Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (31 page)

And so Rowland and Edna relayed the events of that evening.

Milton hooted as Edna described the incident with Prince George. “You molested poor Rowly right in front of royalty! Good Lord, Ed! Couldn't you have just told the poor bloke to sod off? God knows you've sent men packing before.”

“He was jolly persistent,” Rowland said in Edna's defence. “In fact, he might have been a tolerable chap if he hadn't thought himself entitled to any woman in the flaming realm.”

Edna looked at Rowland, surprised. “Oh, he wasn't trying to seduce me.”

“What in heaven's name do you mean? Of course he was!”
Rowland objected. “If he'd flirted any more intensely, he might well have hurt himself.”

Edna's eyes glinted and she tried not to smile. “Darling, those invitations were intended for you. That's why
I
had to claim you with that kiss. You were being so polite that he—” She giggled. “Oh dear… and you thought he was making advances towards me.” Unable to suppress it any longer, Edna collapsed into laughter.

Rowland stared at her in stupefied horror. “Nonsense,” he decided. “You're being ridiculous.”

But now both Milton and Clyde joined the sculptress, clearly preferring her version of events.

“You know, Rowly,” Clyde said wiping a tear from his eye, “I'm starting to wonder why the English haven't died out as a race.”

Rowland pulled his bow tie undone, and ignored them. Perhaps it was the shock of Von Kirsch's recognition. Edna had obviously lost her mind.

When they'd had enough of laughing at him, Rowland told Milton and Clyde about the revelations of Thelma, Viscountess Furness.

“So, she confirmed that this Mrs. Simpson was having an affair?” Milton asked.

“She certainly seems to believe it to be the case, and also that the affair ended recently at which point Mrs. Simpson started becoming unwell—”

“To hide her grief,” Milton finished triumphantly. “Or her guilt! She's got to be Pierrepont's mistress!”

“So, what do we do now?” Clyde asked.

Rowland groaned. “I suppose we try and find out where Mrs. Simpson was when Pierrepont was murdered.”

“What about Mr. Simpson?” Edna said, removing the pins that held her hair in place and shaking her copper tresses loose.

For a moment Rowland could contemplate nothing but what it had been like to kiss her.

“Lady Winslow-Scott said he was devoted to his wife. Perhaps he found out,” the sculptress prompted when he didn't respond.

“Yes… yes, you're quite right.” Rowland forced his mind back to the matter at hand.

“I don't suppose he was a member at Watts?” Milton asked, going to the sideboard drawer where they had stowed the stolen pages of the visitors' book.

“I doubt that somehow,” Rowland said. “Watts is particularly exclusive. Simpson doesn't seem to have a title of any sort.”

“Common as muck, really,” Milton added, rolling his eyes.

The expression reminded Rowland of something Josslyn Hay had told him. “We should speak with Allie's mother. Pierrepont died in her nightie. She too might have had reason to kill him.”

“But she was at the residence in Belgravia when he died,” Clyde protested. “You saw her.”

“I saw her when I escorted Allie home, hours afterwards.”

“We'd better call on Ethel, too,” Edna mused. “She'll want to know what happened, and if Herr Von Kirsch spoke to the Winslow-Scotts, we'll need to warn her that they might never speak to her again.”

Rowland yawned. “I don't think that will be a problem, Ed. I suspect Lady Winslow-Scott might find it very modern to have had a suspected murderer at one of her soirées.”

When Rowland stepped out of his bedroom the next morning he found Clyde already up, working on his correspondence.

“Do give the lovely Miss Martinelli my regards,” he said as he collected the post from a silver tray on the sideboard. Another vitriolic letter from the Fascist acolytes of William Joyce. He tossed it back on the tray.

“I'm afraid Rosie is quite irrational where you're concerned, mate.” Clyde sighed. “So, I might have to give your regards a miss, if you don't mind.”

“Really?” Rowland chose not to mention that he thought Rosalina Martinelli was irrational about more than just him. “What have I done?”

“You saw her naked.”

“She was my life model!”

“I know, Rowly. But she's decided.”

Rowland left it. It wasn't necessary that Rosalina like him. It was enough that she loved Clyde, who obviously hadn't seen her naked. He helped himself to the coffee on the sideboard, moving the hot silver pot away from Pierrepont's head in case it melted him.

“Are you certain you don't want to go home straight away, Clyde? I feel miserable about keeping you and Miss Martinelli apart.”

“Look, Rowly.” Clyde put down his pen and rubbed his face. “It's probably best I stay away for the moment.”

“Why?”

“Rosie wants me to marry her. As soon as I get back she's going to expect…” Clyde shrugged despondently.

Rowland placed his coffee cup on its saucer. “Good Lord!” Clyde had been courting Rosie for barely a month before they'd left Sydney. He contained his astonishment and asked, “Don't you want to?”

“It's not a matter of if I want to, Rowly. We all know I'm batting well above my average with Rosie. I just don't see how
we can. I don't have work. If it wasn't for you I'd still be on the wallaby scraping hardly enough to feed myself. Even if I could get work it would mean I'd have to give up painting and that may just kill me.”

Rowland said nothing. He could help—and he dearly wanted to—but he knew Clyde too well to even suggest it. The Sinclair fortune was vast enough to keep them all, and generally it did. But there were limits… imposed not by Rowland but by the dignity of the friends who enjoyed his patronage.

Clyde sighed. “I'm hoping that by the time we get back to Sydney, Rosie may have given up this marriage notion—for the time being at least. One day I'm going to have to return to the real world, but God forgive me, I'm not ready yet.” He looked Rowland in the eye. “So what I'm saying, mate, is don't feel bad about Rosie and me. I'm quite happy to write letters for a while.”

Rowland sat back. “Fair enough. Just tell me when that changes.” He pushed his hair back from his face, wondering what he was going to do when his friends returned to their real world. He checked his watch. “Are Milt and Ed—”

“Still asleep I think.” Clyde noted the tie which protruded from Rowland's pocket. “Shall I give them a hoy?”

Rowland shook his head. “Let them be. It's early.”

“Are you all right, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

“Yes, why wouldn't I be?”

“I dunno… Ed?”

Rowland smiled wryly. “I wasn't fool enough to imagine… well not for long.”

Clyde winced. “If Ed knew what she was doing to you—”

“She'd leave, mate,” Rowland's voice was quiet but he was resolved. “This I can live with, that I could not.”

Clyde exhaled. There was no point telling Rowland not to love Edna.

Rowland changed the subject. “How do you suppose we prove Mrs. Simpson was having an affair with Pierrepont?”

Clyde glanced down at what he was writing. “Letters,” he said. “Women hold onto them I'm told.”

“I don't like our chances of ever seeing what Mrs. Simpson's kept, but what about Pierrepont?” Rowland gazed thoughtfully at the wax head. “I don't suppose you were sentimental were you, old boy?”

“You said the secretaire was ajar, perhaps he was sitting in his nightie composing a love letter when the killer arrived.”

Rowland blanched as the image came too easily to mind. “I wonder what happened to the papers that were stowed in the secretaire?”

“Wouldn't the police have taken them?”

Rowland stood. “I'll place a call through to Allen. He might be able to find out.”

“Can you understand a word that pompous old codger says?” Clyde asked shaking his head. “Sounds very clever and legal but it's bloody Greek to me!”

Rowland smiled. “Latin actually. I remember enough to make an educated guess most of the time.”

The solicitor came to the telephone immediately and, though he had no information about the documents in the secretaire, he agreed to look into the matter.

“I was just about to 'phone you myself, Mr. Sinclair,” he added.

“Indeed. Has there been some development, Mr. Allen?”

“Not as such. My information is
non constat
and would therefore be nullified in a court of law. I was enjoying a social drink last evening with a chap from Barlowe, Ferguson and Associates—a reasonably respectable firm who were the late Lord Pierrepont's solicitors.
Naturally, I tactfully enquired about the alleged amendments to Pierrepont's last will and testament… whether he had in fact approached them with
animo testandi
.”

“And had he?”

“Yes, of course. You see, the Viscount of Pierrepont married. Under the
lex communis
of England, his nuptials effectively revoked all previous testamentary acts. He was in the process of writing a new will to ensure he did not die
intestatus
… which, in fact, he did because the new will was not executed.”

“I see. What does that mean in terms of his estate?”

“Even without a will, Lady Pierrepont is
prima facie
his next of kin and therefore has
jus ad rem
to his estate… though it is a bit of a mess. Presumably, they'll wait for the outcome of Miss Dawe's trial before probate is granted. But it does seem, according to this colleague of mine, who is probably not as discreet as a member of the Bar should be, that the draft will, which Pierrepont did not get round to signing, would in fact have been
contra
to Lady Pierrepont's interests. But of course he passed and
mortis ominia solvit
.”

“Really?” Rowland said surprised and hopeful. “Do you mean to say Lady Pierrepont had good reason to prevent this new will being executed—more it seems than Allie?”

“Unfortunately, the new will did not favour Miss Dawe either. Presuming she was unaware of the legal technicality which revoked the old will, she had as much reason as Lady Pierrepont to fear the signing of those documents. To that extent they are what we in the profession call
pari passu
.”

“Damn!”

“Yes, quite.”

“Who would have benefited under the provisions of this new will?”

“Cecil Frederick Buchan, the Earl of Bishopthorpe.”