Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (26 page)

Rowland winced as his godson bounced against his chest and babbled an incomprehensible response.

“I'm sure he doesn't.”

Ernest whispered now, his dark blue eyes wide. “Rupert McIntyre says the masters all have canes and so do the bigger boys and everybody hits you for everything and if you're really naughty you get called into the headmaster's office and you never ever come out!”

Rowland's brow rose. Rupert McIntyre wasn't completely off the mark. “I was called to the headmaster's office a few times, Ernie, and I came out.” He pulled Ernest onto his lap beside Ewan. It
occurred to him that his young nephew would get a bit of a shock when he started at Tudor House where all the Sinclair boys had been pupils. Wilfred adored his sons and was an unexpectedly gentle father. Ernest—unlike his uncle—would be quite unprepared for the various brutalities of boarding school… aside from the advice of Rupert McIntyre, of course. Still,
Tom Brown's Schooldays
was going a bit far.

“Were you in trouble a lot, Uncle Rowly?”

Rowland smiled. “School isn't so bad, Ernie. Nobody much likes it at first, but you'll make friends and the term will go quickly.”

“Rupert says I'll have to learn to fight.”

“I suppose we all have to learn to fight sometime,” Rowland said more to himself than his nephew.

“Oh.” Ernest looked terrified and Rowland regretted his words.

“When I get this cast off, I could show you how to box a bit if you like.”

Ernest nodded vigorously.

“It's a promise then. You haven't a Tom Swift book on that shelf have you? I always liked Tom Swift.”

As it turned out
Tom Swift and his Photo Telephone
was indeed among the books the Bruces had acquired for their young guests. Rowland spent the next hour reading aloud the adventures of the fictional inventor's preposterous process for sending photographs by telephone.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair and the Bruces were quite late. Rowland might have given up and left if he hadn't fallen asleep in the chair, with his nephews both sprawled on top of him.

And so, Wilfred and Kate returned to find the young nanny in a nervous quandary as to whether she should wake Rowland Sinclair and insist her young charges were put in bed, as they should
have been hours ago. Wilfred rolled his eyes. He had no time for inexperienced staff. Kate had employed the girl when the children's usual nanny had been unable to travel with them. Miss Gray was simply too young and too timid to deal with two high-spirited boys, let alone Rowland.

“Thank you Nanny Gray, I'll see to the children. But in future they are to go to bed regardless of what my brother has in mind.”

Rowland woke up as Kate took Ewan off his chest. She put a gloved finger to her lips as her youngest son snuggled into the fur of her stole. She kissed Ewan's head softly and put him in his cot. Wilfred had already taken Ernest to bed. Quietly, Rowland retrieved
Tom Swift and his Photo Telephone
from the floor and, returning it to the bookcase, followed Wilfred out of the nursery.

“Rowly, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry,” Rowland tried to rub the crick out of his neck. “I was waiting for you… must have dozed off.”

“That I can see.” Wilfred sighed. “You'd better come down and tell me what's on your mind.”

Wilfred had intended to take Rowland directly and discreetly to the sanctuary of Stanley Bruce's library. They were, however, intercepted by Ethel Bruce who pounced at the foot of the stairs.

“Mr. Sinclair!” she said linking her arm through his. “You must come and sit down…”

“Rowly just needs to have a word—” Wilfred began.

“Yes, but the poor man's been entertaining the children all this time… he must be parched!”

“I'm sure he must,” Stanley Bruce said as he walked out of the drawing room. “We'll all join you ladies for a nightcap shortly. You might also ask Cook to prepare some refreshments, my dear… I'm famished.” He gazed sternly at his wife. “Unhand the boy, Ethel.”

Sheepishly, Ethel Bruce released Rowland's arm and stood by, frustrated and clearly vexed, as her husband ushered Rowland towards the library.

“You're here about Miss Dawe, no doubt,” Bruce said as he closed the door.

“You're aware she's been arrested?”

“Yes, I was informed.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Miss Dawe, as you are well aware, is not an Australian, Rowland,” Bruce replied. “Her predicament is not a matter in which I can become involved.”

Rowland turned to Wilfred. “She didn't kill anybody—Wil, you were there.”

Wilfred frowned. “I would have thought it unlikely, Rowly, but her hands were covered in blood, not to mention the fact that she tried to keep us out of the room initially.”

“Why would she want to kill Pierrepont?” Rowland demanded.

“Apparently he was in the process of amending his last will and testament. I am advised the new deed would have disinherited Miss Dawe and her mother.”

“And Allie knew this?”

“That is the allegation, I believe.”

“This is ludicrous—where would she have got a sword?”

“It seems,” Bruce said, “the sword in question was normally displayed in the billiards room of the Watts Gentlemen's Club.”

“Wil…”

“For pity's sake, Rowly, you've already retained George Allen on her behalf. What more can we do?”

“Could you arrange an appointment with this chap Entwhistle… the detective? Perhaps if I talk to him.”

Wilfred glanced at Bruce.

The minister exhaled. “I'll see what I can arrange, provided you continue to maintain your discretion on the more sordid details of Lord Pierrepont's passing.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

When the gentlemen joined them, Kate Sinclair and Ethel Bruce were discussing the production of
Richard of Bordeaux
which they had just seen at the New Theatre in London. Mrs. Bruce had particularly admired the performance of a young actor by the name of Gielgud who had played the king, and said so in a manner that left Kate blushing.

Bruce snorted, muttering that the fruit bowl featured in the set was woefully anachronistic. “Who ever heard of pineapples before Queen Anne!”

Rowland told them about Oxford, Bletchley Park and—with certain delicate details omitted—Lady Pierrepont.

Wilfred was less than pleased that his brother had felt he needed to deliver a wax head for some “corrupt circus sculptor”.

“My hat!” Ethel Bruce exclaimed. “Does Euphemia have any thoughts on who killed her husband?”

“Speaking of your hat, Ethel dear,” Stanley Bruce interrupted, “you might think about purchasing a new one for the theatre. The gentleman seated behind you seemed a little put out.”

“Oh Stanley, he was a very short man. I would need to be headless for that poor little fellow to see!”

“I should be going,” Rowland said, standing. He gathered Ethel Bruce wanted to speak to him, but he couldn't see that they'd have
the opportunity to do so alone. “I am sorry I interrupted your evening.”

“At least you got some sleep,” Wilfred said, handing Rowland his hat. He considered his brother critically. “You're looking well, Rowly… rested.”

“Just a moment, Mr. Sinclair,” Ethel said, rushing to the small writing desk in the corner of the drawing room. “I must send a note to Miss Higgins. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to take it for me.”

“Of course.” Rowland waited as she opened the desk and scribbled onto a sheet of crested stationery. She slipped the leaf into an envelope and handed it to him as he took his leave.

Although Rowland suspected the note was for him, he waited, returning to Claridge's with it unopened. The sculptress was still up playing cards with Clyde, and Milton was reading the paper.

“Looks like things are going awry at Wilfred's conference,” Milton said, showing him the article. “It seems Roosevelt has rejected the plan for stabilisation.”

“The what?”

“It's what the conference has been about… Bruce explained it in lurid and exacting detail if you remember.”

“My mind might have been elsewhere.”

“I wish all of me had been elsewhere.”

Rowland smiled. “So, what does it mean? Is the conference over?”

“As far as I can gather everybody's pretty cross at the Americans. This chap Cordell Hull looks like a bit of a fool but they're all going to press on and hope the Americans come around. Didn't Wilfred mention it?”

“He didn't have much of an opportunity, and it's not really the kind of thing he'd discuss with me.”

“Did you talk to him about Allie?” Edna enquired anxiously.

Rowland nodded. “Bruce has agreed to arrange an audience with Entwhistle as soon as possible. In the meantime we'll try to glean as much as we can about who else may have had reason to kill Pierrepont.”

“And we'll go see Allie tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Rowland extracted the envelope from his breast pocket and passed it to Edna. “From Mrs. Bruce.”

Edna was clearly surprised. She extracted the deckled stationery, reading it quickly.

“What does it say?”

“It's about the American,” Edna replied, her eyes still on the page.

“What American?”

“The woman Lord Pierrepont was seeing—apparently her name is Mrs. Ernest Simpson.”

H
is Majesty's Prison Holloway was a foreboding structure; its grand turreted gateway, a gothic fortress built, not to keep the enemy out, but securely within. It had been constructed midway through the previous century, designed with all the menace that Victorian architecture could conjure. The prison's gallows were housed in a separate hanging shed while a new condemned suite was being built. It was in this place that Allie Dawe was being held.

George Allen accompanied them into the facility and demanded “habeas corpus”. They were duly processed and searched and then taken to a reception cell. Rowland noticed a look pass between one of the wardens and the solicitor. He assumed that rules were being bent to allow them all in to see Allie. Whether it was by virtue of Allen's reputation or some direct compensation, Rowland didn't know, or much care.

The women's prison was, to say the least, grim. It had been built at a time when punishment and deterrence were held above all things and now age and wear added to the misery which rose with the damp in its walls. It smelled of decay, inadequate plumbing and despair.

At first it seemed Allie would do nothing but cry. The prison uniform made her seem smaller and younger than ever. Rowland moved to comfort her but the guard reminded him that there was to be no physical contact with the prisoner, so they were forced to sit across the table and watch. After a time, when he could stand it no longer, Rowland reached across and grabbed her hand.