“My goodness, Mrs. Bruce,” Milton said, winking at their hostess. “It must have taken you a while to polish all these.”
She laughed. “Great Caesars! Go on!” She flapped her hand at the poet. “You are a card, Mr. Isaacs.”
With a smile and a flourish, Milton offered their hostess his arm and escorted her to the table.
The conversation at luncheon was mostly light and inconsequential, until Ethel Bruce herself raised the subject of Lord Pierrepont.
“Stanley dear, did you hear that poor Bunky Pierrepont has died? Tragic… so very tragic.” She turned to Kate. “You would have simply adored Bunky, Katie dear. Quite the old rogue, but charming in his way.”
Bruce and Wilfred said nothing. Rowland broke the silence. “I say, did you know this chap Pierrepont particularly well, Mrs. Bruce?”
“I wouldn’t say well… he was more of a robust acquaintance. Stanley played golf with him at St. Andrews on and off, and I’m sure we’ve had him for dinner once or twice, haven’t we, Stanley darling?”
Bruce finished chewing before he replied. “I can’t say I recall, my dear.”
Milton shook his head gravely, despite the mischievous gleam in his eye. “It was an unfortunate way to go.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Most people would, I imagine, consider being murdered in one’s own bed somewhat unfortunate.”
“Murdered?” Ethel Bruce’s eyes widened, and her hand splayed against the base of her throat. “But however do you know that, Mr. Isaacs?”
“You must have read it in the paper, Milt,” Rowland said pointedly as he glanced at the poet.
Wilfred glared at them both.
Their hostess thought for a moment. “No, I’m sure it didn’t mention anything about murder, merely that Lord Pierrepont died in tragic circumstances… I suppose it would be difficult to die in a manner that wasn’t tragic… but murder? Why that’s simply dreadful! Are you sure, Mr. Isaacs?”
“Um… perhaps not…” Milton rubbed his forehead, clearly having caught the message in Rowland’s gaze and the hostility in Wilfred’s.
Edna and Clyde watched curiously and said nothing.
Mrs. Bruce turned back to her husband. “Do you recall the article, Stanley?”
Again Bruce took his time, chewing and swallowing before he replied. “I’m afraid I barely glanced at the paper this morning, Ethel. But I understand there may have been something suspicious about Pierrepont’s demise. Better leave it to the constabulary, don’t you think, my dear? This new cook you’ve taken on is excellent.” He nodded at Rowland. “What a gastronomic shame you must confine yourself to consommé, young man. The roast is undeniably superb.”
“Incidentally, Rowly,” Wilfred said following Bruce’s lead in dissipating the topic of conversation. “I’ve organised a doctor to call on you at Claridge’s this afternoon. The Lord only knows if that French chap managed to set the correct arm!”
“I expect I might know if he hadn’t, Wil,” Rowland replied. Clearly neither Bruce nor Wilfred wanted to pursue further discussion of Pierrepont, even here.
Ethel Bruce was, however, not so easily diverted and quite eager to discuss the recently departed peer. From her they learned that Pierrepont was a wonderful dancer, a dab hand at bridge and had once rowed for Cambridge. He’d been a notorious and committed flirt, which Ethel had found charming after a fashion, but which was not always proper.
“Oh dear, you don’t suppose he was shot by a jealous husband?” she said, cupping a hand over her mouth as the thought occurred to her.
“He wasn’t shot,” Bruce stated wearily, without looking up from his meal.
“Well, how would we know?” Ethel said, her voice quivering with excitement. “The newspapers didn’t say. Bunky might have been shot!” She turned to Kate. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear, I’m sure no one would have any cause to shoot Wilfred.”
Rowland smiled.
Wilfred cleared his throat.
“Stanley,” Ethel said, “you simply must see what you can find out.”
“Whatever for?” Bruce sighed.
“I’ll need to send our condolences.”
“Which only requires you to know that Pierrepont is dead.”
Ethel Bruce smiled sweetly. “Of course, my dear, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
With that retreat, the conversation did indeed move to matters less scandalous. Ethel and Milton found they had a common admiration for the works of Conan Doyle and Christie and were soon immersed in a discussion of little grey cells and intellect. Bruce debated the implications of the Ottawa Agreement with Wilfred and spoke of his hopes for the League of Nations to which he was Australia’s representative.
Clyde listened as Kate chatted about the exploits of Ernest and young Ewan, responding with the details of some country balm for teething when she mentioned that the youngest Sinclair had been fractious.
“You’re quiet, Rowly,” Edna whispered.
He smiled. “Just contemplating six weeks of soup,” he murmured, glancing enviously at the generous portions of lamb which had been placed before every other person at the table.
Edna laughed, though she rubbed his arm sympathetically. “Poor Rowly… you’ve had such a miserable time of it. Perhaps this doctor of Wilfred’s will be able to help you.”
“To use a knife and fork?” Rowland asked, bemused.
“No… but maybe he can give you something to help you sleep.”
Rowland looked up sharply, startled that she knew he was having trouble sleeping.
“Clyde mentioned that you’re still having nightmares,” she said. “He’s worried about you.”
“There’s no need to be,” Rowland muttered. He’d not slept soundly since the night they’d fled the house on Schellingstrasse where the SA had left him for dead. He’d tried not to allow his friends to know but, on occasion, Clyde had found him trying to read or simply drinking in the early hours of the morning. They’d played cards without mention of why either would choose pre-dawn poker over sleep. “I’m just getting used to sleeping with this cast,” Rowland lied, vaguely embarrassed.
“Of course,” Edna said gently. “Perhaps Wil’s doctor will be able to give you something for that.”
And so the meal was passed and, for the gentlemen, finished with cigars and brandy while the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee. Ethel Bruce waited until the serving maid had left the room before she said, “There’s more to Bunky’s death than meets the eye I’ll warrant.” She crossed her arms indignantly. “Stanley’s so considerate of my delicate sensibilities, he won’t tell me anything!”
“Perhaps there’s nothing to tell, Ethel,” Kate ventured.
“Poppycock! I haven’t listened to Stanley drone on endlessly about his men, money and markets to be kept in the dark when something interesting finally happens. Of course, it’s very tragic… but it is more interesting than Stanley’s blessed tariffs!”
Kate looked distinctly uncomfortable but Edna warmed all the more to Ethel Bruce.
“I’m having tea with the ladies of the Dominions this week,” Ethel continued, nodding determinedly. “I’ll discover more then… it’s the only reliable source of information in the Empire. Why, the wife of the High Commissioner to Ceylon is always a mine of knowledge.”
Edna really wanted to tell Ethel Bruce what she knew.
“Don’t you worry, ladies.” Ethel raised her cup of coffee. “Whatever I don’t bully out of Stanley, I will gather from the wives of His Majesty’s men. Now…” She changed the subject abruptly. “Edna, you don’t mind if I call you Edna do you my dear? You must call me Ethel. What exactly happened to young Mr. Sinclair in Germany?”
Edna was caught unprepared. She hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Kate. “Rowly came to the attention of the Brownshirts when we were in Munich.” She paused, unsure of how to phrase the brutality of it. “They found him… they hurt him.”
Kate gasped, shocked, realising su
ddenly the reason behind Wilfred’s fury. “They broke his arm? Intentionally?”
Edna nodded, placing her cup down and folding her arms tightly across her chest. “They nearly killed him, Kate.”
“No wonder Wil was so…” Kate started, her face stricken with horror. “But why? Why would they?”
“Mostly because of a painting,” Edna replied, thinking wistfully of the delicate blue nude in which Rowland had managed to capture the fragile essence of a young photographic assistant. “It was beautiful… revolutionary. They broke his arm for it.” She told the two women of the state in which they’d found Rowland, and how they’d all been given shelter by an underground of men considered enemies of Germany, before they eventually escaped to Paris with the help of an Australian journalist.
By the time Edna finished her story, Kate was near tears and Ethel was unusually speechless.
At this point, the gentlemen joined them again.
“You ladies look far too serious,” Clyde said as they walked into silence.
“Perhaps you, too, have been discussing the importance of fixing the pound against the gold standard,” Milton muttered miserably.
“Oh, Stanley!” Ethel gathered herself and addressed her husband. “You haven’t been boring our guests again, have you? Honestly, it’s a wonder anyone visits us at all!”
Bruce’s brow rose, as if the concept that he could bore anyone was unexpected and somewhat silly.
“Not at all, Ethel,” Wilfred said in Bruce’s defence. “I’m sure Rowly and his friends appreciate the value of your husband’s wisdom on these fiscal matters.”
Milton sighed. “And money, that most pure imagination, gleams only through the dawn of its creation.”
“Why Mr. Isaacs!” Ethel exclaimed. “That’s very clever.”
“Byron often was,” Rowland said as Milton, unrepentant, accepted the accolade.
“Perhaps you should sit down, Rowly,” Kate urged anxiously, her eyes still bright with distress. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Yes… Actually I’d best not, but thank you, Kate.” Rowland was unsettled by her sudden need to fuss over him. “We really should be going…”
“But you must wait till the children return,” Kate protested. “They’ll be back in a minute and Ernest will be terribly disappointed if you’re not here when he returns!”
Again Rowland was surprised by the emotion in Kate’s plea. He shrugged. “Of course… we’ll stop till the boys get back.”
“Actually, Rowly, I wouldn’t mind a word whilst you wait.” Wilfred motioned towards the tiled balcony off the sitting room. “Shall we step outside for a moment?”
Edna glanced at Rowland in alarm. In her experience, Wilfred requested these quiet words so that he could dress down his brother privately. She wondered now if she should have spoken of Germany.
Rowland did not seem to share her concern. Returning her glance with a wink, he followed Wilfred onto the balcony which overlooked the park below.
The rose beds of Ennismore Gardens were in full bloom adding ordered colour to the sweeping paths which wound between the trees. Elegant couples strolled among the shrubberies and smartly dressed children played polite cricket and skipped on the lawns. Rowland waved as he spotted Ernest running ahead of his nanny who was pushing Ewan in a large pram.
Wilfred lit a cigarette.
Rowland waited.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Miss Higgins, Rowly.”
“What conversation?”
“As highly inappropriate as it is for her to know such a fact, Miss Higgins seems to be of the opinion that you’re not sleeping.”
Rowland studied his brother, not sure what he was getting at. Wilfred’s disapproval of Edna was long-standing, but he was bewildered as to why it would warrant particular mention now. He tensed, preparing himself for an old and bitter argument.
“Is it true?” Wilfred demanded.
“Is what true?”
“That you’re not sleeping.”
Rowland relaxed. “I’m all right, Wil.”
Wilfred smoked wordlessly for a while. “You know, Rowly, after the war there were a few… several chaps… who stopped sleeping.”
Rowland said nothing, surprised, not by what Wilfred said but by the fact that he’d said it. This was closer than his brother had ever before come to talking to him of the war. Fifteen years after the armistice and Rowland still knew almost nothing about Wilfred’s years in France: what he’d done, how he’d felt. It had always been a silence between them.
Wilfred met his eye. “Don’t drink.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you can’t sleep… when you find yourself alone and awake in the middle of the night… read, take up smoking, learn to knit if you have to—just don’t drink… not alone.”
Rowland shifted uncomfortably. He dragged his good hand through his hair. He had taken the edge off with gin more than once. It all seemed so ridiculous in the light of day, but he understood what Wilfred was saying. “Very well Wil, I’ll knit you some socks.”
6
MADAME TUSSAUD’S WAXWORKS
Hitler’s Figure Painted Red
TWO YOUTHS ARRESTED
London, Friday
Three green-shirted youths entered Madame Tussaud’s and smeared red paint on the wax figure of Herr Hitler and labelled it “Hitler, the murderer.” They were later arrested.
Border Watch, 1933
The day was warm; possibly hot by English standards. For the Australians, it was pleasant. They had set out on foot for the waxworks museum on Marylebone Road. Edna’s interest was professional. She often worked in wax when creating a piece for casting in bronze, and the lifelike figures created by the sculptors of Madame Tussaud’s both intrigued and impressed her. Clyde and Rowland, being painters, were less interested in the sculptures as examples of technical excellence than as contemporary curiosities. Milton was willing to go anywhere as long as it did not involve another conversation about economics.
Rowland had been to the famous wax museum before, a number of times in fact, during the eight years he was educated in England. The popular exhibitions had changed, with new celebrities taking the place of the silent film stars of the twenties.
Nevertheless, there was something quite macabre about the museum: the statues were both so lifelike and lifeless that they seemed to be parodies of the originals. It was not hard to believe that the museum’s founder had refined her craft making the death masks of decapitated French nobles during the revolution.
Beyond the Chamber of Horrors, populated by monsters and celebrity criminals, stood the royal family.
“That’s bloody disturbing,” Clyde murmured giving Princess Elizabeth, King George V’s two-year-old granddaughter, a wide berth.
Rowland nodded. There was something a great deal more eerie about a small girl frozen in wax than anything else they’d seen. Perhaps the stiffness, the lack of movement and sound, was particularly stark in the depiction of a child.
Somewhere between Jack the Ripper and the newly unveiled statue of Adolf Hitler, Edna seemed to vanish. They weren’t particularly alarmed at first, for the sculptress had a way of becoming distracted and wandering off, and the museum was crowded with visitors. It was only after several minutes of searching that they began to be concerned. At that point Edna reappeared.
She grabbed Rowland’s hand, beckoning to Milton and Clyde to follow. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to someone.”
She took them through a barely detectable black door in the black wall. It led to what looked like a series of studios behind the main exhibit hall. Rows of disembodied heads sat on overburdened shelves. Random body parts awaited attachment to twisted torsos on tables beside boxes of glass eyes and wigs.
Among the partially assembled figures of wax stood a few men of flesh, fitting limbs, inserting hair or working with moulds. An old man with a head so bald and shiny it might have been mistaken for wax
, stood inspecting feet and shouting at a clearly harassed apprentice whenever he found a flaw in the toes. He berated the younger man for his carelessness, waving what appeared to be a hook as he ranted. As they came closer, Rowland realised that the hook was all that existed where the man’s right hand should have been. When the man saw Edna, he stopped shouting and beamed. “Edna, my dear, you found your companions then?”
Edna pulled Rowland forward. “Rowly, you remember Mr. Marriott Spencer?”
In truth, Rowland had no recollection of the man whatsoever, but he did recall Edna speaking of a hook-handed sculpture teacher from their days at the Ashton School of Art. It had to be him. How many hook-handed men could Edna possibly know?
“From Ashton’s,” Rowland said. “Of course. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Spencer. You will excuse me if I don’t offer you my hand.”
“I am ill-equipped to accept it, son,” Spencer replied, holding up his hook.
“Marriott is Madame Tussaud’s chief artist now,” Edna said proudly.
Spencer shook his head. “Ach… the Depression, you know. One must find work when commissions are scarce. When times get better I will return to making art… until then I make mannequins.”
“They’re so much more than mannequins, Marriott,” Edna protested.
“You are too kind, Edna.” He smiled, looking at her over half-moon glasses. “You were my most talented student, you know. I expect great things from you. Promise me you will not follow in my footsteps; that you will not waste your unique gift creating novelties for the unwashed masses.”
Edna laughed. “You are melodramatic, Marriott! You work with the most famous people in the Empire, unwashed or not!”
“I work on the most famous people, my dear. I work with wax. I have become a maker of giant wickless candles!”
Milton picked up a bust of Theodore Roosevelt. “Still, you do it well.”
Spencer beamed, suddenly mollified. “Come, let me show you how we create the figures. Sadly, it is not art… but it is not an uninteresting livelihood.”
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Page 5