Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (35 page)

“Consider it, Mr. Sinclair.” Harcourt's voice was thick with emotion. “Let us work together to save both Miss Dawe and Euphemia.”

“I shall think about your proposal, Lord Harcourt,” Rowland said slowly. He stood and retrieved the Gladstone bag which he'd placed by his chair. It seemed heavier now—with the head of a monster rather than a victim.

“Thank you, sir,” Harcourt said, grabbing Rowland's hand and pumping it warmly. “Thank you. We both want the best for all parties concerned. I'm sure you'll see that this is the only tolerable way forward.”

Rowland declined Harcourt's offer to have him driven back to Claridge's. He headed instead into Hyde Park to walk and think. On this occasion he did not even pause to glance at the columned grandeur of the entrance to the park. Nor did he notice the first golds and pinks of impending Autumn which touched the birches and tall limes that lined formal avenues and whispered of an early winter. The encounter with Harcourt had not been what he'd expected, and the lord's revelations disturbed him deeply. Did it fit? Could the poor girl, abused and violated by her own uncle, have been driven to such desperate lengths?

It occurred to him that there'd been no signs of struggle in Pierrepont's suite at Watts. The viscount had possibly known his murderer well enough not to be alarmed… despite the fact he was wearing a woman's nightie. Could the murder have taken place in the throes of some illicit and unnatural liaison?

Rowland stopped by a colossal figure of Achilles—the Wellington Monument—to slip the coins in his pockets into the hands of those who begged in the statue's shade. He knew artists who now begged to survive, who would no longer talk to him for shame or because they had come to hate him for the inequity with which fate had treated them.

A thin, ragged man asked Rowland for a cigarette.

“I'm sorry, mate, I don't smoke.”

At first the beggar seemed a little taken aback—perhaps by the fact that Rowland didn't smoke or because a gentleman had called him mate. Then he produced a stub from his pocket. “What about a light?”

Rowland put down the Gladstone bag as he retrieved the lighter he kept in his breast pocket.

The man moved quickly, snatching the bag and shouldering Rowland in the chest in the same explosive movement. Rowland fell backwards, hitting the ground hard as the thief ran into the park.

There were shouts of “Stop him!” and “Thief!”

One of the men to whom Rowland had just given a coin offered him a hand. “Are you hurt, sir?”

Rowland took the hand and pulled himself up. “No, not at all,” he said, slapping the dirt off his trousers. “Thank you, Mr…?

“Brown. John Brown, sir.”

“Rowland Sinclair, Mr. Brown.”

Another man handed him his hat. “The blighter's long gone with your bag, sir.”

Rowland scanned the parklands about the monument. It did indeed seem that way. “I don't suppose you gentlemen know who he was?”

Either the men didn't or they were unwilling to tell him.

Rowland smiled ruefully. The thief was going to get a fair shock when he opened the bag.

“Shall I get a constable?” Brown asked nervously.

Rowland shook his head. “No. There probably isn't much point.” He rubbed his hand through his hair before replacing his hat.

“You should be more careful, sir,” Brown said. “There are plenty of desperate men in Hyde Park.”

Rowland nodded. He had been preoccupied and now he'd lost Pierrepont's head.

Brown and his companion shook Rowland's hand, refused to take any further gratuity in appreciation of their help, and left him to contemplate his course.

Despite the scuffle and the theft, Rowland's mind returned easily to his troubles. He could see that persisting with his enquiries could well be worse in the end for Allie… but only if she had in fact killed her uncle. If she hadn't, then he and his friends might be her only hope. He frowned, realising the decision was not rightfully his.

Turning back Rowland made his way towards Hyde Park Corner, and hailed one of the black taxis which often dropped well-to-do tourists at the famous botanical park. He asked the driver to take him directly to Holloway Prison.

V
isiting Allie Dawe proved difficult. The accused had already received visitors that day and the demands of Rowland Sinclair were most irregular. Rowland telephoned George Allen from the prison. An hour or so later—during which time Rowland presumed the solicitor was making calls, promises and threats in the fine and age-old tradition of his profession—he was taken to the reception cell.

Rowland readied himself for the conversation he was about to have.

Allie embraced him, clinging desperately until the guard pulled her away and directed them to chairs on different sides of the
wooden table. Rowland felt ill. He wasn't sure how he was going to ask the girl if what Harcourt had said was true.

“I knew you hadn't forgotten me, Mr. Sinclair!” Allie was already emotional. “When your friends came without you earlier, I wondered if you were staying away for the sake of your reputation… and I would have understood if you had. What people think of you is so important and I know I'm… but I'm so glad you came. I think not seeing you would be one deprivation more than I could bear.”

Rowland rubbed his face as he listened to her ramble.

“Miss Dawe,” he said. “I need to ask you something very personal and you must forgive me for asking. I wouldn't think of it if it weren't important. Whatever your answer it will help me know what to do, how best to help you.”

“You don't have to ask,” she said quickly. “I love you! I do. I'll marry you.”

Rowland stopped, unable at that moment to imagine how the situation could be any worse. “Miss Dawe… Allie, you barely know me. I know you're frightened but I won't abandon you… I promise. We don't have to be married for me to help you. However, I do have to ensure what I'm doing is helping and not hurting your cause.”

Allie flushed red, embarrassed and confused. “You don't want to… you weren't… oh.”

“I called on Lord Harcourt this morning. His sister Euphemia married Lord Pierrepont shortly before he died.”

“Tommy rot! That's not true. I would have known if Uncle Alfred had married.”

“I'm afraid it is true.” Rowland told her then what Harcourt had claimed. He spoke quickly but plainly, ashamed of asking and in dread of her response.

The colour drained from Allie's face, and her mouth moved soundlessly until she seemed a spectre of the excited girl who'd taken to the stage and sung hymns at the ball for men.

And then the sound came, raw and broken. “What precisely are you asking, Mr. Sinclair? If I killed my uncle or if I was his… his whore?” She stood and screamed. “Get out, get out, get out!”

The guard opened the door to the reception cell and called into the corridor for help.

Rowland stood. “Allie, please… I'm sorry.”

She was crying now, hysterical. “Get out! I never want to see you again!” She lashed out trying to reach him over the table. The guard stepped decisively to restrain her and she fought him.

“Stop, don't hurt her,” Rowland moved to her aid.

Another guard intervened to hold him back. “Just let us handle this, sir,” he said as two more guards ran into the cell. One assisted his colleague to drag Allie, sobbing and clawing, away and the other helped keep the object of her fury from trying to defend her.

If Allen had not appeared, Rowland might well have been arrested. How the solicitor calmed the situation, Rowland knew not, except that there was a great deal of Latin involved.

Guilt-ridden now, Rowland explained himself.

George Allen shook his head sternly. “You really should have brought this information to me
ab initio
, Mr. Sinclair.
Nescit vox missa reverti
. Still, there was no
mala fides
on your part so let us say no more about it.”

“I need to see Miss Dawe again.”

“I'm afraid she has worked herself up into quite a state. She won't see you. I recommend you give Miss Dawe a little time to calm down.”

“Do you think it could be true, Mr. Allen?”

“Only Miss Dawe could tell you, Mr. Sinclair. Isn't that why you asked her?”

Rowland buried his face in his hands, frustrated. After all this he was still unsure. Was Allie's dismay indicative of the truth in Harcourt's claim or merely the fact that it was so appallingly insulting?

“Why don't you go, Mr. Sinclair?” Allen suggested. “I will see that Miss Dawe is not too distraught and let her know that you did not intend to offend.”

“Tell her I'm sorry,” Rowland said.

“I will, I will. If you come across any further information which may pertain to Miss Dawe's case, may I suggest you bring it to me before you confront anyone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“As for Lord Harcourt's offer, his sister as the victim's wife may apply to the court for clemency, if it should come to that. But rest assured, Mr. Sinclair,
adhuc sub judice lis est
… and I have not come to the conclusion that my client is guilty.”

It was late afternoon by the time Rowland walked back into the suite, dishevelled and cross. The muscles in his arm, having become accustomed to the sling, ached.

“You're back,” Edna said, relieved. “We were beginning to worry about you.” She looked up into his eyes. “Rowly darling, whatever is the matter?”

Milton walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured Rowland a generous glass of gin. “Right, mate, sit down and tell us what's happened.”

Rowland collapsed into an armchair and loosened his tie. He drank before he spoke.

They listened without interruption as he told them of
Arundel House
and recounted his conversation with Euphemia's brother, Theophrastus Thistlewaite—the Baron of Harcourt.

“He's lying!” Milton said flatly. “We have no other evidence that Pierrepont's relationship with Allie was anything other than uncle and niece!”

Rowland thought uncomfortably of the careless aspersions proffered by Entwhistle at Scotland Yard.

“So, you were at
Arundel House
with that awful man all this time,” Edna said, perching on the arm of his chair.

“I don't know that he's that awful, Ed,” Rowland said. “He's just trying to protect his sister. Apparently her mental health has diminished somewhat since Pierrepont died.”

“Yes, I think we saw that,” Clyde muttered.

“Lady Leon relented,” Edna said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You left the head with Lord Harcourt, so I assumed…”

Rowland groaned. For a moment he'd forgotten about the wax head. “I didn't leave it with Harcourt. I lost it.”

“What? How could you lose it?”

“Some chap snatched it in Hyde Park.”

“Someone stole the head?”

“The bag with the head in it.”

“He didn't know?”

“Not then.”

“So you've been trying to find this fellow who stole the bag?” Edna asked, sensing there was more.

Rowland wished that that was the case. “I went to Holloway… to see Allie.” He confessed then to what he had done and how terribly
wrong it had gone. “The poor girl didn't know where to turn… God, what was I thinking?”