31
Rowland leaned casually against the lamppost with an open newspaper, waiting. A sudden turn in the weather had left the city cloaked in the famous London fog. It made him less visible but it also rendered more difficult the task of picking out a single man from among the crowd who entered the Geological Museum.
Delegates arrived in proudly flagged cars of state, and made their way in via a private entrance to the side. The mood was sombre—the conference was not going well. The American President had declared his hostility to its aims and it seemed there would be little outcome for all the hopes and money poured into this gathering of world leaders and economic minds.
But it was not the delegates who interested Rowland Sinclair. He watched the main entrance where members of the public and the media queued for access to the public gallery.
An old man joined the line. He was not tall, or remarkable in any visible way. Rowland folded the newspaper under his arm and approached.
“Mr. Wells.”
Herbert Wells turned, squinted through the circular lenses of his spectacles for a moment before he smiled in recognition. “Mr. Sinclair, isn’t it? Well hullo, sir! Have you come to keep me company in the gallery again?”
Rowland offered the writer his hand, and Wells shook it. “Your wings are a little less clipped, I see. Perhaps today you will be able to draw the men who have so eloquently delivered nothing after days of talk!”
“Actually, Mr. Wells, I was hoping I could persuade you to have a drink with me instead. There is a matter about which I’d like to talk to you.”
Wells’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not a hopeful writer are you? You haven’t some manuscript you plan to foist upon me?”
Rowland smiled. “Not at all. But I would like to talk to you.” He turned his head away quickly as a museum official walked past, lest he be recognised as the man banned after the riot involving Mosley’s Blackshirts. “Just not here.”
Wells hesitated.
“I assure you, I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important, sir. This is potentially a matter of life and death.”
Now Wells was clearly intrigued. “I suppose today will be as much a failure as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Perhaps a drink is called for to toast what might have been if the world was not administered by fools.” He nodded. “Do lead on, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland took the writer to a small rather scruffy bar which catered for a bohemian clientele. He apologised that the venue was less than wholly respectable.
“Clearly you do not wish us to be discovered, Mr. Sinclair—at least by any gentleman of means,” Wells said as they sat at a bare table decorated only with the remnants of a candle in the mouth of a wax-covered bottle. They ordered.
“I am told there was some excitement at the conference after our last conversation,” Wells began.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Would I be correct to infer that you are offended by Mr. Mosley’s politics, Mr. Sinclair?”
“It’s more than just his politics,” Rowland replied cautiously, unsure of where Wells stood. He knew from Milton that Wells was a bitter opponent of Zionism, but then the poet was not a Zionist either.
Wells sighed. “Nationalism,” he said. “It is not till we leave such notions behind that there will be hope for mankind.”
“Mr. Wells,” Rowland began before Wells could embark on another subject, “I understand from Mrs. Stanley Bruce that you have at times attended functions of the Eugenics Society.”
Wells nodded. “Indeed, I have, Mr. Sinclair. Do you have an interest in the subject?”
“Not so much the subject as the members of the society. I met Lord Harcourt recently. Are you acquainted?”
“Yes. I’ve met both Lord Harcourt and his brother but I’m afraid I do not know them well. They are extreme.”
“How do you mean, extreme?”
“Eugenicists do not hold a single position but a spectrum. Lord Harcourt and his brother are both part of a faction which advocates the most extreme form which, frankly, is not only counter to social norms but to contemporary biological science. Personally, I have always thought that part of the movement more closely linked to the occult than science.”
“I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
“In animal husbandry, there is an established practice known as line breeding, I believe.”
Rowland started. He knew about line breeding—the practice of joining related beasts to concentrate a desirable bloodline in stock. It had its adherents among Australian stud masters and graziers and, while Rowland had never cared enough to have an opinion, he knew Wilfred considered it a dangerous practice in the longterm.
“Good God, are you suggesting the Harcourts advocate line breeding in human beings?”
“In theory, yes.” Wells chuckled. “Do not be so shocked, Mr. Sinclair. The royal families of Britain and Europe have been practising an unofficial form of line breeding by default for a great many generations!”
In truth, Rowland wasn’t shocked. Just appalled. He realised now that Lord Harcourt had accused Pierrepont of his own crime. Lady Pierrepont’s unborn child… he blanched… could the father be one of her own brothers?
“As I said,” Wells continued, “their position is extreme—more mystical than rational. I believe Lord Harcourt has fostered some connection with the Thule Society and other organisations who promote ideas of racial purity and whose excesses do not help the good case for Eugenics. As such, I have not pursued any form of intimacy with either of them.”
Rowland signalled for the bill. “Thank you, sir. I cannot say enough how helpful you have been.”
“You claimed this was a matter of life and death, Mr. Sinclair,” Wells said almost petulantly.
“It is indeed, Mr. Wells. The life of a young woman depends on what you’ve just told me.” He paid for their drinks. “I wish I could stop to explain but…”
Wells nodded. “A life depends on this information I have given you. One should not leave such a life waiting.” He took out a calling card and handed it to Rowland. “Perhaps, Mr. Sinclair, if we do not meet again, you will write to me of the outcome of this mercy dash of yours?”
Rowland shook the writer’s hand firmly. “I will, and with pleasure, Mr. Wells. Thank you, sir.”
The suite was empty on Rowland’s return. At his request, Claridge’s had not replaced Menzies and so the penthouses were tended by only the usual army of chambermaids.
As the Australians were now aware that remaining in London beyond a week would become, at the very least, difficult—more probably impossible—they’d decided to split up that morning and cover more ground. Edna had gone to Holloway Prison, to encourage Allie Dawe to keep faith; Milton had set out to see Buchan to ensure that, whatever happened, Allie would have a champion in London. Meanwhile Clyde had headed for Scotland Yard to meet Entwhistle and pose a single question: had the inspector called the Ministry of Health?
Rowland was certain now that Harcourt had murdered Pierrepont. Yet he knew they would need more than accusations of links to extreme eugenics for the Baron of Harcourt to be considered a more likely suspect than titleless, penniless Allie Dawe who had been discovered with blood literally on her hands.
Rowland removed his jacket, which had become damp in the cloying fog. He rubbed his face, unsure of what to do next. Harcourt, he now considered the most reprehensible of men, but the lord did seem to love his sister, however twisted that love proved to be. Euphemia, at the mercy of her brothers and now possibly pregnant to one of them, would be utterly destroyed if Lord Harcourt’s motives were exposed. And the future of her unborn child would be bleak indeed. Rowland was reluctant to destroy one innocent woman to save another.
He took Pierrepont’s head from the Gladstone bag and placed it once again on the sideboard. The waxen face looked accusingly at him, as if it knew what he had almost believed about the man it represented. Rowland groaned as he recalled the same look in Allie Dawe’s eyes when he had asked her if her uncle had been abusing her.
The telephone rang, and for the first time in weeks he was able to answer it himself without incurring the ire of a butler.
The reception redirected a call from a Mr. Asquith from the Ministry of Health.
“Mr. Sinclair, I understand from Inspector Entwhistle that you have been making enquiries with respect to the interest of the Ministry of Health in the death of Alfred Dawe, the Viscount of Pierrepont.”
“I have,” Rowland replied.
“I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, the ministry has very good reason to be involved. Perhaps we could meet and I’ll explain… off the record as it were. Inspector Entwhistle tells me you have become something of a champion for Miss Dawe’s innocence in the matter. I believe I may be able to help you with some hard evidence on that account.”
“In that case, I would be delighted to meet with you, Mr. Asquith,” Rowland said eagerly. All he had was conjecture at the moment. If Asquith had some sort of proof…
“Excellent. Can you come now?”
“Yes… of course… just tell me where.” Rowland scribbled down the name and address of an establishment called The Bitter Pill.
“Mr. Sinclair,” Asquith added, “you must understand that my speaking to you is somewhat unofficial. Can I ask you to come alone and not speak to anyone of this meeting? I cannot afford to be connected to the leaking of this information.”
“You have my word, Mr. Asquith,” Rowland agreed.
He paused to dash off a note to his friends. “A breakthrough—much to tell. Back soon. R.”
He pulled his jacket back on and grabbed his hat, farewelling Pierrepont’s head with the hope that he would return with some valid corroborating evidence to help the desperate cause of Allie Dawe.
The club to which Asquith had directed Rowland was a few streets away from The Windmill Theatre, made notorious for its tableaux vivants. With acts titled as “Diana the Huntress”, “The Birth of Venus” and “Nymphs Bathing”, young women were displayed as classical nude statues, thus placating the censors while ensuring the patronage of the tiny but well-appointed theatre.
The Bitter Pill, in contrast, was a rundown, underground drinking house too decrepit to even qualify as bohemian. Its clientele were a step down from the men happy to pay for the more erudite spectacle of a naked woman pretending to be a naked statue.
Rowland was neither surprised nor alarmed that Asquith had chosen such an uninviting venue. He had himself taken H.G. Wells to a less than salubrious establishment to ensure they weren’t seen. He assumed that Asquith, too, was wary of being noticed.
There was something clandestine and anonymous and forgotten about this part of Soho—the crowds were at the Windmill Theatre and here the few passers-by kept their gazes averted and their business to themselves. In the fog, cloaked in coats and hats, every man became any man, undistinguishable and nameless. It was an apt place to pass secrets.
There were a few patrons at the grimy tables, smoking and drinking cheap wine from thick-walled glasses. They fell silent as Rowland entered, glancing furtively at the gentleman who’d descended into their squalid corner of the world.
Rowland spotted Asquith, who stood to shake his hand.
“There’re too many people here,” the civil servant muttered tersely as he fished some coins from the pocket of his long coat and tossed them onto the table, “and if you’ll forgive me saying, Sinclair, you stand out.” He glanced around the tawdry premises nervously. “I know somewhere discreet,” he said quietly. “We’re going to shake hands and say goodbye. I’ll leave; you stay for a drink before you follow. Turn left onto the street at the top of the stairs and keep walking. I’ll be waiting for you at the corner.”
With that he slapped Rowland on the shoulder and walked out. Rowland ordered a gin but, in truth, could not bring himself to take a sip out of the filthy glass. An ageing prostitute came in touting for business and spoke to him for a while. He let her have his drink, gave her a couple of shillings as he declined her services, and took that opportunity to leave.
Stepping thankfully out into the chilly day, Rowland turned up his collar and headed left as he had been instructed. The fog made it difficult to see whether Asquith was waiting for him on the corner as he had promised. With his eyes fixed ahead, he didn’t notice the alley much less the men who waited in it. The sack which flew out over his head thrust the world into an immediate, suffocating darkness. A blow to the stomach winded him before he could make a sound and then, the distinctive click of a revolver being cocked and the press of its hard muzzle against his ribs.
