Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (2 page)

Edna shook her head, unconvinced.

“We haven't time to argue, Ed,” he said firmly as he grabbed one of the bags. “I'll be fine.”

The customs official who took his passport paused, inspecting the photograph closely and then lifting his eyes to the sling which supported Rowland Sinclair's right arm.

“You've had some trouble, Monsieur Sinclair?”

Rowland shrugged. “Cycling accident—wasn't keeping a proper lookout I'm afraid… rather embarrassing really.”

The official shook his head. “You do not fool me, Monsieur Sinclair!” He pointed sternly at Rowland.

Rowland tensed, ready.

“Your eyes, they were on the mademoiselles and not the road!” The official laughed now as he handed back the passport and called for someone to take the Australian's bag. “It is always the way with young men like you. We remember your countrymen from the Great War… always chasing the mademoiselles!”

Rowland smiled. “You have found me out, monsieur.”

Rowland made his way slowly down the aisle between the seats. Having last flown in the rudimentary comforts, or lack thereof, afforded by the
Southern Cross
, he was more than a little impressed with the civility of the
City of Glasgow's
cabin. Accommodating twenty passengers, it was not entirely spacious, but the appointments were tasteful and clearly designed to make the crossing as comfortable as possible. On either side of the aisle ran a single row of leather armchairs. The walls were panelled and the fittings were brass, in a style reminiscent of first class train carriages.

Rowland took his seat, glancing back to see if his friends had boarded.

Edna waved from the rear of the plane. Rowland smiled, relieved, and she blew him a kiss.

“That is a very beautiful lady who blows you a kiss.” The young man in the seat across the aisle spoke to him in English. The accent was European definitely, German possibly. “She is a friend of yours? Perhaps she would like to exchange seats with me…?”

“That won't be necessary,” Rowland replied warily. “But thank you. I don't really know her.”

“And yet she blows you the kiss.”

“Yes, highly improper.” Rowland tried to look disapproving. “Where I come from, women are not so forward.”

The man laughed. “You must not be so strict, my friend. You are a lucky man then to catch the eye of so beautiful a stranger.” He sighed and pressed his palm sadly to his heart. “It is only the flat-faced, toothless girls who smile at poor Arnold Deutsch.” He chuckled at his own misfortune. “I would shake your hand, sir, but I see that doing so would cause you some difficulty.”

“Rowland Sinclair. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deutsch.” The
City of Glasgow
had started to coast down the runway, gathering speed as she prepared to leave the tarmac. A bump, a sensation of heaviness and she was airborne. Rowland relaxed now.

“Are you German, Mr. Deutsch?”

Deutsch laughed. “No, do not be fooled by the name. I have been recently in Berlin, but I am Czechoslovakian. Now I go to your Great Britain to study.”

Rowland chose not to correct Deutsch's assumption that he was English. There was probably no reason to be suspicious of the man, but he had also thought that about Rousseau.

A uniformed host walked down the aisle, distributing hot towels to each passenger. He had scarcely collected the used towels when he returned with an extensive luncheon traymobile, stopping to fuss over how Rowland would manage the buffet with the use of only one hand—his left at that. Despite Rowland's assurances that he could feed himself quite adequately, the enthusiastic steward insisted on cutting his roast beef into manageable pieces before seeing to the other passengers.

Deutsch grinned. “The Imperial Airline is just a little bit too much first class, I think.”

“Quite,” Rowland muttered, ignoring his meal and resorting instead to the concoction of gin and vermouth he'd been told was a silver wing special.

The flight over the English Channel was blessed on this day with fair skies and gentle winds. Notwithstanding his initial caution, Rowland found Deutsch rather pleasant company. The Czechoslovakian, who it seemed intended to study psychology at the University of London, was friendly, and though he talked at length, he did not require too much by way of contribution from Rowland.

Still Rowland was relieved when the English coastline came into view and the
City of Glasgow
finally touched down on the Kentish coast.

One of the last passengers to disembark, he found his companions already waiting for him as their luggage was unloaded. Edna hugged him euphorically, whispering in his ear. “We're here Rowly! I was beginning to fear that nightmare would never end.”

Deutsch paused as he walked past. “She is unstoppable, this improper young woman that you do not know.” He winked at Rowland and tipped his hat at Edna.

Rowland laughed as Edna stared after the Czechoslovakian, affronted. “Who was that?”

“Arnold Deutsch… he's some kind of scholar I believe.”

T
he penthouse suites of Claridge's on Brook Street in London's Mayfair had fallen vacant unexpectedly when the fortunes of its long-term residents had finally succumbed to the Depression which gripped London as tightly as it held the rest of the world. Lord and Lady Abernethy had been moved out discreetly and quickly, and all signs of their existence at Claridge's removed. In certain polite circles their fall from grace caused a minor scandal; but, given the times, it was not unusual enough a story to be worth comment for long… and an unpaid account at Claridge's was at least a better class of debt. Of course, Rowland Sinclair had no idea who had occupied the top floor of the hotel before his own party. He had been mildly surprised that the penthouses were both available when the rest of the hotel was fully occupied. But then the penthouse apartments carried a rate that would have made most pocketbooks quail. Perhaps even the wealthy clientele of Claridge's was exercising fiscal restraint.

Rowland and his companions had taken a motor car from the airport directly to the Bank of England, where Rowland had presented his passport to the manager and arranged appropriate lines of credit. The Sinclair fortune was quite conveniently not confined to the Antipodes, and the manager was accustomed to accommodating the financially embarrassed traveller.

Thus having ensured that they would not find themselves vagrants, the Australians retreated to the traditional but uncompromising luxury of the Mayfair hotel.

It was not until later that evening, as they waited for Edna to finish dressing for dinner, that Milton noticed the article in the evening paper.

“Rowly,” he said, holding the paper up to the light. “Take a look at this.”

Rowland peered over Milton's shoulder and then, startled, took the
Manchester Guardian
from the poet.

“What is it?” Clyde asked as he poured drinks.

“Wilfred.”

“What? Your brother?” Clyde put down the decanter and strode over to look at the paper. They had left Wilfred Sinclair in Sydney when they'd embarked for Germany in April.

“I think so,” Rowland said, squinting at the newsprint. The article concerned some international economic conference being held in London. The accompanying photograph was of Ramsay MacDonald, the British Prime Minister, with an American delegate. A figure stood in the background, half-turned and somewhat out of focus, but Rowland was sure it was Wilfred.

“Did he say he was coming to London?” Milton asked, retrieving the drinks Clyde had abandoned.

Rowland shook his head. “No.” He looked at the picture again. “What the devil's he doing here?”

Clyde and Milton exchanged a glance. It was entirely conceivable that Wilfred Sinclair had come to London anticipating a need to rescue his younger brother, but that was not a notion that would please Rowland. So, they didn't mention it.

But clearly Rowland's mind had already moved in that direction. Irritated, he tossed the paper onto the couch. That he had very nearly needed rescue did not make Wilfred's interference any less annoying. He was twenty-eight, for God's sake!

Edna stepped out of her bedroom, in a simple navy evening dress which skimmed gently over the curves of her figure. Her dark copper tresses were caught in a coil at the base of her neck. She smiled.

Rowland forgot about Wilfred.

“Where did Mr. Beresford go?” Edna asked, looking about for the butler who had come with the suite.

“I believe he's checking on our reservations for dinner,” Rowland said. “It might be difficult to keep him occupied.” Beresford had already cleaned and pressed their suits, polished their shoes and mixed pre-dinner cocktails with extraordinary and yet unobtrusive efficiency.

“Well, you might have asked him to help you with your tie,” Edna said, sitting on the arm of Rowland's chair.

Milton cleared his throat disapprovingly. The poet considered it a matter of colonial evolution that the Australian gentleman dressed himself.

Sighing, Edna leaned down to deal with the bow tie which hung loosely around Rowland's neck.

“I thought I'd attend to it myself,” he murmured, as her fingers worked deftly at his throat.

Clyde laughed. “I can barely tie a bow with the use of two hands.”

“There.” Edna considered Rowland critically. “How ever did you manage your cufflink?” she asked, noting that he was in fact now quite immaculately dressed.

He grimaced. “I used my teeth, actually.”

She smoothed his lapel. “Poor Rowly. You may have to start dressing more casually.”

“Casually?” Rowland was clearly unenthused.

“I'm not suggesting you go out in pyjamas… We could get you one of those polo shirts.”

“I don't intend to play polo,” Rowland said firmly.

“Oh, don't be so stuffy, Rowly. They're all the rage and they'll be entirely adequate while we're on the boat at least. The cast will be ready to come off by the time we reach Sydney and you can go back to your suits.”

Rowland elected to leave the sculptress' fashion advice alone for the moment. “Actually, I was thinking I wouldn't go home just yet.”

Milton and Clyde both looked up, surprised.

“Why ever not?” Edna demanded.

After what he'd been through, they had all expected Rowland would be keener than any of them to go home.