Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (34 page)

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.”

T
he 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?”

“Perhaps she will, perhaps she would prefer to hang than have the fact known.”

Rowland shook his head. “No, that's insane. She's terrified. Lady Pierrepont told you this?”

“It seems the love of my sister reformed Lord Pierrepont and he regretted the contemptible crimes of his past. Of course, the burden of his confession has all but destroyed poor Euphemia.”

Rowland studied his host. “I called on your sister at Bletchley Park.”

“I know. You have clearly seen then what this horror has done to her emotional state.”

“I have also seen her physical state, Lord Harcourt.”

Harcourt bristled. “Euphemia is not worldly. She is an innocent, brilliant but naive.” He paused, exhaling like an angry bull. “As I said, Pierrepont was not always a gentleman! He did, however, do
the right thing by Euphemia in the end.”

“Why are you telling me this, Lord Harcourt?”

“As you might have gathered, Mr. Sinclair, there are several scandals buried with Lord Pierrepont.” Harcourt sat forward on the very edge of his seat. “It's probably best for all concerned if they remain buried.”

“I doubt it's best for Miss Dawe.”

“I feel sorry for the girl. I do. But she did kill a man, Sinclair. Revealing the circumstances will just make her more notorious, more reviled. And it will ruin my sister as well.”

“What exactly are you asking, sir?”

“I'm asking you to leave these sordid matters well alone, to realise that your meddling will only make it worse—destroy two women instead of one.” Harcourt looked him directly in the eye. “I love my sister, Sinclair. She has never been strong… my brother and I have protected her all our lives. If this comes out it will ruin her and her unborn child and I fear her mental health will never recover. I know you have some attachment to Miss Dawe but I am given to understand the Crown case against her is clear and robust. This is not a miscarriage of justice but a simply a sorry state of affairs.” Harcourt put his cards on the table. “If you will leave this alone, I give you my word as a gentleman that I will use all my influence to ensure Miss Dawe's sentence is as lenient as the law will allow.”

Rowland pulled back. “And if I don't?”

“Then two young women will be destroyed and one will probably hang. I'm not asking you to do anything illegal or immoral, Mr. Sinclair, simply to allow justice to run its natural course without dragging into public view shameful secrets that will have no impact whatsoever on the outcome of these tragic circumstances.”

Rowland shook his head. “I don't believe Miss Dawe murdered Lord Pierrepont.”

“Perhaps you underestimate the fairer sex, Mr. Sinclair. They are not so prone to overt displays of violence as we men but, backed into a corner, they will fight as fiercely as any man.”

Rowland hesitated. Edna had fired a gun in his defence. Of course, she had only managed to shoot him, but that was beside the point. And in Munich his life had been saved by the fact that a young woman had killed his attacker. Could he be sure what Allie would do, how far she would go, to defend herself?