Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (5 page)

R
owland Sinclair returned quite thankfully to the sanctuary of Claridge's to discover that his friends had stepped out. The summer afternoon was particularly warm and airless. He began to loosen his tie, and then, realising he would struggle to reinstate the knot, thought better of it.

“Perhaps you would care to change your attire, sir?” Beresford suggested as he brought him a drink.

“Change, why?” Rowland asked, wondering if there was some engagement he had forgotten.

“I could have your suit cleaned and pressed before the stain sets, sir.”

Rowland looked down and observed that there were indeed dry brown smears of blood on his jacket and a partial handprint on his shirt. He presumed they had come from the hands of Allie Dawe. At various points in their fleeting association, she had grabbed him to keep from stumbling.

Rowland slung back his gin and stood. “You're right—I should clean myself up. Thank you, Beresford.” He felt a self-conscious need to explain himself to the butler. He may indeed have done so if Beresford had not spoken first.

“May I suggest your grey suit, sir, with the blue tie and onyx cufflinks if you are dining in your suite tonight? Otherwise I could lay out your dinner suit. I'm afraid you don't have many other options at present.”

“Just the grey, I think,” Rowland said, somewhat startled that the man had taken such careful stock of the contents of his wardrobe.

“Shall I draw you a bath, sir?”

“No, thank you, Beresford. I shall manage.” Rowland resisted an impulse to back away.

The butler's face was, as always, impassive. “If you'll forgive my saying, sir, I've noticed that you and the other gentlemen are travelling very sparely in terms of attire. I know of a reputable tailor who has rendered his services in a most timely manner to Claridge's guests in the past. Perhaps…”

“Yes, an excellent idea, Beresford,” Rowland said, grateful for the suggestion but rather uncomfortable nonetheless. He had the distinct impression that Beresford found them a little wanting. “Would you make the arrangements as soon as possible, please?”

Beresford inclined his head. “My pleasure, sir. I'm sure Mr. Ambrose will be able to measure you and the other gentlemen this evening if that would be convenient?”

“Yes, tremendous, Beresford… thank you.”

“Very good, sir.”

It was as the butler retreated to make these arrangements that Edna, Clyde and Milton returned. They noticed the blood on his suit immediately.

“ 'Struth, Rowly,” Clyde said, looking him over for new injuries. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“Me? Nothing.” Rowland recounted the rather extraordinary events of the morning at Watts.

“What kind of nightie?” Clyde asked aghast.

“How would I know? One of those short lacy things.”

“A baby-doll,” Edna said with authority. “What colour was it?”

“Well and truly red by the time Wil and I got there. Why does that matter?”

“I was just trying to fix an image in my mind,” the sculptress said, screwing up her face.

“I'm trying to expunge the image from mine,” Rowland replied. He shook his head. “Remind me to die in a suit.”

Edna pulled off her gloves and flopped onto the settee beside him. “Do you believe poor Lord Pierrepont was wearing the… nightie, of his own accord?” she asked.

A moment of awkward silence.

“I've an uncle who likes to wear silk stockings and women's shoes,” Milton volunteered. “Sadly, he and my aunt don't wear the same size.”

“Oh yes, I remember him,” Edna laughed. She and Milton had known each other since childhood. “I recall he wore heels rather well.”

“That's him,” Milton's voice held a note of admiration. “Actually, his legs weren't bad at all. If they hadn't been so hairy—”

“You don't suppose the girl did him in, do you, Rowly?” Clyde asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Who, Allie?” Rowland shook his head. “She's just a slip of a girl. I can't see it.”

“But he expired in her mother's nightie, you say?” Milton rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“That's what she said.” Rowland frowned. It did seem odd, unless Lord Pierrepont was on intimate terms with his brother's widow.

“Did Miss Dawe have any idea who might have wanted to kill her uncle?”

“I didn't have a chance to ask her. After the brandy she was a trifle indisposed, to be honest.”

“We'll have to ask her when she's sobered up,” Milton decided.

“We?” Clyde said, alarmed. “Since when did this become
our
concern?”

Milton puffed. “This is the concern of every man who ever coveted a frilly nightie or pretty heels; every young boy who ever wore a frock…” The poet paused, grinning in a manner that was quite evil.

Clyde glared at him.

Months ago, when he'd had far too much to drink, Clyde had admitted that he'd spent the first five years of his life dressed exclusively in hand-me-downs from his cousin, Charlie… more formally known as Charlotte. So that it would not look too odd, Mrs. Watson Jones had allowed Clyde's hair to grow long and tied it up with ribbons. The idea that the burly, weather-beaten, no-nonsense Clyde had started life in bloomers amused the poet no end, and while Milton could be surprisingly discreet he was not always so.

Rowland laughed and diplomatically moved the conversation away. “I'll check on Allie in a day or two, just to make sure she's holding up…”

Clyde snorted sceptically. To his mind, Rowland Sinclair was too easily distracted by every corpse that fell across his path. He may in fact have expressed that sentiment if Beresford had not come in to announce that the tailor had arrived. The butler's tone made it clear that it was not, in his opinion, a moment too soon.

Rowland alighted from the Rolls Royce at the steps of the South Kensington terrace. The rotund chauffeur came wheezing around the motor car's elongated bonnet. His face fell as he realised his passenger had managed to open the door himself.

“Sorry,” Rowland murmured, stepping aside so the man could close the door behind him. Wilfred had sent the car for them. Rowland was aware that his habit of getting in and out of cars of his own accord was considered by some a sign of poor breeding. And he expected that protocol here would be somewhat particular.

“No 'arm done, sir,” the chauffeur gasped, though it seemed the unnecessary exertion may yet finish him off.

Rowland opened the back door for Edna who stepped out of the motor car with her eyes wide and fixed upon the four-storey Victorian terrace to which they'd been delivered. Its doorway, like its windows, was arched and framed with columns and finials. The stucco walls were white and it looked out on the park known as Ennismore Gardens.

“So, is Mr. Bruce Australia's High Commissioner now?” Edna whispered. “How should we address him?”

“M'lord should suffice,” Milton murmured. The poet had no love for the erstwhile Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia, whose conservative government had built its platform on breaking strikes.

Rowland smiled. “Technically speaking, I understand he's a special minister without portfolio… but to be honest I'm not sure what the protocol is. Wil calls him Spats.”

Edna giggled. “Really? To his face?”

The Australian press delighted in poking fun at Bruce's fondness for spats—as either a symbol of the politician's patrician affectations or a dreadful folly of fashion. Edna had always imagined that Stanley Melbourne Bruce would take it as the slight it was intended to be.

“They're old chums.” Rowland's brow furrowed slightly. He had been admittedly surprised when they'd all been invited to the home of the Bruces. Wilfred had never hidden his opinion of the set with which his brother chose to move. In the past he had, at most, tolerated them under sufferance. But then Wilfred's young wife, Kate, had always enjoyed Rowland's friends. It was to her that they most probably owed the invitation.

Edna was as usual, undaunted, entwining her arm in Rowland's uninjured one, and exclaiming at the beauty of the expansive terrace and the English rose gardens which surrounded it.

They were admitted by a maid in a traditional aproned uniform.

“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair squeezed past the servant. “Why hello, Uncle Rowly.” The six-year-old extended and then dropped his right hand as he stared at the sling. “Hell's bells, Uncle Rowly, what's happened to your arm?” he blurted before clapping his hands over his mouth.

Rowland laughed, tousling the child's dark curls. “Don't let your mother catch you talking like that, Ernie, or we'll both be in trouble.”

“Oh, I'd tell her it wasn't your fault,” Ernest said solemnly. “A man's got to take responsibility for his own actions, you understand.”

Rowland glanced through the open door into the empty hallway. “But since your mother's not here,” he whispered, “I trust there's no need to confess.”

Ernest nodded emphatically. He paused to greet Clyde, Milton and Edna before asking again, “What happened to your arm, Uncle Rowly?”

“I broke it,” Rowland said, shrugging.

“When you were in Germany?”

“Yes.”

Ernest nodded in a way that made Rowland wonder exactly how much his nephew knew about what he had been doing in Germany. Wilfred's elder son rarely missed a thing.

“Does it hurt?” Ernest asked, as curious as he was concerned.

“Not anymore.”

“I'm so glad.” Ernest turned to the maid. “This is my Uncle Rowly and his Leninist friends. You can let them in… they're very nice.”

The maid's eyes grew wide and she stepped back reflexively.

Ernest smiled.

Milton laughed. “That's the way, Ernie, mate… there's no point pretending.”

The young woman composed herself and bobbed deferentially. “Very good, Master Ernest. Mr. Sinclair is expecting you, sir. I'm to take you in to the library and the rest of your… party… to Madam and Mrs. Sinclair in the drawing room.”

Ernest took Rowland's hand. “I'll show him, Mabel. This way, Uncle Rowly.”

The maid looked a little nonplussed, but Ernest was already dragging Rowland into the house leaving her to deal with the Leninists alone.

The library was on the ground floor. Its high, intricately detailed ceilings lent a gravity of scale to the walls of books in their thousands. Paintings of the ten Australian prime ministers since Federation adorned the walls in the spaces between the bookshelves. The furniture was substantial and modern—leather club chairs with conveniently placed smoker's stands in chrome and Bakelite.

Two men sat on either side of a scrolled oak desk, smoking. Wilfred Sinclair smiled when he saw his son. “What are you doing, you scamp?” he asked.

“Uncle Rowly's here, Daddy.”

“I can see that. Now you run along and tell your mother that we'll join them all shortly… go on now.”

Ernest released his uncle's hand and ran into the hallway.

Wilfred then introduced the Honourable Stanley Melbourne Bruce, Member of the House of Representatives, Companion of Honour, who was, it seemed, playing host to the Sinclairs while they were in London. The Australian politician was tall, and though he must have been nearly fifty, he bore himself with an aristocratic confidence.

Bruce addressed him as “Rowland” from the first. Still unsure of the man's title, Rowland resorted to “Sir”.

“Your brother has been telling me of the unpleasantness yesterday. A nasty business and quite distressing, I should imagine.”

“It was certainly unexpected,” Rowland replied.

Bruce directed him to a seat. “You understand, Rowland, that this is a matter of some delicacy.”

“Oh?”

“What do you know about the London Economic Conference?”

Wilfred grunted. “He could probably paint you a picture of the venue.”

“Nothing specific.” Rowland glanced irritably at his brother. “I presume you gentlemen are trying to save the world with trade agreements or some such thing.”

Bruce nodded. “Some such thing. If everything goes as planned, the free world will be saved, as you say, by an international currency agreement.”

“Well, that's capital news,” Rowland replied, hoping he wasn't about to be subjected to a lecture on world finance.

“It is,” Bruce agreed, “or rather it will be if it goes ahead. The agreement is tripartite and requires the participation of America as well as France and Britain. Regrettably President Roosevelt has some doubts on the value of the agreement. There are those in the United States who seek to devalue the dollar instead of fix it at a reasonable level as this agreement would do.” Bruce then outlined what he saw as the effects of the stabilisation of currencies on confidence, growth and trade.

Rowland considered the minister. Bruce had an interesting face—strong brows flared sharply up above shrewd close-set eyes, a nose that pulled away from his mouth as if there were an unpleasant odour about, and a chin that sat proudly out from a pouting lower lip. They combined to give the man a permanently disdainful look. Rowland sat back mulling the composition of the portrait he was constructing in his mind… a full figure, he thought, to bring out the height and athleticism of Bruce's build as well as the self-conscious distinction in his bearing…