Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Read online

  He led them on a tour of the back studios where the figures were created, then dressed and posed. He showed them large sheets on which were recorded the hundreds of measurements taken to create a likeness. He explained the process from clay sculpting, to mould-making, to wax casting.

  “Our subjects sit for us like models,” he said, “but it is more intrusive. We measure and measure and measure—every proportion, every wrinkle, every blemish—and then we sculpt.”

  “And people are willing to be so closely scrutinised and quantified?” Rowland asked. It seemed brutally mechanical to reduce a face to measurements, however precise.

  “Of course… it is a great honour to be recreated in Madame Tussaud’s. Some people sit for us many times.”

  “Why?”

  “Alas,” Spencer lamented. “Wax does not age but the flesh decays.” He pointed out the statue of a young Winston Churchill. “Originally cast in 1908, to take advantage of the public interest in his nuptials, but no longer a true copy of the original. I will be measuring Mr. Churchill next month. You can see he required much less wax back then.”

  But Rowland was not looking at the British politician’s statue, his eyes fixed instead upon the bust and torso of a man among a collection of unfinished figures in the corner.

  “Mr. Spencer, is that Lord Pierrepont?”

  Marriott Spencer walked up to the figure and peered at it, adjusting the bifocals on the bridge of his nose. He lifted the wig and inspected the lettering on the skull. “Yes, that’s what it says. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Briefly acquainted… yes, you could say that.” Rowland frowned. “Why would Madame Tussaud’s be sculpting Pierrepont?” he asked. “Was he famous in some way?”

  Spencer shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you… this is one of Francis’ pieces. He is not in today.”

  Edna tilted her head as she studied the aristocratic waxen figure and Rowland guessed she was trying to picture it adorned in a frilly nightie. He glanced at his watch—they had lost track of time.

  The bell in the main gallery rang to warn visitors that the museum was about to close.

  “You must come back and visit poor Marriott again.” Spencer took Edna’s hand in his unhooked one and kissed it emphatically. “You can talk to Francis about your friend if you like.”

  “Oh Marriott, of course we’ll visit again,” Edna said, smiling at the old man. She looked wistfully about the studio. “I haven’t been able to work on anything in a while. I miss this.”

  “I am pleased to hear it!” He smiled thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will be able to find something for you to work on. Would you like that, my dear?”

  “I would,” Edna replied. “Very much.”

  “It is settled then—you will return. I will send your gentlemen to talk with Francis and you will be my beautiful protégée again!”

  “What on earth is this?” Clyde picked up the large tin which had been left on the dressing table, as Rowland proceeded to get dressed again.

  Rowland smiled. “Horlicks… I believe it’s a malted milk powder. Pennyworth left it.”

  The doctor despatched by Wilfred had been waiting for him when they’d returned to Claridge’s. Thorough, if a little dour, the English physician had established beyond any doubt that his French colleague had in fact set the correct limb and done so in a manner he deemed satisfactory. That done, he’d lectured Rowland on the dangers of infection as he treated the burns with iodine and petroleum jelly.

  Milton took the tin from Clyde and read the label suspiciously. “What’s it for?”

  “I think it’s supposed to keep me from becoming an alcoholic.” Rowland took a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. “He also recommends I take up smoking cigarettes to calm my nerves.”

  Milton laughed. “Nerves? Since when do men have nerves?”

  Edna pushed open the door. “Dr. Pennyworth said he’ll come back in a couple of days to check the dressings,” she said, walking in and sitting on the bed.

  Rowland glanced down at the gauze patch on his chest. That he no longer had to look at the swastika was an improvement at least.

  “Rowly’s got a drinking problem,” Milton announced, holding up the tin of Horlicks.

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, really. They’re medicating him with malted milk.”

  Edna reached over and took the tin. “I do love malted milk,” she said. “Shall we ask Mr. Beresford to make some now?”

  Milton grinned. “I suppose it mightn’t be so bad with a good measure of brandy.”

  Rowland grabbed a tie and slung it awkwardly around his neck. “Ed, would you mind?”

  “Of course not,” she said, standing and reaching up to tie it. Rowland had become less stubborn about accepting help in this respect. “It might improve your sleep,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll try it tonight,” he promised. At the very least, heating milk would give him something to do in the long hours before dawn when closing his eyes took his mind too easily back to that night in Munich.

  Beresford came to the door. His brow creased just slightly as he observed Edna adjusting Rowland’s tie and affixing his cufflinks. He cleared his throat. “There’s a young lady asking for you in the foyer, sir… a Miss Dawe. Shall I ask the concierge to accompany her up?”

  “Miss Dawe?” Rowland was clearly surprised. “Yes, of course.”

  He had just enough time to struggle into his jacket before Beresford admitted Allie Dawe into the penthouse.

  “Oh my,” she said, looking about the apartment. “What super rooms, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Sober and composed, Allie looked rather different. Not quite pretty, she had, nevertheless, a pleasant face. Her dark hair was coiffed into some kind of elaborate twist and she wore a skirt suit which seemed at least a size too large. “I trust you don’t mind my calling on you like this, Mr. Sinclair, but as you invited me to get in touch… oh.” She stopped, her face falling quite dramatically as Edna walked out of the bedroom. When Milton and Clyde followed, however, Allie seemed to brighten a little.

  Rowland introduced his companions.

  Allie exhaled. “Thank goodness. I thought for a moment you might be married.”

  Rowland wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “And how are your hands, Miss Dawe?”

  She removed her gloves and attached them to a clasp on her handbag, before extending her hands for his inspection. The palms were lightly bandaged but she wiggled her fingers freely. “They are much recovered thank you.” She took the seat that Rowland offered her. “I’ve called to thank you for your consideration the other day, Mr. Sinclair. You were very gallant and I was not at my best.”

  “You are most welcome, Miss Dawe.”

  Allie beamed. “My mother sends her regards, Mr. Sinclair, and hopes that you will visit us again when she is in a less distraught frame of mind.”

  Rowland paused to ask Beresford to serve tea—having already concluded, on the basis of past experience, that it was not wise to offer the girl anything stronger.

  “How are you and your mother coping?” Edna asked kindly. “It must have been a terrible shock to lose your uncle like that.”

  “Well, that’s what I came to tell Mr. Sinclair.” Allie bounced excitedly in her seat. She pulled a flyer advertising an hotel staff dance from her purse and handed it to Rowland. “See there… the last name listed under the other acts.”

  “It says Sarah Dabinett.”

  “That’s me!” Allie squealed. “That’s my stage name… Allie Dawe is so dull, don’t you think, but Sarah Dabinett has flair!”

  “I see.”

  “I’m a singer, you know,” Allie went on. “Or at least I have always wanted to be. Uncle Alfred wouldn’t hear of it when he was alive, but now I can pursue my dreams.”

  She was so obviously delighted that Rowland could not help but smile. “This seems like an excellent start to your new career, Miss Dawe.”

  “Oh, it is!” She closed her eyes and pressed her palms
over her heart. “It’s ironic really. Lord Erroll came to the house to express his condolences—he’s a dear old friend of Uncle Alfred’s. He heard me singing at the piano and asked if I would like to perform at a private club he knew. One of the singers had fallen ill you see and they were short an act—that’s what they call the singers—acts.”

  “A private club?” Rowland’s brow rose.

  “It’s perfectly respectable, I assure you!” Allie was quickly adamant. “Lord Erroll said Uncle Alfred regularly attended. Of course, he won’t be there tonight, being dead. Anyway, he wouldn’t have approved. He could be a dreadful hypocrite where I was concerned!”

  “Does your mother know about this, Miss Dawe?”

  “My mother’s in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland glanced at Edna uneasily. It all seemed dubious at best.

  “Do you know much about Lord Erroll, Miss Dawe?” Edna asked.

  “I hadn’t met him till he came to the house,” Allie admitted, “but Uncle Alfred had often spoken of him. Why, Lord Erroll is one of his closest chums! My mother says he’s from a very fine and well-connected family, and he was most kind and attentive.”

  Rowland glanced at the flyer again. The staff dance did not start till eleven in the evening.

  “I came to ask if you’d care to come and hear me sing, Mr. Sinclair.” Allie gazed as adoringly at him now as she had under the influence of several brandies.

  Milton chuckled.

  “You’re all invited of course,” Allie added quickly.

  Rowland looked at Allie Dawe. She was holding her breath as she waited for his answer. The last thing Rowland wanted to do was to encourage her infatuation, but the situation worried him. Allie seemed barely more than a child, naïve in the extreme. He wondered what kind of man would call on a girl who had just lost her uncle, and means of support, to make such a proposal. “Yes, of course. We’d be delighted.”

  7

  “BAD BLACKGUARD”

  THE EARL OF ERROLL

  JUDGE’S DENUNCIATION

  (Australian Press Association)

  LONDON, June l8

  Mr. Justice Hill, pronouncing a decree nisi in favour of Major Hill, with £3000 damages, described the Earl of Erroll (the corespondent) as a very bad blackguard.

  The Earl met the respondent in Kenya. The judge said that the respondent previously had committed adultery with the petitioner, so she was a woman of easy virtue. Thus, it was a hateful thing to assess damages, as they must not be punitive. It was obvious that the wife was a person of the lowest character, and a liar, but that may largely have been the Earl’s influence. There were no children. He had to consider that the wife had independent means, but she left bills of £2000 when she left Kenya, which her husband had discharged. “If I add another £1000,” he said, “it will meet the case.”

  The Brisbane Courier, 1928

  “That girl’s set her cap for you, Rowly,” Clyde said after Allie Dawe finally left.

  “One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,” Milton added.

  “Keats.” Rowland didn’t bother to deny it. Allie had made the fact amply clear.

  “Are you sure you want to encourage her?” Clyde asked sternly.

  Rowland grimaced. “For God’s sake, Clyde, she’s barely more than a schoolgirl!” He shook his head. “I just don’t like the sound of this Lord Erroll and his private club. I fear Miss Dawe may be walking into trouble.”

  Clyde groaned.

  “Rowly’s right.” Edna balanced on the arm of the settee. “We can’t just let her wander in unchaperoned. The poor girl doesn’t understand what she’s getting into.”

  “But she’s going to assume, Rowly—”

  “Being disappointed by Rowland Sinclair is not the worst thing that could happen to her, Clyde,” Edna said firmly.

  Clyde sighed. “Yes, I know. We should go. I just have a bad feeling about all this.”

  Rowland said nothing. Clyde had always been a bit of an old woman, but Rowland couldn’t help but feel he was, in this case, right.

  “What do you suppose we wear to this private club?” Milton asked, checking the flyer Allie had left behind for a stipulated dress code. There was none mentioned.

  “I find there are very few occasions for which a dinner suit is not acceptable,” Rowland murmured, lying back with his arm behind his head.

  Clyde chuckled. “Clearly you are invited to a better calibre of occasion than am I, old mate.”

  They called for Allie Dawe in a motor taxi. Her mother, it seemed, was indisposed, still convalescing following the shock of Lord Pierrepont’s death.

  Allie wore a deep teal evening gown and an ermine stole. Several feathers had been twisted into her hair so that they fanned out around her face. Rowland thought she looked rather like a frightened peacock, but he told her she looked lovely. Allie blushed and held her knuckles up to his face. It was a couple of moments before he realised she wished him to kiss her hand. As Mrs. Dawe would not leave her bed, he promised the housekeeper that he would see Allie, or Sarah Dabinett—as she now insisted he call her—home safely.

  The address on the flyer took them to a large house in Soho. Cars and taxis congested the narrow street outside. Rowland offered Allie his arm. “Are you ready, Miss Dabinett?”

  She nodded though she seemed mute with terror.

  “You don’t have to go through with this,” Rowland whispered. “I’ll explain to Lord Erroll if you like.”

  Allie shook her head. She swallowed. “Tonight, Sarah Dabinett is born!”

  “Right then.”

  The entrance into the house had been made more imposing by a red carpet which led into the ballroom. Footmen and a line of maids flanked the doors. A man met them on the threshold. He held out his hands to Allie. “My star has arrived!”

  Allie took his hands and introduced Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll.

  Rowland was a little surprised. He had been expecting a man of Pierrepont’s age, but Erroll was not a great deal older than he, slim and fair with feminine lips and a weak chin.

  “Lord Erroll, how do you do?”

  “Not bad at all, Sinclair.” He paused to shake the hands of Clyde and Milton, and to place a lingering kiss on Edna’s. “I say, you’re colonials,” he said as Rowland’s faint inflection was confirmed by the broader accents of his friends. “Just returned from Kenya myself. Rather looking forward to getting back, in fact. I’d forgotten how repressed it was over here in general. I daresay you know of what I’m speaking.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  Rowland had no idea what Erroll was talking about and he chose not to enquire further.

  Erroll turned back to Allie. “I’d better show you to your dressing room, Miss Dabinett.” He smiled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your charming colonial gentlemen here—We can all get together afterwards to celebrate your success properly.” He grinned and winked at Rowland.

  Allie looked panicked.

  “Perhaps I’d better—” Rowland began.

  “Oh, may I come along with you?” Edna directed the question at Allie. “I’ve never been backstage before. Nobody will mind will they, Lord Erroll?” The sculptress blinked innocently at the peer.

  Erroll seemed less than happy, but Allie consented immediately. “Yes, of course, if you’d like. You can help me get ready. That’s not inappropriate, is it, Lord Erroll?”

  “No… no… I suppose it isn’t.”

  Gratefully, Rowland glanced at Edna. She met his eyes with such a smile that for a moment he forgot everything else. He didn’t see Allie frown.

  “You keep looking at Ed like that and little Miss Dawe might just claw her eyes out, mate,” Milton muttered as Erroll led the ladies into the house.

  “So what do we do now?” Clyde asked.

  “We go in and wait for Sarah Dabinett to make her debut I suppose.”

  They walked in past the footmen and the lines of maids who curtsied deeply.

  �
�Is that normal?” Milton said under his breath.

  “If you’re the king,” Rowland murmured, genuinely perplexed by the pantomime. There was something odd about the maids—even without the curtseying… many of them were unusually tall.

  The ballroom had been set out like one of London’s better nightclubs with linen-draped, candlelit tables arranged around a dance floor and a spotlit stage. The band played a sultry swing number and a haze of cigarette smoke further softened the lighting.

  Other dance patrons had begun to arrive and the venue was filling fast with elaborately attired women and men in dinner suits of various styles.

  “Rowly, have you noticed—” Milton began.

  “Yes, I have.”

  Clyde stared. “Holy mother of God.”

  “Why hello, you’re new!” The man removed his top hat as he sat down at their table. He tapped Rowland’s arm with the carved silver handle of his walking stick. “What have you done to yourself, my lovely?”

  “A misadventure.” Rowland regarded the man curiously. He introduced himself and his companions.

  “Cecil F. Buchan, at your service, my dear. I host these intimate soirées for a few hundred close friends and like-minded souls.” Buchan handed each of the Australians a gilt-edged calling card. “But you boys can call me Countess.” He raised a plucked brow. “Now I know you’re not the Old Bill, or else you’d be in frocks… so what are you gentlemen doing here?”

  “We have come to see Miss Dabinett perform,” Rowland said uneasily. Couples had taken to the dance floor and, though some wore gowns, he could see now that there were no women in the ballroom. Clyde looked terrified and Milton amused.

  Buchan gasped and clutched his hands to his breast. “Oh dear heart, you didn’t know what kind of party this was, did you?”

  Rowland shook his head. “No. We most certainly didn’t.”

  Now Buchan giggled. “And the three of you are such pretty lads… a crying shame.” He looked about him at the increasingly crowded room. “I may have to stay with you tonight…” He flourished his walking stick like a sword. “Beat off the others. You see, no one actually comes here for the show—well, not the one on the stage.”