors and dressmakers standing by to alter appropriate garments for your use and convenience.

Oh…yes, Rowland said, as Edna commandeered the tape from a flustered Herbert and took her own measurements. Burr was right, of course. They had been travelling in the tropics. They did not have attire suitable for a funeral in the Boston autumn. That’s remarkably thoughtful, sir. Thank you.

Burr held out a briefcase. Some documents for your perusal. I’ve taken the liberty of outlining the particulars of the Cartwright estate and holdings, he said. You’ll find a copy of Mr. Cartwright’s last will and testament. The family is already in Boston, so if you have no objection, we’ll schedule the official reading tomorrow, immediately after the funeral.

The funeral is tomorrow?

Mr. Cartwright has been deceased for over a month. We thought—

Yes, by all means. Danny should be laid to rest as soon as possible.

We presume you will want to deliver the eulogy.

His brothers—

Have declined.

Rowland breathed. Then, yes. He took the briefcase from Burr. I should express my condolences to the family personally, in any case.

There are also a number of letters, one addressed to you. They were on the tray, for posting when Mr. Cartwright died. His butler was unsure what to do and so they have been retained as part of the estate.

Thank you, Mr. Burr. I shall attend to them directly.

Burr nodded approvingly. The lawyer had feared that his client’s mysterious executor would prove to be a fool, or indolent, or at the very least reluctant. But Sinclair appeared none of those things, and he seemed genuinely grieved by the loss of Daniel Cartwright. You will doubtless have questions, Mr. Sinclair. I shall return tomorrow to answer them if I can. He turned to include Edna, Milton, and Clyde. We’ll leave you to get settled. He handed Rowland a card. If there is anything at all. Good evening, Miss Higgins, gentlemen.

The gentlemen of Burr, Mayfair and Wilkes offered their hands and good wishes in turn, and returned to the Buicks, leaving the concierge to take the Australians to their suites. Each of the premier suites had two bedrooms, a spacious sitting and dining room, and a study, all furnished in a manner that was as elegant if more subtle than they had seen in the spectacular foyer. The suites were connected by a door which Edna wedged open before they selected their bedrooms. Bellhops brought up their trunks; chambermaids unpacked with practiced efficiency, and soon the wardrobes were hung with suits and shirts and, in Edna’s bedroom, frocks and gowns. Some items were sent for pressing and shoes put out for polishing. It was something of a quiet relief when the staff finally departed, having seen to the settling in of the Copley Plaza’s Australian guests.

Rowland observed the square through the window. Boston in the late afternoon: city workers heading home—collars turned up, metered strides; couples strolling arm in arm, leaning into each other against the late autumn chill; the architectural magnificence of Trinity Church. It was the kind of outlook he preferred to water or mountain views. A vista of human life. But today his gaze was directed more out of habit than any real interest, his mind preoccupied.

He opened the letter that Burr had given him, and read the florid and familiar hand of Daniel Cartwright.

Mon ami.

The American had delighted in the French language, though its correct usage had often eluded him. The salutation was followed by a confession.

"Je suis ivre, Rowly." (I am drunk right now, Rowly.)

As Rowland read, his memory gave Cartwright’s voice to the words. He was still reading when he heard a sharp tapping on the suite’s door. Clyde had admitted the callers before he looked up.

Two gentlemen, grey double-breasted suits, wing-tipped shoes. One carried the silver-handled walking stick he’d used to announce their arrival. His hair had receded quite severely, a fact he sought to disguise by combing long strands over the naked territory. Even so, he was the younger, a year or two older than Rowland at most. The other had a full head of ash grey hair, a small moustache to match.

Rowland slipped Cartwright’s letter into his breast pocket.

Geoffrey Cartwright, sir, said the younger. My brother, Frank. We are—

Danny’s brothers, Rowland finished. He offered his hand. Rowland Sinclair. How d’you do? My sincere condolences, gentlemen. Danny was an outstanding chap. I will… I do miss him.

The Cartwrights accepted his commiserations, and those of his companions.

You were all acquainted with Danny? Frank ventured uncertainly.

We all enjoyed the hospitality of your late brother in New York, Mr. Cartwright, Edna said gently.

We wonder if we might have a word, Sinclair, Geoffrey Cartwright said brusquely.

Certainly. Rowland invited them to take seats and offered the customary liquid refreshments. They took the former and declined the latter.

This is a matter of some sensitivity, Frank said, looking pointedly at Edna and then moving that gaze to Milton and Clyde.

If you’ll excuse me, I must finish unpacking, Edna said diplomatically. Clyde followed suit, but Milton remained in his seat with a glass of Scotch, until Edna, exasperated, asked him to assist