Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (37 page)

Ethel Bruce was hosting a party for the children of Wilfred and Kate Sinclair. The garden, decorated with bunting and balloons, was overrun with girls in party frocks and ribbons and little boys in ties and short pants. Maids tended a table laden with bread and butter, cakes and ice-cream, and a footman distributed lemonade. Ernest was stumbling about blindfolded among a circle of children, while young Ewan was sitting in a bed of petunias trying to eat a snail.

Clyde picked up Rowland's godson and took the half-chewed snail out of his mouth.

Nanny Gray emerged with a washcloth and scrubbed the masticated snail from the child's cheeks. Kate joined them, apologising, clearly mortified that her son should be devouring garden pests when there was all manner of delicacy laid out.

Clyde laughed. “Your boy's obviously cultivated Continental tastes, Mrs. Sinclair.”

“Ethel thought it would be nice for the boys to meet some of the neighbourhood children,” Kate said.

“Where is Mrs. Bruce?” Rowland asked over the excited shouts of the small guests.

“Oh she's over there—with the egg and spoon race.”

Kate pointed them towards an area of lawn which had been cordoned off with bunting into a track of sorts. Ethel Bruce stood in the middle of a group of giggling children, enunciating the care required to keep one's egg on one's spoon. Deciding to demonstrate, she ran the course with one hand on her silverware and the other clamping the hat to her head. The string of pearls around her neck swung wildly as she lunged this way and that to keep the spoon underneath the egg.

“That woman is magnificent!” Milton declared.

They did not interrupt the lesson, watching as the former Prime Minister's wife instructed her diminutive charges on the secrets of maintaining an egg aloft and intact. Eventually her own egg met a yolky end on the grass, and she joined Rowland and his companions still red-faced and breathing heavily.

“Heavens,” she said, mopping her brow. “That was quite exhilarating.” She glanced back proudly as the children raced. “Look at the little monkeys go! Oh, to have the energy of a child!”

“Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? When they made up fresh adventures for their morrow, do you say?” Milton said, handing her an etched glass of chilled lemonade.

“Oh, Mr. Isaacs, you amaze me. Who but you would think to phrase that so beautifully?”

“Browning,” Rowland murmured. “Though I believe Milt omitted a line.” He studied Milton suspiciously, beginning to wonder if the plagiarist poet was reading
Paradise Lost
simply to throw him off the scent.

“You go back in and talk to Rowly, Ethel,” Kate said, taking Ewan from Clyde's arms. “I'll keep an eye on proceedings here.”

“Thank you, Katie dear. Remember, pin the tail on the donkey precisely at eleven, and the clown will arrive at half past.”

“A clown?” Edna's eyes lit up.

Rowland laughed. He wasn't so keen on clowns himself but Edna had always taken a child-like delight in their buffoonery. “We'll be back for the clown,” he assured her.

Ethel Bruce led them into the sunroom which looked over the small but immaculate garden behind the residence. From it they would still be able to see the party, while they talked.

They told Ethel Bruce of their evening at the Winslow-Scotts'. Edna's face was merry as she detailed what Rowland insisted was a ludicrous version of their encounter with Prince George.

“Oh no, my dear,” Ethel said. “I think you were both wise and brave to intervene. Prince George is so handsome that Mr. Sinclair might have forgotten himself!”

“I might have what?” Rowland demanded in horror.

Milton fell back against his chair laughing.

“Prince George is a famous ladies' man, of course, but there have been rumours about him for years… Noel Coward, you know… but let's say no more about it as Mr. Sinclair is looking quite distressed. Indeed, my Stanley would not be at all comfortable with this conversation. I'm sure he would have mentioned my hat at least a dozen times by now. Let us just be glad that you were there to protect Mr. Sinclair's virtue, Edna dear. It was a most valiant and selfless act.”

Edna glanced at Rowland, recalling the kiss, the gentle intensity of it, and colouring almost imperceptibly. Perhaps it was not entirely selfless, but that, she kept to herself.

Desperate to move on from the proclivities of Prince George, Rowland recounted their conversation with Lady Furness.

Ethel nodded. “Thelma Furness—the Prince of Wales adores all things American.”

“Lady Furness certainly appears to think that Mrs. Simpson is having an affair, and if your information linking Mrs. Simpson with Lord Pierrepont is correct, Mrs. Bruce, then that would give both Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, not to mention Lady Pierrepont, motive to kill him.”

Milton shook his head. “It seems your friend Bunky was living quite dangerously in the end, Mrs. Bruce.”

“My giddy aunt, he was,” Ethel agreed. She paused, clearly remembering something of import. “I read in
The Times
that a wax head was found at Kings Cross. Are wax heads becoming a fashionable accessory or did you leave poor Bunky at the station, Mr. Sinclair?”

“He's been returned,” Rowland assured her. He told her then of the meeting with Harcourt and the events which led up to the bag being stolen.

Ethel Bruce gasped. “He's suggesting that Bunky… his own niece… no that's just too abominable… it's preposterous! The man's obviously deranged.”

“Do you know much about Lord Harcourt and his brother?” Rowland asked, leaving the allegation of incest, and worse, alone. He didn't want to believe it for many reasons.

“Stanley and I were introduced to both gentlemen once, when Herbert Wells dragged us to some presentation of the Eugenics Society.”

“You know H.G. Wells?”

“Oh yes, he and Stanley rub along very well. Herbert was a great supporter of the League of Nations.”

Rowland frowned slightly, wondering now if his chance encounter with the writer at the economic conference was as unplanned as it seemed. Not for the first time he had an uneasy feeling that Wilfred was “managing” him.

“And he's a Eugenicist?” Milton asked.

“Oh yes… determined to improve the calibre of the human race. Herbert is dismissive of selective breeding in a positive sense, but quite insistent that some people should be prevented from having offspring—for the sake of humanity. Stanley says it wouldn't be a bad idea to sterilise Labor voters but I'm almost sure he doesn't mean it. We were just there to humour Herbert really… it's all a bit of nonsense in my book.”

“And Harcourt? What did you make of him?”

“Rather pompous to be honest. Like Euphemia, he's quite mad on fauna—always talking of his African safaris and the adaptive genius of beasts.”

Rowland remembered the mounted heads and various hunting trophies at
Arundel House
. It was difficult for any beast to adapt to a man with a shotgun, he supposed. “Harcourt seems very protective of his sister.”

“Yes, they were both quite devoted to her. It's no wonder the poor girl was thirty and unmarried with her brothers hovering about her all the time!”

“Oh, the clown's here,” Edna said, standing up and stepping towards the window. She looked again. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Bruce have arrived.”

“Which one are you calling a clown?” Milton asked, grinning.

Without even pausing to look, Edna flung back her hand and hit him on the side of the head.

“Is there any way I could be introduced to Mrs. Simpson?” Rowland asked hastily as he realised they would soon be joined by Wilfred and Bruce.

Ethel faltered. “Oh dear, I haven't been formally introduced to the woman myself.” Her face screwed up as she thought hard. “Leave
it with me. I'll find out where she and her husband socialise. Perhaps we could arrange a chance meeting.” She patted his arm. “Trust me, Mr. Sinclair. I'm a politician's wife. I've been arranging chance meetings for years.”

They all rejoined the party then and the clown held the children and Edna in thrall with juggling and clumsy magic.

“Isn't he delightful,” she laughed as he threw a bucket of confetti at Stanley Bruce and winked at the sculptress.

Milton groaned. “You are not to step out with a clown, Ed! There's only so much we can take.”

Clyde folded his arms across his chest, gazing thoughtfully at the entertainer. “You know, I worked as a roustabout once for Barnum Bros. Circus when they were touring the bush.” He leaned over to Edna. “The clowns were mean,” he confided, “and foul-mouthed.”

Rowland laughed and Edna ignored them all.

“Rowly!” Wilfred motioned him away from the crowd.

“Dr. Pennyworth didn't mention that he'd been to see you recently,” he said, glancing at his brother's forearm. Rowland no longer bothered with a sling and could, in fact, hold a glass in his right hand.

“Oh this…” Rowland told his brother about the incident outside Claridge's and the recasting of his arm.

“You allowed a flaming doll-maker to perform a medical procedure? For pity's sake, Rowly, why didn't you just have Miss Higgins fashion you something out of mud and sticks?”

“Hardly dolls… and Ambrose was a doctor in Berlin,” Rowland replied, wondering how the sculptress would react to her work being described as mud and sticks.

Wilfred lit a cigarette and drew on it before he spoke again. “It could be that Joyce is pursuing some vendetta for your altercation at
the conference,” he said slowly. “He is a petty and vindictive wretch from what I gather, but, he is also a friend of Josslyn Hay.”

“The Earl of Erroll?”

Wilfred nodded. “Hay has aligned himself with Mosley. He has not yet joined the B.U.F. officially, but his sympathies certainly lie in that direction. Mosley and Joyce have, of course, been doing their darnedest to court him.”

Rowland frowned. “Do you mean to suggest that Joyce is targeting me at Hay's request?”

“I'm saying it's a possibility. I know you've had dealings with the man, Rowly. Have you offended him?”

“No… I don't believe so…” His eyes glinted then as a thought occurred. “Unless it's because I don't think Allie Dawe killed Pierrepont.”

“Why would he care about that?”

“Maybe he killed Pierrepont.”

Wilfred's eyes narrowed. He grabbed Rowland's arm and pulled him further away from the crowd. “Let me counsel you in no uncertain terms, Rowly, against making unguarded allegations against a peer of the realm!”

“Pierrepont was also a peer of the realm, Wil!”

Wilfred drew again on his cigarette. He shook his head. “Unless you have incontrovertible proof that Hay was involved, say nothing. Do you understand me?”

Rowland looked away, irritated.

“Rowly, bear in mind that if you appear to be slinging accusations left, right and centre, then the chances of there being anyone willing to listen to your fears about Germany are significantly diminished.”

Rowland turned back, frustrated. He hadn't forgotten Egon Kisch and the men of the German underground who had helped
them escape. He'd promised to carry their story out of Hitler's Germany, but he had to do his best for Allie.

Wilfred dragged on his cigarette. “That character, Von Kirsch, is making a fuss—demanding you be returned to Germany to face justice.”

“I see.”

“I'm doing what I can, but it may be best if you left for Sydney, Rowly.”

“I can't, Wil. Not now.”

Wilfred sighed. Clearly Rowland's refusal was not unexpected. “There may come a time when you don't have a choice.”

Rowland cursed under his breath. “We can't just leave Allie to hang…”

“No, I suppose not.” Wilfred put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Look, all I'm saying is don't go off half-cocked.” He crushed the cigarette beneath his heel. His voice became a little harder. “I understand you're still wandering about with that wax replica of Pierrepont's head.”

“Yes,” Rowland replied. “How did you know?”

“My eldest son has requested a wax head like Uncle Rowly's for his birthday.”

“I see.”

“I am not going to bother to ask why because frankly I'm not sure any explanation would convince me that I shouldn't have you committed. But I insist that you get rid of it in a manner that does not end up in the newspapers!”

Rowland flinched. Apparently the article in
The Times
had also come to his brother's notice. “I'll return it to Madame Tussaud's,” he said as an offering of peace. He had no use for the head anyway, and after his conversation with Harcourt he found himself unable to look at Pierrepont in the same way.

At first, Wilfred seemed surprised as if he had expected Rowland to resist giving up the head. “Very well then,” he said. “It's settled.” He met Rowland's gaze sternly. “Try and be more careful, Rowly. It may be that whoever killed Lord Pierrepont will object to your poking about.”