Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  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 quic
kly,” 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?”

  “Milt wanted to storm the office of the B.U.F.,” Edna whispered.

  Wilfred opened his pocket watch, and checked the time. “I must get back. Rowly, for pity’s sake try and leave it a couple of days before the next crisis!”

  “That’s it?” Rowland said, outraged. “That lunatic abducts me for lunch and you want me to stay out of trouble?”

  “He said he had asked you to come see him.”

  “I am not one of his crew. I don’t have to drop everything just because Admiral Hugh flaming Sinclair shouts!”

  Wilfred stepped towards the door and waited impatiently while the butler opened it to let him out. “I’ll deal with Quex. However, I suggest that next time our cousin wants to see you, you just jolly well go.”

  As the door closed after Wilfred, Rowland slipped his arm out of the sling and rubbed the back of his neck, both annoyed and embarrassed by the morning’s events.

  Edna sat on the arm of his chair and brushed the hair away from his face. “I’m glad it was your cousin,” she said. “It was frightening… but at least that’s all it was.”

  Milton put a glass of gin down in front of him. “What was he after, Rowly, this cousin of yours?”

  “I’m not entirely sure… I think he wanted me to come work for him.”

  “He wanted you to join up? It’s all a trifle high-handed, isn’t it?”

  “He’s taking his knighthood a little seriously, I suppose.”

  “He’s been knighted?”

  “His Majesty knighted most of his admirals after the war.”

  “Nothing like a cape and a funny hat to keep you loyal to the status quo,” Milton muttered.

  Rowland smiled: if any man could be seduced by a cape it was probably Milton.

  “Rowly, did you talk about Germany?” Edna asked earnestly. “Your cousin sounds like he may be an important man. Perhaps…?”

  “Yes, I did actually.” Rowland frowned. “He seems to believe the Nazis are not nearly as dangerous as either the Communists or the Oxford Debating Union.”

  14

  TERRIBLE DESPOTISM

  LONDON, July 8

  “There is the most absolute, terrible despotism conceivable in Germany,” said Herr Rudolph Breitscheid, former leader of the Social Democrats in the Reichstag, who was banished by the Nazis, when addressing the National Peace Conference at Oxford. He added, “There are hundreds of separate local dictatorships. The anti-Semitic feeling is due to the hatred of doctors, lawyers and business men to their more successful Jewish colleagues. We are bitterly disappointed by the lack of sympathy from Britain and Italy. Hitler is pacifist because he cannot be otherwise. Europe should act accordingly and institute the strictest international control of armaments.”

  The Central Queensland Herald, 1933

  Menzies brought The Guardian in on a silver tray and enquired if the gentlemen would be requiring tea. The manservant assiduously avoided any mention or acknowledgement of the wax head which sat conspicuously on the sideboard.

  “No, thank you, Menzies.”

  Rowland checked his watch as Milton took the paper. They had still an hour before they were expected in Belgravia for the meeting that had been aborted the day before.

  “There is a gentleman waiting to call on you in the foyer, sir. Are you at home?”

  “What gentleman?”

  “The Honourable Archibald Murcott, sir. He claims to be an old friend of yours.”

  Rowland’s brow arched. He was sure he didn’t know anyone called Murcott. “Yes, I’m at home. Have them send him up. Oh, perhaps you had better serve that tea, after all.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The butler answered the door to a young man, well-dressed, and clearly well-fed. The buttons of his waistcoat stretched over the rounded expanse of his torso and his bowler sat at a jaunty angle.

  “Sinclair!” he boomed by way of greeting. “How fabulous to see you again, old chap!”

  Rowland stared. He knew this man but not by the name Murcott. “Lesley?”

  “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Oh, I say, I can’t even shake your hand.” He slapped Rowland on the back instead. “It turns out another heir emerged. Who knew the old man was such a rogue? I lost the title… so I’m simply the Honourable Archibald Murcott now!”

  “I see,” Rowland said, unsure if he should be expressing condolences. He had known Murcott at Oxford in the twenties as the young Lord Lesley, an arrogant, condescending member of the entitled classes with a fondness for Regency dress and cards. The portly, congenial man before him was quite stark in contrast. Rowland introduced Clyde and Milton.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” Murcott said enthusiastically, shaking what hands he could.

  He started as his eye caught the wax head on the sideboard. “By George, is that Pierrepont?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I take your hat, sir?” The butler broke the awkward silence which followed as they all simply looked at Pierrepont.

  Murcott held up his forefinger. “No… no, that’s perfectly all right.” He strode over to the sideboard, placed his bowler on the wax head and adjusted it until the angle pleased. “Bunky here will hold it for me. Now Sinclair, are you ever going to ask me to sit down, old boy?”

  “Please.” Rowland motioned to a chair.

  “I don’t suppose your man can make a decent martini?”

  Rowland glanced at the butler who inclined his head and said, “And the rest of you gentlemen?”

  The Australians elected for tea, though Milton visibly wavered.

  “Good heavens, Sinclair, what’s happened to you?” Murcott demanded on learning he would be drinking alone.

  “It’s barely ten in the morning.”

  “Letting the side down, Sinclair, letting the side down.” Murcott sighed. “I heard you were back in London and I couldn’t pass up the chance to drop in and enquire after my car.”

  “She’s well. The Australian climate suits her.”

  Shortly before he’d returned to Australia, Rowland had won his beloved 1927 Mercedes S-Class from the then Lord Lesley in a gruelling, twelve-hour game of poker. Though he’d known the German automobile
would raise both eyebrows and ire in post-war Australia, he’d had her shipped home.

  “It took me a long time to stop hating you for taking my car,” Murcott admitted.

  “I believe I won her.”

  “Oh yes, yes, old man. Fair and square. It was more wounded pride than anything else, to be honest… you being a Colonial and all. Losing the title to my father’s youthful indiscretion put it all into perspective.”

  “It must have been a blow,” Rowland ventured.

  “A frightful scandal, but you know it all turned out rather well in the end. The new Lord Lesley is actually not such a bad chap… settled on me quite generously really, and I’ll no longer have to live in that draughty gothic mausoleum that came with the title!”

  “So you’re living in London now?”

  “Not especially. I have my club here of course, but my dear sister Ivy and I have moved back to Oxford.” He pulled out a calling card and handed it to Rowland. “Purchased a quaint little place called Bloomington Manor. You really must come and stay… Do you gentlemen shoot?” He looked at Rowland. “I suppose we’ll have to count you out, Sinclair, what with you being winged and all… but no matter, Ivy will be delighted to see you.” He leaned over to Clyde and Milton. “My sister did always consider Sinclair rather dashing—part of the reason I wanted to give him a damn good thrashing I suppose.” He laughed. “Of course, I knew my limitations—I don’t expect Sinclair’s told you gentlemen that he boxed at Oxford: Antipodean savagery kept in check by the Queensbury rules.” Murcott tapped his temple. “I thought I’d defeat him with my superior British intellect, but sadly you Colonials play poker rather well too.” He shook his head forlornly. “I should have challenged him to a footrace around the quadrangle instead… I was quite swift in those days.”

  Rowland sat back, bemused. He had no recollection of meeting Ivy Murcott, and he hadn’t realised there was anything more to the high-stakes poker game than cards.

  “But that’s all water under the bridge,” Murcott said, raising his martini glass. “You chaps really must visit Bloomington. Oxford is so dull this time of year—I’m simply desperate for some civilised distraction.”