Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (28 page)

E
dna and Clyde had not yet returned to Claridge's. Rowland and Milton greeted the wax head of Pierrepont in what had become their custom and, bringing him in to the dining room to watch, they spread the torn pages of the visitor's book across the polished table. The record revealed that Watts was an interesting hub of social connexions.

“Lord Harcourt,” Milton said putting his finger on the name. “Wasn't Lady Pierrepont a Harcourt or something of the sort?”

“Ethel Bruce mentioned that the Thistlewaites were the Lords of Harcourt, I believe.”

“So, the father of Euphemia Pierrepont, nee Thistlewaite, is a member?”

“Unless he's passed away. In which case the current Lord Harcourt would be one of her brothers, I suppose.”

“And the other brother would be a Thistlewaite?” Milton was weary of the strange naming and titling conventions of the English.

Rowland shrugged. “Possibly. People here always seem to have a few names from which to choose.”

“Rowly—look at this.”

Rowland glanced at the name which had caught Milton's eye: the Honourable Archibald Murcott.

“Seems strange he didn't mention that he was a member,” Milton said quietly.

Rowland frowned. “We didn't talk of Watts…”

“But he knew we were wandering about with Pierrepont's head in a hatbox. Surely he would have mentioned that they shared a gentlemen's club, especially given that Pierrepont died in that very club?”

Rowland nodded. “You would think so.”

There were other names too. Rowland expected the name of Josslyn Hay, the Earl of Erroll, but not that of Cecil Buchan, their flamboyant protector from the gentlemen's ball at which Allie had sung, and who was apparently the Earl of Bishopthorpe.

“That explains how Buchan came to know Erroll,” Rowland said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps the venerable members of Watts were keeping an eye on Allie. They might be able to help her now.”

Rowland shook his head. “Hay, at least, seems to have concluded she's guilty.” He told Milton of what Hay had said of the girl's parentage. “You know,” he added “we should call on Mrs. Dawe. She must be beside herself about Allie, and we have yet to establish why Pierrepont was wearing her nightie.”

The butler, Menzies, interrupted them to inform Rowland that he was wanted on the telephone.

Wilfred Sinclair was calling between meetings at the economic conference, and so he was particularly rushed and familiarly brusque. “Entwhistle has agreed to speak with you, Rowly. Three o'clock at
New Scotland Yard. Don't be late, do
not
take your friends.” The phone clicked in Rowland's ear before he could say a word.

It was already half past two and so Rowland grabbed his hat and stuck his head into the dining room to tell Milton where he was going.

New Scotland Yard, located on what was known as the Thames Embankment, was the headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police. The building was another impressive, gothic structure, its upper storeys banded with red brick and white Portland stone and its base granite. Rowland walked through the iron gates to the reception. A solemn young constable took him up to Detective Inspector Entwhistle.

The office was cluttered. Paperwork was stacked in disordered piles on the desk… at least Rowland assumed it was a desk as no part of it was actually visible beneath the layers of documents. A black Bakelite ashtray sat precariously on the top of one pile of reports and a half-eaten apple on another.

Initially, Entwhistle was friendly enough. He poured two glasses of Scotch and offered Rowland a drink. When Rowland declined, he poured the second glass into the first and drank it himself.

“Detective Inspector Entwhistle,” Rowland began, “I'm here about the arrest of a Miss Allie Dawe.”

“Yes, the Pierrepont murder. I must thank you for your help that day. You rendered an invaluable service by removing the perpetrator so that we could examine the crime scene in her absence.”

“No thanks necessary, Detective Inspector,” Rowland said. “For one thing, I didn't remove the perpetrator at all—just the poor girl who found the body.”

“Ahh yes.” Entwhistle tipped back in his chair, rocking gently to and fro. “I gather you believe we have arrested the wrong culprit.”

“I'm not sure I understand how you can possibly be convinced of Miss Dawe's guilt.”

Entwhistle laughed. “Because, Mr. Sinclair, it takes more than a come hither glance to make me dismiss the obvious. My mother raised me to look past a pretty face and shapely legs.” The inspector counted off the facts on his stubby fingers. “Miss Dawe, the accused, was found with the body, her hands bore injuries from the same blade that killed the victim, she had access to that blade and the victim, and she had motive.”

Determined to present as objective and reasonable, Rowland ignored the detective's condescension. “Miss Dawe injured her hands trying to remove the blade—the natural act of a niece who cares for her uncle. Surely if she had used the sword to kill him she would have held it by the hilt and not the blade?”

“People behave strangely under pressure, Mr. Sinclair. My old mum always said, ‘Rotten bridges crumble under weight'—and, as is often the case, she's correct. Villains make mistakes. It's what allows us to catch them and bring them to justice.”

“I've seen where that sword was kept, Detective Inspector. Miss Dawe could not possibly have reached it without the aid of a ladder or a chair.”

Entwhistle shrugged. “So, she used a chair.”

“The room is used exclusively for billiards. There are no chairs in it. With due respect, Inspector, you cannot suppose that she dragged a chair from another room to take down the sword in a gentlemen's club which did not allow women beyond its threshold.”

“It was midday, Mr. Sinclair. The gentlemen of Watts were dining. The billiards room was empty. Miss Dawe, knowing the
layout of the club, had ample opportunity to procure the sword—with or without a chair.”

“She knew the trade entrance to the accommodation. She'd never been in the club proper.”

“Now, how would you know that, Mr. Sinclair? Who knows what services she may have been providing to the gentlemen of Watts aside from her uncle.”

Rowland's eyes darkened but he kept his voice calm, affable. “I suppose, Detective Inspector, you have already discovered that Lord Pierrepont was recently married.”

“Indeed, Lady Pierrepont claimed the body this morning.”

“The rumour is that Lord Pierrepont was also conducting an extramarital affair.”

Entwhistle rolled his eyes. “For pity's sake, Mr. Sinclair, Pierrepont was a peer. I'd be bloody surprised if he was conducting only one extramarital affair!”

“But doesn't it indicate, sir, that there were others with motive to kill Lord Pierrepont?”

“Perhaps… but Miss Dawe had motive and opportunity. She is not the sweet little miss she seems, Sinclair. She's been arrested before, while she was using the rather ludicrous alias of Sarah Dabinett, no less. As my mother would tell you, innocent people do not have the need for aliases.”

Rowland was beginning to wonder if Entwhistle's mother also worked for the Yard. “Sarah Dabinett is her stage name—the poor girl fancies herself a songstress!”

“Mr. Sinclair, do you have any actual evidence, aside from your faith in Miss Dawe and gossip?”

“You are looking into Lord Pierrepont's financial and political affairs?”

“My dear sir, this is Scotland Yard. Of course we're looking into his affairs, but I doubt anything we find there is going to lessen the case against your Miss Dawe.”

Rowland took a deep breath. “I am concerned, Inspector Entwhistle, that the pressure to keep this murder out of the papers is superseding the vigorous pursuit of all potential suspects, to the very serious detriment of Miss Dawe. For God's sake man, we are talking about a young woman's life!”

To Rowland's surprise, Entwhistle did not explode at the criticism. He sat back tapping his fingertips together thoughtfully. “You're not a solicitor are you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Not at all.”

“Pity… you can argue a good case, even with no case to argue. My old mum, bless her, would probably find your loyalty quite romantic. Tell you what, if you come across anything that you think might change my mind—and you haven't yet—I'll listen. I can't say fairer than that.”

The butler informed Rowland that a Mrs. Stanley Bruce was in the foyer. “Are you home to visitors, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Rowland gathered up the stolen pages of Watts' visitors' book. They had been going over the names again with the fresh eyes of a new day.

Milton went down to escort Ethel Bruce up himself.

Rowland straightened his tie and asked the butler to make tea.

Ethel Bruce arrived on Milton's arm, quite plainly excited. Her face was flushed pink and she beamed broadly. Apart from a little strangled scream when she first saw Pierrepont's head
gazing out from the sideboard, she barely waited to sit before she blurted out her news. “I've done it,” she crowed. “By George, I've done it!”

“Have you discovered something, Ethel?” Edna asked, curling up on the settee beside her.

“Better, my dear, better!” She preened. “You and Mr. Sinclair are going to a party.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ethel Bruce looked Rowland up and down. “Do you have a tailcoat with you, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland nodded. “Yes.” Beresford, the first valet, had very nearly insisted upon it.

“Splendid, there's no problem then.”

“I'm not sure I understand you, Mrs. Bruce.”

“I had tea today with Lady Vera Winslow-Scott, who is hosting a party this evening for her dear friends Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Simpson.” She sat back triumphantly. “It turns out the Simpsons are about to take a tour of Germany and Norway.”

“And Mrs. Simpson is the woman you believe Lord Pierrepont was seeing.”

“Yes, yes. Now at first I thought to simply ask Vera about Mrs. Simpson's disposition, because one would expect that if there was any truth to the rumour about her and Lord Pierrepont, his passing would not have gone unmourned… but then I thought, wouldn't it be better to judge such things for ourselves?”

“Indeed,” Rowland said cautiously.

“Lady Winslow-Scott is a perfectly pleasant woman but she does like to see herself as a bastion of modern taste—always talking about this play, or that poet, or this artist; intellectual this, symbolic that—all complete nonsense of course!”

Ethel paused to take a breath.

“So… when I told Vera that I had met the most exciting young artist she was mad with envy.” Ethel smiled here at Rowland. “She asked where you'd hung and I told her all over Europe—I may have exaggerated a little but it was with a purpose. Vera was intrigued, as I knew she would be. Then I told her that an entire wing of the Australian National Gallery was dedicated to your work and that you'd recently returned from a very successful tour of Germany where you were lauded as the new Picasso.”

“The current Picasso might be a little alarmed,” Clyde murmured.

“Now, it must be said of Vera—even by her friends, of which I consider myself one—that she is an ardent admirer of scandal. Too dull to be part of one herself, mind you, but she does cherish the talent in others! Less understanding people might call her a gossip.” Ethel looked a little nervous now. Her words took the tone of confession, hurried and apologetic. “I'm afraid I might have become a little carried away with my part in this investigation. You see the art itself wasn't enough. I was compelled to reveal that Rowland Sinclair was forced to flee to London after taking another man's wife as—and I hope you'll forgive me for this, dear—his
lover
. You see Vera considers lovers very European and sophisticated. Stanley is convinced her parties are just gatherings of cads and fallen women! He has a point, but one must be courageous in one's pursuit of justice… wouldn't you agree, Mr. Isaacs?”