Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  Waugh continued. “Earl Beauchamp has, it seems, become the Australian President of your national boxing association or some such endeavour, but I’d hoped you’d know that and have some friendly news of Hugh.”

  “I haven’t boxed since well before I left Oxford, I’m afraid, and we have all of us been abroad since April.”

  Waugh sighed. “Pity. My thoughts turn to Hugh now that I’m no longer abroad.” He gazed in his intense, wide-eyed way at Rowland. “We’re losing men like him, you know. Bit by bit the grubby ambition of the aspirant bourgeoisie is dismantling the great and worthy traditions that built the Empire.”

  “Evelyn Waugh may be a renowned novelist, mate,” Milton said as he watched Edna help Rowland remove his cufflinks, “but he’s also a pompous git.”

  Rowland made no move to defend his old acquaintance. It would have been disingenuous to do so. Waugh practised a kind of intellectual thuggery that Rowland had always found more tiresome than amusing.

  Edna placed the cufflinks into Rowland’s hand and patted it fondly. Her brow arched mischievously. “So… you lived in the midst of all that for four years?”

  “I wasn’t in the midst of all that.” Rowland frowned. “As much as the Hypocrites like to believe that theirs was the only Oxford, that wasn’t the case. While they were carrying on like insane delinquent children, the rest of us just got on with it!”

  Edna giggled. “Oh, Rowly, you sound like Wilfred.”

  Rowland stopped. He grimaced. “Good Lord, you’re right.” He hadn’t realised how much Waugh had gotten under his skin.

  Milton laughed. “A week ago you might have hit him, mate.”

  “That much is true,” Rowland conceded. Sleep had had a containing effect on his temper. Still, as much as it had disrupted the economic conference and brought him the enmity of the B.U.F., he wasn’t sorry he’d hit Joyce.

  “So… Waugh knocked about with old Beauchamp’s son… it’s a small world,” Milton mused.

  “You know Beauchamp?” Rowland asked, surprised.

  “Friend of a mate. He’s not a bad bloke when you get used to him. Completely queer, of course, and obsessed with embroidery, but otherwise…”

  “You didn’t mention it at dinner.”

  “Waugh asked you if you were acquainted with Beauchamp not me…” Milton grinned. “It would probably disturb Mr. Waugh to know that we of the proletariat have the odd connection… and in the case of Beauchamp, quite odd.”

  “Where’s Clyde?” Edna asked. “Is he still cross?”

  Rowland winced. “Possibly.”

  They had somewhat abandoned Clyde to a theological conversation with Waugh… or rather a theological lecture by Waugh. It was Milton who had carelessly revealed their friend’s Catholicism. Waugh, having declared that he was most comfortable talking to adherents of the Roman Church, had decided to demonstrate the preference by engaging Clyde in a rather one-sided discussion about the nature of grace. Rowland and the others had tried to rescue Clyde at first to no avail. Rowland at least felt bad about it.

  “Did you notice Mr. Waugh say that Joss Hay was involved in Lord Pierrepont’s financial woes?” Edna asked.

  Milton nodded. “It makes you wonder if the Earl of Erroll might also have had reason to do away with his old chum, Bunky. Running a man through with a sword does seem like a rather aristocratic way of despatching a problem.”

  “We need a little more than dinner table conversation to make an accusation.” Rowland removed the sling and rubbed the back of his neck. It was surprising how heavy the cast seemed by the end of the day.

  “Pierrepont must have an accountant or a solicitor… someone who manages his affairs,” Milton suggested.

  “Wouldn’t Allie know?” Edna asked. “Wasn’t she his private secretary?”

  “Yes she was,” Rowland said, realising the sculptress was right. “I’m not sure what exactly her duties were, but Allie could well hold the key to all this.”

  19

  ART OF THE THEATRE

  FILMS AND IMAGINATION

  ENGLISH PLAYERS’ VISIT

  Of the English stage at the moment Mr. Hannen takes an optimistic view. A number of really big successes were now running in London, he said. One was the historical play “Richard of Bordeaux,” put on by John Gielgud, one of the younger lights of the stage.

  The West Australian, 1933

  Clyde sat by the easel in the conservatory, smoking. The moon bequeathed enough light to define the ferns and pick out the petals of orchids in bloom. Evelyn Waugh had finally gone. Everybody else, as far as he knew, had retired, exhausted by the rigours of being civil. Now that he thought about it, Clyde was inclined to feel a little sorry for the Murcotts. Hosting that dinner party must have been like negotiating a minefield protected only by wine and caviar blinis.

  “Clyde… Hello… I thought you’d gone to bed.” Rowland stepped into the conservatory. He was without his tie or jacket, and though he still wore his dress shirt the sleeve of his left arm had been folded to the elbow.

  Clyde smiled. “I needed a cigarette. I feel a bit like I’ve been to mass… it’s frightening.”

  “Waugh doesn’t seem to do anything by halves,” Rowland agreed.

  “What are you doing down here, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

  “I thought I’d work for a bit.”

  “Really? Now?” Clyde glanced at his watch.

  Rowland shrugged. “Our train back to London isn’t till midday.”

  Clyde stepped away from the easel. Rowland found a pencil, removed the study of Edna on the belltower and attached a clean sheet of cartridge. He drew with loose strokes: the thin upswept brows, the almost manic eyes and a strained sarcastic smile.

  Clyde watched the likeness develop. He laughed. “Waugh! I thought you’d have had enough of him.”

  Rowland smiled. “He’s got quite an interesting face, don’t you think? I might have asked him to sit for me if I could think of a way to shut him up. I wanted to get the wretch down on paper before I forgot… or tried to forget.”

  Clyde smiled, observing both the artist and his sketch. Rowland had a very physical way of working—he almost attacked the paper. “What made you give up boxing, Rowly?”

  Rowland paused. “I got thoroughly thrashed in the ring by a chap called Eddie Eagan. He was a Rhodes Scholar from America.”

  Clyde recognised the name of the Olympic boxing gold medallist. “Eddie Eagan… for pity’s sake, Rowly, there’s no shame in being beaten by Eagan!”

  “Oh, I wasn’t worried by the loss,” Rowland said, smudging the graphite with the side of his palm to create shadows. He shook his head and admitted, “Actually, I might have been put out, if I’d been conscious.”

  Clyde blanched.

  “It was a few weeks before I could go back into the ring,” Rowland explained. “I started drawing to pass the time… and then I didn’t really want to fight anymore.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Basically. I used to draw boxers for a while and then it occurred to me that I could draw women instead.”

  “Bloody glad to hear it,” Clyde muttered.

  And so they continued for a while, Rowland drawing, Clyde making suggestions on shade or form, or talking about other things. The pencil portrait was near complete when Clyde noticed the missing paintings.

  “What have you done with your paintings of Germany?” he asked, casting his eyes about the conservatory.

  “They should be there somewhere,” Rowland murmured without looking up.

  Clyde rummaged for a while. “They’re not here, Rowly.”

  Rowland put down his pencil and helped his friend search. They found the sketch of Ivy that Murcott had called propaganda, but all the paintings of Germany were gone.

  “Perhaps one of the servants packed them away somewhere,” Rowland suggested.

  “Strange that they’d put those away and not the others.”

  “Not really.” Rowland countered thoughtfully. �
�Those paintings are pretty grim. I’ll ask Murcott about it in the morning… they’ve got to be somewhere.”

  They closed up the conservatory and padded softly up the staircase, cognisant of the hour and the fact that most of the household was asleep. Halfway up to the guestrooms they heard a whisper on the floor below.

  Both Rowland and Clyde looked down over the balustrade.

  Murcott came out of a door, leaving it open. The dim light from the bedroom backlit Ivy in her nightgown at the doorway. Rowland turned away… it was Clyde’s gasp that drew his gaze back. Murcott had seized his sister in a passionate kiss. For a moment the Australians froze, shocked, doubting their own eyes. Ivy dragged Murcott back into the room and the door was closed.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Clyde murmured under his breath.

  Rowland said nothing. This was something he definitely hadn’t seen at Oxford.

  They didn’t speak of it that night. Neither wanted to. They retired to their own guestrooms with their own thoughts and horror. By morning, each was beginning to doubt what they saw. Surely…

  At breakfast, Murcott and Ivy bickered and otherwise carried on in a manner one would expect from siblings. Rowland enquired after the missing paintings.

  “My goodness, what could have happened to them?” Ivy scowled and called the housekeeper and the butler. The staff were questioned, the house was searched, but the whereabouts of the paintings were not uncovered.

  Rowland was puzzled but he did not labour the disappearance. He had committed the images to cartridge in an attempt to expel them from his mind and his thoughts. He didn’t really want to keep them.

  They farewelled both Murcott and Ivy on the platform and boarded the train to London a little before midday.

  It was in the privacy of the first class compartment that the subject of the Murcotts was eventually raised.

  “Clyde, you’re not still cross with Rowly, are you? He tried very valiantly to rescue you from Mr. Waugh.” Edna stood with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m not cross with Rowly.” Clyde laughed. “Waugh’s a convert—they’re all desperate to prove they’re better Catholics than the rest of us. It’s best just to shut up and nod.”

  “You and Rowly have barely said a word to each other since last night.”

  Rowland glanced at Clyde. Both flinched.

  “What?” Milton demanded.

  Rowland told them what they’d seen.

  Clyde shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge the memory.

  Milton groaned.

  Edna regarded her companions, her lips pressed together in contemplation. “Well, that makes sense.”

  “What!”

  “Ed, I don’t think you understand…”

  “That pervert is having an affair with his sister… it’s—”

  “I think it’s more likely that Ivy is not Mr. Murcott’s sister,” Edna said calmly. “Think about it, Rowly. You freely admit you’ve no recollection of Ivy and she knows of things about you that generally only men would discover… or even be interested in.” She recited the list. “Boxing games, the excellence of your left hook, what you drink, or don’t drink… Mr. Murcott must have told her.”

  “They’re called bouts or matches, not games,” Rowland replied, “and I doubt Murcott knows any of that!”

  “And Waugh knew Ivy as Murcott’s sister!” Milton said triumphantly.

  “No. Mr. Waugh knew Ivy and knew she lived with Mr. Murcott. He didn’t say anything about them being siblings. Remember she insisted that we should all call her Ivy before the dinner party… perhaps it was to ensure Mr. Waugh didn’t hear us calling her Miss Murcott.”

  “But why? Why would she pretend to be Murcott’s sister?”

  “To us at least,” Milton added.

  Edna shrugged. “It could be they’re not married and they were worried we’d deem it improper.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well then, I don’t know. But I do believe it’s more likely that Ivy is simply not Archibald Murcott’s sister. She must be his lover or his wife.”

  “But she spent the whole weekend flirting with Rowly,” Milton argued. “And Murcott with you!”

  Edna folded her arms, frowning as she considered the bewildering behaviour of the Murcotts. “Your uncle Seth used to like to pretend he was the landlord and call in on your Aunt in the middle of the day for the rent,” she said. “Don’t you recall? We were playing hide and seek when he… stopped by. Maybe it was one of those games.”

  Milton grimaced. “I remember Seth gave me one hell of a hiding when we jumped out from behind the couch. But you’re right.”

  Rowland stared at the poet. He was beginning to wonder about Milton’s relatives. “Are you suggesting the Murcotts were using Ed and me to add some kind of interest to their conjugal relations?”

  “Conjugal relations? For God’s sake Rowly, where did you learn to speak? But yes.” Milton grinned now. “They might have invited you to participate more actively if we’d stayed longer. Good Lord, they might have wanted us all to join in!”

  Edna giggled. “Now that would have been funny.”

  Clyde had his hands over his ears.

  Rowland shook his head. A thwarted orgy was to his mind a more palatable explanation than the alternative. Either way he was glad they were returning to London.

  They were back at Claridge’s by the mid-afternoon.

  The easel and other equipment had already been delivered from Kings Cross Station. Menzies greeted them with drinks and the messages received in their absence.

  Rowland frowned as he flicked through a number of messages from Allen and Overy, as well as another from Mrs. Anthony Dawe, who he presumed was Allie’s mother. He slipped into the library and called Mrs. Dawe first. The housekeeper answered, informing him curtly that Madam was indisposed and Miss Dawe away.

  Rowland phoned through to George Allen, already uneasy.

  “Rowly?” Edna poked her head into the library when she heard him cursing. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  He apologised for his language.

  She took his hand and asked him again. “What’s wrong?”

  “Allie’s been arrested for the murder of Lord Pierrepont,” he said angrily. “Apparently there was nothing Allen could do to prevent it. The poor girl tried to telephone me but…”

  “Oh Rowly, you weren’t to know. Is she—?”

  “In prison? Yes, she’s been remanded in Holloway. Allen is going to arrange a visit, but he can’t do so any earlier than tomorrow.”

  “God, poor Allie! Why have they arrested her now?”

  “I’m not sure. Allen will explain, I suppose.”

  “Will Allie have to stay in prison? Can’t we bail her?”

  “Allen thinks not,” Rowland said, pacing. “It’s a capital offence and Pierrepont was a peer.”

  Milton and Clyde came in, curious as to what was keeping Rowland, and now Edna, in the library—they were reasonably sure it wasn’t a book. The news of Allie’s arrest and incarceration left them dumbfounded and then outraged. It seemed so obvious a travesty.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Milton said. “We can’t just leave her there.”

  “We can’t break her out, Milt.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “But we will do something,” Rowland promised. “Allie didn’t kill anybody.”

  Rowland arrived unannounced at the terrace in Ennismore Gardens, to be told that his brother and sister-in-law had gone to the theatre with the Bruces. The children were in their pyjamas, about to be put to bed and his arrival caused an excitement that clearly exasperated the nanny.

  “I’ll wait in the nursery,” Rowland offered, a little at a loss. His head had been full of Allie and his need to speak to Wilfred. “Perhaps I can read to the boys.”

  Nanny Gray did not seem to think it such a good idea—the children needed their sleep—but Rowland promised he would ensure they were asleep by eight and Ernest begged to be
allowed this special treat promising angelic behaviour for the rest of his life. Clearly unsure of whether she had the authority to refuse Rowland, the young nanny conceded. The boys were, after all, fond of their uncle and his presence would give her a little unexpected time to herself.

  The nursery was a large room which looked out over the gardens. Despite the fact that the Bruces had no children, it had been thoughtfully stocked with rocking horses and trains and an entire bookcase of books.

  Rowland grabbed one-year-old Ewan in his good arm and took the large winged-back chair which Ernest called the reading chair.

  “Choose a book, would you, Ernie? You might have to turn the pages for me.”

  Ernest returned from the bookcase and solemnly presented Rowland with a beautifully bound copy of Tom Brown’s Schooldays by Thomas Hughes.

  “Good Lord, mate, where did you get this?”

  “Mr. Bruce gave it to me. He said it would help prepare me for school. I’m going away to school next year, you know, Uncle Rowly.”

  Rowland glanced at the novel. He’d read it years ago and, though it had been written in the middle of the last century, there were aspects of his own schooling experience that were not so far removed from Tom Brown’s. Still he wasn’t going to scare Ernest witless by reading it to him. “Are you worried about going away to school, Ernie?”

  “I’m not frightened at all,” Ernest said quickly, “but Ewan doesn’t want me to go.”

  Rowland winced as his godson bounced against his chest and babbled an incomprehensible response.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  Ernest whispered now, his dark blue eyes wide. “Rupert McIntyre says the masters all have canes and so do the bigger boys and everybody hits you for everything and if you’re really naughty you get called into the headmaster’s office and you never ever come out!”

  Rowland’s brow rose. Rupert McIntyre wasn’t completely off the mark. “I was called to the headmaster’s office a few times, Ernie, and I came out.” He pulled Ernest onto his lap beside Ewan. It occurred to him that his young nephew would get a bit of a shock when he started at Tudor House where all the Sinclair boys had been pupils. Wilfred adored his sons and was an unexpectedly gentle father. Ernest—unlike his uncle—would be quite unprepared for the various brutalities of boarding school… aside from the advice of Rupert McIntyre, of course. Still, Tom Brown’s Schooldays was going a bit far.