Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  “What do you mean by that?” Clyde demanded of the poet.

  “Shakespeare meant guilt, I believe,” Rowland murmured. “God only knows what Milt meant.”

  “What if it’s an act?” Edna said, leaning her head against Rowland’s shoulder in the back seat, and closing her eyes. “Surely, Lady Leon would not have allowed Euphemia to receive guests if she’s like that all the time.”

  “Ed’s got a point,” Clyde said after a moment. “Lady Leon seemed reasonably sensible… and formidable, to be honest. Why would she allow Euphemia to talk to anyone if she thought she was insane?” He turned back to look at Rowland. “Don’t your lot refer to that as ‘indisposed’?”

  Rowland flinched almost imperceptibly. His own mother had often been “indisposed”. “Yes,” he said glancing down at Edna. The sculptress seemed to have fallen asleep.

  “What now?” Milton asked.

  “I’m famished,” Edna said, without opening her eyes.

  The Crown Inn in the hamlet of Shenley Brook End, a couple of miles from Bletchley, was as typical as its name. The Edwardian simplicity of its brick and tile construction was something of a visual relief after Bletchley Park. As the day was warm and clear, they sat outside to enjoy a hearty ploughman’s luncheon.

  “This is the most scrumptious relish,” Edna said, piling piccalilli onto her smoked ham. “We don’t have it at home.”

  Rowland smiled, making a mental note to have a crate of piccalilli shipped back to the larder of Woodlands House. He loved the sculptress’ ability to take such delight in the smallest of things.

  “So what do we do with Pierrepont?” Clyde said, glancing back at the Vauxhall where they had left the wax head.

  Rowland shrugged. “We return it to Pocock, I suppose.”

  “The murder weapon—the sword that killed our mate Pierrepont,” Milton waved his fork as a thought occurred. “Did you get a good look at it, Rowly?”

  “Not really, to be honest. Why?”

  “Well, it seems to me that either the killer brought the sword with him—a difficult item to carry down the street unnoticed—or it was already in Pierrepont’s suite… in which case the mortal act may have been impulsive: a crime of passion. Two different types of murder altogether.”

  Rowland nodded. Milton’s logic was inescapable. He groaned. Why hadn’t he taken a closer look at the sword? “Surely, if it was emblazoned with a coat of arms, or some such feature, they would have arrested someone by now?”

  Milton nodded. “That makes sense… but we should check anyway. Presumably the police will still have the sword, it being the murder weapon.”

  “Yes, but they’re hardly going to hand it over to us!” Clyde spread a thick slab of bread with freshly churned butter.

  “Perhaps Wil will remember more about it,” Rowland suggested. “He spoke at length to the detectives… I was mostly trying to keep Allie calm.”

  “Did you notice anything else in the room, Rowly?” Milton prodded.

  Clyde rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me… you’ve been reading Agatha Christie again.” Detective fiction was, in his opinion, a bad idea where the poet was concerned.

  Milton ignored him. “Anything at all, Rowly.”

  Rowland closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to recall. “One dirty drink glass on the armchair… the secretaire was open… dead man in the bed… that’s about it.”

  “Did you inspect the empty glass? Could his drink have been drugged?”

  Rowland nearly laughed. “How would I know, Milt? Even if I’d thought to check the dregs in the glass? I couldn’t possibly know if it had been poisoned unless I drank it myself!”

  Milton sighed, clearly exasperated with Rowland’s lack of commitment.

  “I have the card of that chap, Entwhistle, who’s leading the investigation,” Rowland offered. “We’ll go see him when we get back to London. He may have some light to shed. Perhaps he tasted the drink.”

  They headed back to Bloomington Manor soon after lunch as Murcott was expecting them for supper. The dining room was being prepared in the most lofty style when they arrived back in the late afternoon. Clearly they would be dressing for dinner.

  “So, who are you expecting this evening?” Rowland asked as Murcott made martinis to see them through the afternoon.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s a surprise,” Murcott said, beaming. “It was Ivy’s idea… and rather brilliant, I can tell you.”

  Reclined on the chaise lounge, Ivy sipped her martini serenely. Apparently brother and sister had mended their earlier spat.

  Murcott patted the wax head which had found its way back to the sideboard. “I say, weren’t you going to leave this with Euphemia?”

  “Unfortunately, Lady Leon would not allow it,” Rowland replied. He recounted what had transpired.

  “Oh, my gosh, that’s too bad!”

  “Was Lady Pierrepont always so… unorthodox?” Edna asked.

  “Euphemia was born eccentric,” Ivy replied. “But no more so than many people.”

  “A great deal more so, my dear,” Murcott corrected. “I’m quite fond of Euphemia, but she is undeniably odd! Why last time we saw her she wanted to leave the ball to wander about looking for bats! She was most unreasonable about it.”

  “Euphemia is very interested in the biological sciences,” Ivy explained, regarding her brother reproachfully. “Bats are her particular passion. She’s very clever really—might have gone to Oxford if her family had allowed it… but they’re tiresomely old-fashioned. I presume that’s why she’s staying at Bletchley Park.”

  “I’ve not seen poor Euphemia in nearly two years,” Murcott said, now repentant. “We really should visit. Perhaps Lady Leon will be less strict if Ivy and I accompany you.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t have time to call on Lady Pierrepont again—we’re returning to London in the morning.” Rowland broke the news that he and his companions had agreed upon on the journey back from Bletchley.

  Murcott seemed genuinely dismayed. “But you only just got here!”

  “Regrettably we’re in the middle of something in London,” Rowland apologised. “We had only intended a short visit, and we really must get back.”

  “Yes… you did say, but I had hoped to persuade you all to stay a while longer. If Evelyn hears that we don’t have anyone staying with us, he’ll move in!” Murcott groaned.

  “Archie, how could you?” Ivy demanded. “You’ve spoiled the surprise!”

  “Evelyn…” Rowland frowned. “Do you mean Waugh?”

  “The same.”

  “But I thought you and Waugh were chums. Weren’t you a Hypocrite?”

  “Rowly!” Edna said shocked that he would be so rude.

  “It’s a drinking club, Ed.”

  “I say, that’s a bit unfair, old boy. The Hypocrites were much more than a drinking club.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Milton interrupted. “Do you mean the Evelyn Waugh, the writer?”

  “Yes, he put out quite a successful novel a couple of years back.”

  “Vile Bodies?”

  “That’s it. One of those dreadful murder mysteries, I suppose.”

  Milton stared at Murcott for a moment. “Am I to gather by the fact that your sister looks ready to cut your throat that Mr. Waugh is your surprise guest this evening?”

  “Oh dear… the cat really is out of the bag, isn’t it?” Murcott grimaced at his sister. “Ivy ran into him in the village. Evelyn was very intrigued that we had Australians visiting. He has a dear friend there and was wondering if you might have run into the gentleman—And so Ivy invited him to dinner.” He beamed at Rowland now. “I thought you might find it fun to see Evelyn again.”

  Rowland smiled politely.

  “So, why will he move into Bloomington Manor if we aren’t here?” Milton asked, doggedly trying to follow the random tangents of the conversation.

  “Well, you see, Evelyn has no fixed abode presently. He’s become something o
f a serial house guest.”

  “And you wouldn’t welcome that?”

  “Lord, no! Evelyn’s amusing enough, but one dinner will suffice!”

  “Well, what say we don’t mention that we’re going tomorrow,” Edna suggested.

  “I couldn’t possibly ask you to lie but if you were to do so of your own accord I’d consider it a very great kindness, dear lady.”

  18

  LORD BEAUCHAMP

  Sydney, May 15

  When at Albany, Lord Beauchamp’s private secretary handed the press the following message from the Governor to the people of New South Wales. It is in verse, being an adaptation of a verse of Rudyard Kipling’s “The Song of the Cities”:—

  Greeting! Your birthstain have you turned to good

  Forcing strong wills perverse to steadfastness

  The first flush of the tropics in your blood

  And at your feet success

  Beauchamp

  The message has occasioned much talk. The “birthstain” is an unfortunate reference in the case of New South Wales.

  Chronicle, 1899

  “Come in,” Rowland called as he rummaged for cufflinks in his travelling case.

  Edna stepped into the bedroom resplendent in the elegant black velvet gown she’d purchased at a boutique in Mayfair, not long after they’d arrived in London. The neckline was beaded on the fitted bodice and the skirt tailored to the subtle rise and fall of her hips. “I thought you might need help with your tie,” she said, smiling.

  Rowland said nothing, admiring the manner in which the darkness of the gown highlighted the cream of the sculptress’ skin. Ink, he thought, to capture the dramatic nature of the contrast and the exquisite movement in the smooth curving lines of her body.

  She smiled knowingly. “It’s nice to have you paint me again, Rowly, if only in your head.” She twirled so he could see the dress complete. “This is the most divine fabric,” she said, stroking the velvet. “It’s almost furry. I feel rather like a cat!”

  Rowland laughed. “Well, you look beautiful,” he said quietly. He handed her the tie and waited as she knotted it into the perfect bow.

  “I take it you don’t particularly care for Mr. Waugh,” Edna whispered, as she folded back Rowland’s cuff and secured the cufflink.

  Rowland sighed. “He left Oxford about a year after I arrived, so I didn’t know him all that well. He always seemed to be inebriated, which sadly was probably the most pleasant aspect of his character.” He dragged his hand through his hair, rendering useless the few moments he had spent with a comb. “But to be fair,” he admitted, “I abhorred Murcott once… Perhaps Waugh, too, has with the passing of time become more palatable.”

  “Well, it’s only one evening,” Edna said, fiddling with the sling so it didn’t crush his collar unduly.

  “Rowly have you seen…?” Clyde walked into the room with a tie in his hand. “Ed… there you are! Would you mind? I can’t seem to get the wings even slightly even!”

  Edna took the strip of cloth and within moments Clyde too was completely dressed. She surveyed her work. “You know,” she said with satisfaction, “there’s nothing quite as pleasing as a man formally dressed. If I had my way, I wouldn’t let you wear anything else.”

  At that, Clyde responded quite bluntly and less than enthusiastically.

  They walked down to take drinks in the drawing room while they waited for Ivy’s eminent guest to arrive.

  The writer came late and duly apologised, though gave no reason for his delay. He greeted Murcott exuberantly, throwing open his arms and calling him “Pixie”. Murcott introduced Rowland.

  Physically, Waugh was as Rowland remembered him: intense, piercing eyes that seemed to glare at the world as a matter of course. His features were fine and the natural curve of his mouth could be mistaken for a sneer. Waugh was, as far as Rowland could tell, sober.

  “Sinclair… Rowland Sinclair… Ivy tells me you are a Mertonian, but I cannot seem to recall your face.”

  “Sinclair’s the Australian chap who won my Mercedes at cards, Evelyn. After you’d left Oxford, but surely you heard about it.”

  “Is that so? I believe someone may have mentioned it. Good show, Sinclair… your birthstain you have turned to good!”

  Rowland’s eyes flashed. “Indeed,” he said frostily.

  Waugh smiled—a passing, perfunctory stretching of his lips. “I jest my good man! I suppose I should have learned from the inadvertent folly of Earl Beauchamp when he sought to praise your people, and met with the ire of a colony desperate to deny its dubious roots.”

  The first of many awkward silences followed.

  Ivy intervened hastily to introduce Rowland’s companions.

  Already Waugh looked a little bored. “How clever of you to surround yourself with like minds, Sinclair,” he said after the formalities had been seen to. “I can’t imagine anything more pleasant than simple undemanding conversation at the end of the day.”

  Rowland smiled tightly. “Really? And here I thought the imagination of a novelist would be extraordinary indeed.”

  Waugh stopped and then laughed so softly that there was no actual sound.

  In what may have been an attempt to diffuse the tension, Ivy suggested they go in to supper.

  Waugh offered their hostess his arm and Murcott escorted Edna.

  The dining hall had been readied for the most formal and elegant occasion. The seating arrangement was carefully drawn. The menu was extravagant, course after course of exquisitely constructed dishes, exotic salads, game meat and soufflés with generous garnishes of caviar and buttery sauces. There was a separate wine for each course, fruit and cognac to follow, and in a salute to their days at Oxford, cigars and snuff.

  The conversation was mostly Waugh’s. Recently converted to Catholicism, he delivered polemic after polemic on the failings of the world, the decadence of modern society and the bumblings of government. Murcott fought admirably to keep the evening from disintegrating.

  Only Edna was unperturbed by the manner of the writer. She seemed to find Evelyn Waugh amusing, and for this he began to direct much of his conversation in her direction. Perhaps he believed that Edna alone amongst the colonial dullards understood and appreciated his wit. In truth, the sculptress simply found him ridiculous.

  “Mr. Sinclair and his companions visited the recently bereaved Lady Pierrepont today.” Ivy opened a conversation. “You know, Evelyn… Euphemia Thistlewaite that was.”

  “Oh yes, Euphemia. Homely and quite graceless, but not as dull-witted as those moronic brothers of hers. What were their names? Whole family was christened in line with some facile classical affectation, if I recall.”

  “Theophrastus and Diogenes,” Ivy said with authority.

  “Were you aware Euphemia married Alfred Dawe, the Viscount of Pierrepont?” Edna asked suddenly.

  “A marriage of tedious convenience,” Waugh replied, nodding.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Waugh.”

  “Pierrepont had a mildly worthwhile title, and yet he was, I am told, poor as a church mouse. He lost most of what capital he had financing Joss Hay on some scheme to grow tea in Kenya. Euphemia has no money in her own right, and very little charm, but her boorish brothers are wealthy enough. A sufficiency and deficiency that is both complementary and convenient, I would say.”

  “These brothers of Lady Pierrepont’s—Theophrastus and Diogenes,” Rowland asked, “are they in London?”

  “Yes, I believe the younger one is a civil servant or something equally tawdry.” Waugh digressed then into a condemnation of the lack of any real intellect in Britain’s civil service.

  When he began on the scourge of Communism, Milton was the first to bite back.

  Waugh was scathing in reply. “Communism, like homosexuality, is a phase tolerated in young men at university, as long as it goes no further. A harmless, perhaps necessary, passing experimentation on the way to adulthood. Even if you were a man of let
ters, Mr. Isaacs, which I doubt, you and I are too old to expect further forbearance in the face of such folly.”

  For a moment it looked like Milton might ask the novelist to step outside.

  “Come now, Evelyn,” Murcott said a little nervously, “You’re quarrelling with the only man here who has read your books.” He kept talking, desperate to get through the moment without fisticuffs, enquiring after the other Hypocrites from whom it seemed he had not heard since the loss of his title.

  After a heavy pause, Waugh recounted at length what he knew: who had married and become respectable, who had published and who were living dissolute lives abroad in a flagrant disregard of the teachings of the Roman Church or any other.

  “Hypocrite is bloody right,” Milton muttered for Rowland’s hearing. Despite being a Catholic, Clyde did not seem inclined to disagree.

  “Now, Sinclair,” Waugh began as the final course was served. “You must not suppose that I am one of those fools who assumes that simply because you hail from New South Wales that you would be acquainted with the Earl of Beauchamp. It’s just that I remember that you boxed.”

  “I thought you didn’t recall my face,” Rowland said curtly.

  “That’s so. I don’t recall your face… just that you boxed.”

  “Yes, I did,” Rowland replied, wondering what this had to do with Earl Beauchamp who had been governor of New South Wales years before he was born.

  “Perhaps in your amateur boxing career you were fortunate to come across another devotee of that brutish pastime by the name of Lygon… Hugh Lygon?”

  “I remember Lygon,” Rowland said carefully. Hugh Lygon too had been a Hypocrite and had insisted on carrying a teddy bear about with him—some bizarre fad among the aesthetes. Rowland recalled having, not unreasonably, underestimated Lygon because of the stuffed toy which sat in his corner. Hugh Lygon had, however, turned out to be quite a formidable boxer, when he was sober.

  “Well, as it happens, Hugh’s the son of Earl Beauchamp, and has travelled to the Antipodes to be with his father in his exile.”

  It was not necessary for Waugh to elaborate as to why Lygon’s father was in exile. Beauchamp had been in Australia when the scandal broke and the revelations about the sodomite earl and his merry footmen were made public in a spectacular international fall from grace.