Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (18 page)

“Milt wanted to storm the office of the B.U.F.,” Edna whispered.

Wilfred opened his pocket watch, and checked the time. “I must get back. Rowly, for pity's sake try and leave it a couple of days before the next crisis!”

“That's it?” Rowland said, outraged. “That lunatic abducts me for lunch and you want
me
to stay out of trouble?”

“He said he had asked you to come see him.”

“I am not one of his crew. I don't have to drop everything just because Admiral Hugh flaming Sinclair shouts!”

Wilfred stepped towards the door and waited impatiently while the butler opened it to let him out. “I'll deal with Quex. However, I suggest that next time our cousin wants to see you, you just jolly well go.”

As the door closed after Wilfred, Rowland slipped his arm out of the sling and rubbed the back of his neck, both annoyed and embarrassed by the morning's events.

Edna sat on the arm of his chair and brushed the hair away from his face. “I'm glad it was your cousin,” she said. “It was frightening… but at least that's all it was.”

Milton put a glass of gin down in front of him. “What was he after, Rowly, this cousin of yours?”

“I'm not entirely sure… I think he wanted me to come work for him.”

“He wanted you to join up? It's all a trifle high-handed, isn't it?”

“He's taking his knighthood a little seriously, I suppose.”

“He's been knighted?”

“His Majesty knighted most of his admirals after the war.”

“Nothing like a cape and a funny hat to keep you loyal to the status quo,” Milton muttered.

Rowland smiled: if any man could be seduced by a cape it was probably Milton.

“Rowly, did you talk about Germany?” Edna asked earnestly. “Your cousin sounds like he may be an important man. Perhaps…?”

“Yes, I did actually.” Rowland frowned. “He seems to believe the Nazis are not nearly as dangerous as either the Communists or the Oxford Debating Union.”

M
enzies brought
The Guardian
in on a silver tray and enquired if the gentlemen would be requiring tea. The manservant assiduously avoided any mention or acknowledgement of the wax head which sat conspicuously on the sideboard.

“No, thank you, Menzies.”

Rowland checked his watch as Milton took the paper. They had still an hour before they were expected in Belgravia for the meeting that had been aborted the day before.

“There is a gentleman waiting to call on you in the foyer, sir. Are you at home?”

“What gentleman?”

“The Honourable Archibald Murcott, sir. He claims to be an old friend of yours.”

Rowland's brow arched. He was sure he didn't know anyone called Murcott. “Yes, I'm at home. Have them send him up. Oh, perhaps you had better serve that tea, after all.”

“Very good, sir.”

The butler answered the door to a young man, well-dressed, and clearly well-fed. The buttons of his waistcoat stretched over the rounded expanse of his torso and his bowler sat at a jaunty angle.

“Sinclair!” he boomed by way of greeting. “How fabulous to see you again, old chap!”

Rowland stared. He knew this man but not by the name Murcott. “Lesley?”

“Not anymore, I'm afraid. Oh, I say, I can't even shake your hand.” He slapped Rowland on the back instead. “It turns out another heir emerged. Who knew the old man was such a rogue? I lost the title… so I'm simply the Honourable Archibald Murcott now!”

“I see,” Rowland said, unsure if he should be expressing condolences. He had known Murcott at Oxford in the twenties as the young Lord Lesley, an arrogant, condescending member of the entitled classes with a fondness for Regency dress and cards. The portly, congenial man before him was quite stark in contrast. Rowland introduced Clyde and Milton.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” Murcott said enthusiastically, shaking what hands he could.

He started as his eye caught the wax head on the sideboard. “By George, is that Pierrepont?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I take your hat, sir?” The butler broke the awkward silence which followed as they all simply looked at Pierrepont.

Murcott held up his forefinger. “No… no, that's perfectly all right.” He strode over to the sideboard, placed his bowler on the wax head and adjusted it until the angle pleased. “Bunky here will hold it for me. Now Sinclair, are you ever going to ask me to sit down, old boy?”

“Please.” Rowland motioned to a chair.

“I don't suppose your man can make a decent martini?”

Rowland glanced at the butler who inclined his head and said, “And the rest of you gentlemen?”

The Australians elected for tea, though Milton visibly wavered.

“Good heavens, Sinclair, what's happened to you?” Murcott demanded on learning he would be drinking alone.

“It's barely ten in the morning.”

“Letting the side down, Sinclair, letting the side down.” Murcott sighed. “I heard you were back in London and I couldn't pass up the chance to drop in and enquire after
my
car.”

“She's well. The Australian climate suits her.”

Shortly before he'd returned to Australia, Rowland had won his beloved 1927 Mercedes S-Class from the then Lord Lesley in a gruelling, twelve-hour game of poker. Though he'd known the German automobile would raise both eyebrows and ire in post-war Australia, he'd had her shipped home.

“It took me a long time to stop hating you for taking my car,” Murcott admitted.

“I believe I won her.”

“Oh yes, yes, old man. Fair and square. It was more wounded pride than anything else, to be honest… you being a Colonial and
all. Losing the title to my father's youthful indiscretion put it all into perspective.”

“It must have been a blow,” Rowland ventured.

“A frightful scandal, but you know it all turned out rather well in the end. The new Lord Lesley is actually not such a bad chap… settled on me quite generously really, and I'll no longer have to live in that draughty gothic mausoleum that came with the title!”

“So you're living in London now?”

“Not especially. I have my club here of course, but my dear sister Ivy and I have moved back to Oxford.” He pulled out a calling card and handed it to Rowland. “Purchased a quaint little place called
Bloomington Manor
. You really must come and stay… Do you gentlemen shoot?” He looked at Rowland. “I suppose we'll have to count you out, Sinclair, what with you being winged and all… but no matter, Ivy will be delighted to see you.” He leaned over to Clyde and Milton. “My sister did always consider Sinclair rather dashing—part of the reason I wanted to give him a damn good thrashing I suppose.” He laughed. “Of course, I knew my limitations—I don't expect Sinclair's told you gentlemen that he boxed at Oxford: Antipodean savagery kept in check by the Queensbury rules.” Murcott tapped his temple. “I thought I'd defeat him with my superior British intellect, but sadly you Colonials play poker rather well too.” He shook his head forlornly. “I should have challenged him to a footrace around the quadrangle instead… I was quite swift in those days.”

Rowland sat back, bemused. He had no recollection of meeting Ivy Murcott, and he hadn't realised there was anything more to the high-stakes poker game than cards.

“But that's all water under the bridge,” Murcott said, raising his martini glass. “You chaps really must visit
Bloomington
. Oxford is
so dull this time of year—I'm simply desperate for some civilised distraction.”

At this juncture, Edna walked in through the door that connected the penthouse suites. “Rowly… Oh, hello.”

The gentlemen stood, and Rowland introduced Murcott.

“I am very glad to hear Sinclair introduce you as Miss Higgins, dear lady. If he had introduced you as
Mrs. Sinclair
, I'm afraid I would have been forced to hate him again.”

Edna laughed. She had always enjoyed meeting Rowland's university chums. For men so privileged and educated they were invariably idiots. Thoroughly pleasant, but idiots.

“If you and your charming friends don't come to
Bloomington
, Sinclair, you may consider our families at war!” Murcott declared. “I may no longer be a lord, but I could raise an army of sorts… I'm sure Mummy would fight if I asked her…”

Rowland laughed now. Losing the peerage suited Murcott. He was a great deal more agreeable than he had ever been as Lord Lesley.

Murcott stood. “I should go… it would be frightfully rude to stay longer since I have come unannounced, and I do have an appointment for billiards at my club. Perhaps we could chalk a cue at
Bloomington
, Sinclair? We might even wager a little something on the outcome to make it interesting.”

Murcott shook Milton and Clyde's hands and kissed Edna's. “I know, my dear,” he said as he did so. “A dreadful French affectation but you must forgive me for I am but a man enslaved.”

Once again, Edna laughed at him.

“Remember, Sinclair,” Murcott warned as he retrieved his hat from the wax head and stepped towards the door. “Visit or it will be war!”
“Good Lord!” Clyde groaned as Menzies closed the door behind Murcott.

Edna smiled. “I quite liked him. Were you good friends, Rowly?”

“Not at all. He was insufferable, but he does seem to have mellowed somewhat. If he'd been like this back then I wouldn't have taken his car.”

“Perhaps he's hoping you'll give it back,” Milton suggested.

“Not a chance of that,” Rowland said firmly, vaguely glad his Mercedes was safely garaged at
Woodlands House
.

“Shall we accept his invitation?” Edna uncurled her legs and sat up.

“To
Bloomington
?” Rowland looked a little alarmed. “You're bound to find Oxford rather dull after London.”

Clyde snorted. “That's not what I've heard, mate. Your time there seems to have prepared you for every bizarre perversion under the British sun!” He nodded towards the head on the sideboard.

“A change of scenery might be just what the doctor ordered,” Edna said as she noted the weariness around Rowland's eyes.

“No… I'm sure he said I should drink Horlicks and smoke.”

Edna continued undeterred. “I think Mr. Murcott is rather fun and it's quite obvious that Wilfred doesn't want you anywhere near his conference.”

The last was certainly true. While Rowland Sinclair had not been arrested for the incident with Mosley's Blackshirts, it had been made amply clear that he was no longer welcome at the Geological Museum. Wilfred had renewed his demands that his brother return to Sydney.

Milton glanced up from his paper. “You haven't any indiscretions buried at Oxford that you don't want us to discover, do you, Rowly?”

Rowland laughed. “I don't remember burying any of them.”

“We could return Lord Pierrepont to Lady Pierrepont on the way… or the way back,” Edna added, looking over to the head. “Though I have become rather attached to him to be honest. It really is a friendly face once you become used to it.”

“I'm not sure that Bletchley is on the way to Oxford,” Rowland objected.

“This is England,” Milton replied. “The place is so flaming small, everything's on the way.”