“Can you explain why a grown man would be playing tasteless—my mother would say downright offensive, not to mention potentially dangerous—pranks?” Entwhistle demanded.
A little sheepishly, Rowland explained that the bag and its contents had been stolen from him the day before.
“Did you report the theft?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted Pierrepont back. He was rather a bad penny.”
“He certainly turns up like one,” Clyde muttered.
“Why did you have the bag with you, Sinclair?”
“I had just been to see Lord Harcourt. I thought he might have wanted his brother-in-law’s head.”
Entwhistle accepted this with little show of alarm or surprise. “I see. I take it Lord Harcourt did not wish to have the head.”
“That’s right.”
“And what was the purpose of your meeting?”
Rowland answered carefully. “He wished to convince me of Miss Dawe’s guilt.”
“And was he successful?”
Rowland glanced at Clyde. “No, not at all.”
“Why would Lord Harcourt care who you thought was responsible for his brother-in-law’s death?”
“You’d have to ask him that.”
“Why do you have a wax head of the victim in your possession in the first place, Mr. Sinclair? Did Miss Dawe give it to you?”
“No… of course not. The poor girl doesn’t even know it exists.” Rowland stepped away from the dining table and invited Entwhistle to take a seat in the drawing room. He explained how the head had come into their keeping through Francis Pocock, who had been commissioned to make a statue of Lord Pierrepont by Lady Pierrepont. “She intended to use it to play tricks on the servants, I gather.”
“I see.” Entwhistle frowned. “I’m told that there was an incident at Holloway between you and the accused, Mr. Sinclair.”
“A misunderstanding rather than an incident. I clumsily but quite unintentionally offended Miss Dawe. It was my fault entirely.”
“The report stipulates that she became violent.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Miss Dawe became quite justifiably upset—that was all. The guards overreacted and I made matters worse by trying to intervene.”
Entwhistle studied him. “I appreciate your candour, Mr. Sinclair,” he said in the end. The inspector sat back, making himself comfortable. Clearly he had no intention of leaving just yet. “There was an altercation—what my mother would call a dust-up—just outside in Brook Street, I believe.”
“Are you investigating me or the murder of Lord Pierrepont, Inspector?” Rowland asked calmly.
“Perhaps both, Mr. Sinclair, perhaps both. Would you mind telling me what in particular you’ve done to offend the B.U.F.?”
“Not so much the entire B.U.F. as William Joyce, I think.” Rowland relented. “I presume, since you are so well apprised of my activities—”
“I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Sinclair.”
“—you are already aware that Joyce and I had a difference of opinion at the London Economic Conference.”
“So, there was nothing more?” Entwhistle prodded.
“Not as far as I am aware.”
“I advise you to be careful, Mr. Sinclair. Joyce is known to us for various incidents of brawling and assault. He is not a man to let bygones be bygones.”
“Thank you for the warning, Inspector. We are taking precautions.” Rowland paused. “How did you trace the bag back to me?”
Entwhistle smiled. “Elementary police work, Sinclair. The hotel’s label is on the bag. It seemed too much of a coincidence that Pierrepont’s head turns up in a bag carrying the label of your hotel. As I said before, we are Scotland Yard.”
“Indeed.”
“On that point, I must urge you in the strongest terms to leave the police work to us. I understand that you are anxious to help Miss Dawe but really, Sinclair, you’re flogging a dead horse, as my old mum would say, and doing so in a manner which may prove embarrassing, not to mention dangerous.”
“Embarrassing to whom exactly?”
“I think you are aware that it is not just Scotland Yard interested in this case, Mr. Sinclair. Your belief in Miss Dawe is very gallant—my mother would say sweet—but it is not enough to stand against the weight of the objective evidence.”
Rowland’s eyes narrowed. “The gentleman who attended the crime scene with you…”
“Asquith?”
“Yes. Is he with Scotland Yard?”
“No. He’s a civil servant.”
Rowland persisted. “What part of the civil service attends murders, for God’s sake?”
“He is with the Ministry of Health, I believe. I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, it’s all perfectly proper. I suggest you stop looking for conspiracies and reconcile yourself to Miss Dawe’s situation.”
“Again, I thank you for your advice, Inspector.”
Entwhistle sighed. “But you have no intention of following it.”
Rowland shrugged. “I find myself caring less about justice for the late Lord Pierrepont than for his niece.”
28
SCIENCE OF EUGENICS
Improving Human Stock
A plea for greater interest in the science of eugenics was made in a paper prepared by Mr. A. Netzer and read by Mr. A. Ferguson at the Millions Club yesterday. It was stated that eugenists claimed to offer the only alternative to anarchy and the inherent disorders of Communism.
Mr. Netzer pointed out that intelligence tests made on 1,700,000 physically fit men in the United States Army showed that only 13½ percent possessed superior intelligence. This small proportion represented a class which was failing to reproduce itself, while the others, of whom 45 percent would never develop mental capacity beyond a stage represented by a child of 12, were increasing alarmingly. Without an application of eugenic principles, persons of superior intelligence must eventually disappear, and with them the groundwork of civilisation and all it stood for.
Eugenics, he said, aimed at improving human stock by elimination of the unfit.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1930
By the time Milton and Edna returned, Entwhistle had departed. “How’s Allie?” Clyde asked as soon as Menzies closed the door behind them.
“She’s still a little upset,” Edna replied.
Rowland groaned.
“She’ll settle down, Rowly. I suspect her reaction is coloured by disappointment—she thought you were proposing marriage, you know.”
“What?” Clyde demanded. Rowland hadn’t mentioned that part.
Milton laughed. “You’re going to have to be more clear with your questions, mate, or you’ll find yourself betrothed to God knows whom!”
“Will she talk to me?” Rowland asked hopefully.
Edna shook her head. “Give her time.”
“She may not have much time,” Clyde said grimly.
“Did Allie say anything about her relationship with her uncle? Could what Harcourt said be—” Rowland ventured tentatively.
“She said it was vile and refused to speak about it.”
“What does that mean?” Clyde asked. “Is she saying the relationship was vile or just the allegation?”
“I don’t know.” Edna shrugged. “We thought we’d best not press her lest she became hysterical again. Not surprisingly, she’s overwrought at the moment.”
Milton peered into the Gladstone bag. “I see our friend Bunky has found his way home.”
Clyde tossed him the paper. “He didn’t do it quietly.”
Rowland told them of Entwhistle’s visit.
“So, he’s still convinced of Allie’s guilt?” Milton asked.
“Surely the fact that he’s even talking to you means something, Rowly,” Edna argued.
Clyde snorted. “I suggest we find his mother and convince her.”
Rowland smiled. Considering Entwhistle’s deference to maternal
homilies, it was as good a plan as any. He grabbed his hat.
“Where are you going?”
“Ennismore Gardens. With any luck, Mrs. Bruce might be able to find out where the Simpsons are residing. She telephoned earlier demanding we call and bring her up to date on the investigation.”
Milton laughed. “You know, Rowly, I do believe I could be in love with Ethel Bruce. Why are all the best women unavailable?”
Rowland glanced at Edna. “I couldn’t tell you, Milt.”
Ethel Bruce was hosting a party for the children of Wilfred and Kate Sinclair. The garden, decorated with bunting and balloons, was overrun with girls in party frocks and ribbons and little boys in ties and short pants. Maids tended a table laden with bread and butter, cakes and ice-cream, and a footman distributed lemonade. Ernest was stumbling about blindfolded among a circle of children, while young Ewan was sitting in a bed of petunias trying to eat a snail.
Clyde picked up Rowland’s godson and took the half-chewed snail out of his mouth.
Nanny Gray emerged with a washcloth and scrubbed the masticated snail from the child’s cheeks. Kate joined them, apologising, clearly mortified that her son should be devouring garden pests when there was all manner of delicacy laid out.
Clyde laughed. “Your boy’s obviously cultivated Continental tastes, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Ethel thought it would be nice for the boys to meet some of the neighbourhood children,” Kate said.
“Where is Mrs. Bruce?” Rowland asked over the excited shouts of the small guests.
“Oh she’s over there—with the egg and spoon race.”
Kate pointed them towards an area of lawn which had been cordoned off with bunting into a track of sorts. Ethel Bruce stood in the middle of a group of giggling children, enunciating the care required to keep one’s egg on one’s spoon. Deciding to demonstrate, she ran the course with one hand on her silverware and the other clamping the hat to her head. The string of pearls around her neck swung wildly as she lunged this way and that to keep the spoon underneath the egg.
“That woman is magnificent!” Milton declared.
They did not interrupt the lesson, watching as the former Prime Minister’s wife instructed her diminutive charges on the secrets of maintaining an egg aloft and intact. Eventually her own egg met a yolky end on the grass, and she joined Rowland and his companions still red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Heavens,” she said, mopping her brow. “That was quite exhilarating.” She glanced back proudly as the children raced. “Look at the little monkeys go! Oh, to have the energy of a child!”
“Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? When they made up fresh adventures for their morrow, do you say?” Milton said, handing her an etched glass of chilled lemonade.
“Oh, Mr. Isaacs, you amaze me. Who but you would think to phrase that so beautifully?”
“Browning,” Rowland murmured. “Though I believe Milt omitted a line.” He studied Milton suspiciously, beginning to wonder if the plagiarist poet was reading Paradise Lost simply to throw him off the scent.
“You go back in and talk to Rowly, Ethel,” Kate said, taking Ewan from Clyde’s arms. “I’ll keep an eye on proceedings here.”
“Thank you, Katie dear. Remember, pin the tail on the donkey precisely at eleven, and the clown will arrive at half past.”
“A clown?” Edna’s eyes lit up.
Rowland laughed. He wasn’t so keen on clowns himself but Edna had always taken a child-like delight in their buffoonery. “We’ll be back for the clown,” he assured her.
Ethel Bruce led them into the sunroom which looked over the small but immaculate garden behind the residence. From it they would still be able to see the party, while they talked.
They told Ethel Bruce of their evening at the Winslow-Scotts’. Edna’s face was merry as she detailed what Rowland insisted was a ludicrous version of their encounter with Prince George.
“Oh no, my dear,” Ethel said. “I think you were both wise and brave to intervene. Prince George is so handsome that Mr. Sinclair might have forgotten himself!”
“I might have what?” Rowland demanded in horror.
Milton fell back against his chair laughing.
“Prince George is a famous ladies’ man, of course, but there have been rumours about him for years… Noel Coward, you know… but let’s say no more about it as Mr. Sinclair is looking quite distressed. Indeed, my Stanley would not be at all comfortable with this conversation. I’m sure he would have mentioned my hat at least a dozen times by now. Let us just be glad that you were there to protect Mr. Sinclair’s virtue, Edna dear. It was a most valiant and selfless act.”
Edna glanced at Rowland, recalling the kiss, the gentle intensity of it, and colouring almost imperceptibly. Perhaps it was not entirely selfless, but that, she kept to herself.
Desperate to move on from the proclivities of Prince George, Rowland recounted their conversation with Lady Furness.
Ethel nodded. “Thelma Furness—the Prince of Wales adores all things American.”
“Lady Furness certainly appears to think that Mrs. Simpson is having an affair, and if your information linking Mrs. Simpson with Lord Pierrepont is correct, Mrs. Bruce, then that would give both Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, not to mention Lady Pierrepont, motive to kill him.”
Milton shook his head. “It seems your friend Bunky was living quite dangerously in the end, Mrs. Bruce.”
“My giddy aunt, he was,” Ethel agreed. She paused, clearly remembering something of import. “I read in The Times that a wax head was found at Kings Cross. Are wax heads becoming a fashionable accessory or did you leave poor Bunky at the station, Mr. Sinclair?”
“He’s been returned,” Rowland assured her. He told her then of the meeting with Harcourt and the events which led up to the bag being stolen.
Ethel Bruce gasped. “He’s suggesting that Bunky… his own niece… no that’s just too abominable… it’s preposterous! The man’s obviously deranged.”
“Do you know much about Lord Harcourt and his brother?” Rowland asked, leaving the allegation of incest, and worse, alone. He didn’t want to believe it for many reasons.
“Stanley and I were introduced to both gentlemen once, when Herbert Wells dragged us to some presentation of the Eugenics Society.”
“You know H.G. Wells?”
“Oh yes, he and Stanley rub along very well. Herbert was a great supporter of the League of Nations.”
Rowland frowned slightly, wondering now if his chance encounter with the writer at the economic conference was as unplanned as it seemed. Not for the first time he had an uneasy feeling that Wilfred was “managing” him.
“And he’s a Eugenicist?” Milton asked.
“Oh yes… determined to improve the calibre of the human race. Herbert is dismissive of selective breeding in a positive sense, but quite insistent that some people should be prevented from having offspring—for the sake of humanity. Stanley says it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sterilise Labor voters but I’m almost sure he doesn’t mean it. We were just there to humour Herbert really… it’s all a bit of nonsense in my book.”
“And Harcourt? What did you make of him?”
“Rather pompous to be honest. Like Euphemia, he’s quite mad on fauna—always talking of his African safaris and the adaptive genius of beasts.”
Rowland remembered the mounted heads and various hunting trophies at Arundel House. It was difficult for any beast to adapt to a man with a shotgun, he supposed. “Harcourt seems very protective of his sister.”
“Yes, they were both quite devoted to her. It’s no wonder the poor girl was thirty and unmarried with her brothers hovering about her all the time!”
“Oh, the clown’s here,” Edna said, standing up and stepping towards the window. She looked again. “Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Bruce have arrived.”
“Which one are you calling a clown?” Milton asked, grinning.
Without even pausing to look
, Edna flung back her hand and hit him on the side of the head.
“Is there any way I could be introduced to Mrs. Simpson?” Rowland asked hastily as he realised they would soon be joined by Wilfred and Bruce.
Ethel faltered. “Oh dear, I haven’t been formally introduced to the woman myself.” Her face screwed up as she thought hard. “Leave it with me. I’ll find out where she and her husband socialise. Perhaps we could arrange a chance meeting.” She patted his arm. “Trust me, Mr. Sinclair. I’m a politician’s wife. I’ve been arranging chance meetings for years.”
They all rejoined the party then and the clown held the children and Edna in thrall with juggling and clumsy magic.
“Isn’t he delightful,” she laughed as he threw a bucket of confetti at Stanley Bruce and winked at the sculptress.
Milton groaned. “You are not to step out with a clown, Ed! There’s only so much we can take.”
Clyde folded his arms across his chest, gazing thoughtfully at the entertainer. “You know, I worked as a roustabout once for Barnum Bros. Circus when they were touring the bush.” He leaned over to Edna. “The clowns were mean,” he confided, “and foul-mouthed.”
Rowland laughed and Edna ignored them all.
“Rowly!” Wilfred motioned him away from the crowd.
“Dr. Pennyworth didn’t mention that he’d been to see you recently,” he said, glancing at his brother’s forearm. Rowland no longer bothered with a sling and could, in fact, hold a glass in his right hand.
“Oh this…” Rowland told his brother about the incident outside Claridge’s and the recasting of his arm.
“You allowed a flaming doll-maker to perform a medical procedure? For pity’s sake, Rowly, why didn’t you just have Miss Higgins fashion you something out of mud and sticks?”
“Hardly dolls… and Ambrose was a doctor in Berlin,” Rowland replied, wondering how the sculptress would react to her work being described as mud and sticks.
Wilfred lit a cigarette and drew on it before he spoke again. “It could be that Joyce is pursuing some vendetta for your altercation at the conference,” he said slowly. “He is a petty and vindictive wretch from what I gather, but, he is also a friend of Josslyn Hay.”
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