Rowland could hear very little traffic, though whether that was because of their location or the time, he was unsure. Cramped, with just the vibrating floor of the Cadet between him and the vehicle’s whining differential, and with Harcourt’s feet on his chest and a gun’s muzzle pointed at his head, he found it difficult to judge the passing of time. Each minute stretched into a painful, tense age.
Quite unexpectedly, Asquith brought the Vauxhall Cadet to a stop. Rowland cursed silently… the bonds were no looser—the mannequin-maker’s plaster cast had held.
Harcourt pulled him out of the car. It must have been late. There was nobody about at all and the moon was full and high. After the dark floor of the Cadet, Rowland’s eyes were quick to adjust.
They were by the River Thames, near the entrance to a bridge. Rowland attempted to orient himself… there were so many bridges across the Thames. This one appeared to be undergoing some kind of maintenance and was closed to vehicles. The walkway for foot traffic was unbarred—not that there was any at this time of night. Then suddenly he recognised it: The Waterloo Bridge. They were standing on the Victoria Embankment.
The other motor car from the alley pulled up behind the Cadet. Rowland’s spirits rose. They’d seen he was in trouble. Harcourt forced him onto his knees with the gun to his head as the men emerged from the vehicle.
They barely glanced at Rowland, moving only to clap Harcourt heartily on the back, greeting him with the words “Epi To Beltion”.
Rowland groaned. These men were accomplices not saviours.
Harcourt smirked, obviously enjoying his disappointment. “This, Mr. Sinclair, is the Kalokagathia—the best of humanity working to make humanity better.”
Still gagged Rowland could say nothing. All hope of breaking away was fading fast.
Asquith grabbed a carpetbag out of the trunk. Almost ceremoniously, he and Harcourt hooked their arms through Rowland’s, which were still bound in front of him, and dragged him to his feet. They walked him onto the deserted bridge with the five men of the Kalokagathia following closely behind. Once past the second recess they stopped.
Silently, with military order, they formed an arc around Rowland and backed him against the wall of the parapet. Asquith cut the bonds on his hands. The gag, they left in place.
“Undress, Mr. Sinclair,” Harcourt commanded.
Rowland stared at him, sure that he had heard incorrectly.
“You heard me, Mr. Sinclair, remove all your garments please.”
Still Rowland did not move, shocked into a kind of fearless disbelief.
Harcourt backhanded him across the face. “Remove your clothes, Sinclair, or I swear Diogenes will remove them with his knife… in which case you may lose a yard of skin, as well.”
Asquith pushed the blade against Rowland’s throat to emphasise his brother’s point. Rowland recoiled as the shallow cut reddened his collar with blood.
“Now,” Harcourt warned.
Slowly, Rowland slipped off his jacket and then his shirt, and finally his trousers and shoes until he stood all but completely naked in the icy wind on Waterloo Bridge. Furious and cold, he watched Harcourt and Asquith, wondering what kind of perversion they had in mind and looking desperately for any opportunity to escape.
Asquith surveyed the Australian’s body thoughtfully, clearly but dispassionately assessing what he saw.
“In some ways he proves our case, does he not, Diogenes?” Harcourt said, moving to stand beside Rowland. His tone became professorial and he poked at his prisoner like some kind of exhibit. “The stature, the broad shoulders and lean, well-muscled frame of the Antipodean is, without question or doubt, the result of selective breeding. Only the strongest, fittest inmates were selected for transportation, you see and, once in the colony, the hardships of establishing a settlement in such an inhospitable wilderness picked off the weaker specimens.”
Convinced now that he was among lunatics, Rowland attempted to pull off the gag so he could swear at his captor but Harcourt was not about to have his sermon disrupted.
“Leave it, Mr. Sinclair,” he said, pointing his gun. “There will be time for your final words very soon. In the meantime, I will thank you not to interrupt!” Regathering his instructive poise, he continued. “Distance ensured that the blood of inferior peoples did not contaminate the superior genetics which had been established in the colony, and so we have here a strong, well-proportioned product of positive eugenics.”
The Kalokagathia nodded in studious agreement. At that moment, Rowland would have traded his soul for the return of his clothes.
Harcourt paused as he considered the swastika of cigarette burns on Rowland’s chest. “Interesting,” he said, prodding the scar with his revolver. “A drinking game, perhaps… they are a somewhat primitive culture in many respects.” He turned back to the Kalokagathia to complete the impromptu lecture. “Of course, convicts were selected for their physical strength and not their intellectual or moral powers—which has left us with a well-built monkey with criminal inclinations.”
Too far. Rowland lunged for Harcourt. He managed to belt him once before he was brought down and subdued.
Harcourt mopped his bloody nose with a handkerchief. “And so you see, gentleman,” he said, looking distastefully at Rowland, “the monkey proves my point.” He motioned to his brother.
Asquith opened the carpetbag and took from it a lacy pink evening gown and a fox stole. He held it out to Rowland.
Harcourt smiled. “We’d like you to put that on, Mr. Sinclair.”
33
THEIR OWN RABBITS
Self-Sacrifice In Cause Of Science
By C.W.C.
A RECENT New York cable concerning Dr. Alan Blair’s self-imposed agony when he allowed a poisonous spider to bite his finger, draws attention to the fact that such acts of noble self-sacrifice in the cause of medical science are not rare.
Dr. Houston, of the Metropolitan Water Board of London, drank raw Thames water, which contained approximately 218 million typhoid bacilli, to test a theory. “Every week there are similar instances of self-sacrifice in the interests of science but, as a rule, we hear nothing about them,” Messrs. Bridges and Tiltman say.
The Advertiser, 1933
Rowland reached around and pulled off the gag. Nobody stopped him on this occasion and he was able to speak for the first time in hours.
“What?” he said hoarsely. “What did you say?”
“We couldn’t help but notice how awkward the constabulary find dealing with a man in women’s attire. You’re going to put on this gown, Mr. Sinclair, and then throw yourself into the Thames—but don’t worry, we’ll knock you unconscious first—it’ll all be very humane. When your corpse is found, certain assumptions will be made as to why you chose to take your own life. Most people will think it for the best and the matter will be closed and never spoken of again… So,” Harcourt raised his weapon, “put on the gown, Mr. Sinclair. I think the colour will most become you.”
“They’ll find you in the reeds looking like Hamlet’s Ophelia,” Asquith laughed.
“There’s no way my brother would believe—” Rowland began.
“Your brother will be so embarrassed he’ll bury you with as little fuss as possible,” Harcourt corrected.
Rowland gazed at the gun. He’d had enough now and rage supplanted fear and any form of caution. His voice seethed with fury. “You’re going to have to shoot me, Harcourt, because I’m not trying on your bloody trousseau!”
Harcourt’s face flushed. The forlorn bellow of a foghorn metered the stand-off.
“Very well, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure we can manage, between us, to dress yourselves. Any injuries will be, after all, attributed to your fall.” Harcourt waved his revolver and signalled his comrades. The Kalokagathia closed in.
“Hullo, there! Are you all right?” In the distance, torches cut through the fog ahead of the voice. Unsettled, Harcourt turned towards the sound.
Rowland acted decisivel
y, desperately, charging the Baron to the ground. The gun clattered onto the walkway.
“Get off, Sinclair!” Asquith discharged his own weapon in warning.
“You fool!” Harcourt turned upon his brother. “The whole world will hear that and descend upon us.”
Rowland took his chance to run, but the Kalokagathia had regrouped and he was effectively penned.
“Just shoot him!” Harcourt demanded, scrabbling to retrieve his own gun.
Asquith hesitated.
Trapped against the bridge’s parapet, Rowland could see only one way out… if it was a way out at all. Dying virtually naked was not ideal, but at least he wouldn’t be wearing a pink evening dress. He hit the ground as Harcourt fired. The bullet splintered the stone capping just above his head. Rowland acted then before Harcourt could take aim again, vaulting the wall and plunging into the turbulent waters of the murky Thames.
“Are you aware of whom Rowland was to meet here, Mr. Watson Jones?” Wilfred bent to inspect the white marks on the alley wall under the light of a torch.
“No, sir,” Clyde replied. “We’ve already enquired at The Bitter Pill but nobody could place the man he met there. But there was a woman who saw him disappear into this alley.”
“Why didn’t she call the police?”
“She thought he might have had some business in the alley.”
Wilfred frowned. “I see.”
“She was not the kind of woman to readily seek out the police in any case, Mr. Sinclair.” Clyde hesitated and then he asked, “I don’t suppose Admiral Sinclair—”
“No. Quex hasn’t got him this time.” Wilfred frowned once again and shook his head. He glanced over at Edna, who had broken down in Milton’s arms.
“And why is Miss Higgins crying?”
“She’s scared, Mr. Sinclair. Rowly’s luck has got to…” He exhaled. “I wish he’d simply waited for us.”
“I fear such prudence is beyond my brother,” Wilfred said angrily. “What were his movements this morning?”
“Rowly intended to speak to Mr. Wells. He hoped to find him at the economic conference.”
“Why did he wish to speak with him?”
“He planned to make enquiries about Lord Harcourt.”
“I can only presume this has to do with the Dawe girl?”
Clyde nodded.
Wilfred stared thoughtfully at the chalky marks on the brick wall. They were low down. Rowland must have been on the ground when his cast scraped the brick. “Dammit, Rowly,” he muttered. He turned back to Clyde. “The London Constabulary are scouring the immediate area but, to be honest, Mr. Watson Jones, he could be virtually anywhere.”
Rowland was unsure just how long he was below the surface. He had gasped water with the first shock of cold, before he remembered to hold his breath, to fight. There was a point when he became aware that he was no longer plunging downwards, deeper into darkness—that he had stopped. For what seemed an age, the water above him was too heavy, too pressing, to penetrate. And then some primal instinct to survive took hold and he began to claw his way to the surface.
His chest ached, his belly stung like it had been flayed, and he fought the urge to cough, to use his hands to block the screaming roar from his ears. He broke the surface vomiting water, his body cramping with cold as the current dragged him along. Unable to see anything Rowland began to doubt that he had come up after all… an overwhelming call to sleep beckoned him down into the Thames.
After a fruitless search in Soho, Wilfred had sent them back to Claridge’s in the early hours of the morning. They had no doubt that despite Wilfred’s often disapproving regard of his brother, he would search every room of Buckingham Palace itself, if that were what it took to find Rowland. Even so, they couldn’t just wait without trying something—anything—themselves.
It was fortunate then that Wilfred did not call five minutes later or they might have already left their hotel on a search of their own accord.
Clyde answered the telephone.
Wilfred’s voice was strained. “I’m afraid I have just received a report that a man jumped from the Waterloo Bridge a few hours ago.”
“Jumped? Rowly wouldn’t…”
“An officer… an officer advised me that Rowly’s jacket, with his pocketbook and that bloody sketchbook of his, were discovered on the walkway. There was some sort of affray on the bridge… a gun was fired several times.”
Clyde felt ill, sensing Milton’s and Edna’s hopeful eyes upon him. They thought it was good news.
“They’ll drag the river at first light, Mr. Watson Jones.” Wilfred stopped for several moments. “I’m on my way to the Victoria Embankment, on the off-chance—”
Clyde interrupted Wilfred’s sentence. “We’ll meet you there, Mr. Sinclair.”
The beam of light caught him just as he was about to slip languidly back into the depths. A strong arm reached out and grabbed his shoulder. And then another set of arms and he was hoisted into the dinghy. He lay there, shivering violently and gagging the putrid river from his lungs. The men threw a rough blanket over him and the old soldier held his hand and spoke to him of salvation in case he should die before they reached the shore. “The Lord liveth; and blessed be my rock; and let the God of my salvation be exalted…”
Tea was the first thing other than cold of which Rowland became aware. Hot, sweet, tea in an enamel cup, being tipped carefully past his lips. He was wrapped in blankets, a hot water bottle against his chest. There was a soft supporting arm behind his head as the tea was pressed to his lips again. He drank obediently and the voice of the woman who tended him penetrated the fog of his mind.
“That’s right, pet. Drink. We thought the Lord had taken you for a while there when you first came in.”
The bouts of shivering were less violent now. Gradually, as he warmed, full consciousness returned, and with it a disjointed recollection of what had happened on the bridge.
Rowland stared at the old-fashioned bonnet, which framed the young woman’s plump rosy-cheeked face, secured in place by a wide blue ribbon. He felt he should recognise it somehow, but concentration was still fleeting.
The woman smiled warmly at him. He attempted to sit up, surprised by how much every part of him ached.
“Where am I, madam?” he asked, turning his head to take in his surroundings. He was in a small room attached to what seemed to be a dormitory. The walls were painted grey and green. There was a vacant bed next to his. Through the open doorway he could see at least fifty iron cots crammed into the adjoining hall in rows so tight that one would be able to touch the occupant of the neighbouring bed simply by reaching out. Almost every cot was occupied.
A few men gathered about the doorway between the dormitory and the small room, watching him curiously. Others went about their business or slept.
“Welcome to the Salvation Army Hostel for Men… in Blackfriars.”
Rowland placed the bonnet then—the Salvation Army. Somehow he’d found his way into the care of the Salvation Army. “I must make a telephone call…”
“Don’t try to get up yet,” the woman cautioned looking at him strangely. “I’ve sent someone to find you some suitable clothes from the donation box.”
“Yes, of course,” Rowland murmured remembering he’d left his clothes on Waterloo Bridge. He was recovered enough to feel embarrassed about his state of undress. Awkwardly, he introduced himself.
“Corps Cadet Martha Pratchett at your service,” his nurse replied with enthusiasm, as she jotted his details on a form.
“I’m most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Pratchett. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.”
Martha Pratchett studied him sternly in response. “I must say, Mr. Sinclair, you don’t look or sound down and out… and you don’t seem particularly despondent.”
“I’m not,” Rowland said, puzzled that she would expect him to be so.
“Then why would you try to end it all?” she cried passionately.
<
br /> “I didn’t,” Rowland replied, alarmed. Several of the men in the other room had looked up and were now listening intently.
“They said you jumped from the bridge.”
“Yes… but only because people were shooting at me.”
“Shooting?” Corps Cadet Martha Pratchett put her hands on her hips and regarded him in a way that made her scepticism clear. “Well, that may be, but surely you knew full well that you’d most certainly die jumping into the Thames with naught but your undergarments on!”
“But I didn’t die,” Rowland reminded her, “and I assure you the alternative was, by far, more grim!”
“Well, you are very lucky indeed that we found you. The army patrols that bridge, because of all the suicides, you see. We keep a small launch boat ready to help anyone who ends up in the water… though most of the poor souls have gone to explain themselves to the Lord before we can fish them out.”
“I am very grateful,” Rowland said sincerely. “But I do need to get in contact with—”
“That can wait—I’m not sure you’re ready to face the world, yet,” Martha replied, patting Rowland’s shoulder through the blankets. “Remember, Mr. Sinclair, it’s when the world is darkest that your light can shine the brightest.”
An old man in uniform came into the hall carrying a box under one arm. He greeted many of the men in the dormitory by name, making jokes and slapping the odd back as he wove through the narrow spaces between the beds towards the clinic in which Rowland lay.
“May I introduce your rescuer, Captain Leonard,” Martha said. “He pulled you out of the river with the good Lord’s help.”
The smiling captain dismissed Rowland’s gratitude. “It’s nice to get a live one ’casionally,” he said, placing the box down on the bed by Rowland. “You’ll find somethin’ to fit you in here, son… they won’t be too stylish, but they’re clean and paid fer.”
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Page 29
