by S. E. Smith
Table of Contents
Title
Dedication
The Premise
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
The History
An Unkindness of Ravens
S. E. Smith
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright ©2020 by Sarah E Smith. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published 2021 by Ship’s Dog Publishing, Cambridgeshire
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Edited and formatted by Let’s Get Booked
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Proofread by Nobel Owl Proofreading
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Cover created by Toni Murphy https://moretonic.com/
Chapter headings & dividers: Illustration 153260074 ©Tanais-tanais | Dreamstime.com
Cover quotation from the 2016 Amazon Review by Richard Labbett
ISBN: 978-1-913730-08-6 (kindle)
ISBN: 978-1-913730-09-3 (paperback)
For all of you who’ve followed me on the journey so far, but especially Anthony and Vaughan.
Sometimes when a crime is so notorious, the world ignores the mundane events which lead to the suicide of a servant. For when gossips fixate on the agonising end of an up-and-coming solicitor murdered, possibly, by his scandal-ridden wife, what time have they for an unhappy girl?
Note from: William Melville MO3, and sent to Arthur James Balfour, Prime Minister, July 1902
Sir,
Unless otherwise indicated (as extracts from individual reports, journals and diaries) the following account is compiled from the testimony of eyewitnesses, and those closely involved with the case. For ease, they have been identified purely as “From Reports” – rather than naming the individuals concerned.
From Reports
Shoreditch, Friday 22nd February 1901.
Lilian, a woman who wouldn’t see fifty again, pulled up the collar of her coat against the night and walked out of her sister’s place in the Boundary Estate and into a rain that failed to bring life. It was as if a blanket of reticence covered the city. Killing all sound, turning a grey world greyer still. Even now, with the sun little more than a distant memory, sombre-faced people wearing black armbands or mourning clothes went about their business in near solemn silence; marking their respect for Victoria, finally laid to rest at the beginning of the month. Even in the East End things were quieter than normal ... except ...
A fight rolled out of one of the pubs on the edge of the estate, two men beating the living daylights out of each other.
“Leave it out!”
“She’s me bleedin’ wife, ya bastard!”
Ducking deftly, Lillian made her way to Shoreditch tube station and the reason for her visit to the metropolis.
Halfway to Limehouse Basin, feeling safe until a man bumped into her, she stumbled into the gutter.
Panicking, Lillian’s gaze darted down the road as she righted herself. No one there. If anyone picked her pocket - they were well gone!
Her pocket! The letter!
The relief when her hand grasped the envelope was tangible and, even though she’d memorised its contents, Lilian took it out of her pocket and, stopping under a lamppost, read Langley’s missive once more.
I’m back in England Lil, and God is it cold! I’ve had to go and buy a new coat. Not that you want to hear my complaints, so I’ll get to the point.
I know who’s killing ‘the unkind ravens’ as we got labelled. And guess what? He lives near you. Not that he’s blown your cover. But we’d better meet, so you can work out what you’re going to do, coz when he finds out what your part in it was, it’s not going to end well for you, is it? Not in Wales. Too dangerous, he knows what I look like, given that bitch sent him that photo! Not where we worked either. Somewhere neutral, like The Grapes, Limehouse Basin, where no-one’ll do anything for fear of the Big Man, Jethro, not liking it. Oh, and better make it late at night, when a decent Christian lady like you should be in bed.
Robert
Lilian laughed. She might be a Christian, but never decent. A veneer, that’s all. And as for men: she was off them. Bloody cheek. Reacting that way to her confession like she’d done something wrong. She’d tell the duke about him when she got home, like she should have done the moment it happened.
About to enter The Grapes, Lilian stilled as escaping smoke paved the way for the exit of a black-haired old man. Unusually upright for his surroundings and age, he stopped to cough into a handkerchief - before surveying the world through eyes bubbling with amusement.
Oh God! No! Not him! Not the pawnbroker.
She shrank against the wall. Tried to become invisible. It didn’t work. The old man’s eyes widened, and he gave a slight salute of recognition. “Night Lil. Give my love to your sister!”
Coincidence.
Had to be.
He couldn’t recognise her.
Not after all this time.
Unsteady hands rolled and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, for Gawd’s sake, Lil! Pull yourself together,” she chided through drags. “Just because he called your name, doesn’t mean he really knows it was you.” Another drag. A further puff. “You met him what?... three... four times? Get a grip!”
A coughing fit, coupled with cramps, took her just as she finished her cigarette, and, the pawnbroker forgotten, Lilian cursed the jellied eels she ate for lunch. “Bloody ‘ell Flo, I told you they were off, but you wouldn’t ‘ave it!”
Rummaging in her bag, Lilian pulled out a bottle of home-made heartburn relief and took a healthy swig then one more for good measure. Just as she put the stopper back, she spoke – possibly to the night air, possibly to the lamppost at the end of the street. “Well Langley old mate you’re late, and I’m not ‘anging around. As much as I want to find out who did it and who I need to avoid; this weather ain’t good for my lungs.” To emphasise the point, she wretched again. Doubling with pain, as wave after wave of spasms seized her, she dived into the alleyway not far from the pub to throw up.
Once finished and wiping her mouth on her sleeve as she did so, Lilian looked around the little alleyway. A pile of clothes, shaped like a man, caught her attention and, having been on the nasty side of sleeping rough, she resolved to do one good turn before she left this city.
“Oi, mate! You can’t sleep here!”
When the clothes didn’t
move, Lilian tried a different tack. “A mate of mine says Mr Jethro’s the big man in these parts. He won’t like it, you kipping here. He’ll take it personal - ‘specially when he’s got a dosshouse you can go to ... If you ain’t got the pennies, I can see you right.”
All too ready to continue berating the clothes for their shocking lack of sobriety and sense, Lilian grabbed the coat’s shoulder and tugged - hard.
Time stopped. Sound died. Blood. So much blood. Soaking his clothes. Soaking into the star-shaped napkin that lay underneath him.
“Bleedin’ hell! Robert!” she exclaimed as she recognised the victim by the state of his too often broken nose. “Who-else’ssister did you hurt enough to want you dead?” Taking one last look at Langley’s corpse, Lillian hitched up her skirts. “I ain’t staying around here...be safer in Wales,” she told him. “Might be bloody murderers everywhere, but if you’re right he don’t know who I am, which means I’m safe!” And she ran! Faster than a woman half her age. Not stopping until she found a taxi to take her to Euston.
Sunday 24th February.
Time hadn’t been kind to Florence Long. She put it down to too many good times as a young girl, and not enough good times since settling down. Still, her hair curled, and her eyes sparkled like they did in the days before Jack – God rot the bastard – left his mark on the streets of London. She accepted the disappearing advantages of youth and became resigned to living as best she could.
So, when Lil wrote out of the blue, asking if she could stay awhile, Flo was pleasantly surprised; happy for the company, and hopeful people would still rate her as the family looker. But alas, for all the woes in her past, her sister fared better.
Perhaps it was the clean living. Certainly, the woman, who fell deep into a bottle after the events of 1876, now kept herself to herself, drank in moderation, and did not impose. Indeed, truth be told, it came as something of a shock when Lil announced she was going out and wouldn’t say where.
When she didn’t come home, Flo decided her sister got lucky. Well, best of luck to the old bint. She deserved some enjoyment. On the second day, Flo got concerned. So much so that when the knocker sounded a little after midnight on the third night, she rushed to answer it.
Her fears abated somewhat when, on opening her door, she faced a child – no more than seven years old – rosy of face and out of breath. “I ‘as a message from your sister. She rang me ma at the post office. She’s gone back to Wales.”
“Bleedin’ typical.”
The little girl appeared hopeful and, remembering old times, when hope earned largesse, Flo gave the child a couple of coins.
“Thanks, missis.” And she was off, running back down the street, soon lost in the darkness.
Instantly maternal, Flo took it upon herself to follow the girl’s progress for a little way down the road. “Parents these days!” she exclaimed angrily. “Not born with any sense. Just coz Jack’s been quiet these last few years ...”
She glanced fearfully down the street for a man with a cape, leather apron and sharp knife, before chiding herself for her stupidity. Jack was long dead - or long gone ... Besides, he never wore an apron. She should know; she cleaned his clothes often enough.
“Stop that! He’ll hear you!” Slamming the door, she added two of the three bolts into place for good measure and disappeared further into the house.
Entering what her late husband laughingly called the parlour, Flo crossed herself as a familiar – dreadful – cologne caught her attention. “Jeez, I’m imagining things. Get a grip!”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
An arm grasped her from behind, and a dirty cloth with a bitter taste was thrust against her mouth.
When consciousness returned, she lay on her sofa, hog-tied and unable to move.
“Hello Flo. Long time no see ...” A voice she hoped she’d never hear again whispered coldly in her ear. “Least I won’t do for you as I did for the others. You can be assured of that, Flo Poulter ... No, Long now, isn’t it?”
Watching her assailant dab the corners of his mouth before twisting his napkin into a precise star shape, Flo tried to struggle; tried to make it obvious she’d not told anyone about anything. The intruder refused to listen.
“Why now? ... Excellent question Flo! Well love, thanks to our new king, people are digging through Gull’s things, and I decided it’s time to clear up loose ends.”
He traced his finger across her neck almost lovingly. “I came across Gordon Langley puking in an alley, quite by chance; made sure he didn’t leave. Which means only you, Gold, Spinnaker, and the nosy copper can tell the world exactly who I am.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Mayfair, London, Monday 25th February.
Like most things, my involvement in the case of the Southwark body came as the result of a visit from my cousin, CC. A chief inspector in His Majesty’s constabulary, he came a knocking – usually at the behest of the prime minister – when something gruesome, or scandalous, threatened the empire. Not that scandal brewed. Since Christmas, all was quiet. Nothing to indicate I could possibly be needed in any other capacity than a friend to the new King. And as for that ... I was the wrong gender for the kind of companionship His Majesty required. So, unusually, I sat at home, grateful for the company.
Naively, I expected a convivial evening. Two like-minded men, seeking refuge from their womenfolk.
Stupidity should be the middle name of the Byrds.
Yet, to give CC his due, he lulled me into a gorgeous sense of false security. Dinner excellent; our conversation ranging. He didn’t mention Violet. I didn’t mention Serena. Neither of us mentioned ‘her’. Sampson, always efficient, ensured wine flowed like water and port flowed like wine ... until an innocuous little question. Slipping under my defences. Blindsiding me.
“Tell me what you can about Sir William Gull?”
I stopped mid-sip and gave the question careful consideration. “Late Queen’s physician,” I said flippantly. At sight of CC’s baleful glare, I altered tack. “Who wants to know?”
“Me.”
I downed my port, sighed, and carried on. “Solid. Reliable. Died in 1890. Buried somewhere in Essex. Why’d ya ask?”
CC chose his words carefully. “His name came up recently, and I wondered what you heard about him.”
“The king wants to know?”
He shook his head and the penny dropped. The prime minister asked.
Given the plethora of scorpions that rushed from the darkest recesses of my mind to sound their warning, I gave in with good grace. “Not much. For all his excellent medical work – especially with anorexia – undeserved scandal followed him around; especially in his later years.” I poured another port.
“Really? Where’d you get the idea Gull was scandal-prone?” CC retorted. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of Gully? Similar name; similar connections.”
I stared at him. CC stared at me. Until the dam of tension broke and ...
Laughing for the first time in ages, I recommenced the pouring of the port. “CC, you are incorrigible!”
“Am I? Makes a change for you to say so! That’s normally my line. It’s wonderful to see you smile. You’ve been miserable for too long, cousin.”
“I had reason.”
CC picked up his glass and drank deeply. “How’s His Majesty?”
I paused, unable to tell my cousin of the tantrums and the tears. “Scared,” I admitted eventually. “He’s been waiting all his life for this moment, and now it’s his, he doesn’t want it.” I smiled and warmed to my theme. “Still, Her Majesty is a tower of strength, so too is Mrs Keppel. Bertie’s going to be fine ... Just hope he’s not too old. Victoria kept him waiting a long time.”
“She didn’t do it deliberately.” CC, a staunch defender of the late queen, blew his nose.
“Didn’t she?” I tried unsuccessfully for flippancy, for, in my heart of hearts, I believed in the heresy of abdication, and in the right com
pany said so.
Conversation ceased while Sampson brought coffee. Both CC and I watched him go about his duties, the ever-efficient, ever patient batman. For our pains and troubles, we received a salute of disapproval before my valet retired at a brisk march.
“How are you?” CC asked.
“Serena continues to be delightful. My father-in-law writes he and my son will be travelling over for the coronation.”
“I asked about you?”
“I’m fine.”
CC knew I lied. But apart from biting his lips, as they closed in a tight line, he didn’t pursue the matter further. Some wounds were too raw. Some promises too powerful.
“Why’d ya ask about Gull, cousin dearest?” I changed the subject.
The hard line of his mouth softened; his face lost the pitying stare he wore in secret over the Christmas period. It seemed I asked the right question.
“As you are aware, one of the first things His Majesty did was to give things in the palace a bit of a shake-up. People changed offices; departments changed floors. That kind of thing.”
“Ahh yes.” I attended a drunken party in the early part of January when it became clear, if only to me, that Victoria had weeks, if not days, to live. The night remained etched on my mind, though not for the madcap scheme Bertie devised to stir things up.
The events of last year left me restless and desirous of change. So, having drunk more than I should, I left Bertie in the company of Mrs Keppel, and decided to break my rekindled affair with Serena, before her brother-in-law stopped me.
Toddling the toddle of the tipsy, my arrival at the Hamblebee townhouse did not go to plan, which in hindsight was probably for the best. Serena – in a mood to be forgiving – soothed my drunken soul.
For once, the King took the news well. Accepting my continuing relationship with Serena, it took him all of ten minutes before making his perennial offer to end my marriage. I thanked him and declined, reminding him my name – and title – not only gave protection to Manali and our children, but restored her father’s honour.
