Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (23 page)

They sat wordlessly in the car for a few minutes.

Then Clyde asked, “What in God's name was that?”

“Hundreds of years of selective breeding,” Milton replied, engaging the Vauxhall's start button.

Rowland shook his head. “Do you suppose that was grief?”

“No.”

“Didn't Mrs. Bruce say that Euphemia was odd? Perhaps this is what she meant,” Edna ventured. She patted the hatbox, comforting the wax head within after its ordeal at the hands of Lady Pierrepont.

“What was it she said about bats?” Clyde asked.

“Do you suppose she's mad enough to have killed Pierrepont?” Milton said as he swung the car out of the drive.

“Possibly,” Rowland replied, “but I don't see her walking quietly out of the club afterwards.”

“Unless the dread of something after death—the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns—is what pushed her over the edge…”

“What do you mean by that?” Clyde demanded of the poet.

“Shakespeare meant guilt, I believe,” Rowland murmured. “God only knows what Milt meant.”

“What if it's an act?” Edna said, leaning her head against Rowland's shoulder in the back seat, and closing her eyes. “Surely, Lady Leon would not have allowed Euphemia to receive guests if she's like that all the time.”

“Ed's got a point,” Clyde said after a moment. “Lady Leon seemed reasonably sensible… and formidable, to be honest. Why would she allow Euphemia to talk to anyone if she thought she was insane?” He turned back to look at Rowland. “Don't your lot refer to that as ‘indisposed'?”

Rowland flinched almost imperceptibly. His own mother had often been “indisposed”. “Yes,” he said glancing down at Edna. The sculptress seemed to have fallen asleep.

“What now?” Milton asked.

“I'm famished,” Edna said, without opening her eyes.

The Crown Inn in the hamlet of Shenley Brook End, a couple of miles from Bletchley, was as typical as its name. The Edwardian simplicity of its brick and tile construction was something of a visual relief after Bletchley Park. As the day was warm and clear, they sat outside to enjoy a hearty ploughman's luncheon.

“This is the most scrumptious relish,” Edna said, piling piccalilli onto her smoked ham. “We don't have it at home.”

Rowland smiled, making a mental note to have a crate of piccalilli shipped back to the larder of
Woodlands House
. He loved the sculptress' ability to take such delight in the smallest of things.

“So what do we do with Pierrepont?” Clyde said, glancing back at the Vauxhall where they had left the wax head.

Rowland shrugged. “We return it to Pocock, I suppose.”

“The murder weapon—the sword that killed our mate Pierrepont,” Milton waved his fork as a thought occurred. “Did you get a good look at it, Rowly?”

“Not really, to be honest. Why?”

“Well, it seems to me that either the killer brought the sword with him—a difficult item to carry down the street unnoticed—or it was already in Pierrepont's suite… in which case the mortal act may have been impulsive: a crime of passion. Two different types of murder altogether.”

Rowland nodded. Milton's logic was inescapable. He groaned. Why hadn't he taken a closer look at the sword? “Surely, if it was emblazoned with a coat of arms, or some such feature, they would have arrested someone by now?”

Milton nodded. “That makes sense… but we should check anyway. Presumably the police will still have the sword, it being the murder weapon.”

“Yes, but they're hardly going to hand it over to us!” Clyde spread a thick slab of bread with freshly churned butter.

“Perhaps Wil will remember more about it,” Rowland suggested. “He spoke at length to the detectives… I was mostly trying to keep Allie calm.”

“Did you notice anything else in the room, Rowly?” Milton prodded.

Clyde rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me… you've been reading Agatha Christie again.” Detective fiction was, in his opinion, a bad idea where the poet was concerned.

Milton ignored him. “Anything at all, Rowly.”

Rowland closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to recall. “One dirty drink glass on the armchair… the secretaire was open… dead man in the bed… that's about it.”

“Did you inspect the empty glass? Could his drink have been drugged?”

Rowland nearly laughed. “How would I know, Milt? Even if I'd thought to check the dregs in the glass? I couldn't possibly know if it had been poisoned unless I drank it myself!”

Milton sighed, clearly exasperated with Rowland's lack of commitment.

“I have the card of that chap, Entwhistle, who's leading the investigation,” Rowland offered. “We'll go see him when we get back to London. He may have some light to shed. Perhaps he tasted the drink.”

They headed back to
Bloomington Manor
soon after lunch as Murcott was expecting them for supper. The dining room was being prepared in the most lofty style when they arrived back in the late afternoon. Clearly they would be dressing for dinner.

“So, who are you expecting this evening?” Rowland asked as Murcott made martinis to see them through the afternoon.

“I'm not at liberty to say. It's a surprise,” Murcott said, beaming. “It was Ivy's idea… and rather brilliant, I can tell you.”

Reclined on the chaise lounge, Ivy sipped her martini serenely. Apparently brother and sister had mended their earlier spat.

Murcott patted the wax head which had found its way back to the sideboard. “I say, weren't you going to leave this with Euphemia?”

“Unfortunately, Lady Leon would not allow it,” Rowland replied. He recounted what had transpired.

“Oh, my gosh, that's too bad!”

“Was Lady Pierrepont always so… unorthodox?” Edna asked.

“Euphemia was born eccentric,” Ivy replied. “But no more so than many people.”

“A great deal more so, my dear,” Murcott corrected. “I'm quite fond of Euphemia, but she is undeniably odd! Why last time we saw her she wanted to leave the ball to wander about looking for bats! She was most unreasonable about it.”

“Euphemia is very interested in the biological sciences,” Ivy explained, regarding her brother reproachfully. “Bats are her particular passion. She's very clever really—might have gone to Oxford if her family had allowed it… but they're tiresomely old-fashioned. I presume that's why she's staying at Bletchley Park.”

“I've not seen poor Euphemia in nearly two years,” Murcott said, now repentant. “We really should visit. Perhaps Lady Leon will be less strict if Ivy and I accompany you.”

“I'm afraid we won't have time to call on Lady Pierrepont again—we're returning to London in the morning.” Rowland broke the news that he and his companions had agreed upon on the journey back from Bletchley.

Murcott seemed genuinely dismayed. “But you only just got here!”

“Regrettably we're in the middle of something in London,” Rowland apologised. “We had only intended a short visit, and we really must get back.”

“Yes… you did say, but I had hoped to persuade you all to stay a while longer. If Evelyn hears that we don't have anyone staying with us, he'll move in!” Murcott groaned.

“Archie, how could you?” Ivy demanded. “You've spoiled the surprise!”

“Evelyn…” Rowland frowned. “Do you mean Waugh?”

“The same.”

“But I thought you and Waugh were chums. Weren't you a Hypocrite?”

“Rowly!” Edna said shocked that he would be so rude.

“It's a drinking club, Ed.”

“I say, that's a bit unfair, old boy. The Hypocrites were much more than a drinking club.”

“I beg your pardon,” Milton interrupted. “Do you mean
the
Evelyn Waugh, the writer?”

“Yes, he put out quite a successful novel a couple of years back.”

“
Vile Bodies
?”

“That's it. One of those dreadful murder mysteries, I suppose.”

Milton stared at Murcott for a moment. “Am I to gather by the fact that your sister looks ready to cut your throat that Mr. Waugh is your surprise guest this evening?”

“Oh dear… the cat really is out of the bag, isn't it?” Murcott grimaced at his sister. “Ivy ran into him in the village. Evelyn was very intrigued that we had Australians visiting. He has a dear friend there and was wondering if you might have run into the gentleman—And so Ivy invited him to dinner.” He beamed at Rowland now. “I thought you might find it fun to see Evelyn again.”

Rowland smiled politely.

“So, why will he move into
Bloomington Manor
if we aren't here?” Milton asked, doggedly trying to follow the random tangents of the conversation.

“Well, you see, Evelyn has no fixed abode presently. He's become something of a serial house guest.”

“And you wouldn't welcome that?”

“Lord, no! Evelyn's amusing enough, but one dinner will suffice!”

“Well, what say we don't mention that we're going tomorrow,” Edna suggested.

“I couldn't possibly ask you to lie but if you were to do so of your own accord I'd consider it a very great kindness, dear lady.”

“C
ome in,” Rowland called as he rummaged for cufflinks in his travelling case.

Edna stepped into the bedroom resplendent in the elegant black velvet gown she'd purchased at a boutique in Mayfair, not long after they'd arrived in London. The neckline was beaded on the fitted bodice and the skirt tailored to the subtle rise and fall of her hips. “I thought you might need help with your tie,” she said, smiling.

Rowland said nothing, admiring the manner in which the darkness of the gown highlighted the cream of the sculptress' skin. Ink, he thought, to capture the dramatic nature of the contrast and the exquisite movement in the smooth curving lines of her body.

She smiled knowingly. “It's nice to have you paint me again, Rowly, if only in your head.” She twirled so he could see the dress complete. “This is the most divine fabric,” she said, stroking the velvet. “It's almost furry. I feel rather like a cat!”

Rowland laughed. “Well, you look beautiful,” he said quietly. He handed her the tie and waited as she knotted it into the perfect bow.