Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

Clyde snorted sceptically. To his mind, Rowland Sinclair was too easily distracted by every corpse that fell across his path. He may in fact have expressed that sentiment if Beresford had not come in to announce that the tailor had arrived. The butler’s tone made it clear that it was not, in his opinion, a moment too soon.

  Rowland alighted from the Rolls Royce at the steps of the South Kensington terrace. The rotund chauffeur came wheezing around the motor car’s elongated bonnet. His face fell as he realised his passenger had managed to open the door himself.

  “Sorry,” Rowland murmured, stepping aside so the man could close the door behind him. Wilfred had sent the car for them. Rowland was aware that his habit of getting in and out of cars of his own accord was considered by some a sign of poor breeding. And he expected that protocol here would be somewhat particular.

  “No ’arm done, sir,” the chauffeur gasped, though it seemed the unnecessary exertion may yet finish him off.

  Rowland opened the back door for Edna who stepped out of the motor car with her eyes wide and fixed upon the four-storey Victorian terrace to which they’d been delivered. Its doorway, like its windows, was arched and framed with columns and finials. The stucco walls were white and it looked out on the park known as Ennismore Gardens.

  “So, is Mr. Bruce Australia’s High Commissioner now?” Edna whispered. “How should we address him?”

  “M’lord should suffice,” Milton murmured. The poet had no love for the erstwhile Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia, whose conservative government had built its platform on breaking strikes.

  Rowland smiled. “Technically speaking, I understand he’s a special minister without portfolio… but to be honest I’m not sure what the protocol is. Wil calls him Spats.”

  Edna giggled. “Really? To his face?”

  The Australian press delighted in poking fun at Bruce’s fondness for spats—as either a symbol of the politician’s patrician affectations or a dreadful folly of fashion. Edna had always imagined that Stanley Melbourne Bruce would take it as the slight it was intended to be.

  “They’re old chums.” Rowland’s brow furrowed slightly. He had been admittedly surprised when they’d all been invited to the home of the Bruces. Wilfred had never hidden his opinion of the set with which his brother chose to move. In the past he had, at most, tolerated them under sufferance. But then Wilfred’s young wife, Kate, had always enjoyed Rowland’s friends. It was to her that they most probably owed the invitation.

  Edna was as usual, undaunted, entwining her arm in Rowland’s uninjured one, and exclaiming at the beauty of the expansive terrace and the English rose gardens which surrounded it.

  They were admitted by a maid in a traditional aproned uniform.

  “Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair squeezed past the servant. “Why hello, Uncle Rowly.” The six-year-old extended and then dropped his right hand as he stared at the sling. “Hell’s bells, Uncle Rowly, what’s happened to your arm?” he blurted before clapping his hands over his mouth.

  Rowland laughed, tousling the child’s dark curls. “Don’t let your mother catch you talking like that, Ernie, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

  “Oh, I’d tell her it wasn’t your fault,” Ernest said solemnly. “A man’s got to take responsibility for his own actions, you understand.”

  Rowland glanced through the open door into the empty hallway. “But since your mother’s not here,” he whispered, “I trust there’s no need to confess.”

  Ernest nodded emphatically. He paused to greet Clyde, Milton and Edna before asking again, “What happened to your arm, Uncle Rowly?”

  “I broke it,” Rowland said, shrugging.

  “When you were in Germany?”

  “Yes.”

  Ernest nodded in a way that made Rowland wonder exactly how much his nephew knew about what he had been doing in Germany. Wilfred’s elder son rarely missed a thing.

  “Does it hurt?” Ernest asked, as curious as he was concerned.

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’m so glad.” Ernest turned to the maid. “This is my Uncle Rowly and his Leninist friends. You can let them in… they’re very nice.”

  The maid’s eyes grew wide and she stepped back reflexively.

  Ernest smiled.

  Milton laughed. “That’s the way, Ernie, mate… there’s no point pretending.”

  The young woman composed herself and bobbed deferentially. “Very good, Master Ernest. Mr. Sinclair is expecting you, sir. I’m to take you in to the library and the rest of your… party… to Madam and Mrs. Sinclair in the drawing room.”

  Ernest took Rowland’s hand. “I’ll show him, Mabel. This way, Uncle Rowly.”

  The maid looked a little nonplussed, but Ernest was already dragging Rowland into the house leaving her to deal with the Leninists alone.

  The library was on the ground floor. Its high, intricately detailed ceilings lent a gravity of scale to the walls of books in their thousands. Paintings of the ten Australian prime ministers since Federation adorned the walls in the spaces between the bookshelves. The furniture was substantial and modern—leather club chairs with conveniently placed smoker’s stands in chrome and Bakelite.

  Two men sat on either side of a scrolled oak desk, smoking. Wilfred Sinclair smiled when he saw his son. “What are you doing, you scamp?” he asked.

  “Uncle Rowly’s here, Daddy.”

  “I can see that. Now you run along and tell your mother that we’ll join them all shortly… go on now.”

  Ernest released his uncle’s hand and ran into the hallway.

  Wilfred then introduced the Honourable Stanley Melbourne Bruce, Member of the House of Representatives, Companion of Honour, who was, it seemed, playing host to the Sinclairs while they were in London. The Australian politician was tall, and though he must have been nearly fifty, he bore himself with an aristocratic confidence.

  Bruce addressed him as “Rowland” from the first. Still unsure of the man’s title, Rowland resorted to “Sir”.

  “Your brother has been telling me of the unpleasantness yesterday. A nasty business and quite distressing, I should imagine.”

  “It was certainly unexpected,” Rowland replied.

  Bruce directed him to a seat. “You understand, Rowland, that this is a matter of some delicacy.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you know about the London Economic Conference?”

  Wilfred grunted. “He could probably paint you a picture of the venue.”

  “Nothing specific.” Rowland glanced irritably at his brother. “I presume you gentlemen are trying to save the world with trade agreements or some such thing.”

  Bruce nodded. “Some such thing. If everything goes as planned, the free world will be saved, as you say, by an international currency agreement.”

  “Well, that’s capital news,” Rowland replied, hoping he wasn’t about to be subjected to a lecture on world finance.

  “It is,” Bruce agreed, “or rather it will be if it goes ahead. The agreement is tripartite and requires the participation of America as well as France and Britain. Regrettably President Roosevelt has some doubts on the value of the agreement. There are those in the United States who seek to devalue the dollar instead of fix it at a reasonable level as this agreement would do.” Bruce then outlined what he saw as the effects of the stabilisation of currencies on confidence, growth and trade.

  Rowland considered the minister. Bruce had an interesting face—strong brows flared sharply up above shrewd close-set eyes, a nose that pulled away from his mouth as if there were an unpleasant odour about, and a chin that sat proudly out from a pouting lower lip. They combined to give the man a permanently disdainful look. Rowland sat back mulling the composition of the portrait he was constructing in his mind… a full figure, he thought, to bring out the height and athleticism of Bruce’s build as well as the self-conscious distinction in his bearing…

  “Rowly!” Wilfred jarred him out of his contemplation.

 
; It was only then Rowland realised that Bruce had stopped talking… and he had no idea what the minister had said.

  “As Spats was saying,” Wilfred said pointedly, “Lord Pierrepont’s death could cause a scandal that would permanently derail the conference.”

  “Yes… why?”

  “Because it seems the last person to see him alive was Cordell Hull, the American Secretary of State.”

  Rowland was confused. “Are you suggesting the American Secretary of State killed Lord Pierrepont?”

  “No, of course not.” Bruce drew on his cigar. “But the Americans may see any investigation of their delegates as hostile, diplomatically speaking.” He shook his head. “Don’t let their obsession with freedom of speech fool you—Americans are rather sensitive.”

  “I see.” Actually, Rowland didn’t see. He had no idea why Bruce was telling him this.

  “Of course, one can’t just ignore the murder of a peer,” Bruce went on. “Scotland Yard will handle the affair as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, but I did want to impress upon you, Rowland, the importance of being discreet. Particularly with the more salacious aspects of Lord Pierrepont’s demise.”

  Rowland smiled. “You mean the nightie, I suppose.”

  “Yes, quite. It would probably be best if you did not mention that rather perplexing detail to anyone. In fact, the less said about Lord Pierrepont the better.”

  “Surely there will be an investigation?” Rowland asked, vaguely disturbed by the manner in which murder was being treated as a political inconvenience.

  “My dear man, of course! In fact I believe the Yard has already found a suspect.”

  “There are one or two reporters sniffing about,” Wilfred said. “They’re asking questions and we wanted to make sure that you don’t give them a headline sensational enough to scuttle any hope of an agreement.”

  “How could they possibly even know to ask me?” Rowland replied.

  Wilfred frowned. “We gave our names to Samuel Playfair.”

  “Who’s Samuel Playfair?”

  “The steward.”

  “I thought his name was George.”

  “They call all the servants George at Watts… it’s easier for the members to remember that way.”

  Rowland thought back to the rowdy luncheon at the gentlemen’s club. He supposed Playfair could count himself lucky the members didn’t want to call him “Bunky” or something equally absurd.

  “What do you know about the new government of Germany, Minister Bruce?” he asked.

  Bruce looked at him, startled.

  “Rowly… we are talking about—” Wilfred began.

  “Yes, yes, I won’t tell anyone about the nightie,” Rowland promised impatiently. Then he asked his question again.

  Wilfred cleared his throat. “I’ve told Spats about your experiences in Germany, Rowly.”

  Bruce shook his head. “A terrible business. The SA could potentially thrust Germany into civil war. Rest assured, Rowland, the governments of Europe have been vocal in their condemnation of the excesses of Röhm and his Stormtroopers.”

  “I don’t think you understand—”

  “I think you’ll find I do.”

  “This is not simply about SA thuggery. The Nazi government is on an aggressive path.”

  Bruce regarded him sternly. “The Germans are at this conference in the spirit of co-operation, Rowland. They have territorial interests, yes, but I believe you’ll find they are restricted to the Saarland and other traditionally German regions.” He sighed. “I’m afraid talk of German expansionism is premature and generated by a few warmongers and conspiracy theorists.” He looked Rowland up and down. “How old are you if you don’t mind my asking? I don’t suppose you saw service.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t,” Rowland said tightly. War service was the trump card which the men of his brother’s generation liked to play against his own… a kind of imprimatur which gave them the right to decide all matters thenceforth.

  “Well, I saw a great deal.” Bruce rubbed his knee. “I served at Gallipoli and now I deal with the Turks in an international spirit of co-operation and mutual respect.” He pointed at Rowland with his cigar. “I can tell you the biggest threat to Australia at the moment is not German theatrics but the American Agriculture Bill which will have a devastating impact on our exports.”

  Rowland dragged his hand back through his hair, frustrated.

  Wilfred intervened, “I do feel, in this instance, Rowly might offer some insight into the mood in Germany.”

  Rowland looked sharply at his brother, surprised by his support.

  “Perhaps,” Wilfred continued cautiously, “if you were to provide Rowly with a letter of introduction to one or two people who are interested in these matters… maybe someone close to Ramsay MacDonald. You never know, Rowly may be able to give some perspective to his dogged insistence upon disarmament.”

  Bruce frowned, his eyes narrowing as he considered the suggestion. “I fear it will be a waste of time, Wil.”

  “Even so,” Wilfred replied.

  “Very well.” He turned back to Rowland. “You keep Lord Pierrepont’s peculiar penchant under your hat, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  5

  TABLE MANNERS

  Points of Etiquette

  At meals ladies always should be served first, even when there are men guests present. In no circumstances are bad manners more noticeable than when displayed at the table. To eat badly is to commit one of the greatest offences against the laws of politeness. Innate refinement will sometimes protect a woman in this direction, but unless girls have been subjected to proper home training in table manners they grow up usually with habits as vulgar as those of men whose home upbringing has been neglected.

  A few points in training children that may be helpful to mothers are as follows:—The soup plate should be tilted away from the edge of the table, and soup should be taken from the side of the large spoon provided. Bread should not be crumbled into the soup, but broken with the fingers from a thick piece placed at the left hand. If special fish knives are not provided, fish should be eaten with two forks, or a fork and a piece of bread. When one is eating a dish that requires the use of a fork in the right hand, the fork may be held with the tines turned up; otherwise it is not correct to do this. Rissoles, mince and similar made dishes should be eaten with a fork only. All sweets, where possible, should be eaten with a fork alone. A spoon and fork may be used for fruit tarts, stewed fruit or other dishes of syrupy nature. Either the spoon or the fork should be raised to the mouth for the purpose of receiving fruit stones. In the case of plums and other fruit with large stones, it is better to separate the stone with the spoon and fork before putting the fruit in the mouth. When a course is finished the knife and fork or spoon and fork should be placed close together.

  It is a bad plan always to give children the least attractive parts of a dish, that being apt to make them greedy for dainties when they are visiting. The knife should never be used to convey food to the mouth, and the special knife for butter should always be used, likewise the sugar spoon in the bowl, instead of individual teaspoons. When one is using knife and fork, the elbows should be kept close to the sides. If a plate is sent for a second helping, the knife and fork should be placed close together, as much to, the side of the plate as possible. Nothing except fruit pips, stones, or skin, should be taken from the mouth with the fingers. Pieces of bone, gristle, etc., should be taken from the mouth with the fork and quietly placed on the side of the plate. Always leave the spoon in the saucer, and when it is necessary to do so stir tea, coffee, or cocoa as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. The mouth should never be filled too full, and undue haste in eating should be avoided. No one should leave a meal table until everyone has finished. A guest should not fold the table napkin, but leave it on the table more or less crumpled.

  The West Australian, 1933

  Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair was genuinely glad to see her brother-in-law’s enti
rely unacceptable friends. Kate had always liked the bohemian entourage—something which her husband claimed was due to her too kind and persuadable heart. She knew of course that they lived at Woodlands House under Rowland’s patronage and what seemed an ever-present cloud of scandal. Wilfred maintained that they were exploiting his brother’s generosity, using Rowland while they turned the Sinclairs’ grand Woollahra residence into some kind of artists’ commune.

  It was not in Kate’s nature to contradict her husband and accordingly she’d never mentioned her fondness for her disreputable brother-in-law’s set in Wilfred’s presence. Indeed, she’d been surprised that he’d not objected to her suggestion that they be included in the invitation to luncheon. But perhaps this newfound tolerance had something to do with whatever had happened in Germany. Wilfred had returned from Claridge’s angry and distressed. He had fired off several telegrams back to Australia, but had said nothing more to Kate than that Rowland had found trouble and that his useless unemployed friends had at least stuck by him.

  And so she had not been expecting the plaster cast and sling.

  “What have you done to yourself, Rowly?” Kate enquired as he kissed her cheek. “Wil didn’t say you’d hurt yourself.”

  Rowland had no time to reply before their hostess intervened.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Ethel Bruce exclaimed. “This simply won’t do… Why, we’re serving crown roast!” The matronly wife of Australia’s eighth Prime Minister looked at the cast in horror. “It’ll have to be a consommé… there’s nothing else for it!”

  “Uncle Rowly broke his arm in Germany,” Ernest announced solemnly.

  “Yes, well, that explains it!” Ethel said, walking towards the door. “You must excuse me… I should speak to Cook.”

  Rowland wasn’t quite sure what it explained.

  Lunch with the Bruces was quite the gracious affair: elegant and formal. Clyde visibly paled as he beheld the numerous pieces of gleaming cutlery which rippled outwards from the fine china plates at each place setting. He had never become accustomed to the complexity of dining with the upper classes and, for a moment, he envied Rowland his injury. As it was, the rest of them would have to work out how and when to use the various utensils with some sort of proficiency and decorum.