Riotous Assembly
BRUTAL ATTACKS
LONDON, Thursday
Sir Oswald Mosley and three other Black Shirts, including William Joyce, “Director of Fascist Propaganda,” and Captain Budd, “West Sussex district officer,” were committed for trial to-day on charges of riotous assembly arising out of the Fascist meeting at Worthing on October 9. Yesterday an assault charge against Mosley, arising out of the same affair, was dismissed. All pleaded not guilty. Seventy witnesses were examined, and the case occupied five days.
The prosecution alleged that the Black Shirts, under the leadership of the defendants, brutally attacked a crowd which hooted and cheered when they departed from the pavilion in which Mosley had addressed his supporters.
“False Police Evidence”
Mosley, in evidence in the assault case, aroused a strong protest when he said the prosecution was the result of political influence and false police evidence.
Nine Black Shirts were charged variously with assault and damage, and inciting to committing a breach of the peace at Fascist meetings at Plymouth.
Free Fight.
The prosecution alleged that a meeting on October 5, which was addressed by Mosley, developed into a free fight, in which press cameras were smashed, also that during an open-air meeting on October 11, the crowd heckled the speaker, who signalled to his colleagues to attack them. The victims included an octogenarian and a cripple.
It was also alleged that the Fascists were wearing body protectors and that their knuckles were bound with tape.
The Advocate, 1934
The Earl of Bishopthorpe lived in an exclusive mansion block in Hampstead Village, Inner London. Delighted to receive a telephone call from Rowland Sinclair, he was more than happy to be at home to a visit from the Australians.
His suite was quite exquisitely styled. The decorative details, both internal and external, were elegant and distinctive and the space was furnished with an eclectic flair. Egyptian artefacts sat beside Ming vases beneath crystal chandeliers. Japanese paper screens provided a backdrop for Victorian armchairs upon which slept an extraordinary number of ginger cats.
The artworks which adorned his walls evidenced the discerning eye of an experienced collector. Rowland stood admiringly before a live-sized nude by the French academic artist William-Adolphe Bouguereau whose traditionalist work had, in the last decade or so, fallen out of favour. Rowland’s own style was closer to the Impressionist School to whom Bouguereau had been so staunchly opposed, but it did not prevent the Australian from seeing genius in the work before him.
Each wall seemed to display a painting of breathtaking quality by an artist currently deemed unfashionable. Of course, fashions would change. Rowland began to realise that Buchan was not merely a collector, but an astute investor.
Buchan welcomed them like old and dear friends, demanding to know why they hadn’t called before. Shooing the cats off the chairs, he invited them to sit and shouted to someone for cakes.
Politely, but without delay, Rowland told him why they’d called.
Buchan seemed neither surprised nor moved by Lord Pierrepont’s testamentary gesture.
“Bunky was setting his affairs in order, I expect,” he explained as a burly manservant wheeled in a silver samovar upon a traymobile. Buchan took the teapot from atop the elaborate urn and poured each of his guests a cup of dark brew. It was only once each had been offered milk and sugar or, interestingly, jam to sweeten their tea that he continued. “Bunky and I are distantly related—third cousins on his father’s line. He has no progeny of his own and the title and what remains of the estate must of course pass to a male heir.”
“I don’t understand, Mr… Lord… Count… Buchan,” Edna said moving over to make room for an indignant cat. “Why did Lord Pierrepont suddenly wish to leave no provision for his niece and her mother?”
“Oh, he didn’t. He adored little Allie. Poor Bunky knew full well I’d see the girl and her mother right. I daresay the will was about confirming that I was his heir. Perhaps he was concerned someone else would make a claim.” Buchan crossed his legs and balanced his teacup on his knee. “I can only imagine the original will was made some years ago before Bunky knew I existed, when he thought the line would end and he could distribute his assets as he pleased.”
“How long have you known Pierrepont, Lord Bishopthorpe?” Rowland asked, using the correct title for the elucidation of his companions.
Buchan pursed his lips. “I thought I asked you to call me Countess.” He leaned across and rubbed Rowland’s arm. “Try and remember, lovely. Lord Bishopthorpe sounds so morally foreboding. I’ve known Pierrepont for ’bout five years. We rubbed along tremendously well.”
“Then why did he wait so long to make a will declaring you his heir?” Rowland persisted.
Buchan waited expectantly, motioning Rowland to keep talking.
“Er… Countess,” Rowland added.
“Better!” Buchan declared triumphantly. “I really can’t say why he bothered at all. The entailment is set in law. He couldn’t change it if he wanted to.”
“And if Pierrepont were to have a child?” Milton posed carefully.
“You’re alluding to the new Lady Pierrepont, I gather. I had heard—it seems Bunky was a bit of a dark horse. If she has managed to conceive already and the child is male, he will inherit the title and the estate, of course. But you mustn’t worry about little Miss Dawe and her mother. I will look after them notwithstanding the anomalies of entitlement. I sent my solicitors as soon as I heard she’d been arrested, but I’m told dear Mr. Sinclair had already organised excellent representation. To be honest, I don’t need Bunky’s wealth, which was, I suspect, minimal, considering the fact that I was about to loan him quite a tidy sum to meet his obligations.”
“And his title?” Clyde asked.
Buchan laughed. “Bless you, poppet. You have no idea, do you? It’s really quite lovely in a way.” He put his tea on the smoking stand beside him and rested his elbows on his knees gazing adoringly at Clyde. “Even if I were to care about such things, my own title is superior to Bunky’s.”
Clyde frowned. “So, if all of this is preordained, why was Pierrepont having a new will drafted at all?”
Buchan shrugged. “Perhaps it was just to avoid intestacy—penalties, that sort of bother.”
“Is Allie—Miss Dawe, aware of all this?”
“One can never be sure, but I doubt it. Bunky didn’t consider her particularly clever. I would be surprised if he discussed his affairs with her.”
“You’re a member at Watts,” Milton said remembering the entry in the stolen pages of the visitors’ book.
“Oh yes. I ‘inherited’ my membership with my title, so to speak. I rarely go there… dull little place, really.”
“Do you know Lady Pierrepont’s family? I believe Lord Harcourt is a member of Watts too.” Rowland absently stroked the cat that had settled into his lap.
“Good lord, Fruity Harcourt? Yes, everyone knows him, though he keeps to his own set. A club within the club, so to speak—call themselves the ‘Callow Cads’ or some such juvenile title to announce how very witty they are.” Buchan folded his arms and rolled his eyes. “Harcourt himself is a very proper sort of chap. I’m surprised he let his sister marry a rogue like Pierrepont.”
Rowland frowned. This was all getting more murky and convoluted. “Lord Bish… Countess,” he said, correcting himself, “do you have any idea who may have wanted to kill Lord Pierrepont?”
Buchan smiled happily and mouthed, “Oh bless you,” as he flapped a hand in Rowland’s direction. Then he cupped his chin in his hand and screwed up his face, concentrating, contemplating. Seconds passed as they waited for his revelation.
“We’ve all wanted to kill Bunky from time to time,” he said finally. “He could be quite vexing. Beyond that, I may as well draw a name from a hat!”
They had intended to stop only briefly at Claridge’s to check for messages before
going out again in pursuit of anything that might aid Allie Dawe’s case. Circumstances, however, saw those plans abandoned.
The motor taxi stopped on the other side of Brook Street as the verge outside the hotel’s entrance was congested.
“Wonder what that’s about,” Rowland murmured to Clyde as they alighted. Horns blared, traffic slowed and swerved to get past. Clearly the parked vehicles were causing an obstruction.
Clyde shrugged. “Some toff who thinks he can park wherever he likes, I presume.”
“Hurry up, Ed!” Milton held the car door open for the sculptress who had stopped to adjust her hat.
Rowland was paying the driver when the gang of Blackshirts emerged.
“Rowly,” Clyde warned as they approached.
Rowland turned—about a dozen men, among them a man with a curved scar from lip to ear: Joyce.
Realising they’d been seen, the Blackshirts began to run towards the taxi, dodging through the oncoming traffic. Milton slammed the taxi door shut with Edna still inside.
“Go!” Rowland said, tossing his entire pocketbook at the driver. “Now!”
Seeing what was coming, the driver did not hesitate and screeched away before Edna had time to object.
Milton and Clyde stood with Rowland as the Blackshirts surrounded them.
“What is it you want, Joyce?” Rowland asked with frosty control and undisguised contempt.
“I did say I’d come for you,” Joyce sneered. “And I am a man of my word.”
“I received your letters,” Rowland replied. “Sir Oswald must be very proud of your penmanship.”
“We have unfinished business, Sinclair.”
“The man can only use one arm, you Fascist coward!” Milton spat.
Joyce swore at the poet. “It behoves you to remember that you are the criminal refuse of Britain—thieves and murderers expelled to the most godforsaken end of the earth in the hope of removing the stain of your birth from England’s fair soils. Who do you think you are, dictating to Britons with your Bolshevik malcontent?”
Clyde was possibly less eloquent in response, but quite clear in his sentiments. He threatened to “behove” Joyce in the nose. It was, in fact, hard to know who struck the first physical blow. The confrontation just seemed to explode. Onlookers screamed and tyres squealed as the fighting fell back onto the road. The Australians were realistic—the odds were ugly and they expected to come out badly. Knowing Rowland was Joyce’s target, both Clyde and Milton grappled and clawed through the fracas to keep within arm’s-length of their friend. But the Fascists quickly succeeded in isolating each man. Rowland hit the ground after Milton had been felled. For a moment Rowland could see nothing but boots as he tried to protect his head. He twisted as a blow caught him in the ribs and then a boot came down on his chest. Instinctively he brought up his plastered arm to protect himself and it caught the full weight of the strike. He heard a crack. Winded, Rowland lay on the ground gagging, unable to move. Joyce stood over him, gloating. Rowland braced himself.
And then, it changed—the arrival of help—men in flat caps and braces, waving what appeared to be dismembered body parts. They ran headlong into the fray screaming like barbarian warriors caught up in some medieval charge into war. Rowland wondered if he was hallucinating. Joyce reeled as he was slammed with a leg. A woman’s scream. Edna’s voice. Rowland rolled onto his front. Someone kicked him in the back and Joyce fell upon him again, only to be pelted once more by men wielding limbs. Some appendages shattered on impact, other bent. Nonetheless, they were heavy enough to force the Fascists back. Long before the first police constable arrived, the Blackshirts were in flight, abandoning the scene in their vehicles as heads were launched at their backs like surreal cannonballs.
Rowland sat up slowly, dazed and uncertain of what had happened. He wiped the blood off his lip and looked for his companions. The Fascists were gone, half-a-dozen dishevelled young men and a few boys in their place… all holding limbs. He may have stopped to wonder about it, if he hadn’t then glimpsed Edna kneeling over the motionless body of Milton Isaacs.
25
FASHION’S PUPPETS
Lay Figures of Today
By Elizabeth George
The evolution of the contemporary mannequin from wax dolls which once used to pass from Paris to London to display the cut of a dandy’s vest is one of the lesser triumphs of our day, but even more interesting, from a romantic point of view, is the modern lay figure. At the recent London Exhibition of Men’s and Women’s Fashions, the lay figures were quite as remarkable as the designs of the clothes themselves. Wooden and immobile, they yet contrived to look more expressive than the most alluring mannequin. Art, with its uncanny power of embodying abstract ideas, has given them the authentic air of modern youth—sophisticated, intelligent, and unexpectedly wistful.
Of another age again are those old fashioned blondes with diminutive waists which were once the pride of drapers’ windows. Their bust measurements would fill a prima donna with envy, and their painted smiles have an unabashed coquetry which is almost alarming. Perhaps the type of the “New Woman” which “Punch” once delighted in, was a reaction from this ideal of the nation’s shop window. Impossible to imagine them wearing shorts or displaying tennis frocks, these simpering and elegant damsels of plaster.
The Advertiser, 1933
Rowland scrambled to his feet. A boy of about fourteen helped him steady himself. “It’s all right, sir,” the boy assured him, pointing to the man now bending over Milton. “My uncle’s a doctor.”
“Rowly, what the hell?” Clyde, too, was battered and confused, but standing.
The police now arrived in force, summoned by Claridge’s and panicked bystanders who feared they were witnessing the beginnings of another Blackshirt riot.
Milton was carried into Claridge’s while Rowland and Clyde spoke to the police. Anxious to see after the poet, their statements were hurried and concise. Rowland volunteered the name of William Joyce but he had recognised none of the others.
The men who had come to their aid began to collect up the broken limbs which littered Brook Street. And finally Rowland realised that their saviours had used mannequin parts as weapons… some plaster, some wax. The plaster arms and legs were shattered, the wax misshapen. In the midst of it all, Rowland recognised the tailor Beresford had found for them when they had first arrived in London.
“Mr. Ambrose?”
“Mr. Sinclair! Are you all right?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Rowland was still not sure what to make of it all.
“Your suits will need some repair, I think,” Ambrose said, dusting plaster off the torn shoulder of Rowland’s jacket. “It’s fortunate I was delivering another suit in the van.”
He introduced his sons, six men and the boy whose name was Elliot. Two more youths were apparently his nephews. It seemed that, in addition to tailoring, the Ambroses conducted a business which produced mannequins for boutiques and clothing stores across London. They had been making their way to Harrods Department Store with a batch of mannequins for a large window display when the tailor had thought to drop off the additional shirts and suits he’d made for the Australians staying at Claridge’s. And so it happened that they came across the brawl.
“We didn’t know it was you, of course, Mr. Sinclair,” Ambrose confided. “We saw black uniforms and knew immediately there would be someone in need of help.”
Rowland thanked them all, sincerely and profusely. He offered to pay for the damage to their mannequins but Ambrose would not hear of it. “I have run from Fascists once, but never again.”
“Well, then you must all join us for a drink at least,” Rowland insisted. “Please… Mr. Isaacs will want to thank you, too. God knows what might have happened if you hadn’t intervened.”
“We are not dressed for the bar at Claridge’s,” Ambrose said uncertainly.
“You’re dressed well enough for my suite. I will have refreshments sent up.”
&nbs
p; Eventually Ambrose nodded. “Very well—I am also anxious to see that Mr. Isaacs is not badly hurt.”
Ambrose, his sons and nephews stowed the salvageable limbs into a pair of Bedford vans with Ambrose Bros. Shop Décor emblazoned on their sides. Then, self-consciously dusting themselves off, they trooped behind Rowland and Clyde, into the chequerboard marble interior of Claridge’s foyer.
If the hotel staff were at all alarmed by the bloodied state of their guests, or the men who accompanied them—some of whom were not even wearing ties—they showed no sign of it. They received them all as if they were the visiting dignitaries or travelling aristocrats who were Claridge’s usual clientele.
Milton had been taken up to the suite already, under the care of Ambrose’s brother, who, although now in the business of mannequins, had trained as a physician.
The poet had regained consciousness by the time they walked in. Ambrose, the doctor, was inserting a few small neat stitches into a gash near his temple.
Milton waved away their concern.
“You were knocked unconscious, Mr. Isaacs,” Ambrose chided. “It is a serious thing.”
“I didn’t get knocked out,” Milton murmured. “I fainted when I saw that a crazed lunatic had hacked off some poor bloke’s arm and was using the limb to belt a Blackshirt!” He winced as Ambrose bandaged his head. “They’re not going to believe this back at Trades Hall.”
Edna—who’d alighted from the taxi as soon as she could persuade the driver to stop—had returned to Brook Street in time to witness Milton hit his head on the curb as he fell. She watched him now, pale and still shaken. “I thought they’d killed you, you idiot,” she said, as if it were his fault.
Milton smiled weakly. “Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”
“Donne,” Rowland murmured, relieved.
“We are, we are indeed,” the doctor declared as the suite’s unflappable butler served refreshments. A waiter from the restaurant delivered several tiered silver trays of finger sandwiches and fancy cakes presented with such a delicate flair that one might have thought Rowland was entertaining the Queen Mother, as opposed to several burly men.
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