Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (36 page)

Edna stroked the hair away from his face. “Oh Rowly, you didn't mean to hurt her.”

Milton poured him another drink.

“Did she deny it, Rowly?” Clyde asked.

“She was too distraught to deny or confirm anything. All I managed to do was make her hysterical.”

“What do you think, Rowly?”

Rowland dropped his head back against the chair. “I don't know. If what Harcourt thinks is true, then I couldn't blame her for killing Pierrepont… but the only criticism she's ever made of her uncle was that he wouldn't let her sing.”

Milton shrugged. “Perhaps she's a better actress than we're giving her credit for.”

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck as he met the poet's eyes. “Do you really think so?”

“God, no!” Milton dropped into the couch with his own drink. “If it were some messy, impulsive shooting—maybe. But this was organised—tidy in a way. I hate to sound like old Murcott, but I'd put money on her having nothing to do with it.”

Rowland and Clyde were alone at breakfast. Milton and Edna had left early for Holloway to check on Allie Dawe and to see if they could smooth things over a little.

“Rowly…” Clyde said as he picked up the paper and took in the cover, “I think they might have found that bag you lost.”

He handed
The Times
to Rowland. The headline “Grisly
Discovery at Station” appeared on the front page. Apparently a Gladstone bag had been left unattended at Kings Cross Station. It had been found by a Mrs. Gladys Aberfoil who had opened the bag and become hysterical. A gentleman traveller who came to her aid had fainted at the macabre sight. A third person had screamed “murder” and begun a general panic on the platform. It was not until the police arrived that it was established that the head was not the result of a recent decapitation, but made of wax. Scotland Yard was investigating.

Rowland cursed. “I suppose we'll have to claim it.”

“I don't see why,” Clyde replied, reaching over to take the raspberry jam from Rowland and apply it to a slice of buttered toast. “We don't need Pierrepont back. Doesn't Scotland Yard have a museum where they put items like him?”

“The Black Museum,” Rowland said, smiling. “It's probably not the worst place Pierrepont could end up.”

“There you go… everybody happy. And we don't have to explain why you're wandering about London with a head in a bag.”

Rowland was at least halfway convinced to let well enough be, when Menzies interrupted them. “Excuse me, sir, an Inspector Entwhistle to see you.”

Entwhistle strode in before Rowland had a chance to respond to the announcement—in his hand, a Gladstone bag. Rowland and Clyde stood hastily.

Entwhistle dropped the bag on the table between them. “I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland nodded, thanked him and introduced Clyde.

“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.”

B
y 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.”