Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (33 page)

“Mr. Ambrose?”

“Mr. Sinclair! Are you all right?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Rowland was still not sure what to make of it all.

“Your suits will need some repair, I think,” Ambrose said, dusting plaster off the torn shoulder of Rowland's jacket. “It's fortunate I was delivering another suit in the van.”

He introduced his sons, six men and the boy whose name was Elliot. Two more youths were apparently his nephews. It seemed that, in addition to tailoring, the Ambroses conducted a business which produced mannequins for boutiques and clothing stores across
London. They had been making their way to Harrods Department Store with a batch of mannequins for a large window display when the tailor had thought to drop off the additional shirts and suits he'd made for the Australians staying at Claridge's. And so it happened that they came across the brawl.

“We didn't know it was you, of course, Mr. Sinclair,” Ambrose confided. “We saw black uniforms and knew immediately there would be someone in need of help.”

Rowland thanked them all, sincerely and profusely. He offered to pay for the damage to their mannequins but Ambrose would not hear of it. “I have run from Fascists once, but never again.”

“Well, then you must all join us for a drink at least,” Rowland insisted. “Please… Mr. Isaacs will want to thank you, too. God knows what might have happened if you hadn't intervened.”

“We are not dressed for the bar at Claridge's,” Ambrose said uncertainly.

“You're dressed well enough for my suite. I will have refreshments sent up.”

Eventually Ambrose nodded. “Very well—I am also anxious to see that Mr. Isaacs is not badly hurt.”

Ambrose, his sons and nephews stowed the salvageable limbs into a pair of Bedford vans with
Ambrose Bros. Shop Décor
emblazoned on their sides. Then, self-consciously dusting themselves off, they trooped behind Rowland and Clyde, into the chequerboard marble interior of Claridge's foyer.

If the hotel staff were at all alarmed by the bloodied state of their guests, or the men who accompanied them—some of whom were not even wearing ties—they showed no sign of it. They received them all as if they were the visiting dignitaries or travelling aristocrats who were Claridge's usual clientele.

Milton had been taken up to the suite already, under the care of Ambrose's brother, who, although now in the business of mannequins, had trained as a physician.

The poet had regained consciousness by the time they walked in. Ambrose, the doctor, was inserting a few small neat stitches into a gash near his temple.

Milton waved away their concern.

“You were knocked unconscious, Mr. Isaacs,” Ambrose chided. “It is a serious thing.”

“I didn't get knocked out,” Milton murmured. “I fainted when I saw that a crazed lunatic had hacked off some poor bloke's arm and was using the limb to belt a Blackshirt!” He winced as Ambrose bandaged his head. “They're not going to believe this back at Trades Hall.”

Edna—who'd alighted from the taxi as soon as she could persuade the driver to stop—had returned to Brook Street in time to witness Milton hit his head on the curb as he fell. She watched him now, pale and still shaken. “I thought they'd killed you, you idiot,” she said, as if it were his fault.

Milton smiled weakly. “Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”

“Donne,” Rowland murmured, relieved.

“We are, we are indeed,” the doctor declared as the suite's unflappable butler served refreshments. A waiter from the restaurant delivered several tiered silver trays of finger sandwiches and fancy cakes presented with such a delicate flair that one might have thought Rowland was entertaining the Queen Mother, as opposed to several burly men.

The tailor's sons gathered about the head of Pierrepont, admiring the skill of the sculptor. They did not appear to wonder at all what
the Australians were doing with a wax head. The eldest of them confessed that he dreamed of working for Madame Tussaud's, and Edna told him of what she had learned from Marriott Spencer. She promised to mention the young man's name to Spencer when next she saw the sculptor.

With Milton seen to, Dr. Ambrose turned his attention to Clyde and Rowland. “Your cast is broken, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland looked down and saw that the plaster had indeed cracked. He wiggled his fingertips—the arm itself seemed fine.

“It'll have to come off,” Ambrose said, poking at the crack with his pen. “We can put on a new cast for you—something not quite so excessive.”

“Excessive?”

“The physician who made this, I suspect, has invested heavily in Plaster of Paris!” Ambrose tapped the cast with his knuckles. “We don't use this much plaster on the mannequins!”

Before Rowland could respond, Ambrose the tailor had sent his youngest son back to the vans to fetch bandages and plaster powder, both of which they apparently used to repair mannequins from time to time.

The doctor put his thumbs into the wide crack and with a little grunting and leverage broke the cast off Rowland's arm.

Rowland was able to flex his arm at the elbow, and scratch below it for the first time in over three weeks.

“Stop waving your arm about, Mr. Sinclair.” Dr. Ambrose scowled. “The bones have knitted, yes; but the join will be weak and easily rebroken!”

Suitably chastised, Rowland sat meekly as he waited for Ambrose to begin.

“You'll have to remove your shirt, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland was startled. “Is that really necessary?”

“I'm sure Miss Higgins will avert her eyes.”

“No, that's not—”

“Remove your shirt Mr. Sinclair. We are wasting the day!”

Uneasily, Rowland slipped his right arm—now free of the cast—out of its rolled sleeve. He left the rest of the shirt in place, cringingly aware that the swastika of burn scars would be revealed if he removed it entirely.

“I thought I asked you to…” Ambrose pulled at the shirt. He saw the scarring and stopped, staring. Rowland wasn't sure what to say. Ambrose swallowed, shook his head and replaced the shirt to cover the scar before it was seen by anyone else. “Yes, that much will be fine… there is no reason for you to get cold.” He clasped Rowland's shoulder but said nothing more about the Nazi brand.

Gently now, the mannequin-maker cleaned Rowland's arm and wrapped it with padding, before encasing the limb with bandages soaked in Plaster of Paris. It seemed each of the near-dozen Ambroses had an opinion about how thick the new cast should be or how tightly bound. The discussion became quite heated at points. Rowland stayed out of it, deciding that he was neither as qualified as a doctor or a mannequin-maker on the subject.

Ambrose the tailor insisted that the cast taper at the wrist to have some chance of accommodating a cuff. Ambrose the doctor was adamant that the old cast had been over-engineered and that a lighter version, which began below the elbow, encasing the palm but not the fingers would be more than sufficient and not waste plaster.

Through this, Menzies continued to serve drinks and tea, and pass around the petits fours.

“If I may be so bold as to enquire,” Ambrose the tailor asked as they waited for the plaster to harden, “what business has the British
Union of Fascists with you gentlemen?” He addressed the question particularly at Milton who, having been forbidden alcohol, was dulling his headache with tea.

Milton looked up. “It wasn't about me,” he said. “Well, not directly. I'm sure they thought I was just a particularly handsome Protestant. The useless mongrels were after Rowly here.”

Rowland explained briefly his encounter with the Blackshirts at the London Economic Conference.

The Ambrose brothers glanced at each other.

“We were German once,” Ambrose the tailor told them. “We came to London a year ago. Abel leaves his practice behind, I leave my factory. In Berlin you once had to wait many months to become a patient of Abel Ambrose.” Clearly the tailor was proud of his brother.

“Do you have a surgery here, Dr. Ambrose?” Edna asked.

“No. Now I make mannequins.”

“But why?”

Abel Ambrose smiled sadly. “We learned that some professions are more visible than others… and more dangerous. We are a cautious family.”

Edna's eyes softened. They had heard stories of the persecution of Jewish doctors when they were in Munich. “But this is England,” she said gently.

“I like to make mannequins. Nowhere else in England will you get such strong, lifelike figures!”

“Jolly lucky for us,” Rowland murmured.

“We were pleased to assist,” the doctor replied. He chuckled. “The looks on their faces when we came running with arms and legs… we will tell that story again.” They talked of the battle, laughing and toasting the small victory in Brook Street.

“We must be going,” Ambrose the tailor sighed after a time, gathering up for repair all the jackets the Australians had been wearing. “There is still a window at Harrods that we must dress somehow.”

Dr. Ambrose gave Rowland a card. “I am not licensed to practise here, but if you need any further plasterwork done, by all means, call by the factory.”

Rowland and his companions remained in the hotel that evening. Their investigations could wait till the next morning when their heads would be clearer at least. Though Rowland suggested they call Pennyworth—the doctor Wilfred had sent them when they'd first arrived in London—for Milton as a precaution, the poet himself would not hear of it.

“Why would Ambrose wander about pretending to be a doctor? It's not as if he were trying to impress a girl.”

“That's true, but he hasn't a licence to practise.”

“Licences,” Milton sniffed. “You know some people claim I'm not a poet simply because my genius is not documented. It's outrageous!”

“
They
say you're not a poet because you don't actually write anything,” Clyde informed him. “And they have a bloody point!”

“Well, if Ambrose isn't really a doctor, he should be!” Milton declared. “And he's a damn fine plasterer. You'll be able to hold your notebook again Rowly.”

On that score, and probably the other, Rowland had to agree. He had much more movement with the refashioned cast, and it was a good deal less heavy. He barely required the sling now.

Clyde eased himself into an armchair, grimacing as his bruised
body sank into the cushions. “We're getting too old for this,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry,” Rowland said. “I should have paid more attention to those letters. This is my fault.”

“Don't be daft,” Milton said with his eyes closed. “Who would have thought Joyce was so petty as to hunt you down? But then, those militant Fascist types have always been bloody obsessive.”

“Ethel said something about him holding Communist Jews responsible for what happened to his face,” Edna murmured as she placed a cushion behind Milton's back.

“You don't suppose the Fascists had anything to do with Pierrepont's death do you, Rowly?” Clyde asked, gazing thoughtfully at the wax head. “Perhaps this had nothing to do with his will or his women. It could be that this is all about the conference.”

“It's possible,” Rowland admitted, “but Joyce and his band of fools seem much more likely to have cornered Pierrepont in the street and beaten the living dickens out of him.”

“Are there any Fascists among the members of Watts?”

“I'm sure there are several, but sadly there's no way to tell simply by virtue of an entry in the visitors' book.”

“Allie said that Lord Pierrepont donated a hundred guineas to the B.U.F.,” Edna reminded them. “Why would they want to kill him?”

Rowland nodded. Edna was right. The B.U.F. was just an annoying distraction.

“Do you think they'll come for you again?” she asked anxiously.

Rowland was about to dismiss her concern, when it occurred to him that ignoring the letters he'd received had not been the best idea. “They'll arrest Joyce at least,” he said eventually. Though he and Clyde had given the constables descriptions of some of the others it
was doubtful that anybody but Joyce would be charged. “And we'll just have to be careful.”

“If you'll excuse me, sir,” the butler interrupted. “Perhaps I could show alternative routes by which you might enter or leave Claridge's in the future.”

“Thank you, Menzies,” Rowland said a little startled. The valet seemed to overhear everything… he was not yet used to it.

“It will ensure these gentlemen are not able to keep an eye on your comings and goings,” Menzies continued. “We have used the routes in the past when we were looking after guests of particular celebrity.”

“That's a terribly good idea, Menzies old mate,” Milton said with his eyes still closed.

“Very good, sir.”

Edna sat on the coffee table as Milton had commandeered the couch and refused to make room. “What are we going to do next, Rowly?”