Ambrose had recast his right arm the previous evening with the same efficiency and economy of plaster. Rowland could therefore grip the notebook easily or, if he chose, use his right hand to draw. He began a sketch of Martha Pratchett. The lines were soft and round as he captured the warmth and generosity of her conviction.
A pair of gentlemen walked into the waiting room. The elder was easily recognisable, even by Australians; and, since he was Spencer’s subject, not a surprising presence at Madame Tussaud’s. Winston Churchill, whose illustrious political career had floundered since the Conservatives had lost government in 1929, removed his bowler hat to reveal the barren terrain of his rather large head. The second man was younger, scholarly and deferential. Rowland guessed he was Churchill’s private secretary.
Churchill checked his pocket watch and realised he was early. Taking the club chair beside Rowland, he tapped his walking stick impatiently.
Rowland looked up from his sketch. “Good morning.”
“Yes, yes, good morning, good morning.” The politician looked at Rowland. “Are we acquainted, sir?”
“I don’t believe so.” Rowland introduced himself, and then his companions, to the former Chancellor of the Exchequer. Churchill in his turn introduced his secretary without actually permitting the man to say a word on his own account.
“Am I to understand, by the presence of so many Australians in this room,” Churchill said as he cut and lit a cigar, “that Mr. Spencer is planning some type of Antipodean display?”
“Not at all,” Rowland replied. “We aren’t here as subjects.”
Churchill scowled. “I expect I should be grateful that I won’t be required to queue for the dubious privilege of being a wax exhibit!” He tapped his stick irritably. “I do hope this won’t take long. Another five hundred bricks and my wall will be complete. I could lay two hundred bricks in the time I’m wasting here!”
Rowland’s brow rose. He really had nothing to offer on the subject of laying bricks. That the aristocratic Winston Churchill was building walls was surprising, but he supposed the politician had a lot of time on his hands these days.
“Mr. Spencer is, I understand, a very particular and talented artist, sir.” Rowland attempted instead to mitigate on Marriott Spencer’s behalf. “I’m sure the wait will be worthwhile.”
Churchill snorted.
“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay to mould me man?” Milton sighed. “Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?”
“That’s Milton, isn’t it?” Churchill said gruffly. “From Paradise Lost?”
Rowland smiled, relieved. Finally the appropriation of Milton which he and Edna had been expecting for weeks. Now they could all move on.
Milton grinned and winked at Rowland. “Thought I’d put you out of your misery, mate,” he whispered.
Rowland grimaced, realising he could no longer rely on what Milton was reading to help him pinpoint what exactly the poet was stealing.
Churchill was oblivious to this exchange as he peered over at Rowland’s notebook. “I see you are a rather accomplished artist yourself, Mr. Sinclair.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Mr. Sinclair—I have no reason to be unduly kind to you. May I?” He clenched the cigar between his teeth and put his hand out for the sketchbook.
“Certainly.”
Churchill looked thoughtfully at the sketch of Martha Pratchett. “Do you draw from memory or imagination, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Generally only what I see or have seen, Mr. Churchill.”
Churchill turned the pages, commenting occasionally on a particular picture, complimenting Rowland on the audacity of his style. He noted the absence of landscapes among the sketches. “I am myself quite captivated by the compositional challenge of a landscape,” he said, puffing on the cigar. Churchill expounded for a while on the aesthetic reward of painting the lie of the land, the subjugation of the canvas through a strategic assault with paint, to produce hills and trees with dazzling effect.
Rowland might have deferred in that part of the conversation to Clyde, who did paint landscapes, but it was not really a conversation. More a monologue. Milton returned to his newspaper.
When Churchill turned to the sketches which Rowland had made in Munich he became particularly intrigued. “I assume you were in Germany only recently?”
“Yes, we were.”
“And you saw all this?” Churchill asked, studying various drawings of brown-shirted Stormtroopers, of book burnings and rallies. The artist’s pencil had caught the rising nationalistic fervour in the eyes of Hitler’s people. The Englishman paused over a sketch of Unity Mitford, the young British aristocrat obsessed with the German Führer, whom Rowland had encountered in Munich.
“This is Unity, isn’t it?” Churchill said, surprised.
“Yes, I met Miss Mitford in Germany.”
“She’s a cousin of mine, did you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“Are you a Fascist, Mr. Sinclair? Fascism seems to have become fashionable among people your age. Unity is quite enamoured of it, I believe.”
“No, I am not a Fascist,” Rowland said coldly.
Perhaps realising he had offended the Australian, Churchill sat back and, after the tense silence that followed, tried to change the subject.
“Clearly, your injury does not inhibit your work, Mr. Sinclair,” he said nodding at the cast. “How did you damage yourself?”
Still smarting under the assumption that he was a Fascist, Rowland responded more bluntly and honestly than he might otherwise have. “Nazi Stormtroopers held me down and broke my arm because they didn’t like the way I painted.”
Slowly, Churchill pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Are you a Communist, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Would the punishment be appropriate if I were?” Rowland replied. “No, I’m not. Nor am I Jewish, Mr. Churchill, in case you also believe that to be reason enough to ignore what’s been happening in Germany!” Although aware that he was dealing harshly with Churchill, Rowland was—after weeks of listening to politicians make excuses for the Nazi atrocities, of having his concerns dismissed and ignored—unable to hold back.
Milton placed an old copy of The Guardian on the coffee table in front of Churchill, open at an article on the final speech given by Reich Minister Alfred Hugenberg at the London Economic Conference in June. The Nazi delegate had spoken of ending the Depression by allowing Germany to annex Northern Africa and Eastern Europe under the Third Reich.
“You will note, sir,” Churchill said, “that Herr Hitler has since sacked Hugenberg from the ministry.”
“Did Hitler sack him for the content of the speech or for letting the cat out of the bag?” Milton challenged.
“Some would say you sound like a warmonger, Mr. Isaacs,” Churchill pondered, though his tone was non-committal. “Herr Hitler says he wants peace… and my parliamentary colleagues believe that we can appease the Nazis.”
“Appease them? Rowly, show Mr. Churchill what else the SA did to you,” Milton said bitterly.
Rowland hesitated, a little weary of being asked to undress yet again, but he could see that they had Churchill’s attention. He loosened his tie, unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt, and exposed the swastika-shaped scar made up of dozens of cigarette burns.
Churchill flinched.
“Rowly’s not Jewish, he’s not a Communist, he’s not even impolite and they did that to him,” Milton said angrily. “After they broke his arm and just before they tried to shoot him. Rowly’s an Australian, a British citizen, so perhaps we shouldn’t all sit here comforted by the fact that this sort of thing happens to someone else… because I’m telling you, Mr. Churchill, the Nazis intend to burn their bloody cross onto more than just Rowly!”
Churchill’s secretary cleared his throat.
Marriott Spencer had emerged from the workshop. He glanced at the occupants of the sitting room like a s
tartled rabbit. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Churchill. We’re ready for you now.”
Churchill put the cigar back in his mouth and stood.
“Don’t apologise, Mr. Spencer—I’ve had a most interesting conversation with the gentlemen loitering in your waiting room!” He handed the artist’s notebook back to Rowland. “Do you paint, Mr. Sinclair? I should like to keep a weather eye out for your work.”
“Rear Admiral Sinclair has his latest paintings,” Milton said recklessly. “He might show you.”
Churchill’s brow rose. “Quex has them, has he? I might just ask him.”
Rowland refastened his collar and adjusted his tie as Churchill disappeared into the workshop with Marriott Spencer. The startled secretary stood at the last moment and literally ran to join his employer.
Clyde grimaced at Rowland and Milton. “Spencer’s not going to be happy if you’ve upset his subject—might throw the measurements out.”
Rowland sighed. “I did lose my rag a bit…”
“Nonsense!” Milton declared. “We told him the truth. It’s a pity he’s such a spent force.”
Rowland groaned. Milton was right. Churchill was in the wilderness politically—an anachronism of conservatism, alienated for his intractability on the subject of Indian self-government among other things. They’d shouted at the poor old man for nothing. Even if they’d got through to him, no one would pay any attention to Winston Churchill.
Epilogue
The London Economic Conference finally closed on 27 July 1933, its purpose unrealised. The early denunciation of currency stabilisation by President Roosevelt of the United States of America rendered its objective of achieving that impossible. The Great Depression would continue.
Offended that his gift had been rejected, Francis Pocock refused to accept the return of the wax replica he had created of Lord Pierrepont’s head. Unable to find any other suitable home, Rowland Sinclair gave it to Inspector Entwhistle of Scotland Yard who committed it to the collection of the Black Museum.
On 14 August 1933, Winston Churchill made his first of many public speeches warning against the ambitions of Adolf Hitler and urging Britain to rearm. He would be considered a warmonger by some and a prophet by others. Throughout his life, Churchill was remade in wax for Madame Tussaud’s a total of seven times. Each time a little more wax was required.
In the latter half of 1933, H.G. Wells published The Shape of Things to Come, a science fiction which contemplated a Utopian world under a single global government. The point of divergence for this alternative history was the London Economic Conference which Wells covered with poignant disappointment in a chapter entitled, “The London Conference: the Crowning Failure of the Old Governments; The spread of Dictatorships and Fascisms”.
In September 1933, Prime Minister Joseph Lyons appointed Stanley Melbourne Bruce to the post of Australia’s High Commissioner in Britain, a position Bruce would hold until 1945. In 1947, the Hon. S.M Bruce would be made Lord Bruce, the Viscount of Melbourne. Ethel Bruce stayed in touch with the young people who helped her solve the mysterious case of Lord Pierrepont, and her hats continued to be a subject of comment by her husband.
Prince George became the Duke of Kent in 1934 just prior to his wedding to Princess Marina of Greece. In 1938, he was appointed Governor-General of Australia, but the appointment was postponed due to the outbreak of war in 1939. He did not survive to take up the role.
Thelma, the Viscountess Furness, who had been the Prince of Wales’ regular companion since 1929, returned temporarily to the U.S. in January 1934 to visit her sister in New York. She asked her close friend Wallis Simpson, who had recently returned from a tour of Germany and Norway, to look after the Prince in her absence.
In 1934, Josslyn Hay, the Earl of Erroll, joined Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists. The following year, Hay returned to Kenya and the Happy Valley Set, a group of colonial expatriates notorious for their hedonistic lifestyles. In 1941, he would be found shot dead in his car at a crossroads on the Nairobi-Ngong Road.
The Ambroses prospered in London, establishing themselves as the makers of particularly lifelike mannequins. The eldest son of Ambrose the tailor left the family business to be apprenticed by Marriott Spencer at Madame Tussaud’s.
In 1934, William Joyce was made Director of Propaganda for the British Union of Fascists and later appointed Deputy Leader. He spearheaded the B.U.F.’s shift from an economic platform to one based on anti-Semitism. Shortly before war was declared in 1939, Joyce and his wife would flee to Germany. During the war, Joyce was employed as a propaganda broadcaster by German Radio’s English Service. His privileged British accent earned him the moniker “Lord Haw Haw”. He and Rowland Sinclair would meet again.
The Blackfriars Men’s Hostel run by the Salvation Army benefited from the quiet patronage of the Sinclairs. It continued to provide soup, soap and salvation to thousands of hungry and desperate men. Martha Pratchett rose to the rank of General. Captain Leonard continued to patrol the Thames near Waterloo Bridge for those who found themselves floundering in dark waters.
The Waterloo Bridge was demolished and rebuilt in the early forties. Granite stones from the original structure were presented to various parts of the British world in order to further historic links among the British Commonwealth of Nations. Two of these stones now make up part of the Commonwealth Avenue Bridge which spans Lake Burley Griffin in Canberra, Australia.
Allen and Overy would grow to become one of the largest law firms in the world. The firm’s reputation would be made by the role of its founding partner, George Allen, in advising to King Edward VIII during the abdication crisis of 1936.
Between 1923 and 1939, Rear Admiral Sir Hugh Francis Paget Sinclair KCB, (Quex) held the post of director, or “C”, of the Secret Intelligence Service. In 1938, under the shadow of impending war, Quex would purchase Bletchley Park—which he had first come across in surveillance reports on the activities of his young Australian cousin. The rear admiral would buy the idiosyncratic mansion with private funds to use as a wartime intelligence station. He, too, would meet Rowland Sinclair again.
The Sinclair brothers and their respective entourages embarked for Sydney on the SS Monterey in late July. The outstanding charges for public indecency against Mr Elias Isaacs were dropped. Quex Sinclair did in fact see them all off… though they had no idea that he was there.
Rowland Sinclair made a full and complete recovery from the various injuries he’d sustained in the months since he’d left Sydney. As much as he hated it, the scar on his chest caused him no problems as long as he remained dressed. Of course that was not always possible.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Rowland Sinclair and his irrepressible companions have lived in my head for five books. So… one would think that by now I could write a novel on my own. But I can’t. There are many people involved in the creation of my books. I’d like to acknowledge and thank them here.
My husband, Michael, who lives with me and the people in my head as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do, who edits manuscripts, discusses characters and helps me understand the thirties. I would never have found Rowland without him.
My boys, Edmund and Atticus, who tolerate the whims and vagaries of a mother who writes, and who still steadfastly believe this series could use a werewolf.
My father who reads every single one of my manuscripts immediately, and who is brave enough to tell me honestly what he thinks; who tempers an accountant’s realism with a parent’s unfailing belief in my work. My sister Devini who picks up the telephone even when she knows I’m just calling to talk about plots.
Leith Henry, who has been my friend since childhood and with whom I first began to write, who knows me well enough to step into my head and have a chat with Rowland. Jason Henry who sent me a toaster at a desperate time in my gastronomic life, when I really needed a toaster.
Alastair Blanshard, whose namesake does not appear in this book, but whose influence and a
dvice does; who selflessly shared his memories of Oxford, partridges and buckshot, and his hands-on knowledge of bow ties.
Wallace Fernandes who values our friendship enough to pretend he’s read my books (whilst I pretend I believe him); who explained to me the superiority of the Full Windsor knot and who makes me laugh when the practicalities of being a writer seem impossible.
Sarah Kynaston, nee Dabinett, who responds to my mad ideas with insane ones of her own, and then makes me put them into practice. Cheryl Bousfield and Lesley Bocquet whose enthusiasm for books is contagious and whose friendship is valued indeed.
All those writers I have the privilege to call my friends, who I won’t mention individually because it’ll look like I’m name dropping, who have from the first, been generous and warm withtheir advice and their support. Amongst these the Sisters in Crime whose camaraderie and humour is reason enough to be a crime writer.
Rebecca Lochlann, who I came to know when we were both unpublished aspiring writers and whose work continues to enchant and move me.
Nigel E.S. Irvine, who sends me inspiration and ideas from his wanderings through archives and museums.
The Greens, who are Pantera Press, who have done this with me eight times now and who continue to amaze me with their talent, generosity and belief in books.
Luke Causby who has once again ensured my words are properly and perfectly attired, and Desanka Vukelic who ensures they’re correctly spelled.
Deonie Fiford, whose skill and insight as an editor gives me comfort and confidence as a writer.
Professor Carl Bridge of the Menzies Centre for Australian Studies in King’s College who took the time to answer the queries of a complete stranger purporting to write a book. The public affairs desk of the Australian High Commission in London who directed me to Professor Bridge in the first place.
The booksellers and bloggers who have introduced Rowland to their customers, friends and followers—thank you.
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Page 31
