Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  “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.”

  29

  WINE AND ALCOHOL

  FRENCH DOCTOR’S PRONOUNCEMENT

  To the Editor.

  Sir—On my return from a holiday on the Murray I find on my office table a number of prohibitionists’ letters dealing with the question of “Wine and Alcohol”. If the Rev. W. G. Clarke knew his subject, he would know that his quotations are in favour of wine. What the French call “alcoholiques” is best explained by Dr. L. Landouzy, Sen., member of the Faculty of Medicine, Paris, who said, “I refuse to range myself on the side of teetotallers, who, under the pretext of the abuse made of alcohol, unite in their uncompromising anathema to the alcoholism contained in wine. I refuse as a physiologist, a doctor, and dietist, to permit the proscription of this marvellous wealth of the soil of France—the wine.”

  H. L. PENFOLD HYLAND.

  The Advertiser, 1933

  The terrace in Belgravia was shut tight. It was a house of scandal now. The old master was dead and Miss Allie Dawe had been arrested for his murder. Children threw stones and pointed until their nannies dragged them to the other side of the street.

  The motor taxi pulled up and Rowland and Edna stepped out. They knocked several times before the door was finally answered, opened just a crack at first until the housekeeper recognised the young man who had brought Miss Dawe home before.

  She let them in. It seemed the old housekeeper was the only servant who remained. Still the house was spotless if unnervingly quiet.

  “Mrs. Dawe is in the sitting room,” the servant said curtly. “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll see if she’s at home to visitors.”

  And so they waited. Less than a minute later, the housekeeper returned shaking her head.

  Rowland had expected as much.

  “Nonsense!” Edna declared. “Allie is in gaol and this is important.” She side-stepped the housekeeper and strode towards the drawing room from whence the servant had come. Rowland removed his hat and followed.

  The housekeeper cried “Stop!” and ran after them complaining loudly.

  Mrs. Dawe was reclined on a pale blue chaise lounge with a bottle of Scotch and a glass. There was an empty bottle on the floor beside her. Rowland could not recall having thought much about the nature of her illness before, but the scene did not surprise him. The loyal housekeeper was mortified, demanding they leave.

  “Right, then.” Edna removed her gloves and put down her bag. She turned to the housekeeper. “If you’d be kind enough to show me to the kitchen, I’ll make Mrs. Dawe some coffee… Do you have coffee?”

  For a while the housekeeper waivered and then, regaining her composure, she said, “Of course, we have coffee.” She sniffed. “Do not trouble yourself, madam, I can see to it.”

  She shot Rowland a black look before she left the room.

  “Take the bottle away from her, Rowly,” Edna instructed, retrieving a couple of cushions from the armchair. She pushed the stupefied woman quite gently into a more upright position using the cushions to steady her.

  Mrs. Dawe resisted the removal of her alcohol but was really in no condition to prevent it. Rowland blanched at the concentration of whisky on her breath. When the housekeeper returned, the sculptress poured a cup of black coffee and, blowing on it to cool the steaming liquid, insisted Mrs. Dawe drink it. After the second cup she asked the housekeeper to bring some bread and butter for her mistress and then, with the same gentle firmness, ensured Mrs. Dawe ate.

  Rowland watched a little awestruck by Edna’s gracious command of a very difficult situation.

  She caught his eye. “Mama used to drink a little before she died,” she said, smiling wistfully.

  After an hour or so Allie’s mother was sober enough to weep. It took another two hours before she was coherent enough to make any sense at all. All that time Edna plied her with coffee and water and food and spoke to her of Allie.

  When finally the effects of the whisky had been sufficiently diluted they spoke to her of Pierrepont’s murder. Edna kept the smelling salts on hand in case Mrs. Dawe attempted to escape by fainting.

  “Mrs. Dawe,” Rowland said, “can you tell us how Lord Pierrepont might have obtained your nightie?”

  “My frilly yellow nightie,” she sobbed. “I always felt so beautiful in it… it has ribbon roses embroidered on the shoulders.”

  “Why was Lord Pierrepont wearing it?” Rowland persisted. He couldn’t recall noticing the ribbon roses but he wasn’t looking for embroidery at the time.

  “He asked me if he could have it—we were in love, you know.” She stopped blinking an
d steadied herself. “Bunky thought people would talk if he married his dead brother’s wife… so he asked for the nightie so he could feel close to me. He was such a gentleman.” She started to cry again. “I didn’t know he was going to wear it.”

  “Did Allie know you and Lord Pierrepont were in love?” Rowland asked, frowning.

  “Yes, of course. She thought it was wonderful… truly wonderful.”

  Rowland glanced at Edna. This revelation just made matters worse for Allie. She now had another reason to have killed Pierrepont.

  “Mrs. Dawe,” Edna asked patting the woman’s hand, “did you know that Lord Pierrepont had married?”

  “Oh yes… I was an actress once you know… I had so many suitors…”

  “Were you disappointed? That Lord Pierrepont had married someone else?”

  Mrs. Dawe closed her eyes. Edna reached for the coffee.

  “I suppose it’s all right to say now,” she said suddenly. “He was about to have that marriage annulled.”

  “Why?” Rowland asked, hoping she was still drunk enough to be indiscreet but sober enough to be useful.

  “Because we were in love of course.”

  “But then why did he marry Euphemia Thistlewaite in the first place?”

  “Because he was the kindest man and her child needed a father!” Mrs. Dawe clapped her hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that… I’m not supposed to know that.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Dawe, we already knew about the pregnancy,” Edna said.

  Allie Dawe’s mother slumped into tears again. “My poor Allie… Why do they think she’d do this?”

  Rowland tried to bring her back. “What do you know about Lord Pierrepont’s marriage, Mrs. Dawe?”

  “Nothing… nothing at all, but that he thought it a mistake… that he wanted out of the contract.”

  “The contract?”

  “The marriage contract.”

  “Mrs. Dawe,” Edna asked, “you do know that we’re trying to help Allie?”

  “Yes, I suppose you are.”

  “Is there anything you can think of which might help us to discover who might have wanted Lord Pierrepont dead?”

  She shook her head. “Oh God, I need a drink.”

  Edna poured her another cup of coffee.

  Mrs. Dawe sighed. She held the cup in both hands. “He said he’d been cheated. In the days before he died, Bunky was angry and out of sorts. He’d only say he’d been cheated.”

  Rowland applied the diluted paint in loose broad strokes, pulling out the shapes of two men and a woman at cards. His models talked of Allie Dawe, Euphemia Thistlewaite, Josslyn Hay and every other person who’d crossed their paths in England since they’d arrived, as they attempted to sift the sands of Pierrepont’s murder. Rowland painted not because he wanted to be distracted, but because the brush and canvas focused his mind in a way that nothing else could.

  According to Mrs. Dawe, Pierrepont thought he’d been cheated. He’d spoken of a contract; was he talking about his dealings with the Earl of Erroll, or the marriage to Euphemia Thistlewaite… or both? And there was still the question of the elusive Simpsons. Ethel Bruce had promised to contact her networks as soon as Wilfred and Stanley Bruce departed for the economic conference the next morning. Until then, all they could do was wait.

  “I wonder what interest the Ministry of Health has in Pierrepont?” Rowland mused out loud. Entwhistle had said the civil servant, Asquith, was from the Ministry of Health.

  “Perhaps it’s because Pierrepont’s a peer. He was probably on some board or other connected with health,” Milton suggested.

  Rowland nodded. That was possible, but for some reason Asquith’s interest bothered him.

  The following morning, Edna and Clyde set off to Holloway Prison to visit Allie Dawe. They returned with the news that she was still refusing to see Rowland but had become involved with a gardening project being conducted within the penitentiary. It seemed to have lifted her spirits a little, and of this news Rowland was glad. He feared most that Allie would fall into despair.

  The telephone call finally came from Ethel Bruce at about midday. “Mr. and Mrs. Simpson will be having afternoon tea with some friends at the Ritz today at three sharp!” she said triumphantly. “Lady Furness will be among the party so you will need to resume the roles you took at the Winslow-Scotts. Good luck, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll be waiting to hear all about it!”

  Edna disappeared to change from the sober attire she had worn into Holloway into something more appropriate and cheerful for a sunny afternoon drinking tea at the Ritz. Rowland checked his clothes for paint and, finding only the smallest drops of vermillion on his waistcoat, decided that he would do. He was after all holding himself out as an artist. Checking his watch, he asked the butler to place a call through to the Ritz and make an appropriate reservation for afternoon tea.

  “So how do you plan to orchestrate an introduction to Mrs. Simpson, Rowly?” Milton adjusted his cravat just so, and positioned a beret over the bandage on his head.

  “If Thelma Furness is there, I’ll simply walk over and say ‘Hello again’… otherwise we may just have to become creative.”

  Edna emerged in a dress of rose beige silk. The colour brought out the green of her eyes. Her gloves were chocolate brown to match her hat and shoes. Rowland had always considered the sculptress too natural a spirit to look particularly sophisticated, but today she was breathtakingly chic.

  She smiled—perhaps with too much warmth for the detachment required of the truly cosmopolitan—but Rowland thought her enchanting.

  “Well, we’ll have the attention of all the men at the Ritz,” Clyde murmured with his own note of admiration.

  A knock at the suite’s door surprised them. The arrival of visitors was usually preceded by a telephone call from the reception to ask if they were receiving guests.

  Menzies answered the door. “Please come in, sir.”

  “Quex!” Rowland said as the admiral strode in. “What are you doing here?”

  “You are a hard man to please, cousin Rowland—unhappy when I send for you, unhappy when I call personally.” He shook Rowland’s hand and nodded approvingly at the new cast. “Glad to see you’re on the mend, old chap.”

  Rowland introduced Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair to Edna, and then Clyde and Milton to the admiral. Hugh Sinclair greeted them all congenially, raising a brow at Milton’s beret and telling Edna she was a vision.

  Rowland glanced at his watch. “I’m loathe to be rude, Quex, but I’m afraid we have another engagement.”

  “You and your companions are not going anywhere, Rowly.”

  30

  SPIES OVER EUROPE

  Startling Revelations

  … The trial by court martial recently of a young British officer on the charge of espionage calls attention automatically to a startling state of affairs in Europe to-day. The truth is that practically all the Continental countries are spending more on espionage than before the War.

  … More women are employed in the business of international spying to-day than ever before. Women who undertake the work think it an honour to accept great risks for the sake of their country. At the same time, the pay is excellent and liberal expenses are allowed.

  The Central Queensland Herald, 1933

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “Now, before you become overzealous,” Hugh Sinclair said calmly, “you should know that I have four men waiting outside the door and the authority to arrest you all should it become necessary.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Rowland pushed past his cousin and flung open the door. The four uniformed men who had abducted him weeks ago outside Allie Dawe’s house, barred the doorway.

  Rowland slammed the door, furious.

  “What the hell do you want, Quex?”

  “I intend to prevent you making rather an embarrassing mistake, Rowland.”

  “What mistake?”

  “Shall we sit down? I’m afraid
you will not be having tea at the Ritz. Perhaps your man here can organise something palatable instead.”

  “Very good, sir,” Menzies said, inclining his head.

  The butler’s acquiescence to the admiral’s authority only made Rowland more incensed.

  “How did you know we’re going to the Ritz?”

  “Sit down and I’ll explain.”

  Rowland didn’t move.

  Eventually, Edna sat and pulled Rowland down beside her. “I suspect we do not have any choice, Rowly.”

  Hugh Sinclair smiled, motioning Clyde and Milton into armchairs before he commandeered one himself.

  “I wonder why you and your friends are having tea at the Ritz this particular afternoon?” he said.

  Nobody responded, perplexed that he would know their plans.

  “Could it be because a certain Mr. and Mrs. Simpson are also having tea at that establishment and that you wish to talk with them?”

  “Obviously you already know,” Rowland replied. “What has it got to do with you?”

  “You’re on the wrong track, Rowland. Lord Pierrepont was not having an affair with Mrs. Simpson, although I concede that he had gone to some lengths to make it look that way.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he is loyal to the Crown.”

  “I don’t follow you, Quex.”

  “I think I might,” Milton interrupted, his dark eyes narrowing. “Would I be wrong to suggest that Pierrepont was covering for Mrs. Simpson’s actual lover?” He tapped his forehead thoughtfully. “Someone who warrants a rear admiral to be mobilised in defence of his reputation…?” Milton slapped the arm of his chair. “Good Lord! King George is having an affair with the Simpson woman!”

  Hugh Sinclair stared at the poet in horror. “Most certainly not! The King has never even laid eyes upon her!”

  “Then what are you all working so hard to hide?” Rowland demanded.

  “The King’s sons don’t always demonstrate the restraint and good judgement of their father,” the rear admiral said carefully.

  “Which son?” Edna asked. “Not Prince George?”

  Rowland met Hugh Sinclair’s eye. “No. The indiscretions of the youngest prince hardly warrant your personal involvement do they, Quex?” He recalled the party at the Winslow-Scotts—the absence of Mrs. Simpson and Lady Furness’ royal lover. “It’s someone a good bit more important than George… Is the Prince of Wales having an affair with this Mrs. Simpson?”