Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (44 page)

Captain Leonard winked apologetically as he shut the door between the rudimentary clinic and the dormitory. “The cadets can be overzealous about the salvation part of our work—their lights are sometimes a little dazzlin',” he said.

Rowland smiled. He climbed out of the low iron bed, still slow and unsteady. Leonard lent him a shoulder until he felt stable on his own legs.

The clothes, as the captain had warned, were old and patched and completely mismatched, but they were clean and they were
clothes
.

The outer layer of the cast on Rowland's right arm had disintegrated somewhat in the water, but he was otherwise intact. He buttoned the donated shirt, rolling up its right sleeve in the hope the plaster would dry out a little.

“In case you're concerned, Mr. Sinclair,” Leonard said quietly, “we 'aven't told the Old Bill that you're 'ere.”

“Why not?” Rowland asked, surprised.

“We felt it would not help your state 'a mind to be arrested.”

“I don't understand, Captain Leonard. Why would I be arrested?”

“Attempted suicide is considered a very serious crime. But we don't judge, and we only want to help. Were it gamblin' debts that brought you so low… or a disappointment in love perhaps?”

“I was not trying to take my own life,” Rowland said wearily. “I was trying to escape.”

The old soldier smiled sympathetically. “Many people put it that way.” He placed his hand on Rowland's shoulder. “It's all right, son. Lord 'arcourt has told us how it was. I'm told the poor man was distraught.”

Rowland pulled away. “Harcourt? What did he say?”

Captain Leonard hesitated.

“Please… I really need to know what's going on.”

Nodding finally, Leonard sat on the bed to explain. “The Salvation Army patrols Waterloo Bridge for people trying to jump, or just men in need. Our Sergeant Brooks and some young corps cadets were on the bridge last night, I was on shift with the dinghy. The foot patrol 'eard a disturbance from some ways away and went to see if anyone needed 'elp or comfort.”

Rowland recalled the torches in the distance.

“They 'esitated, naturally, when they 'eard gunshots—but with the good Lord's 'elp, they found the courage to push on and investigate. When they reached the spot from where you'd gone and jumped, a gentleman—Lord 'arcourt, he said he was—told them what 'ad 'appened. He and the other gentlemen 'ad come across you trying to shoot yourself on the bridge. They'd wrestled the firearm from your hand after you'd discharged it wild-like. When they managed to seize the gun, you—being most determined to destroy yourself—vaulted the parapet wall and jumped. Sergeant Brooks says they were very concerned to see if you 'ad survived.”

Rowland wanted to curse. He clenched his fist in his hair. “Do they know I survived, sir?”

“Poss'bly not. It were dark and the tides are so fearful strong in the Thames that we pulled you out a fair way from the bridge and we brought you straight 'ere. Sergeant Brooks didn't even realise we'd found you until he came in this last hour. According to 'im, Lord 'arcourt and his companions departed before the Old Bill arrived, they were so upset about what 'appened.”

Rowland looked the kindly man in the eye. “Captain Leonard,” he said urgently, “I promise you, sir, I wasn't intent on committing suicide, I didn't even contemplate it. Lord Harcourt and his insane associates were trying to kill me… Think, man! What would a peer
of the realm and his companions be doing walking across Waterloo Bridge in the middle of the night?”

Leonard gaped at him, stupefied.

“Harcourt and his companions are vile and reprehensible murderers—they've already killed one man. I was to be the second. Please. God only knows what they're up to at this moment.”

The captain bit his lip. “We thought… I'm so sorry, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Please don't be. If it wasn't for you I would have drowned. I do appreciate your help, sir, but I desperately need to contact the police and my brother and friends. They could well believe me dead by now.”

“Captain Leonard!” Martha Pratchett knocked insistently on the door. “Captain Leonard!”

“Yes, comrade… We're nearly—” Leonard began.

Corps Cadet Pratchett burst in with her hands over her eyes in case Rowland should still be undressed. She was clearly flustered, by more than the thought of a naked man. “There are some gentlemen here, Captain Leonard, who are insisting that we hand Mr. Sinclair over to them.”

R
owland tensed. Could the Kalokagathia have realised that he hadn't drowned? Had they seen the captain's dinghy and tracked him to the Blackfriars Hostel?

“Thank you, Corps Cadet,” Leonard said. “I'll talk to them.” He turned to Rowland. “Do not worry, Mr. Sinclair. We are the Lord's Army and you shall be defended!”

“Unto thee,” Martha Pratchett cried, “O my strength, will I sing: for God is my defence, and the God of my mercy!”

“Captain Leonard,” Rowland said quietly. “Harcourt and his companions are dangerous. I don't suppose the Lord's Army has weapons?”

“We have the Gospel, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Then I'd best come with you, sir. I'll not have your comrades endangered on my account.”

“As you wish, Mr. Sinclair, but stay behind me.” The captain frowned thoughtfully. “Corps Cadet,” he said to Martha Pratchett, “summon all our soldiers to the reception. Let us greet the enemy with a show of force… and Martha, per'aps you'd better send for the Old Bill now.”

And so it was that when Rowland Sinclair walked into the reception room of the Blackfriars Men's Hostel to confront Lord Harcourt and his Kalokagathia, he did so surrounded by what seemed an entire regiment of the Salvation Army. A young cadet started to sing, and soon the hostel rang with full and earnest voices raised in “Even Greater Things”.

From the midst of this extraordinary procession, did Rowland find his brother and his friends at the reception desk.

For a while their utter relief at finding Rowland alive stayed all questions as to why he would be leading a parade through the hostel. They could not have heard one another in any case, as the army continued to belt out, “Greater things! Greater things! Give us faith, O Lord, we pray, faith for greater things.”

Edna glanced at the settee where Rowland had drifted off. The police had questioned him until well after dawn and, considering how he had spent the night, it was no wonder he was exhausted.

Not that any of them had spent the night well. There had been a while when all of them—even Wilfred—had been convinced Rowland Sinclair was dead. Edna shuddered as she remembered the overwhelming horror of believing she would never see or touch or confide in him again. And Wilfred Sinclair, staring out at the Thames in such deep and silent pain. Both Clyde and Milton loved Rowland like a brother, but Wilfred
was
his brother.

Edna had walked away from the men, unable to bear the sight of them struggling with their grief. She'd given in to hers. Seized by anguish, she'd wept like a lost child.

One of the many ragged men who slept on the embankment near the Waterloo Bridge had asked her why she was crying. He was dirty and muttered strangely but she'd talked to him anyway.

“I seen it,” he said, looking wildly about. “He jumped, your sweetheart did. Went in dere… came up dere… and then the Sallies scooped him up in dere boat and took him. The Sallies take men from 'ere—it ain't right. The gov'ment should do somefink about it! It ain't right.”

Edna knew she had frightened the poor man, screaming so excitedly for Clyde and Milton and Wilfred to come and hear his tale. By the time they'd reached her, he'd darted away and would not speak to any of them again.

But he'd told the sculptress enough.

Of course, when they'd finally located the Blackfriars Hostel, Wilfred had been perhaps too fervent in his demands for his brother's return. It had alarmed the young woman at the reception desk. But Edna could understand his impatience.

She mused on the manner in which Wilfred simply shook his brother's hand when at last Rowland emerged. Men said so much with their handshakes. Edna had embraced Rowland, clung to him and wept relief into his neck, but she was not a man and nobody expected her to hide so much.

The telephone rang. Clyde answered and after a brief exchange he replaced the receiver and woke Rowland.

“Your brother's on his way up, mate. He's got George Allen and Allie.”

Rowland sat up and attempted to rub the fatigue from his face. Edna uncurled herself from the armchair, smoothed her skirt and put her shoes back on.

“Pierrepont!” Milton warned and they heard the knock on the door.

Edna grabbed her shawl from the back of a chair and draped it over the wax head—which still sat on the sideboard—just moments before Clyde opened the door to admit Wilfred Sinclair, George Allen and Miss Allie Dawe.

The solicitor had been despatched to Holloway to arrange the release of Allie Dawe as soon as the police had taken and accepted Rowland's statement.

Rowland was still unsure of how much Allie knew about the discoveries and events of the past days. She seemed happy to see him at least. He hoped that meant she'd forgiven him.

Allen informed them that Lord Harcourt had been arrested, as had his brother, who worked for the Ministry of Health under the name Diogenes Asquith. Three members of the Kalokagathia had panicked and were providing evidence of all the clandestine activities of the society and the Thistlewaite brothers. It appeared the impregnation of Euphemia Thistlewaite was a premeditated
experiment designed to prove the extreme position of the Kalokagathia.

“Whilst Lady Pierrepont was of course
prima facie
involved,” Allen concluded, “it is uncertain whether she possessed the requisite
mens rea
to be considered legally culpable.”

Wilfred and his family, it had been decided, would join Rowland and his companions in embarking for Sydney in a few days. London's Economic Conference had stalled irretrievably.

“God, I'm sorry, Wil,” Rowland said guiltily.

Wilfred sighed. “It was nothing to do with you, or the Blackshirts, Rowly. Roosevelt has set his mind against an agreement and without the Americans…” he shook his head.

The American President, it appeared, had withdrawn support and then actively spoken against the conference's lofty aims. The result was bickering and very little else.

Allen nodded sagely. “I must say it all reminds me of a story from Cicero's dialogue—
De Legibus
—in which Atticus says:
me Athenis audire ex Phaedro meo memini Gellium, familiarem tuum, cum pro consule ex praetura in Graeciam venisset essetque Atehis, philosophos, qui tum errant, in lucum unum covocasse ipsisque mango opera auctorem fuisse, ut aliquando controversiarum aliquem facerent modum; quodsi essent eo animo, ut nollent aetatem in litibus conterere, posse rem convenire; et simul operam suam illis esse pollicitum, si posset inter eos aliquid convenire
.”