Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (43 page)

“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.

“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.”

“I'm sure they'll be more than adequate, Captain. Thank you. I do, however, need to access a telephone to let my friends know my whereabouts.”

“Martha might step out while you change,” the captain said, “and then we can talk about what you're going to do.”

“I trust, Mr. Sinclair, that you will never consider doing anything so desperate again,” Martha added. “Cast thy burden upon the Lord and he shall sustain thee. I'm sure your loved ones would be deeply grieved if they knew the terrible extents to which despair drove you. Self-murder is never the solution.”

Rowland paused momentarily and then smiled. “I was trying to avoid being shot, Miss Pratchett.”

“Sometimes it seems that way, Mr. Sinclair, and when it does you must let the Lord be your shield against the bullets of misery and temptation. Because of His strength will I wait upon thee: for God is my defence!”

Rowland gave up. “Yes, Miss Pratchett, I'll remember that… the Lord shall be my shield.”

She beamed. “I'll let you get dressed, Mr. Sinclair, so you may begin the rest of your life.” She trotted triumphantly out into the dormitory.