Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  Hugh Sinclair sighed. “The Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson have a close friendship which some quarters might consider inappropriate. The woman is after all American.” He stroked his chin, thoughtfully, and chose his words carefully. “His Royal Highness, concerned that his old friend, Lady Furness, would similarly misinterpret his relationship with Mrs. Simpson, persuaded his loyal chum, Pierrepont, to play Mrs. Simpson’s paramour. It was a naïve ploy perhaps, but well-intended. As you can understand there can be a great deal of competition for His Royal Highness’ friendship. If you go poking your nose into all this, Rowland, you risk embarrassing the Crown.”

  “So, is this what you do, Quex? Clean up after the Prince of Wales?”

  Hugh Sinclair’s face became stony. “I’ve neglected you, Rowland. I really should have taught you manners at some point.”

  “Rowly…” Edna intervened as the tension in the room rose dangerously. “Sir Hugh has saved us a great deal of time and bother. We don’t care who Mrs. Simpson’s lover is if it doesn’t help Allie’s case.”

  Rowland looked down at her hand on his. She was right. As obnoxiously as the admiral had delivered the edict, he had saved them a wild goose chase they could ill afford.

  “How do you know of our interest in the Simpsons, Quex?” Rowland asked. “Where we’re going, when and why.”

  The admiral’s face was unreadable.

  “Menzies!” Milton exclaimed suddenly. “He’s been spying on us! Our trusted butler has been keeping the admiral apprised of our movements from the beginning.” He pointed accusingly at the manservant who had just re-entered the drawing room with a tray laden with tea and cakes. “What did you do with Beresford, you duplicitous fiend?”

  Hugh Sinclair laughed. “You are letting your imagination get the better of you Mr. Isaacs. Mr. Beresford is very happily in the service of Lord and Lady Pugh in one of the other suites.”

  “But Menzies?”

  “Mr. Menzies has been keeping a watchful eye on you,” the admiral admitted.

  “Good Lord!” Rowland groaned. “What is wrong with you?”

  Hugh Sinclair regarded him frostily. “All things considered, Rowland, do you really think it surprising that I would take an interest in the activities of my Colonial cousins? Your sojourn to Munich was hardly innocent!”

  Rowland sat forward, his eyes intense as things fell into place. “So, what exactly was your man Menzies sent to observe?”

  “Initially, we were concerned that you may have been spying for the Germans.”

  “What?” Rowland was appalled.

  “And then, you and I had our little chat, and I realised that was extremely unlikely, though I began to be troubled—” Rear Admiral Sinclair glanced at Milton and Clyde, “—about the influence of other parties on your allegiances. Mr. Menzies stayed on in the hope that you might have some information on the Germans.”

  Rowland did not bite. He was perfectly comfortable with his allegiances and not about to discuss them with Hugh Sinclair. “If you wanted to know about Germany, why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “I did, if you recall, but sometimes people don’t realise what they know, what might be valuable. There is a lot of information in the background of holiday photographs, for example—a building or a person who just happens to be behind the picture’s subject. It’s the same for memories.”

  Pictures… His paintings…

  “Murcott,” Rowland said quietly. “Does Archibald Murcott work for you, Quex?”

  “No.”

  “Ivy Murcott,” Edna said, more to Rowland than anyone else. “Ivy’s the spy.”

  “Of course.” Rowland nodded. Ivy Murcott made sense now. “She’s not Murcott’s sister… thank God for that at least. But Waugh knew her as Ivy Murcott. Is she Archie’s wife or is Waugh a spy too?”

  Hugh Sinclair said nothing.

  “Did she take the paintings?” Clyde asked. “Rowly’s paintings of Germany?”

  Again silence.

  Exasperated, Rowland dragged his hair back from his forehead. “Are you spying on Wilfred too, then?”

  “I hardly think you are in any position to get high-handed about spying and surveillance, Rowland. But no. Wilfred and I have an understanding.”

  Rowland shook his head incredulously.

  “Look Rowland,” Hugh Sinclair sighed. “You seem to have once again taken me wrongly. I’m endeavouring to help you. At the moment, despite the horribly messy diplomatic incident which could result, my people are working tirelessly to ensure Von Kirsch is not able to denounce you as a murderer and demand you be returned to Germany to face justice.”

  Edna poured tea, and passed a cup to the admiral. “For that we are sincerely grateful, Sir Hugh. Of course, Rowly didn’t kill anybody.”

  The admiral glanced strangely at his cousin here. He spoke to Rowland again. “Prince Edward’s reputation may seem trivial to you, Rowland, but in the current political climate, the leadership of Britain must be decisive, united and devoid of scandal. And, as Miss Higgins has already pointed out, you would only have been wasting time digging into Mrs. Simpson’s affairs.”

  “But does Mr. Simpson know?” Clyde asked. “If he too suspects Pierrepont—?”

  “Simpson is well aware of the situation, Mr. Watson Jones. It may seem unusual but it is not unheard of where a future king of England is concerned.”

  “So, how long are you going to keep us trapped in here, Quex?” Rowland asked.

  “Until I’m sure you will stay well clear of Mrs. Simpson and say nothing of this conversation.”

  Rowland shrugged. “We no longer have any interest in Mrs. Simpson, and let me assure you that we’ve never cared in whose bed Prince Edward finds himself. For God’s sake, Quex, you might have just told me.”

  “Getting you to listen is sometimes difficult, Rowland.” The admiral sighed. “In any case, I wasn’t aware you had any plans to pursue Mrs. Simpson until just now.”

  Milton shook his head and wagged a finger at the treacherous butler. “You’ll have to brush up on your eavesdropping, comrade.”

  “Very good, sir,” Menzies replied.

  “Do you know who killed Lord Pierrepont, Sir Hugh?” Edna said suddenly.

  “Of course not, Miss Higgins. Pierrepont is of no import in the greater scheme of things and certainly of no interest to us. I’m told he was murdered by that niece of his.”

  “What is the Ministry of Health’s interest in Pierrepont’s death?” Rowland asked.

  “Health? I can’t imagine, dear cousin… unless he died of smallpox or some such thing. What have they asked you?”

  “Nothing really… they just had a man at the murder scene—he arrived with the chap from Scotland Yard.”

  “Did Scotland Yard call him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, someone must have. I suggest you ask them.”

  The afternoon wore on. Admiral Sinclair lingered, a civilised, genteel gaoler. He chatted quite amiably on all manner of subject, asking each of them their impressions of Germany. But it was clearly Milton and Clyde’s accounts that interested him most.

  They answered warily, knowing from Rowland that the admiral was a committed anti-Communist. The last thing they wished to do was expose the men who’d helped them escape.

  Rowland looked on as his cousin talked with Milton, noting the slight stiffening in the admiral’s shoulders when the poet spoke of anything that too plainly expressed his radical political beliefs. Artfully, Hugh Sinclair attempted to tease out details of Communist activity in Europe. Milton deflected the probing equally artfully, with poetry.

  “So, are you ever planning to depart, Quex?” Rowland asked quite bluntly in the end. “Or must we be kept permanently under lock and key to ensure the Prince of Wales’ reputation is unimpeachable.”

  “I don’t see there’s any need for anything quite so drastic, Rowland,” Sinclair replied, sipping the Scotch which Menzies—who for some reason remained in the guise o
f butler—had brought him earlier. “I’ve booked your passages home. You leave for Australia in a week.”

  Rowland’s face darkened.

  “But Allie…” Edna protested.

  “Whatever you are doing for the girl, do in the next seven days because you will be boarding that ship.” Sinclair looked at Milton. “I will ensure the charges against Mr. Isaacs are dropped.”

  “Unless Britain is having us deported—” Rowland began angrily.

  “She isn’t… yet, but you will be on that ship one way or another.” The rear admiral sighed. “There were other ways of doing this, Rowland. For your own sake, and that of your brother and your friends, take what I’m offering and go quietly, because the other ways will not end so well for any of you.” He put down his drink. “It will be a great deal easier to dismiss Von Kirsch’s allegations if you are no longer here.”

  Rowland simmered, cornered.

  Hugh Sinclair regarded him quite sadly. “I’m not sure why you feel you need to fight me at every turn, Rowland. I am acting in your best interests, my boy.” He shook his head. “It’s no wonder poor Wilfred has always had such a job keeping you under control.”

  “For God’s sake, Quex, they could hang that poor girl if—”

  “Leave it in the hands of that solicitor you retained to represent her and trust the man to do his job!” Hugh Sinclair’s voice became hard. “Make no mistake, Rowland, you will be leaving Britain in a week one way or another. Consider yourselves lucky that I’m not having you all incarcerated until then.” He checked his watch and stood. “Is that the time? I might be able to get on now. I’ll have the details of your passages sent on to you.” Glancing at Rowland’s thunderous face, he smiled. “Chin up, old man. This is not goodbye—we’ll meet again.”

  Edna grabbed Rowland’s arm as he tensed forward. “Rowly, perhaps it’s time we went home,” she said gently, afraid he’d deck Rear Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair then and there.

  Milton stood. “Let me show you and Mr. Menzies out,” he said coldly.

  For a while after Hugh Sinclair and Menzies had departed there was nothing but tense, furious silence. Finally Edna rose from the couch. “You’re all turning purple trying not to swear, so I’m going to change into something less fussy. While I’m gone you can get whatever you need to off your chests, and then we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.” She left them, departing through the door which led to the adjoining suite.

  Clyde groaned. He had been repressing profanity for Edna’s sake. “Well, we can’t very well swear now,” he grumbled.

  “Speak for yourself,” Milton said before exploding into a string of curses ending in “Rear Admiral”. But, by the time Edna returned in a simple frock with no hat or gloves, even he had calmed down sufficiently to be a gentleman again.

  Edna settled on the arm of the couch. “What do you think?” she asked Rowland who had not yet said a word.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that we have seven days to find out who really killed Pierrepont.”

  31

  OBJECTION TO NUDE FIGURES

  Theatre Drapes Them with Dust Sheets

  The management of the Prince Edward Theatre, Church Street, Soho, London were officially informed that parts of the exterior decorations—four female figures devoid of drapery—must be modified.

  The figures are 18 ft high and were intended to be symbolical of the spirit of the revue being presented at the theatre, “Un Vent de Folie”.

  As it was impossible at short notice to obtain painters to paint clothing on the figures, the producer of the revue, Mr. Jack Taylor, had them draped with the only material available—dust sheets which are usually used for covering seats when the theatre is closed.

  Painters however began work on the figures next morning.

  The Advertiser, 1933

  Rowland leaned casually against the lamppost with an open newspaper, waiting. A sudden turn in the weather had left the city cloaked in the famous London fog. It made him less visible but it also rendered more difficult the task of picking out a single man from among the crowd who entered the Geological Museum.

  Delegates arrived in proudly flagged cars of state, and made their way in via a private entrance to the side. The mood was sombre—the conference was not going well. The American President had declared his hostility to its aims and it seemed there would be little outcome for all the hopes and money poured into this gathering of world leaders and economic minds.

  But it was not the delegates who interested Rowland Sinclair. He watched the main entrance where members of the public and the media queued for access to the public gallery.

  An old man joined the line. He was not tall, or remarkable in any visible way. Rowland folded the newspaper under his arm and approached.

  “Mr. Wells.”

  Herbert Wells turned, squinted through the circular lenses of his spectacles for a moment before he smiled in recognition. “Mr. Sinclair, isn’t it? Well hullo, sir! Have you come to keep me company in the gallery again?”

  Rowland offered the writer his hand, and Wells shook it. “Your wings are a little less clipped, I see. Perhaps today you will be able to draw the men who have so eloquently delivered nothing after days of talk!”

  “Actually, Mr. Wells, I was hoping I could persuade you to have a drink with me instead. There is a matter about which I’d like to talk to you.”

  Wells’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not a hopeful writer are you? You haven’t some manuscript you plan to foist upon me?”

  Rowland smiled. “Not at all. But I would like to talk to you.” He turned his head away quickly as a museum official walked past, lest he be recognised as the man banned after the riot involving Mosley’s Blackshirts. “Just not here.”

  Wells hesitated.

  “I assure you, I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important, sir. This is potentially a matter of life and death.”

  Now Wells was clearly intrigued. “I suppose today will be as much a failure as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Perhaps a drink is called for to toast what might have been if the world was not administered by fools.” He nodded. “Do lead on, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland took the writer to a small rather scruffy bar which catered for a bohemian clientele. He apologised that the venue was less than wholly respectable.

  “Clearly you do not wish us to be discovered, Mr. Sinclair—at least by any gentleman of means,” Wells said as they sat at a bare table decorated only with the remnants of a candle in the mouth of a wax-covered bottle. They ordered.

  “I am told there was some excitement at the conference after our last conversation,” Wells began.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Would I be correct to infer that you are offended by Mr. Mosley’s politics, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “It’s more than just his politics,” Rowland replied cautiously, unsure of where Wells stood. He knew from Milton that Wells was a bitter opponent of Zionism, but then the poet was not a Zionist either.

  Wells sighed. “Nationalism,” he said. “It is not till we leave such notions behind that there will be hope for mankind.”

  “Mr. Wells,” Rowland began before Wells could embark on another subject, “I understand from Mrs. Stanley Bruce that you have at times attended functions of the Eugenics Society.”

  Wells nodded. “Indeed, I have, Mr. Sinclair. Do you have an interest in the subject?”

  “Not so much the subject as the members of the society. I met Lord Harcourt recently. Are you acquainted?”

  “Yes. I’ve met both Lord Harcourt and his brother but I’m afraid I do not know them well. They are extreme.”

  “How do you mean, extreme?”

  “Eugenicists do not hold a single position but a spectrum. Lord Harcourt and his brother are both part of a faction which advocates the most extreme form which, frankly, is not only counter to social norms but to contemporary biological science. Personally, I have always thought that part of th
e movement more closely linked to the occult than science.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

  “In animal husbandry, there is an established practice known as line breeding, I believe.”

  Rowland started. He knew about line breeding—the practice of joining related beasts to concentrate a desirable bloodline in stock. It had its adherents among Australian stud masters and graziers and, while Rowland had never cared enough to have an opinion, he knew Wilfred considered it a dangerous practice in the longterm.

  “Good God, are you suggesting the Harcourts advocate line breeding in human beings?”

  “In theory, yes.” Wells chuckled. “Do not be so shocked, Mr. Sinclair. The royal families of Britain and Europe have been practising an unofficial form of line breeding by default for a great many generations!”

  In truth, Rowland wasn’t shocked. Just appalled. He realised now that Lord Harcourt had accused Pierrepont of his own crime. Lady Pierrepont’s unborn child… he blanched… could the father be one of her own brothers?

  “As I said,” Wells continued, “their position is extreme—more mystical than rational. I believe Lord Harcourt has fostered some connection with the Thule Society and other organisations who promote ideas of racial purity and whose excesses do not help the good case for Eugenics. As such, I have not pursued any form of intimacy with either of them.”

  Rowland signalled for the bill. “Thank you, sir. I cannot say enough how helpful you have been.”

  “You claimed this was a matter of life and death, Mr. Sinclair,” Wells said almost petulantly.

  “It is indeed, Mr. Wells. The life of a young woman depends on what you’ve just told me.” He paid for their drinks. “I wish I could stop to explain but…”

  Wells nodded. “A life depends on this information I have given you. One should not leave such a life waiting.” He took out a calling card and handed it to Rowland. “Perhaps, Mr. Sinclair, if we do not meet again, you will write to me of the outcome of this mercy dash of yours?”