Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (17 page)

R
owland stared, rendered speechless by fury and disbelief.

The rear admiral stood and extended his hand. “Rowland! Delighted to see you again, my boy!”

Rowland cursed. “Quex… what the hell—?”

“Now, now calm down, there's a good chap. I did issue an invitation previously. Unfortunately, it was to no avail.”

“You had me abducted from the streets, you flaming lunatic!”

Hugh Sinclair sighed, and slapped Rowland companionably on the shoulder. “There's really no need to get upset, sport, I simply sent a car for you.”

“You sent four thugs to take me by force… for God's sake, I thought…” He stopped. “Ed will have called the police by now.”

Clearly the police did not concern Rear Admiral Sinclair. Instead, he chose that moment to introduce the thugs who had come for Rowland—all naval officers of considerable rank. And then he dismissed them.

Rowland watched, fuming and incredulous. He had neither seen nor corresponded with his second cousin since before he'd left Pembroke House, and even then their relationship had been barely more than administrative.

Hugh Sinclair hummed as he poured two generous glasses of prewar scotch. He motioned Rowland to the captain's chair by his desk and set the whisky before him. Rowland left the glass untouched.
Even if he had been predisposed to drink with his abductor, he hated whisky.

“I must say, Rowland, I'm a little hurt that you have not called on me earlier.”

“What do you want, Quex? Surely you didn't kidnap me to remind me of my social obligations.”

“Social obligations?” Hugh shook his head sadly. “Surely more than that… I was like a father to you, Rowland.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

Hugh paused. “No, I suppose I should be relieved.”

Rowland bristled.

Hugh continued. “I remember that you and Henry were not always friends. I hoped that when Wilfred sent you abroad, and entrusted you into my care, that we at least could be friends.”

“I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Quex, but I don't recall seeing you very often back then… unless I was about to be expelled.”

Hugh Sinclair smiled. “Well, that was often enough.”

Rowland rubbed his face. This was ridiculous. “What do you want from me, Quex?”

“I'm a little concerned about the company you're keeping, sport. You do realise that Mr. Isaacs is a Communist?”

Rowland stood. “Since this isn't an abduction, I assume I'm free to go.”

For a moment there was silence and then Hugh laughed. “Have a drink with me Rowland, for old time's sake.”

Rowland turned to leave.

“You know, your namesake, my dear late cousin Rowland, would often have a drink with me when he was in London. Very fond of my aged malt… and equally fond of you. I can't tell you how often we
discussed you and your brother till the wee hours.” Hugh raised his glass in a kind of salute. “I'll miss old Rowland.”

Rowland stopped. His favourite uncle—another Rowland Sinclair—had been dead for well over a year. He'd loved the old man but even from beyond the grave his namesake was capable of causing trouble. Rowland turned back to meet the rear admiral's eye, trying to determine exactly which family secret Hugh Sinclair was using against him.

Hugh Sinclair held his gaze. Reluctantly Rowland sat down.

“What is it you want, Quex?” he asked wearily.

“I don't want us to be at odds, Rowland… there is no need. I've organised for a spot of luncheon. I suggest we take our drinks to the dining room and talk over Cook's very fine roast duck.”

Rowland cursed openly, but he could see that he had little choice. “Could you at least telephone Claridge's and tell them where I am.”

Hugh smiled. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.” He picked up the receiver immediately, and left a message with the concierge that Rowland Sinclair was perfectly well and would return soon.

And so Rowland stopped to dine with the second cousin he barely knew, but who seemed to know a great deal about him. If he hadn't been brought forcibly into Hugh Sinclair's company, he might have found the admiral affable and his manner warm and charming. The food and wine at Quex's table were excellent and the conversation thoughtful. It was only the manner in which he seemed to acquire his guests that was less than impeccable.

“Look, Rowland,” Hugh said as the soup was served. “I apologise for not having made more time when you were in England. The job was demanding all of my attention—blasted Communists everywhere—but you had just lost your father in quite horrendous circumstances. I was remiss and I regret it.”

Rowland shifted uncomfortably. In truth, he had neither sought nor missed Hugh Sinclair's attention back then. He doubted very much whether his cousin would have reached him with a few kind words and the odd day out.

“I should have at least taken you to the waxworks… boys love the waxwork museum. And I hear you are still very fond of our Madame Tussaud's.”

Rowland regarded the admiral warily. Was Hugh Sinclair having him followed?

“I called on Wilfred at Stanley Bruce's last evening,” Hugh explained. “That delightful young scamp Ernest was full of his day at Tussaud's with his uncle Rowly.”

“Did you tell Wil you were planning to kidnap me?” Rowland said tersely.

“Let's not fall out over that again. Shall we talk of happier things? Your recent travels? I believe you were in Germany just lately?”

“I was.”

“And you had an accident of some sort?” Hugh gestured at the sling.

Rowland made a decision then as to how much he wanted Hugh Sinclair to know. “It wasn't an accident, Quex. Mr. Hitler's Stormtroopers broke my arm as a kind of art lesson.”

Hugh showed no sign of surprise. “Tell me,” he said.

Rowland recounted the final days of their stay in Germany, mentioning nothing about why they had been sent to Munich in the first place. As much as the Old Guard had abandoned him, he would not betray them to the British admiral.

Quex shook his head. “You'll be happy to know that Herr Hitler is under significant international pressure to do something about Röhm and his brown-shirted rabble. I believe he will have no choice but to act soon.”

“That's not the point,” Rowland said, frustrated. “The Nazi regime is dangerous with or without the likes of Ernst Röhm!” He told Hugh of Dachau, where socialists were imprisoned en masse. Cautiously and without any detail which might identify or endanger them, he spoke of the men of the German Underground who lived like rats and in hiding. “The Nazis have eradicated the Communists, the unions and any other organisation that might have opposed them.”

“I personally wouldn't waste sympathy on the Communists, Rowland.” Hugh sat back as the duck was served. It had been deboned and prepared in a manner that Rowland could manage despite the sling and plaster cast.

“Oh for pity's sake, the Communists seem to be the only ones concerned with stopping Hitler!”

Hugh Sinclair shook his head. “It appears every young man nowadays has sympathy for the Communist cause, even within the better social circles. Lord knows it's no longer an impediment to progress in the public service to have flirted with Communism in one's university days.” The Admiral stabbed aggressively at his meal. “Why, apparently Oxford men no longer consider themselves British! Traitorous privileged brats!”

Rowland's brow rose. “Oxford men?”

“Oh yes… you're an Oxford man too, I recall. Well, I'm afraid standards have changed since your time, my boy! Only months ago, that blasted Oxford Debating Union passed a motion that it would not fight for King and country. Can you imagine that? The wastrels of the present generation will not fight!”

“The Debating Union?” Rowland laughed. The debaters he remembered had taken pride in their capacity to argue the absurd. “I distinctly recall the Oxford Debating Union also passed a motion for
the creation of a Doctorate in Lager. I wouldn't take their motions too seriously, Quex.”

The admiral paused and placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate. “I'm concerned about the company you're keeping, Rowland.”

“Don't be.”

“Wilfred tells me you've been more or less drifting since you returned to Australia. Perhaps I could find something for you.”

Rowland shrugged. “I appreciate your concern, Quex, but I rather like drifting.”

To Rowland's surprise, Hugh Sinclair did not argue with him. Instead the admiral refilled his reluctant guest's wine glass. “Just remember, I'm here to help if you change your mind. We're family… and you can trust me. Your life could well amount to something, Rowland. It's not too late.”

The three Australians who loitered outside Prussia House were dismissed as inquisitive tourists; their interest in the diplomatic vehicles a natural consequence of the universal high regard in which German engineering was held. It was only as he ran his eyes over the rows of parked Mercedes-Benz motor cars that it occurred to Clyde that they were on the wrong track.

“Are you sure they were driving an Armstrong Siddeley, Ed?”

“I wouldn't have a clue but Rowly said it was an Armstrong Siddeley.”

Clyde frowned. “Rowly would know.” He glanced at Milton. “No self-respecting German would drive a Siddeley.”

Milton rubbed his face. “Maybe Rowly was wrong.”

“About the car? Not a chance. Rowly knows his motors.”

“Not that… about the blokes who took him. The only reason we've concluded they were German is because he spoke to them in German. Maybe he was wrong.”

“But who else would take him?” Edna asked.

Milton cursed as he remembered the succession of threatening letters from within the membership of the British Union of Fascists. Rowland hadn't taken them seriously. “The B.U.F., the flaming B.U.F.!” he said. “They've had it in for him since he took on that cretin Joyce…”

Edna nodded, eager for any reason to believe that Rowland was not in the hands of the Nazis.

But Milton was no happier with this conclusion. He had seen the letters. “We'd better find him quickly,” he said.

“But how?”

“We'll find Joyce and choke it out of the bastard!”

Clyde groaned. They were guessing—pulling at vague straws in the hope that one would hold. Perhaps it was the B.U.F. but in truth they still had no idea what had become of the Siddeley or Rowland Sinclair.

When Rowland was returned to Claridge's he found the suite in uproar and somewhat crowded—his companions, his brother, Menzies and two police officers had all gathered there. He walked in just as Milton demanded of Wilfred, “What do you mean it was a hoax?”

“Not a hoax, a misunderstanding, Mr. Isaacs.”

“Rowly!” Edna screamed throwing herself at him. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

The room fell silent then roared again as questions and demands were hurled in every direction. Milton and Clyde joined Edna in relief, greeting Rowland with a familiarity which Wilfred was bound to find improper.

Eventually some sense was extracted from the melee and, after establishing that Rowland had had nothing to do with his own supposed abduction, the police officers departed.

Rowland sat down. “Did you know anything about this, Wil?”

“Of course not. If I'd wanted you to have lunch with Quex, I would simply have insisted you do so.” Wilfred retrieved his hat from the sideboard. “When Miss Higgins mentioned the tattoo I wondered. Midshipmen were always decorating each other. I telephoned Quex. By then you were both eating pudding!”

Rowland remembered that Hugh had indeed stepped out to take a phone call during dessert.

Wilfred went on emphatically. “I sent men to find your somewhat excitable companions and bring them back here so that I might inform them that there was no need to hurl accusations at every man in London!”

“What?”