Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (13 page)

“Do you know of a Lord Erroll?” Rowland asked on impulse.

“A failed diplomat with a penchant for other men's wives, I believe,” Wells replied.

“He's a diplomat?”

“Was a diplomat. Appointed by pedigree rather than merit. Left the service under somewhat of a dark cloud. Why do you want to know about Erroll?”

“I met him the other evening. I wasn't quite sure what to make of him.”

Wells seemed to accept this, and though Rowland was convinced the novelist knew there was more to it, he did not ask. Instead he chatted amiably about all manner of things. Rowland found himself being drawn into the possibilities of Wells' conversations, the extraordinary speculative ideas that the writer made plausible.

“Tell me, Mr. Sinclair,” Wells said at the close of a detailed postulation on the potential good of a world government, “what are
you
doing here? You don't appear to have a particular knowledge or interest in the subject of economics. What could possibly entice a young man to pass the entire day here?”

That very question had occurred to Rowland in the course of the last three hours. Bruce hadn't left the hall. Wilfred had glanced up
at the gallery every now and then, possibly to check that his brother was still where he'd left him. “There was someone I was hoping to meet.”

“I take it you don't mean me?”

“No, that was just good luck,” Rowland replied smiling. It had been. Without Wells' company the morning would have passed slowly indeed.

Around midday, most of the reporters left to write up their stories and meet publication deadlines. Wells too, bid his new acquaintance farewell and went on his way.

Facing an afternoon of economic theses and deliberations, Rowland began to look quite earnestly for an escape.

And then the empty seats in the public gallery were claimed. Nearly a score of men in black shirts filed in to take them. Rowland stiffened, recognising the infamous uniform of Oswald Mosley's British Union of Fascists.

T
he conference fell into silence as the delegates glanced up. The Soviets were clearly offended and mutinous. The Blackshirts remained, claiming their right to sit in the citizens' gallery.

For a moment it seemed their mere presence might derail the conference, but then the British delegate took the floor once more, determined to continue. The Fascists sat with their legs apart and their hands fisted upon their knees, almost as if they were assembled for a team photograph.

Rowland could sense Wilfred's eyes upon him. He returned the glance and nodded. There was no need for Wilfred to be concerned. These were British Fascists, the bored sons of lords who practised
revolution between spots of tennis. They were not Nazis, and Britain was yet a democracy.

After several moments the shock subsided, and the delegates returned to the business of currency and debt.

Then a single Blackshirt stood. Two others closed the doors to the public gallery, barring both entry and exit, and Rowland was effectively trapped.

If the Blackshirts noticed him they gave no indication of it. Their purpose was clearly prearranged, their action rehearsed. The man who stood, and who now interrupted the proceedings, was pale and thin and spoke the King's English with the inflection of the privileged and the intensity of a crusader. He called on the men below to restore the world, to make Britain great once again. He demanded they expel the Soviets and take arms against the economic dictatorship of Communist Jews. He praised Germany for being the only nation strong enough to meet the Jewish threat with necessary force.

“Stop!” Rowland knew he was acting rashly, unwisely. He was after all alone and there were at least twenty Blackshirts, but the rage which took hold of him was not predisposed to caution, or even good sense. He stood, and though his voice was low it was somehow made audible by the force of the fury behind it. “Sit down you stupid, vile little man.”

The stupid, vile little man turned to scrutinise the challenger. A curved scar which ran from earlobe to lip seemed to glow white against the red flush of his skin. He held up his hand, a signal to keep his Blackshirts at bay.

“The gentleman takes issue,” he said loudly. “Perhaps he has something to fear from a new world order… perhaps he is a Communist or worse—one of those fetid, hypocritical, traitorous apologists for the outrages of Jewry.”

Someone in the conference hall shouted for security. A grapple began at the door. Several Blackshirts heaved to keep it closed as it was sieged from without.

Rowland's eyes blazed. “You, sir, are an imbecile in the costume of a moron!”

The Fascist threw the first punch, but Rowland was far from turning the other cheek. It did not begin as a brawl because Rowland was after all just a single man, but the doors soon gave way to admit uniformed constables and public servants eager to help. And then it was on.

Some members of the entourage of Fascists smashed chairs and then used the fragments as weapons. Fists flailed wildly in every direction. The Blackshirt leader whose oratory Rowland had interrupted, marked the Australian as his own, attacking him with no quarter given to the broken arm. Rowland, too, gave no concession to his injury. In truth, it was not the first time he'd fought one-handed and so he was not as handicapped as he might have been. Sparring with an arm secured behind his back had been part of the training when he'd boxed years before. The memory of it came back to him now. He landed several staggering blows with his left fist. His opponent reeled, swearing and spitting blood.

The Blackshirt responded with intense rage, unleashing a vitriolic assault that pinned Rowland against the wall taking blow after blow to his ribcage. Against this, the plaster cast became something of a shield and Rowland exploded out of the clinch with a series of shattering jabs.

A stream of constables forced their way onto the gallery. Soon there were two or three for every Fascist, and by sheer force of numbers, the troublemakers were gradually subdued. Even when all the other rioters were controlled, the officers found it necessary to
restrain both Rowland and the Blackshirt, to keep them from each other's throats.

Rowland was not, to be honest, sure how he escaped being arrested alongside Mosley's agitators. Perhaps it was simply because he alone was not in Fascist costume. The Blackshirts were outraged. Immediately they decried the partisan, Communist-riddled police force and promised to seek justice outside the corrupt legal system of Britain.

“Just you worry about your own arrest, Mr. Joyce,” warned the captain as he handcuffed the Blackshirt orator.

Joyce glared at Rowland with the eye that was not swollen shut. “For the sake of the record, just what do you call yourself, sir?”

“Sinclair, Rowland Sinclair.” Rowland had no intention of backing away in any respect. He was quite happy to put his name to his opposition of this man, Joyce, and his principles.

“Well, Sinclair, I'll remember your Jew-loving face. You've made an enemy of William Joyce. I'll come for you, lad, I'll come for you.”

“Make sure you bring your friends, Joyce. You'll need them.”

A constable pushed Joyce out before the exchange could escalate and Rowland was delivered to his brother like an errant child. Wilfred was none too pleased.

“Are you completely insane?” he demanded. “What did you think you were doing?”

“What else could I do, Wil?”

“You might have just waited for security to throw them out. But no! You have to step in and incite a brawl!”

“Someone needed to belt that idiot. I was the only one within reach willing to do it!” Rowland muttered.

Wilfred took a deep breath. “Dammit, Rowly, don't you have enough enemies?”

Rowland glanced at the ceiling exasperated. “I'm sure Joyce threatens every second person he meets… he won't remember my name tomorrow.”

“I wouldn't count on it. From what I know about the man, he bears a grudge.”

“Well, I don't think we were ever going to be chums anyway.”

Wilfred removed his spectacles and polished them furiously. “All you have managed to do with your little stand is stop the conference!”

Rowland paused as the truth of Wilfred's words hit him. He cursed, realising suddenly that he had, however unintentionally, contributed to the Fascist cause. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I lost my temper.” He tried to explain himself. “I've seen where this kind of vicious rhetoric is leading in Germany, Wil… but I shouldn't have lost my rag like that… I was just so angry…”

For a moment it appeared Wilfred would launch into one of his customary tirades, but for some reason he seemed to think better of it. “Understand me, Rowly, I have no sympathy for the idiotic convictions of William Joyce and his kind, but you can't simply cry havoc at every turn. It just won't work.”

Rowland pushed the hair out of his face, wincing as his hand made contact with his right brow. It was sticky and tender. He vaguely remembered Joyce belting him with the leg of a bentwood chair.

“Go and get yourself cleaned up.” Wilfred sighed. “I'll have the car brought around. It can take you back to Ennismore Gardens, and come back for Spats and me later.”

Once again, Ernest Sinclair burst past the maid to meet his uncle at the door. “Where's Daddy, Uncle Rowly? Did he come with you?”

“I'm afraid not, Ernie. He had to stay a while longer.”

“Why are you back then?”

“I'm a little tired.”

Ernest nodded as if he understood. “Have you been staying up late?”

“I suppose I have.”

Ernest sighed and shook his head. “When will you learn, Uncle Rowly?”

Rowland laughed, allowing his nephew to take his hand as they followed the maid into the parlour. Ernest would one day assume control of the Sinclair fortune. It seemed the boy was born to the role.

Edna was teaching Ethel Bruce and Kate to play poker.

“Rowly, what are you doing back?” Edna said putting down her cards as she stood. “Is the conference over already?” She looked closely at his face. “Good Lord, what did they do to you?”

Rowland sat down at the card table. “There was a spot of trouble,” he admitted.

Kate paled. “Is Wil—”

“Wil's fine,” Rowland said quickly. “There's no need to worry. He and Minister Bruce will be back later.”

Edna touched the abrasion on his brow tentatively. “Does it hurt?”

“I've got a thumping headache, but the conference speeches might have been responsible for that.”

“My poor Mr. Sinclair,” Ethel Bruce said, quite enthusiastically. “You must have a drink and tell us all about it.” She poured Pimms and lemonade from an etched glass pitcher and handed the tumbler to Rowland, nodding expectantly for him to complete his part of the bargain.

So he recounted the events of the day: the Blackshirts, William Joyce and the unpleasantness which followed.

“A brawl?” Ethel exclaimed. “There was a brawl at Stanley's conference?” There was just the slightest hint of delight in her voice.

Rowland nodded.

“You fought him with one arm?” Kate said, horrified.

“Once it all started, I had little choice, Kate,” Rowland said, aware that he was being slightly disingenuous at least. He had quite willingly entered the fray.

Ethel Bruce came to his aid. “Of course you didn't, Mr. Sinclair. That Joyce is a thug… an uncivilised, Irish thug! He is said to be a wonderful orator, but his reputation for violence is appalling—claims that Jewish Communists slashed his face as if that's some excuse for his behaviour. Disgraceful! I do hope you walloped him hard!”