The tailor’s sons gathered about the head of Pierrepont, admiring the skill of the sculptor. They did not appear to wonder at all what the Australians were doing with a wax head. The eldest of them confessed that he dreamed of working for Madame Tussaud’s, and Edna told him of what she had learned from Marriott Spencer. She promised to mention the young man’s name to Spencer when next she saw the sculptor.
With Milton seen to, Dr. Ambrose turned his attention to Clyde and Rowland. “Your cast is broken, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland looked down and saw that the plaster had indeed cracked. He wiggled his fingertips—the arm itself seemed fine.
“It’ll have to come off,” Ambrose said, poking at the crack with his pen. “We can put on a new cast for you—something not quite so excessive.”
“Excessive?”
“The physician who made this, I suspect, has invested heavily in Plaster of Paris!” Ambrose tapped the cast with his knuckles. “We don’t use this much plaster on the mannequins!”
Before Rowland could respond, Ambrose the tailor had sent his youngest son back to the vans to fetch bandages and plaster powder, both of which they apparently used to repair mannequins from time to time.
The doctor put his thumbs into the wide crack and with a little grunting and leverage broke the cast off Rowland’s arm.
Rowland was able to flex his arm at the elbow, and scratch below it for the first time in over three weeks.
“Stop waving your arm about, Mr. Sinclair.” Dr. Ambrose scowled. “The bones have knitted, yes; but the join will be weak and easily rebroken!”
Suitably chastised, Rowland sat meekly as he waited for Ambrose to begin.
“You’ll have to remove your shirt, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland was startled. “Is that really necessary?”
“I’m sure Miss Higgins will avert her eyes.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Remove your shirt Mr. Sinclair. We are wasting the day!”
Uneasily, Rowland slipped his right arm—now free of the cast—out of its rolled sleeve. He left the rest of the shirt in place, cringingly aware that the swastika of burn scars would be revealed if he removed it entirely.
“I thought I asked you to…” Ambrose pulled at the shirt. He saw the scarring and stopped, staring. Rowland wasn’t sure what to say. Ambrose swallowed, shook his head and replaced the shirt to cover the scar before it was seen by anyone else. “Yes, that much will be fine… there is no reason for you to get cold.” He clasped Rowland’s shoulder but said nothing more about the Nazi brand.
Gently now, the mannequin-maker cleaned Rowland’s arm and wrapped it with padding, before encasing the limb with bandages soaked in Plaster of Paris. It seemed each of the near-dozen Ambroses had an opinion about how thick the new cast should be or how tightly bound. The discussion became quite heated at points. Rowland stayed out of it, deciding that he was neither as qualified as a doctor or a mannequin-maker on the subject.
Ambrose the tailor insisted that the cast taper at the wrist to have some chance of accommodating a cuff. Ambrose the doctor was adamant that the old cast had been over-engineered and that a lighter version, which began below the elbow, encasing the palm but not the fingers would be more than sufficient and not waste plaster.
Through this, Menzies continued to serve drinks and tea, and pass around the petits fours.
“If I may be so bold as to enquire,” Ambrose the tailor asked as they waited for the plaster to harden, “what business has the British Union of Fascists with you gentlemen?” He addressed the question particularly at Milton who, having been forbidden alcohol, was dulling his headache with tea.
Milton looked up. “It wasn’t about me,” he said. “Well, not directly. I’m sure they thought I was just a particularly handsome Protestant. The useless mongrels were after Rowly here.”
Rowland explained briefly his encounter with the Blackshirts at the London Economic Conference.
The Ambrose brothers glanced at each other.
“We were German once,” Ambrose the tailor told them. “We came to London a year ago. Abel leaves his practice behind, I leave my factory. In Berlin you once had to wait many months to become a patient of Abel Ambrose.” Clearly the tailor was proud of his brother.
“Do you have a surgery here, Dr. Ambrose?” Edna asked.
“No. Now I make mannequins.”
“But why?”
Abel Ambrose smiled sadly. “We learned that some professions are more visible than others… and more dangerous. We are a cautious family.”
Edna’s eyes softened. They had heard stories of the persecution of Jewish doctors when they were in Munich. “But this is England,” she said gently.
“I like to make mannequins. Nowhere else in England will you get such strong, lifelike figures!”
“Jolly lucky for us,” Rowland murmured.
“We were pleased to assist,” the doctor replied. He chuckled. “The looks on their faces when we came running with arms and legs… we will tell that story again.” They talked of the battle, laughing and toasting the small victory in Brook Street.
“We must be going,” Ambrose the tailor sighed after a time, gathering up for repair all the jackets the Australians had been wearing. “There is still a window at Harrods that we must dress somehow.”
Dr. Ambrose gave Rowland a card. “I am not licensed to practise here, but if you need any further plasterwork done, by all means, call by the factory.”
Rowland and his companions remained in the hotel that evening. Their investigations could wait till the next morning when their heads would be clearer at least. Though Rowland suggested they call Pennyworth—the doctor Wilfred had sent them when they’d first arrived in London—for Milton as a precaution, the poet himself would not hear of it.
“Why would Ambrose wander about pretending to be a doctor? It’s not as if he were trying to impress a girl.”
“That’s true, but he hasn’t a licence to practise.”
“Licences,” Milton sniffed. “You know some people claim I’m not a poet simply because my genius is not documented. It’s outrageous!”
“They say you’re not a poet because you don’t actually write anything,” Clyde informed him. “And they have a bloody point!”
“Well, if Ambrose isn’t really a doctor, he should be!” Milton declared. “And he’s a damn fine plasterer. You’ll be able to hold your notebook again Rowly.”
On that score, and probably the other, Rowland had to agree. He had much more movement with the refashioned cast, and it was a good deal less heavy. He barely required the sling now.
Clyde eased himself into an armchair, grimacing as his bruised body sank into the cushions. “We’re getting too old for this,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry,” Rowland said. “I should have paid more attention to those letters. This is my fault.”
“Don’t be daft,” Milton said with his eyes closed. “Who would have thought Joyce was so petty as to hunt you down? But then, those militant Fascist types have always been bloody obsessive.”
“Ethel said something about him holding Communist Jews responsible for what happened to his face,” Edna murmured as she placed a cushion behind Milton’s back.
“You don’t suppose the Fascists had anything to do with Pierrepont’s death do you, Rowly?” Clyde asked, gazing thoughtfully at the wax head. “Perhaps this had nothing to do with his will or his women. It could be that this is all about the conference.”
“It’s possible,” Rowland admitted, “but Joyce and his band of fools seem much more likely to have cornered Pierrepont in the street and beaten the living dickens out of him.”
“Are there any Fascists among the members of Watts?”
“I’m sure there are several, but sadly there’s no way to tell simply by virtue of an entry in the visitors’ book.”
“Allie said that Lord Pierrepont donated a hundred guineas to the B.U.F.,” Edna reminded them. “Why would they wan
t to kill him?”
Rowland nodded. Edna was right. The B.U.F. was just an annoying distraction.
“Do you think they’ll come for you again?” she asked anxiously.
Rowland was about to dismiss her concern, when it occurred to him that ignoring the letters he’d received had not been the best idea. “They’ll arrest Joyce at least,” he said eventually. Though he and Clyde had given the constables descriptions of some of the others it was doubtful that anybody but Joyce would be charged. “And we’ll just have to be careful.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” the butler interrupted. “Perhaps I could show alternative routes by which you might enter or leave Claridge’s in the future.”
“Thank you, Menzies,” Rowland said a little startled. The valet seemed to overhear everything… he was not yet used to it.
“It will ensure these gentlemen are not able to keep an eye on your comings and goings,” Menzies continued. “We have used the routes in the past when we were looking after guests of particular celebrity.”
“That’s a terribly good idea, Menzies old mate,” Milton said with his eyes still closed.
“Very good, sir.”
Edna sat on the coffee table as Milton had commandeered the couch and refused to make room. “What are we going to do next, Rowly?”
Rowland frowned. He had been pondering that very question himself. Allie Dawe still languished in Holloway Prison and it seemed they were the only people who cared. His mind moved to the American woman who, according to Ethel Bruce’s sources, had been embroiled in an affair with Pierrepont. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll see what we can find out about the Simpsons.”
26
THE ROYAL SUPPLEMENT
With today’s issue is published a special Royal supplement containing full details of all the arrangements connected with the visit to Australia of Prince Henry, Duke of Gloucester.
LIFE STORY OF THE DUKE
… On his first safari the Duke, who was attended by a party of only about 30, secured 36 kinds of various game in 17 days. One of his trophies was a magnificent specimen of an African lioness. It cost him a great deal of arduous toiling through the bush country and the kill was not without its thrill. The Duke and his equerry had stalked their quarry to a water hole and the lioness was about to spring when the Duke fired and killed her. An American paper describing this incident, in the typical picturesque journalese of the United States, told how the Duke had come within an ace of losing his Royal life in the hungry jaws of a “tiger.” It said that he fired, at the last second, almost into the mouth of the “striped terror of the jungle.” The Duke would be a very proud man indeed if he were able to say that he had brought down a tiger in Africa.
The Daily News, 1934
The invitation was presented to Rowland at breakfast, with the information that the servant who delivered it was waiting for an answer.
“Who is it from, Rowly?” Milton asked, cutting into poached eggs.
“Theophrastus Thistlewaite, Baron of Harcourt,” Rowland said, reading through the handwritten note. The penmanship was neat and precise, the signature tight and small. “He’d like me to call by his house in London this morning, if it’s at all convenient.”
“Euphemia—Lady Pierrepont’s brother?” Edna asked.
“It is indeed,” Rowland replied.
He sent a reply that he would be pleased to call upon Thistlewaite at about ten.
“One of us should go with you,” Clyde said passing the sugar bowl to Edna.
Rowland shook his head. “There’s no need. You chaps visit Allie as we planned.” He glanced over to the wax head, which presided over breakfast from the sideboard. “I’ll take Pierrepont to keep me company.”
“You’re taking the head?”
“Euphemia might have changed her mind… and I’m curious as to what Thistlewaite might divulge with respect to his dear sister’s mental state.”
Clyde looked worried. “You be careful, mate. I have sisters. We brothers can be protective.”
Rowland nodded. “Consider me forewarned.”
Rowland departed Claridge’s through the back corridors which the butler had shown them. “Guests are not technically permitted to use these parts of the hotel, sir, so if you wouldn’t mind being discreet.”
“Of course… thank you, Menzies.”
A motor taxi met him around the corner as arranged, and Rowland gave the driver the address of Harcourt’s house in Park Lane. Having decided that a man could not carry a hatbox through London without looking ridiculous, Rowland took Pierrepont in a Gladstone bag. Arundel House stood among other mansions on the south-east corner of Hyde Park. A chic and highly desirable address which afforded views of the park and neighbours of a certain class. The house itself was a Tudor construction of a size and architecture that may have been remarkable in a less salubrious location. As it was, it did not seem in any way lesser than the houses that surrounded it, which was saying something indeed.
The footman who answered the door took Rowland into a cavernous hall, hung with the oil images of Harcourts past and the mounted heads of large game. Rowland walked through the room while he waited for Theophrastus Thistlewaite, studying the generations depicted on the high panelled walls. He read the brass plates on each gold gilded frame, the various Barons of Harcourt and the Baronets of Salisbury, Asquith and Merivale.
Arranged on an inlaid cabinet, was a collection of modern portraits, photographs of a girl at various stages of her life, from infancy to adulthood. Rowland recognised Euphemia Thistlewaite with her excessive teeth—as a small child holding kittens, dressed in hunting pinks astride a horse and, intriguingly, in a fencing uniform with a foil in her hand. The only image not of her was a group portrait of several men etched on porcelain with the words “the Kalokagathia” inscribed below.
Rowland smiled, realising that the Kalokagathia was probably what Buchan meant by “the Callow Cads”. Rowland’s knowledge of ancient Greek was rudimentary but he was sure the term translated roughly as “noble society”—a more likely, if less accurate, name for a gentlemen’s drinking club, he supposed.
“Mr. Sinclair, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. How do you do?” Lord Harcourt strode into the room and approached with his arm extended—he was a well-proportioned figure with a confident carriage and immaculate grooming.
Rowland took the proffered hand. The mannequin-maker’s minimal cast enabled him to accept a handshake now. Indeed, he had discarded the sling that morning as the new cast felt so light.
“Oh, I say, you’ve been injured,” Harcourt said as his palm made contact with the plaster.
“Yes… I apologise. My handshake is still a little awkward.”
“Not at all. I broke a clavicle coming off a polo pony last season. Damned nuisance, I can tell you!”
Harcourt invited him to take one of the Victorian armchairs clustered around the skin of a zebra spread flat on the floor. Briefly, Rowland glanced around the room to see if the beast’s head was mounted on a wall somewhere. It was.
Harcourt called for tea though he offered his guest something stronger first. The Baron, it seemed, did not drink. Rowland declined, hoping that he would not regret the decision to forgo alcoholic fortification at some later point in the conversation. Thus far, his host seemed quite regular, even friendly.
Harcourt pointed out the African wildlife now decorating his walls, which he had apparently shot himself on safari in a party accompanying Prince Henry, now the Duke of Gloucester. He chatted amiably, enquiring about Australian game.
“We have plenty of rabbits,” Rowland replied. “And snakes… but I can’t think of anything else you’d want to shoot.”
Harcourt laughed as he helped himself to bread and butter which had been served with multi-layered cake and a tray of boiled and garnished eggs. “I did hear somewhere that the bunnies were taking over the colony. Now, Mr. Sinclair, I suppose you are wondering on what business I asked you to visit me?”
> Rowland nodded. “I presume it is to do with Pierrepont.”
“Most certainly, yes! I understand you do not concur with the constabulary’s opinion with respect to who murdered my beloved brother-in-law.”
Rowland tensed, surprised that Harcourt would know such a thing.
The lord smiled. “Word gets around old man! We are all subject to the relentless run of rumour.”
“I do not believe Miss Dawe killed anyone,” Rowland said carefully.
Harcourt leaned forward. “Well, who do you believe topped Pierrepont, Sinclair?”
“I don’t know,” Rowland replied after a moment. “But, unlike the police, I am determined to find out.”
“Why do you think it could not be Miss Dawe?”
“What motive would she have to murder her only means of support? As far as I can tell, Pierrepont has been nothing but kind to Allie and her mother.”
Harcourt bounced his head from side to side, as if he was weighing up Rowland’s words.
Finally, he said, “I can see, Sinclair, that you are acting out of a genuine sense of justice and kindness, and for that reason I am going to allow you into a confidence. This is something I found out only recently through my poor sister.”
“Go on.”
“Lord Pierrepont—as you may well have discovered—had something of a playboy’s reputation. As much as I hate to speak ill of the dead, I must say that before he met my sister he was not a particularly moral man, and a slave to certain… appetites.”
“I see.”
“Poor Miss Dawe, dependent on him for the roof over her head, was at his mercy.”
Rowland stared at him. “Are you saying…?”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s abominable! My God, she’s his niece!”
“You can understand the shame of the situation and her consequent desperation.”
“You are suggesting Allie murdered Pierrepont to—”
“Avenge past outrages and prevent future ones. It was a desperate act of self-defence against a despicable incest.”
For a time, Rowland sat silent, shocked by the revelation. Could Pierrepont have been so evil? He resisted believing it, for Allie’s sake. “If that was the case, Lord Harcourt, why would Miss Dawe not have said so in her own defence?”
Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Page 23