Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (42 page)

When the apple was consumed, Asquith wiped the knife and held it up to the light. He glanced at Rowland. Harcourt picked up the gun.

Instinctively, Rowland strained against the ropes as they stood.

Harcourt placed the gun against Rowland's temple and hushed him, as you would a child. “Sssshhh, it's all right. Don't move now, there's a good man.”

Rowland froze, repulsed. The revolver's muzzle slipped on the cold sweat which had broken out on his forehead. Harcourt adjusted it, still hushing and crooning.

Asquith squatted over him with the hunting knife. Did they intend to murder him together? Or was Harcourt merely holding him still for his brother's strike? Pierrepont flashed into Rowland's
mind… Was this how the viscount was killed: held under gunpoint until the blade was plunged?

Asquith cut the bindings on Rowland's ankles. “Get up,” he said.

Rowland gasped into the gag.

Harcourt kept the gun trained on him but pulled it back so Rowland could struggle painfully to his feet.

Asquith sheathed his knife in a scabbard on his belt and took another gun from his pocket.

“Very well, Sinclair, we'd best get on. Theo is sitting at the House of Lords tomorrow morning—we don't want to be out too late.”

Harcourt grabbed Rowland's collar, pressed the gun against his spine and shoved him up the stairs.

The cellar sat beneath a disused printing shop, which Rowland concluded—by virtue of Harcourt's possession of the keys—somehow belonged to the aristocrat.

A Vauxhall Cadet was parked in a narrow laneway behind the premise. It was dark now, as well as foggy. Rowland had no idea whether the fog had returned or simply not dissipated throughout the day.

As they approached the vehicle, Rowland made out another car parked at the end of the lane but close enough that he could see it was packed tightly with men. A prostitute peered into its window, plying her illicit trade to the car full of potential customers.

Before he could signal them for help, Asquith pushed him, still gagged and with his hands bound, onto the floor in the back of the Cadet. Harcourt sat in the back seat with the gun pointed at Rowland's head. Again the lord hushed and soothed as though he were calming a skittish filly.

Asquith slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.

On the floor, Rowland weighed his increasingly limited options. His panic seemed to have abated with the first reprieve, when Asquith had cut his bonds rather than stabbing him. Rowland was thinking more clearly now. He assumed the brothers were taking him out of London—to some rural manor—in order to shoot him and dispose quietly of his body. There would be his best chance. They had guns, but there were only two of them. Slowly but constantly, he rubbed his right wrist against the ropes. If he could wear the plaster back, the bonds might loosen enough to allow him to work free his hands. Aside from that, he could only hope the men in the other car had realised he was being abducted, and were not themselves doing something so unlawful that they dare not alert the police.

Rowland could hear very little traffic, though whether that was because of their location or the time, he was unsure. Cramped, with just the vibrating floor of the Cadet between him and the vehicle's whining differential, and with Harcourt's feet on his chest and a gun's muzzle pointed at his head, he found it difficult to judge the passing of time. Each minute stretched into a painful, tense age.

Quite unexpectedly, Asquith brought the Vauxhall Cadet to a stop. Rowland cursed silently… the bonds were no looser—the mannequin-maker's plaster cast had held.

Harcourt pulled him out of the car. It must have been late. There was nobody about at all and the moon was full and high. After the dark floor of the Cadet, Rowland's eyes were quick to adjust.

They were by the River Thames, near the entrance to a bridge. Rowland attempted to orient himself… there were so many bridges across the Thames. This one appeared to be undergoing some kind
of maintenance and was closed to vehicles. The walkway for foot traffic was unbarred—not that there was any at this time of night. Then suddenly he recognised it: The Waterloo Bridge. They were standing on the Victoria Embankment.

The other motor car from the alley pulled up behind the Cadet. Rowland's spirits rose. They'd seen he was in trouble. Harcourt forced him onto his knees with the gun to his head as the men emerged from the vehicle.

They barely glanced at Rowland, moving only to clap Harcourt heartily on the back, greeting him with the words “
Epi To Beltion
”.

Rowland groaned. These men were accomplices not saviours.

Harcourt smirked, obviously enjoying his disappointment. “This, Mr. Sinclair, is the Kalokagathia—the best of humanity working to make humanity better.”

Still gagged Rowland could say nothing. All hope of breaking away was fading fast.

Asquith grabbed a carpetbag out of the trunk. Almost ceremoniously, he and Harcourt hooked their arms through Rowland's, which were still bound in front of him, and dragged him to his feet. They walked him onto the deserted bridge with the five men of the Kalokagathia following closely behind. Once past the second recess they stopped.

Silently, with military order, they formed an arc around Rowland and backed him against the wall of the parapet. Asquith cut the bonds on his hands. The gag, they left in place.

“Undress, Mr. Sinclair,” Harcourt commanded.

Rowland stared at him, sure that he had heard incorrectly.

“You heard me, Mr. Sinclair, remove all your garments please.”

Still Rowland did not move, shocked into a kind of fearless disbelief.

Harcourt backhanded him across the face. “Remove your clothes, Sinclair, or I swear Diogenes will remove them with his knife… in which case you may lose a yard of skin, as well.”

Asquith pushed the blade against Rowland's throat to emphasise his brother's point. Rowland recoiled as the shallow cut reddened his collar with blood.

“Now,” Harcourt warned.

Slowly, Rowland slipped off his jacket and then his shirt, and finally his trousers and shoes until he stood all but completely naked in the icy wind on Waterloo Bridge. Furious and cold, he watched Harcourt and Asquith, wondering what kind of perversion they had in mind and looking desperately for any opportunity to escape.

Asquith surveyed the Australian's body thoughtfully, clearly but dispassionately assessing what he saw.

“In some ways he proves our case, does he not, Diogenes?” Harcourt said, moving to stand beside Rowland. His tone became professorial and he poked at his prisoner like some kind of exhibit. “The stature, the broad shoulders and lean, well-muscled frame of the Antipodean is, without question or doubt, the result of selective breeding. Only the strongest, fittest inmates were selected for transportation, you see and, once in the colony, the hardships of establishing a settlement in such an inhospitable wilderness picked off the weaker specimens.”

Convinced now that he was among lunatics, Rowland attempted to pull off the gag so he could swear at his captor but Harcourt was not about to have his sermon disrupted.

“Leave it, Mr. Sinclair,” he said, pointing his gun. “There will be time for your final words very soon. In the meantime, I will thank you not to interrupt!” Regathering his instructive poise, he continued. “Distance ensured that the blood of inferior peoples did
not contaminate the superior genetics which had been established in the colony, and so we have here a strong, well-proportioned product of positive eugenics.”

The Kalokagathia nodded in studious agreement. At that moment, Rowland would have traded his soul for the return of his clothes.

Harcourt paused as he considered the swastika of cigarette burns on Rowland's chest. “Interesting,” he said, prodding the scar with his revolver. “A drinking game, perhaps… they are a somewhat primitive culture in many respects.” He turned back to the Kalokagathia to complete the impromptu lecture. “Of course, convicts were selected for their physical strength and not their intellectual or moral powers—which has left us with a well-built monkey with criminal inclinations.”

Too far. Rowland lunged for Harcourt. He managed to belt him once before he was brought down and subdued.

Harcourt mopped his bloody nose with a handkerchief. “And so you see, gentleman,” he said, looking distastefully at Rowland, “the monkey proves my point.” He motioned to his brother.

Asquith opened the carpetbag and took from it a lacy pink evening gown and a fox stole. He held it out to Rowland.

Harcourt smiled. “We'd like you to put that on, Mr. Sinclair.”

R
owland reached around and pulled off the gag. Nobody stopped him on this occasion and he was able to speak for the first time in hours.

“What?” he said hoarsely. “What did you say?”

“We couldn't help but notice how awkward the constabulary find dealing with a man in women's attire. You're going to put on this gown, Mr. Sinclair, and then throw yourself into the Thames—but don't worry, we'll knock you unconscious first—it'll
all be very humane. When your corpse is found, certain assumptions will be made as to why you chose to take your own life. Most people will think it for the best and the matter will be closed and never spoken of again… So,” Harcourt raised his weapon, “put on the gown, Mr. Sinclair. I think the colour will most become you.”

“They'll find you in the reeds looking like Hamlet's Ophelia,” Asquith laughed.

“There's no way my brother would believe—” Rowland began.

“Your brother will be so embarrassed he'll bury you with as little fuss as possible,” Harcourt corrected.

Rowland gazed at the gun. He'd had enough now and rage supplanted fear and any form of caution. His voice seethed with fury. “You're going to have to shoot me, Harcourt, because I'm not trying on your bloody trousseau!”

Harcourt's face flushed. The forlorn bellow of a foghorn metered the stand-off.

“Very well, Mr. Sinclair. I'm sure we can manage, between us, to dress yourselves. Any injuries will be, after all, attributed to your fall.” Harcourt waved his revolver and signalled his comrades. The Kalokagathia closed in.

“Hullo, there! Are you all right?” In the distance, torches cut through the fog ahead of the voice. Unsettled, Harcourt turned towards the sound.

Rowland acted decisively, desperately, charging the Baron to the ground. The gun clattered onto the walkway.

“Get off, Sinclair!” Asquith discharged his own weapon in warning.

“You fool!” Harcourt turned upon his brother. “The whole world will hear that and descend upon us.”

Rowland took his chance to run, but the Kalokagathia had regrouped and he was effectively penned.

“Just shoot him!” Harcourt demanded, scrabbling to retrieve his own gun.

Asquith hesitated.

Trapped against the bridge's parapet, Rowland could see only one way out… if it was a way out at all. Dying virtually naked was not ideal, but at least he wouldn't be wearing a pink evening dress. He hit the ground as Harcourt fired. The bullet splintered the stone capping just above his head. Rowland acted then before Harcourt could take aim again, vaulting the wall and plunging into the turbulent waters of the murky Thames.