Gentlemen Formerly Dressed by Sulari Gentill

intervened.
    â€œOh, my Lord,” Ethel Bruce exclaimed. “This simply won’t do… Why, we’re serving crown roast!” The matronly wife of Australia’s eighth Prime Minister looked at the cast in horror. “It’ll have to be a consommé… there’s nothing else for it!”
    â€œUncle Rowly broke his arm in Germany,” Ernest announced solemnly.
    â€œYes, well, that explains it!” Ethel said, walking towards the door. “You must excuse me… I should speak to Cook.”
    Rowland wasn’t quite sure what it explained.
    Lunch with the Bruces was quite the gracious affair: elegant and formal. Clyde visibly paled as he beheld the numerous pieces of gleaming cutlery which rippled outwards from the fine china plates at each place setting. He had never become accustomed to the complexity of dining with the upper classes and, for a moment, he envied Rowland his injury. As it was, the rest of them would have to work out how and when to use the various utensils with some sort of proficiency and decorum.
    â€œMy goodness, Mrs. Bruce,” Milton said, winking at their hostess. “It must have taken you a while to polish all these.”
    She laughed. “Great Caesars! Go on!” She flapped her hand at the poet. “You are a card, Mr. Isaacs.”
    With a smile and a flourish, Milton offered their hostess his arm and escorted her to the table.
    The conversation at luncheon was mostly light and inconsequential, until Ethel Bruce herself raised the subject of Lord Pierrepont.
    â€œStanley dear, did you hear that poor Bunky Pierrepont has died? Tragic… so very tragic.” She turned to Kate. “You would have simply adored Bunky, Katie dear. Quite the old rogue, but charming in his way.”
    Bruce and Wilfred said nothing. Rowland broke the silence. “I say, did you know this chap Pierrepont particularly well, Mrs. Bruce?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say well… he was more of a robust acquaintance. Stanley played golf with him at St. Andrews on and off, and I’m sure we’ve had him for dinner once or twice, haven’t we, Stanley darling?”
    Bruce finished chewing before he replied. “I can’t say I recall, my dear.”
    Milton shook his head gravely, despite the mischievous gleam in his eye. “It was an unfortunate way to go.”
    â€œUnfortunate?”
    â€œMost people would, I imagine, consider being murdered in one’s own bed somewhat unfortunate.”
    â€œMurdered?” Ethel Bruce’s eyes widened, and her hand splayed against the base of her throat. “But however do you know that, Mr. Isaacs?”
    â€œYou must have read it in the paper, Milt,” Rowland said pointedly as he glanced at the poet.
    Wilfred glared at them both.
    Their hostess thought for a moment. “No, I’m sure it didn’t mention anything about murder, merely that Lord Pierrepont died in tragic circumstances… I suppose it would be difficult to die in a manner that wasn’t tragic… but murder? Why that’s simply dreadful! Are you sure, Mr. Isaacs?”
    â€œUm… perhaps not…” Milton rubbed his forehead, clearly having caught the message in Rowland’s gaze and the hostility in Wilfred’s.
    Edna and Clyde watched curiously and said nothing.
    Mrs. Bruce turned back to her husband. “Do you recall the article, Stanley?”
    Again Bruce took his time, chewing and swallowing before he replied. “I’m afraid I barely glanced at the paper this morning, Ethel. But I understand there may have been something suspicious about Pierrepont’s demise. Better leave it to the constabulary, don’t you think, my dear? This new cook you’ve taken on is excellent.” He nodded at Rowland. “What a gastronomic shame you must confine yourself to consommé, young man. The roast is undeniably superb.”
    â€œIncidentally, Rowly,” Wilfred