Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (39 page)

“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?”

Hugh Sinclair sighed. “The Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson have a close
friendship
which some quarters might consider inappropriate. The woman is after all American.” He stroked his chin, thoughtfully, and chose his words carefully. “His Royal Highness, concerned that his old
friend
, Lady Furness, would similarly misinterpret his relationship with Mrs. Simpson, persuaded his loyal chum, Pierrepont, to play Mrs. Simpson's paramour. It was a naïve ploy perhaps, but well-intended. As you can understand there can be a great deal of competition for His Royal Highness' friendship. If you go poking your nose into all this, Rowland, you risk embarrassing the Crown.”

“So, is this what you do, Quex? Clean up after the Prince of Wales?”

Hugh Sinclair's face became stony. “I've neglected you, Rowland. I really should have taught you manners at some point.”

“Rowly…” Edna intervened as the tension in the room rose dangerously. “Sir Hugh has saved us a great deal of time and bother. We don't care who Mrs. Simpson's lover is if it doesn't help Allie's case.”

Rowland looked down at her hand on his. She was right. As obnoxiously as the admiral had delivered the edict, he had saved them a wild goose chase they could ill afford.

“How do you know of our interest in the Simpsons, Quex?” Rowland asked. “Where we're going, when and why.”

The admiral's face was unreadable.

“Menzies!” Milton exclaimed suddenly. “He's been spying on us! Our trusted butler has been keeping the admiral apprised of our movements from the beginning.” He pointed accusingly at the manservant who had just re-entered the drawing room with a tray laden with tea and cakes. “What did you do with Beresford, you duplicitous fiend?”

Hugh Sinclair laughed. “You are letting your imagination get the better of you Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Beresford is very happily in the service of Lord and Lady Pugh in one of the other suites.”

“But Menzies?”

“Mr. Menzies has been keeping a watchful eye on you,” the admiral admitted.

“Good Lord!” Rowland groaned. “What is wrong with you?”

Hugh Sinclair regarded him frostily. “All things considered, Rowland, do you really think it surprising that I would take an interest in the activities of my Colonial cousins? Your sojourn to Munich was hardly innocent!”

Rowland sat forward, his eyes intense as things fell into place. “So, what exactly was your man Menzies sent to observe?”

“Initially, we were concerned that you may have been spying for the Germans.”

“What?” Rowland was appalled.

“And then, you and I had our little chat, and I realised that was extremely unlikely, though I began to be troubled—” Rear Admiral Sinclair glanced at Milton and Clyde, “—about the influence of other parties on your allegiances. Mr. Menzies stayed on in the hope that you might have some information on the Germans.”

Rowland did not bite. He was perfectly comfortable with his allegiances and not about to discuss them with Hugh Sinclair. “If you wanted to know about Germany, why didn't you just ask me?”

“I did, if you recall, but sometimes people don't realise what they know, what might be valuable. There is a lot of information in the background of holiday photographs, for example—a building or a person who just happens to be behind the picture's subject. It's the same for memories.”

Pictures… His paintings…

“Murcott,” Rowland said quietly. “Does Archibald Murcott work for you, Quex?”

“No.”

“Ivy Murcott,” Edna said, more to Rowland than anyone else. “Ivy's the spy.”

“Of course.” Rowland nodded. Ivy Murcott made sense now. “She's not Murcott's sister… thank God for that at least. But Waugh knew her as Ivy Murcott. Is she Archie's wife or is Waugh a spy too?”

Hugh Sinclair said nothing.

“Did she take the paintings?” Clyde asked. “Rowly's paintings of Germany?”

Again silence.

Exasperated, Rowland dragged his hair back from his forehead. “Are you spying on Wilfred too, then?”

“I hardly think you are in any position to get high-handed about spying and surveillance, Rowland. But no. Wilfred and I have an understanding.”

Rowland shook his head incredulously.

“Look Rowland,” Hugh Sinclair sighed. “You seem to have once again taken me wrongly. I'm endeavouring to help you. At the moment, despite the horribly messy diplomatic incident which could result, my people are working tirelessly to ensure Von Kirsch is not able to denounce you as a murderer and demand you be returned to Germany to face justice.”

Edna poured tea, and passed a cup to the admiral. “For that we are sincerely grateful, Sir Hugh. Of course, Rowly didn't kill anybody.”

The admiral glanced strangely at his cousin here. He spoke to Rowland again. “Prince Edward's reputation may seem trivial to you, Rowland, but in the current political climate, the leadership of Britain must be decisive, united and devoid of scandal. And, as Miss Higgins has already pointed out, you would only have been wasting time digging into Mrs. Simpson's affairs.”

“But does Mr. Simpson know?” Clyde asked. “If he too suspects Pierrepont—?”

“Simpson is well aware of the situation, Mr. Watson Jones. It may seem unusual but it is not unheard of where a future king of England is concerned.”

“So, how long are you going to keep us trapped in here, Quex?” Rowland asked.

“Until I'm sure you will stay well clear of Mrs. Simpson and say nothing of this conversation.”

Rowland shrugged. “We no longer have any interest in Mrs. Simpson, and let me assure you that we've never cared in whose bed Prince Edward finds himself. For God's sake, Quex, you might have just told me.”

“Getting you to listen is sometimes difficult, Rowland.” The admiral sighed. “In any case, I wasn't aware you had any plans to pursue Mrs. Simpson until just now.”

Milton shook his head and wagged a finger at the treacherous butler. “You'll have to brush up on your eavesdropping, comrade.”

“Very good, sir,” Menzies replied.

“Do you know who killed Lord Pierrepont, Sir Hugh?” Edna said suddenly.

“Of course not, Miss Higgins. Pierrepont is of no import in the greater scheme of things and certainly of no interest to us. I'm told he was murdered by that niece of his.”

“What is the Ministry of Health's interest in Pierrepont's death?” Rowland asked.

“Health? I can't imagine, dear cousin… unless he died of smallpox or some such thing. What have they asked you?”

“Nothing really… they just had a man at the murder scene—he arrived with the chap from Scotland Yard.”

“Did Scotland Yard call him?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, someone must have. I suggest you ask them.”

The afternoon wore on. Admiral Sinclair lingered, a civilised, genteel gaoler. He chatted quite amiably on all manner of subject, asking
each of them their impressions of Germany. But it was clearly Milton and Clyde's accounts that interested him most.

They answered warily, knowing from Rowland that the admiral was a committed anti-Communist. The last thing they wished to do was expose the men who'd helped them escape.

Rowland looked on as his cousin talked with Milton, noting the slight stiffening in the admiral's shoulders when the poet spoke of anything that too plainly expressed his radical political beliefs. Artfully, Hugh Sinclair attempted to tease out details of Communist activity in Europe. Milton deflected the probing equally artfully, with poetry.

“So, are you ever planning to depart, Quex?” Rowland asked quite bluntly in the end. “Or must we be kept permanently under lock and key to ensure the Prince of Wales' reputation is unimpeachable.”

“I don't see there's any need for anything quite so drastic, Rowland,” Sinclair replied, sipping the Scotch which Menzies—who for some reason remained in the guise of butler—had brought him earlier. “I've booked your passages home. You leave for Australia in a week.”

Rowland's face darkened.

“But Allie…” Edna protested.

“Whatever you are doing for the girl, do in the next seven days because you will be boarding that ship.” Sinclair looked at Milton. “I will ensure the charges against Mr. Isaacs are dropped.”

“Unless Britain is having us deported—” Rowland began angrily.

“She isn't… yet, but you will be on that ship one way or another.” The rear admiral sighed. “There were other ways of doing this, Rowland. For your own sake, and that of your brother and your friends, take what I'm offering and go quietly, because the other ways
will not end so well for any of you.” He put down his drink. “It will be a great deal easier to dismiss Von Kirsch's allegations if you are no longer here.”

Rowland simmered, cornered.

Hugh Sinclair regarded him quite sadly. “I'm not sure why you feel you need to fight me at every turn, Rowland. I am acting in your best interests, my boy.” He shook his head. “It's no wonder poor Wilfred has always had such a job keeping you under control.”

“For God's sake, Quex, they could hang that poor girl if—”

“Leave it in the hands of that solicitor you retained to represent her and trust the man to do his job!” Hugh Sinclair's voice became hard. “Make no mistake, Rowland, you will be leaving Britain in a week one way or another. Consider yourselves lucky that I'm not having you all incarcerated until then.” He checked his watch and stood. “Is that the time? I might be able to get on now. I'll have the details of your passages sent on to you.” Glancing at Rowland's thunderous face, he smiled. “Chin up, old man. This is not goodbye—we'll meet again.”

Edna grabbed Rowland's arm as he tensed forward. “Rowly, perhaps it's time we went home,” she said gently, afraid he'd deck Rear Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair then and there.

Milton stood. “Let me show you and Mr. Menzies out,” he said coldly.

For a while after Hugh Sinclair and Menzies had departed there was nothing but tense, furious silence. Finally Edna rose from the couch. “You're all turning purple trying not to swear, so I'm going to change into something less fussy. While I'm gone you can get whatever you need to off your chests, and then we'll figure out what we're going to do.” She left them, departing through the door which led to the adjoining suite.

Clyde groaned. He had been repressing profanity for Edna's sake. “Well, we can't very well swear now,” he grumbled.

“Speak for yourself,” Milton said before exploding into a string of curses ending in “Rear Admiral”. But, by the time Edna returned in a simple frock with no hat or gloves, even he had calmed down sufficiently to be a gentleman again.

Edna settled on the arm of the couch. “What do you think?” she asked Rowland who had not yet said a word.