Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  “Perhaps she will, perhaps she would prefer to hang than have the fact known.”

  Rowland shook his head. “No, that’s insane. She’s terrified. Lady Pierrepont told you this?”

  “It seems the love of my sister reformed Lord Pierrepont and he regretted the contemptible crimes of his past. Of course, the burden of his confession has all but destroyed poor Euphemia.”

  Rowland studied his host. “I called on your sister at Bletchley Park.”

  “I know. You have clearly seen then what this horror has done to her emotional state.”

  “I have also seen her physical state, Lord Harcourt.”

  Harcourt bristled. “Euphemia is not worldly. She is an innocent, brilliant but naive.” He paused, exhaling like an angry bull. “As I said, Pierrepont was not always a gentleman! He did, however, do the right thing by Euphemia in the end.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Lord Harcourt?”

  “As you might have gathered, Mr. Sinclair, there are several scandals buried with Lord Pierrepont.” Harcourt sat forward on the very edge of his seat. “It’s probably best for all concerned if they remain buried.”

  “I doubt it’s best for Miss Dawe.”

  “I feel sorry for the girl. I do. But she did kill a man, Sinclair. Revealing the circumstances will just make her more notorious, more reviled. And it will ruin my sister as well.”

  “What exactly are you asking, sir?”

  “I’m asking you to leave these sordid matters well alone, to realise that your meddling will only make it worse—destroy two women instead of one.” Harcourt looked him directly in the eye. “I love my sister, Sinclair. She has never been strong… my brother and I have protected her all our lives. If this comes out it will ruin her and her unborn child and I fear her mental health will never recover. I know you have some attachment to Miss Dawe but I am given to understand the Crown case against her is clear and robust. This is not a miscarriage of justice but a simply a sorry state of affairs.” Harcourt put his cards on the table. “If you will leave this alone, I give you my word as a gentleman that I will use all my influence to ensure Miss Dawe’s sentence is as lenient as the law will allow.”

  Rowland pulled back. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then two young women will be destroyed and one will probably hang. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal or immoral, Mr. Sinclair, simply to allow justice to run its natural course without dragging into public view shameful secrets that will have no impact whatsoever on the outcome of these tragic circumstances.”

  Rowland shook his head. “I don’t believe Miss Dawe murdered Lord Pierrepont.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate the fairer sex, Mr. Sinclair. They are not so prone to overt displays of violence as we men but, backed into a corner, they will fight as fiercely as any man.”

  Rowland hesitated. Edna had fired a gun in his defence. Of course, she had only managed to shoot him, but that was beside the point. And in Munich his life had been saved by the fact that a young woman had killed his attacker. Could he be sure what Allie would do, how far she would go, to defend herself?

  “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.

  27

  NEW SCHEME

  Scotland Yard

  CRIME DETECTION

  LONDON, October 25

  The Home Office has decided to speed up the detection of crime by the establishment of a national detective force at Scotland Yard, according to the “News-Chronicle”. At present Scotland Yard officers are unable to investigate a crime that is committed outside London unless they are specially requested to do so by the local authorities. The new scheme will permit an immediate investigation by Scotland Yard men anywhere.

  The Courier Mail, 1933

  Visiting Allie Dawe proved difficult. The accus
ed 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?”

  Edna stroked the hair away from his face. “Oh Rowly, you didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  Milton poured him another drink.

  “Did she deny it, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “She was too distraught to deny or confirm anything. All I managed to do was make her hysterical.”

  “What do you think, Rowly?”

  Rowland dropped his head back against the chair. “I don’t know. If what Harcourt thinks is true, then I couldn’t blame her for killing Pierrepont… but the only criticism she’s ever made of her uncle was that he wouldn’t let her sing.”

  Milton shrugged. “Perhaps she’s a better actress than we’re giving her credit for.”

  Rowland rubbed the back of his neck as he met the poet’s eyes. “Do you really think so?”

  “God, no!” Milton dropped into the couch with his own drink. “If it were some messy, imp
ulsive shooting—maybe. But this was organised—tidy in a way. I hate to sound like old Murcott, but I’d put money on her having nothing to do with it.”

  Rowland and Clyde were alone at breakfast. Milton and Edna had left early for Holloway to check on Allie Dawe and to see if they could smooth things over a little.

  “Rowly…” Clyde said as he picked up the paper and took in the cover, “I think they might have found that bag you lost.”

  He handed The Times to Rowland. The headline “Grisly Discovery at Station” appeared on the front page. Apparently a Gladstone bag had been left unattended at Kings Cross Station. It had been found by a Mrs. Gladys Aberfoil who had opened the bag and become hysterical. A gentleman traveller who came to her aid had fainted at the macabre sight. A third person had screamed “murder” and begun a general panic on the platform. It was not until the police arrived that it was established that the head was not the result of a recent decapitation, but made of wax. Scotland Yard was investigating.

  Rowland cursed. “I suppose we’ll have to claim it.”

  “I don’t see why,” Clyde replied, reaching over to take the raspberry jam from Rowland and apply it to a slice of buttered toast. “We don’t need Pierrepont back. Doesn’t Scotland Yard have a museum where they put items like him?”

  “The Black Museum,” Rowland said, smiling. “It’s probably not the worst place Pierrepont could end up.”

  “There you go… everybody happy. And we don’t have to explain why you’re wandering about London with a head in a bag.”

  Rowland was at least halfway convinced to let well enough be, when Menzies interrupted them. “Excuse me, sir, an Inspector Entwhistle to see you.”

  Entwhistle strode in before Rowland had a chance to respond to the announcement—in his hand, a Gladstone bag. Rowland and Clyde stood hastily.

  Entwhistle dropped the bag on the table between them. “I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland nodded, thanked him and introduced Clyde.