by S. E. Smith
“What can I do for you, Miss Em?” the Irishman asked when drinks were supped, and pleasantries completed. “I got your message; I know this isn’t a social call.”
Men returned to their drinks, wary of being seen to be earwigging. Emily smiled cynically. Being the apprentice had its advantages - If ...
Fournier Street, February 1884.
... the loneliness didn’t get to you.
“I don’t want to go.” Emily remembered standing in the doorway of the old man’s office; her hands on her hips. Defiance pouring from every fibre of her being.
Gold, sitting at his desk – skullcap still on from his weekly trip to synagogue – did not smile. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon?” Apart from enunciating every word, there was no emotion in the voice. No anger; no understanding. Nothing. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, your opinion isn’t being sought, Emily. Mrs Covington’s had a baby. She will be expecting a visit. If you don’t go, it’ll be regarded as the height of bad manners.”
Emily remembered the way the defiance leeched from her and her bottom lip trembled as she fought to stop the tears tracing a zigzag pattern down her cheeks. “They don’t like me. The eldest boy’s rude, calls me your whore.” Big cornflower blue eyes stared at the older man.
He smiled, knowing that one day, those eyes would bring down empires. “Like’s not everything, Emily Davies.” Gold chose his words carefully. “Like’s a weakness. Respect. Now that is everything.”
Emily dashed the tears away with a fisted hand. “But Uncle, if they call me that to my face - how’s that respect?”
“Oh bubbeleh, they do that because they fear you. Do you understand?”
She shook her head. “No. You’re speaking riddles!”
The old man sighed and crossed the room, kneeling as he always did when he wanted to show he told the truth. “Give me your hand.”
Obediently, she did as ordered and the old man turned it over until her palm faced upwards. “You should not hide this, Emily.” He shuffled the material of her sleeve upwards until a tattoo of what looked like a cat came into view.
Emily looked down at the image and shivered. “But this is why they call me that, Uncle. They stare at this mark, and know what I am.”
The old man shook his head. “They’re fools, and you’re a fool for letting their prejudice blind you.”
“You bought me,” Emily pointed out in a steady tone.
The old man’s lips twitched. As always, his Emily got straight to the point. “Why the tattoo? If you were a commodity to be bought and sold, why would I waste time on marking you like this?” His index finger traced the ears and body of the cat.
Emily trembled. “You wanted my father to know he was foolish not to keep a better eye on me,” she whispered. “To make the men in Portsea and Leytonstone understand that you’d come after them if they hurt me any more.”
“Exactly, Emily Davies. No other human being has that tattoo. None of my men; none of the Impereye, not my late wife - or the babe Nanny and I buried with her. Only you.” He rose to his feet and walked the child to the full-length mirror. For a few moments, the pair stared at their reflections. “From today, Emily Davies, you wear your tattoo with pride. You show the world you embrace the power it gives you.”
“They won’t like me,” the child reminded him.
“Perhaps. But they will respect you.”
Emily’s reflection nodded at the old man, and he let go of her shoulders. Taking that as permission to leave, Emily slipped under his arm and went to the desk where their present for the Covington’s baby sat in a green pouch. With a tremulous smile, Emily picked up the package and put it in the pocket of her pinny. “I’ll go after dinner. May I take Luke?”
The old man smiled. “Of course, but don’t let him con you into getting a cab. He’s getting a belly.”
Knowing she would say something as she left, Gold pre-empted her, “Well, bubbeleh?”
On cue she turned. “It’ll be lonely.”
Only ...
1901.
... If you let it.
Emily regarded Jethro’s punters carefully. A few sullen faces lost themselves in their beer and muttered into their cups. One or two inched from her presence as though contaminated. Someone – known only by sight as a friend of her predecessor – tipped his drink down his throat before leaving the river side. The gesture made her wary, but then everything made her suspicious these days.
Only from Jethro did Emily sense any warmer emotion. But he’d been the one to pay the beadle; the one to hold her hand while the ink marked her wrist. The only one to tell her everything would be alright.
“I wondered if either of these were around the pub recently?” Tilting her head, in that little bird-like gesture of hers, Emily left her memories and returned to the matter that brought her to Limehouse Basin.
Taking the photograph she offered him, Jethro held it between the slabs of flesh that passed for the thumb and forefinger of both hands. “Sorry, Miss. Ain’t seen neither of them. When d’you think they came?”
“The night Uncle examined the books.”
“Remember the night!” Jethro exclaimed as he continued to stare at the photograph. “Body out in the alley. Found him about three hours after Mr Gold left. Stomach removed - gunshot. Nasty. Didn’t ask where the boys put it. Didn’t want to know ... Less chance of being caught out in a lie if the Old Bill came ‘round.” He returned the photograph. “But surely you knew? Danny took the call, said he’d pass it on.”
“Sorry Jethro, no one said anything to me.”
Jethro smiled. “Probably didn’t want you worried, miss. ‘Specially in light of that business at the end of the year.”
“Of course.” Emily tilted her head the other way. “Related?”
Jethro shrugged. “Might not be. Wasn’t taking any chances, miss.”
“No. Probably right.” Emily pocketed the photograph and tilted her head. “Was the weapon found, by any chance?”
Jethro shook his head. “Nope. The boys said the area was clean, and the bloke didn’t have any papers on him.”
“Damn.” She fell silent, lost in her own world.
Knowing she could be like this sometimes, Jethro invited Niall out back where the two men could smoke in peace.
“Now, you don’t dare leave, without me, Miss Em,” Niall said sternly as he got up to follow his old friend. “Remember what happened last time you went off on your own ...”
But he might as well have spoken to himself, for when he returned some fifteen minutes later, Emily was gone.
Niall turned to Jethro and threw up his hands in disgust. “That girl’s going to be the death of me,” he told the Irishman ruefully.
Jethro’s smile was jaded. “Of both of us, Niall. Both of us. Still, she’ll be a steady pair of hands at the wheel when the time comes.” Seeing a small child in the corner, he waved. She left her dollies and approached - bright-eyed with the promise of largesse for her help. “What’s up, Mr Jethro?”
The Irishman smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. Being a father of daughters wasn’t easy, especially to this one. “Molly, I don’t suppose Miss Emily told you where she was going, did she?”
The little girl with bunches and earnest looking green eyes shook her head. “Nope. She didn’t say ...” Molly’s voice trailed into that kind of silence children use when they answer an adult’s question with literal correctness. Jethro stared at her and raised an eyebrow; until with a bite of her lip and a twist of the bottom of her dress in her hands, Molly announced: “She did, ‘owever, leave a note.”
“Well!” Jethro’s hand made a grabbing motion, but Molly ducked and danced a little way off. “Miss Emily said you’d give me a shilling!”
Niall smiled. “You’re going to go far, Molly Doll.”
“Aye, I am Uncle Niall,” the child agreed with a huge grin of satisfaction. “‘Once you or Dad gives me the blunt I’m owed.”
Laughing, Niall delved
into his pocket and took out a shilling. “The note.” Like her father before him, he made a grab for the paper, but the girl danced further off.
“Nope, the money first. Miss Emily said I would be wiser trusting Dad than you.”
Niall laughed and, knowing the child had the two men pegged, handed over the cash.
Niall read the single line quickly and scrunched the paper into a tight little ball.
“Well?” Jethro asked with the usual sense of foreboding that accompanied the knowledge that Emily had gone off on an adventure without backup.
“She’s gone to the mortuary. Seems whilst you and me were out back there was a telephone call. Doctor McGregor’s found someone to take a gander at Flo’s body.”
“Don’t like mortuaries,” Jethro said in a way that made it clear Niall was on his own. “Besides, got a shipment of gin due later, and the supplier’s been trying to palm me off with second-rate stuff.”
Downing the last of his beer, Niall glared. “Thanks. Remind me to do the same for you one day.”
Luckily for Niall, Emily didn’t go to the mortuary straight away. She stopped at the lamp at the end of the street where the stranger’s body had been found, before turning back to stare at The Grapes.
Clean beyond cleanliness, the pub stood out amongst the grime of the area. Smoke could be seen through the windows, the woodwork inside and out was well maintained, painted and polished; the light above the door regularly checked, cleaned and changed. Jethro decided years ago that the pub – like the toffers he minded and the street girls he pimped – would reflect respectability.
Consequently, it was easy to realise why the Irishman made the decision to dispose of the dead man rather than hand the matter over to the police or her uncle. For a start, the body was too close for comfort. Secondly, it was definitely a warning - but to whom, and why?
A clump-clump, steadily nearing, broke her reverie. “That you Niall?”
“No, miss.”
They both laughed.
“Thanks for waiting, Miss Em,” the Glaswegian said as he reached her. “Didn’t relish trekking around all the police mortuaries looking for you. Want a cab?”
“Please. One of the newfangled mechanical ones if you can, Niall. I got used to the luxury last year. And if you’re back before me, get them to wait. I’ve got a quick question to ask Jethro. Unless you remember the name of the duty manager, the night Uncle visited?”
“I don’t, miss. Didn’t think to ask and the boss didn’t say. I’ll ask Jethro on the way out.” Seeing her attention elsewhere, Niall decided silence was as good as an order and clomped off.
Emily continued to stare at the crime scene. “I bet you do your job well, don’t you?” Emily patted the lamp post in a careless manner. “It’s not as if your dead man were trying to hide or have a bit of totty. Why did he stop here? Why didn’t he cry out?” She stared at the cobbles, but whatever help they could give was long washed away by the rain. “There are times I wish I could ask Sym for help.”
The lamp flickered into life, and she took it as a disapproving gesture.
“Oh, I know, I can’t. And I’m skating on thin ice with Uncle Robert, by involving McGregor. But Sym could make the kind of inquiries I can’t. And I’d know for certain if your occupant’s death and Flo’s death are related, or if the Impereye’s still under attack.” She cursed as a cab nosed noisily into the cobbled road. “Damn! Too late to ask Jethro whether anyone heard gunshots. I’ll phone later.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Lamb’s information regarding the people in the photograph got us no further forrader. “Mary, Lil’ and Flo” were the girls. No surnames. Nothing to go on, save Lamb thought they’d all been in service and two of them, Langley and Mary, were dead.
I spent many a weary hour staring at the faces - sometimes with bottle-tops; sometimes without. But I got nowhere. About to give up, I realised I was missing the obvious and did indeed need my valet’s expert opinion. So calling for him I sat back, closed my eyes and listened to his commentary.
His initial observation was interesting and got more so with every passing moment.
“Very informal. Like the ones your grandfather’s friend takes up at Erddig ... and on the surface, it looks like they’re all having a good time.”
“Though Mary’s posture is wrong.” I reminded him.
“Indeed. Notice how she’s positioned herself a little way off from the group. She’s also a bit stiff - like she disapproves of something.” He picked up my magnifying glass. “Badly composed...or?” Making little humming noises, Sampson studied the picture some more and fell silent, until: “Well I’ll be ... this is part of a larger composition.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
With a smile, my valet handed me the picture. “That section to Mary’s left as we’re looking at the photograph. The thing that looks like a tree. May I suggest you take a closer study?”
Putting on my bottle-tops I did as he asked, and peered at the blob for a few minutes, before inspiration and understanding took my legs from under me. “Oh, good lord!”
“Indeed, Major. She’s standing next to someone.”
From Reports. Limehouse Mortuary.
Emily stopped outside a nondescript building, hidden at the bottom of a narrow, largely ignored alleyway and found the door ajar.
“Miss Em, can I stay here?” Niall asked in his most diffident tone.
Having seen his question coming, Emily nodded her agreement before he was finished. “I don’t know why Uncle puts up with you. How you ever got on in the army is a mystery.”
Niall grinned. “Your uncle has his reasons, miss. And don’t you worry. I’ll make sure you’re warned if anyone comes down this street.”
She tilted her head and gave him a sharp stare. “See that you do Niall. I don’t like the way some people think his illness is a sign we’re weak.”
Nodding, Niall leaned against the wall to the left of the doorway and began rolling himself a cigarette. “Now try not to be too long, Miss Em. Wife’s got a mutton pie in the oven. I would quite like to be home before she gives my slice to the dog.”
Emily chuckled before, out of a politeness ingrained from childhood, she knocked on the mortuary door.
To her surprise, no one answered. The place was empty, and the gas lamps low. It gave the building a distinctly unnerving ambience, which when coupled with the smell of formaldehyde, became quite unnerving. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise why Niall preferred to stay outside.
Fortunately, Emily’s destination was a complete contrast to the corridor. Brightly lit, with a high vaulted ceiling and a marble, easy-to-clean floor that sloped slightly towards a gulley; it spoke of cleanliness and order.
Again, ingrained politeness made her pause before she strode purposefully into the room. Glass coffins lined one side - whilst on the other, a table with the instruments of the pathologist’s trade. Said pathologist was already in situ. Staring at Flo’s body, with his back towards her, Emily didn’t recognise him until he spoke.
“Hello, Miss Emily.” After the silence of her thoughts, the quiet Scottish burr echoed loudly in the room. “I persuaded the local man – against his better judgement, I might add – to leave the body out for examination. But we’ll have to be quick. He’s back from his tea in half an hour, and I don’t want him seeing a woman here. The loon’s got funny ideas!”
“Doctor McGregor, although I am pleased to see you, you shouldn’t be here,” Emily admonished as she approached the table. “You’re the earl’s man, and my instructions on the matter were specific. I don’t want you losing your livelihood.”
Doctor McGregor didn’t look up. “If you recall Miss Emily, you employed me to perform your friend’s post-mortem, not the earl. You paid me - not him ... Besides, if I choose to view this body for an old friend; I’m sure not even the chief medical officer could find fault.”
Emily chuckled. “Perh
aps. But the prime minister might. It’s not wise to be seen together. I wouldn’t like to ruin your career.”
The Scotsman huffed. “If you’ve come to berate me, I shall take my leave. I have a fish supper waiting for me in Brighton, and as you know fish is quite my favourite of meals.”
“Very well. But next time – should there be a next time – I shall dress more appropriately so as not to arouse suspicion.”
“You look fine to me.”
Emily sighed. “I was not fishing for compliments. I leave that to the earl. Now as you’re a busy man, tell me, what I need to know.”
McGregor’s eyes joined his face in a smile. “I’m glad you asked me to give you my opinion,” he said as Emily gave the cadaver her undivided attention.
“You are? Why?”
“Whoever killed her did a good job of making it look like she took her own life. There’s powder residue in what’s left of the mouth, and the back of the skull’s been removed as it took the full impact of the shot.”
McGregor lifted one of Flo’s hands and indicated Emily should pay it some attention.
“However, If Mrs Long pulled the trigger herself, I would expect to discover powder here, on the fingers and the palm. There isn’t any. Not on the right and certainly not on the left, which is more likely, given the old girl was what my old mother called ... sinister.”
He waved his left hand at Emily before continuing. “And I would hazard a guess that if you examined the murder weapon for marks, you wouldn’t find anything on it either.” The doctor straightened. “Who found the body?”
“Nanny, she’s a friend of the deceased.”
McGregor pulled open his hunter. “Do you know what time?”
“Nine this morning. Why?”
“No flies.” He closed the case. “Your account of Nanny’s activities confirms my initial findings. Death occurred sometime last night.” Brow furrowed in concentration McGregor put his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “Did you find a gun?”
