“Were you in trouble a lot, Uncle Rowly?”
Rowland smiled. “School isn’t so bad, Ernie. Nobody much likes it at first, but you’ll make friends and the term will go quickly.”
“Rupert says I’ll have to learn to fight.”
“I suppose we all have to learn to fight sometime,” Rowland said more to himself than his nephew.
“Oh.” Ernest looked terrified and Rowland regretted his words.
“When I get this cast off, I could show you how to box a bit if you like.”
Ernest nodded vigorously.
“It’s a promise then. You haven’t a Tom Swift book on that shelf have you? I always liked Tom Swift.”
As it turned out Tom Swift and his Photo Telephone was indeed among the books the Bruces had acquired for their young guests. Rowland spent the next hour reading aloud the adventures of the fictional inventor’s preposterous process for sending photographs by telephone.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair and the Bruces were quite late. Rowland might have given up and left if he hadn’t fallen asleep in the chair, with his nephews both sprawled on top of him.
And so, Wilfred and Kate returned to find the young nanny in a nervous quandary as to whether she should wake Rowland Sinclair and insist her young charges were put in bed, as they should have been hours ago. Wilfred rolled his eyes. He had no time for inexperienced staff. Kate had employed the girl when the children’s usual nanny had been unable to travel with them. Miss Gray was simply too young and too timid to deal with two high-spirited boys, let alone Rowland.
“Thank you Nanny Gray, I’ll see to the children. But in future they are to go to bed regardless of what my brother has in mind.”
Rowland woke up as Kate took Ewan off his chest. She put a gloved finger to her lips as her youngest son snuggled into the fur of her stole. She kissed Ewan’s head softly and put him in his cot. Wilfred had already taken Ernest to bed. Quietly, Rowland retrieved Tom Swift and his Photo Telephone from the floor and, returning it to the bookcase, followed Wilfred out of the nursery.
“Rowly, what are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” Rowland tried to rub the crick out of his neck. “I was waiting for you… must have dozed off.”
“That I can see.” Wilfred sighed. “You’d better come down and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Wilfred had intended to take Rowland directly and discreetly to the sanctuary of Stanley Bruce’s library. They were, however, intercepted by Ethel Bruce who pounced at the foot of the stairs.
“Mr. Sinclair!” she said linking her arm through his. “You must come and sit down…”
“Rowly just needs to have a word—” Wilfred began.
“Yes, but the poor man’s been entertaining the children all this time… he must be parched!”
“I’m sure he must,” Stanley Bruce said as he walked out of the drawing room. “We’ll all join you ladies for a nightcap shortly. You might also ask Cook to prepare some refreshments, my dear… I’m famished.” He gazed sternly at his wife. “Unhand the boy, Ethel.”
Sheepishly, Ethel Bruce released Rowland’s arm and stood by, frustrated and clearly vexed, as her husband ushered Rowland towards the library.
“You’re here about Miss Dawe, no doubt,” Bruce said as he closed the door.
“You’re aware she’s been arrested?”
“Yes, I was informed.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Miss Dawe, as you are well aware, is not an Australian, Rowland,” Bruce replied. “Her predicament is not a matter in which I can become involved.”
Rowland turned to Wilfred. “She didn’t kill anybody—Wil, you were there.”
Wilfred frowned. “I would have thought it unlikely, Rowly, but her hands were covered in blood, not to mention the fact that she tried to keep us out of the room initially.”
“Why would she want to kill Pierrepont?” Rowland demanded.
“Apparently he was in the process of amending his last will and testament. I am advised the new deed would have disinherited Miss Dawe and her mother.”
“And Allie knew this?”
“That is the allegation, I believe.”
“This is ludicrous—where would she have got a sword?”
“It seems,” Bruce said, “the sword in question was normally displayed in the billiards room of the Watts Gentlemen’s Club.”
“Wil…”
“For pity’s sake, Rowly, you’ve already retained George Allen on her behalf. What more can we do?”
“Could you arrange an appointment with this chap Entwhistle… the detective? Perhaps if I talk to him.”
Wilfred glanced at Bruce.
The minister exhaled. “I’ll see what I can arrange, provided you continue to maintain your discretion on the more sordid details of Lord Pierrepont’s passing.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
When the gentlemen joined them, Kate Sinclair and Ethel Bruce were discussing the production of Richard of Bordeaux which they had just seen at the New Theatre in London. Mrs. Bruce had particularly admired the performance of a young actor by the name of Gielgud who had played the king, and said so in a manner that left Kate blushing.
Bruce snorted, muttering that the fruit bowl featured in the set was woefully anachronistic. “Who ever heard of pineapples before Queen Anne!”
Rowland told them about Oxford, Bletchley Park and—with certain delicate details omitted—Lady Pierrepont.
Wilfred was less than pleased that his brother had felt he needed to deliver a wax head for some “corrupt circus sculptor”.
“My hat!” Ethel Bruce exclaimed. “Does Euphemia have any thoughts on who killed her husband?”
“Speaking of your hat, Ethel dear,” Stanley Bruce interrupted, “you might think about purchasing a new one for the theatre. The gentleman seated behind you seemed a little put out.”
“Oh Stanley, he was a very short man. I would need to be headless for that poor little fellow to see!”
“I should be going,” Rowland said, standing. He gathered Ethel Bruce wanted to speak to him, but he couldn’t see that they’d have the opportunity to do so alone. “I am sorry I interrupted your evening.”
“At least you got some sleep,” Wilfred said, handing Rowland his hat. He considered his brother critically. “You’re looking well, Rowly… rested.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Sinclair,” Ethel said, rushing to the small writing desk in the corner of the drawing room. “I must send a note to Miss Higgins. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to take it for me.”
“Of course.” Rowland waited as she opened the desk and scribbled onto a sheet of crested stationery. She slipped the leaf into an envelope and handed it to him as he took his leave.
Although Rowland suspected the note was for him, he waited, returning to Claridge’s with it unopened. The sculptress was still up playing cards with Clyde, and Milton was reading the paper.
“Looks like things are going awry at Wilfred’s conference,” Milton said, showing him the article. “It seems Roosevelt has rejected the plan for stabilisation.”
“The what?”
“It’s what the conference has been about… Bruce explained it in lurid and exacting detail if you remember.”
“My mind might have been elsewhere.”
“I wish all of me had been elsewhere.”
Rowland smiled. “So, what does it mean? Is the conference over?”
“As far as I can gather everybody’s pretty cross at the Americans. This chap Cordell Hull looks like a bit of a fool but they’re all going to press on and hope the Americans come around. Didn’t Wilfred mention it?”
“He didn’t have much of an opportunity, and it’s not really the kind of thing he’d discuss with me.”
“Did you talk to him about Allie?” Edna enquired anxiously.
Rowland nodded. “Bruce has agreed to arrange an audience with Entwhistle as soon as possible. In the meantime we’ll try to gle
an as much as we can about who else may have had reason to kill Pierrepont.”
“And we’ll go see Allie tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Rowland extracted the envelope from his breast pocket and passed it to Edna. “From Mrs. Bruce.”
Edna was clearly surprised. She extracted the deckled stationery, reading it quickly.
“What does it say?”
“It’s about the American,” Edna replied, her eyes still on the page.
“What American?”
“The woman Lord Pierrepont was seeing—apparently her name is Mrs. Ernest Simpson.”
20
SPENT FOUR WEEKS IN A GAOL
Feels Sorry For Prisoners
NOW LECTURES
For four weeks Miss Clara Codd, who is lecturing in the Theosophical Society’s rooms, was merely “Number Nine” in Holloway Gaol. She was arrested during the memorable Suffragette raid on the House of Commons…
Prison Garments: Once in Holloway, I was ordered to remove my clothes and to don some extraordinary prison garments. The dress was of coarse material, and pleated so that it would fit any figure; thin women had to tie it round their waists. I was given a blue deck duster for my neck and another for my waist. That was to be used as a pocket handkerchief. Over my head I drew a three-cornered handkerchief, tied with strings.
On my first day I was put in solitary confinement in my 10 x 10 cell, alone with a Bible and a hymn book…
Monotonous Life: The monotony was the worst feature. We knew every day exactly what we were to eat and to do… Twice a week we had a long address from the prison chaplain. I remember that up in the gallery at the rear of the prison chapel was a red screen behind which a young woman, condemned to death, used to sit. I think she had murdered her baby. She was surrounded by wardresses, and we were never allowed to see her face. It was a pitiful reminder.
The Mail, 1933
His Majesty’s Prison Holloway was a foreboding structure; its grand turreted gateway, a gothic fortress built, not to keep the enemy out, but securely within. It had been constructed midway through the previous century, designed with all the menace that Victorian architecture could conjure. The prison’s gallows were housed in a separate hanging shed while a new condemned suite was being built. It was in this place that Allie Dawe was being held.
George Allen accompanied them into the facility and demanded “habeas corpus”. They were duly processed and searched and then taken to a reception cell. Rowland noticed a look pass between one of the wardens and the solicitor. He assumed that rules were being bent to allow them all in to see Allie. Whether it was by virtue of Allen’s reputation or some direct compensation, Rowland didn’t know, or much care.
The women’s prison was, to say the least, grim. It had been built at a time when punishment and deterrence were held above all things and now age and wear added to the misery which rose with the damp in its walls. It smelled of decay, inadequate plumbing and despair.
At first it seemed Allie would do nothing but cry. The prison uniform made her seem smaller and younger than ever. Rowland moved to comfort her but the guard reminded him that there was to be no physical contact with the prisoner, so they were forced to sit across the table and watch. After a time, when he could stand it no longer, Rowland reached across and grabbed her hand.
The guard started, but pulled back when Allen cleared his throat.
“Allie, listen to me,” Rowland said. “We will help you. You mustn’t lose hope.”
Gradually Allie’s manner became calmer, hiccoughing and wiping her face with the coarse fabric of her sleeve. Rowland handed her his handkerchief.
“Allie,” Edna said gently. “Do you know a great deal about your uncle’s business affairs?”
“Yes… I think… I don’t know what he didn’t tell me.”
“Were you aware he’d bequeathed his estate to you and your mother?”
“Yes. We were his only family.”
“But there wasn’t anything, was there?” Clyde said almost hopefully. If there was no estate, Allie had no motive. “Lord Pierrepont was in terrible debt.”
Allie shook her head. “One of Uncle Alfred’s investments came in not long before he died. He paid back everything. He and Lord Erroll were talking about a new venture in Kenya, and he’d just given a hundred guineas to the Sir Oswald.”
“Sir Oswald… as in Mosley?”
Allie nodded.
“Pierrepont was a member of the B.U.F.?” Milton asked.
Allie looked away from the poet, her lip trembled. “Not officially…”
“But he made donations? He must have been sympathetic?” Milton persisted.
Allie nodded, crying again.
Rowland waited as she blew her nose.
“Allie, do you know from where exactly the money came?” Rowland asked.
“No, Uncle Alfred seemed to have money in so many ventures. I wasn’t a lot of use to him really. He was just trying to keep me from a career on the stage… you know… singing.”
“Did you know your uncle was in the process of changing his will?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Did you know he was married, Allie?”
Allie laughed, and then gasped, startled, by the sound which seemed so out of place in the cell. “Uncle Alfred? I don’t think so, Mr. Sinclair. He didn’t act like he was married.”
The guard began to tap his watch. Rowland tried one last question. “Allie, do you know how he acquired the particular garment he was wearing when he died?”
“From Mother, I suppose.” Her eyes welled again as she realised their time was nearly up. Edna defied the guard, walking around the table to embrace the terrified girl. “We’ll get you out of here, Allie. You just be strong.”
Allie clung to the sculptress until the surly guard removed her bodily; she wept inconsolably as he led her out.
Edna wiped her own eyes. “Rowly…”
“I know,” he said. He pulled Allen aside. “You do whatever you can for her while she’s in this wretched place. I don’t care what it costs.”
The solicitor nodded. “I’ll have a quiet word.”
They left Holloway in a troubled and sombre mood.
Milton shook his head angrily. “She doesn’t belong in there. Poor, daft kid.”
“What now, Rowly?” Clyde asked.
Rowland checked his watch. The conference would have already resumed sitting, meaning Bruce and Wilfred would have left Ennismore Gardens. “Ed, why don’t you and Clyde call on Ethel Bruce. Tell her what we know about Euphemia Thistlewaite and see what she can find out through the Dominion wives. Milt and I will meet you back at Claridge’s.”
“And where are you going?”
“To Watts. I want to talk to the steward—George. We need to find out more about this sword which Allie allegedly used to impale her uncle.”
The gentlemen’s club was quieter than Rowland remembered. Perhaps because it was too early for luncheon: the hijinks of dining aristocrats had not yet begun.
The steward remembered him. “Are you here as the guest of a member, sir?”
“No, Mr. Playfair, I came to speak with you.”
Playfair seemed a little startled by Rowland’s use of his actual name.
“I’m afraid I cannot admit you without the sponsorship of a member, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland’s tone hardened a little. “All things considered, I think you might make an exception in this case.”
“Impossible, sir. Our membership values—”
“—discretion, I imagine,” Rowland finished. “It’s jolly good luck that the tawdry details of Lord Pierrepont’s demise have not reached the newspapers, don’t you think, Playfair?”
The steward studied him frostily, evidently assessing the risk.
Rowland stared out his threat.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Playfair asked eventually.
“I’d like to see where the sword that was used to kill Lord Pierrepont was normally
housed.”
Playfair glanced at Milton. “I can make an exception for you, Mr. Sinclair, but I’m afraid your friend will have to wait here. The club rules are very strict.”
“I don’t care—”
“It’s all right, Rowly.” Milton placed a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m not sure I want to be seen inside one of these places… my reputation, you know. I’ll wait for you here.”
Playfair stopped to glare at the poet, before sniffing haughtily and motioning Rowland through the door which led to the establishment’s inner sanctum.
The club was much larger than it seemed from the street. The billiards room housed three full-size tables and, along the far wall, what appeared to be a trophy cabinet full of artefacts and trinkets donated by Watts’ illustrious members. The room was currently empty.
Over the yawning fireplace hung a sabre. Another bracket above it was empty. “The sword in question was identical to the one that remains,” Playfair said curtly. “Donated by a member who served in the cavalry during the Great War.”
“May I?” Rowland asked, pausing as he reached for the hilt.
Playfair inclined his head.
Rowland was tall but still he had to stretch to take the sword off the lower bracket. It was lighter than he expected.
“Sinclair, isn’t it?” Josslyn Hay, the Earl of Erroll, appeared suddenly in the doorway. “I say, I didn’t realise you were a member.”
“I’m not,” Rowland replied smoothly. “Just contemplating joining. George here is giving me the tour.”
Playfair looked panicked. Rowland replaced the sabre.
Hay looked questioningly at the steward, but did not challenge the claim.
“I take it you’ve heard about Miss Dawe’s predicament?” Rowland watched Hay’s face carefully.
Hay shrugged. “Dreadful, dreadful business. Who would have thought little Allie was Jack the Ripper in a frock!”
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Page 18
