by S. E. Smith
Emily shook her head. “No. I went to the flat and looked everywhere.” She stared at Flo’s hands for a few minutes. “I thought Nanny too upset to mention seeing it. Then when I couldn’t find it, I naturally assumed, for all the dangers of that word, that the police brought it here for testing.”
“It did not come to me - or any of my colleagues. They would say, even if they are English.” There was a wealth of criticism in the phrase, which Emily decided to ignore. If McGregor were anything like Niall, encouragement – however slight – would just be like a red rag to a bull; and to be fair, she didn’t have the time.
“Not that Florence Long was killed by a traditional shotgun,” McGregor warmed to his theme. “Judging by the angle, the barrel was either tampered with, or we’re dealing with a lupara.”
“A sawn-off ... like the gun used to kill that American policeman - Hennessy? Interesting.” Emily’s mind raced with possibilities. Phone calls would need to be made, books and journals and newspapers devoured and digested.
“And all that makes the gun difficult to trace.” McGregor made a brief note in his journal before adding. “Which means either the murderer took it away because it could identify him. Or someone else viewed the body before your Nanny turned up and they spirited it away.”
Emily continued to look thoughtful.
McGregor polished the back of his shoes on his trousers. “Not wishing to speak out of turn but could any of your uncle’s men ...?”
Understanding his concern, Emily touched his arm in reassurance. “I’ll have to check with him of course, but it’s a good question. She smiled further reassurance. “But if I’m honest, I don’t think one of Uncle’s people took the gun away ... Besides, no one in the Impereye’s used such a weapon in years ...”
“In that case could it be ...?”
“I also doubt our enemy would use something this obvious,” she said, contenting herself with the knowledge this was not an out and out lie.
Yet, despite her gentle words, McGregor had trouble shaking off his worries. “I’m sorry. I had to ask.” He took her offered hand and kissed it. “Your servant.”
“Your concern is appreciated. But we have matters in hand. The traitor’ll be dealt with.”
“I understand. D’you have any message for Byrd?”
Emily shook her head. “No. Thank you. You’ve helped enough.” She cut his protest off. “Now, would you like a lift back to the station?”
The doctor shook his head. “No but thank you for the offer. I’m uptown on business for the earl, which is why I came myself and so quickly.” The man lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He lent me Mister Watkins. If you leave now, you’ll miss him. He’s not due for another ten minutes. But, just to be on the safe side, I suggest you don’t go via the front door. Watkins is one of the most punctual of men.”
Her smile was full of appreciation for McGregor’s thoughtfulness. “I understand. Thank you, Angus.” Emily’s rare use of his given name caused the doctor to flush slightly with embarrassment. “Now next time, please ... and no offence ... Next time don’t do this. Being associated with me – or Uncle – will do your career no end of harm.”
Nothing else was said until Emily reached the door. “You know, Doctor, I really hope the killer doesn’t need tracking down.”
“You do?” McGregor removed his glasses and wiped them absently on his waistcoat as she opened the door. “Why?”
It wasn’t until he was sitting in the back of the earl’s car that McGregor realised Emily’s smile didn’t make it as far as the ends of her mouth. Nor were her words as gentle as they sounded. “Uncle’s not going to like it,” she told the doctor in a steady tone. “And when he doesn’t like something, he tends to unleash the wrath of Hades.”
Letter Sent by Courier to Symington, Earl Byrd.
27th February.
My Lord,
As requested, I travelled to the Rotherhithe mortuary to view the body of Mr Robert Langley. I confirm my colleague’s opinion that cause of death appears to have been a single bullet. Entering the back between the 10th and 9th thoracic vertebrae, it left an exit wound of some four inches in diameter. Little remains of the body or the stomach itself, though, I am pleased to say, sufficient for my purposes.
Judging by the nature of the wound, I would hazard either a dumdum bullet was used, or someone had access to a lupara. I have it on excellent authority that such weapons are available in this country and am aware they are currently in use, though not as popular as they once were.
Mercifully, death was instantaneous.
I remain as always, your most obedient servant and friend,
McGregor
PS. My apologies for adding this missive in a postscript, but it is important to tell you Aunty Lucretia enjoys excellent health. She cannot thank you enough for the postal order. It was a lot of money! You should not spoil her.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Sampson put down the telegram and looked thoughtful. I was on tenterhooks, unable to keep my feet from jigging. “As always, Dr McGregor is very succinct.”
“I sense a but ...”
“Indeed not. It merely confirms your own observations.” There was a sadness in his voice, indicating he missed the salient point of the missive and cause of my jubilation.
“Sampson, your lack of perspicacity wounds me; makes me question my judgement in employing you. Read the letter again, and this time, old thing, pay attention to the postscript.”
“Ah, that would be my error. Assuming it to be personal, I did not venture that far. I should remember to be more careful.”
“Indeed.” My lips twitched at the put-down, but I refrained from further comment, contenting myself to wait for my valet to complete his second reading, before raising an eyebrow. “Well, what is CC going to say?” I asked, only a hint of amusement in my otherwise serious tone.
Sampson’s lips became lines. “I take it the colonel is unaware of this development?”
I nodded.
Sampson’s expression was pained and superior at the same time. I decided that one day I must ask him to teach me that look. Not today though. Today was too serious for such a thing. “I think we can say he won’t be happy. It’s highly likely he’ll swear.”
We were correct. CC stormed into my Mayfair apartment the following morning just as Sampson cleared the last of the breakfast items from the sideboard. “Good God, Symington! Is nothing bloody simple?” my cousin all but shouted as he slammed the outer door and thundered his way down the hallway.
Appearing in the breakfast room CC paused, to accept the cup of coffee Sampson offered, before continuing. “I thought the whole idea of involving McGregor was to put this whole bloody thing to bed. And what have you done? Stirred a bloody hornet’s nest.”
Feeling some response was necessary, I raised an eyebrow, poured myself another cup of coffee and smiled reassuringly. “Antimony poisoning’s rare. That’s why Bravo’s death made the papers in the first place. That and the wife’s notoriety.” CC put down the cup and began pacing. His hand ran through his hair, and I noticed for the first time his lack of wedding ring. “This is the last thing we need at such a delicate time!”
“It could be coincidence,” I offered. “Antimony’s widely available - in make-up, armaments and firework manufacture to name but three ... and it’s also in animal and human medicine.”
My attempts to placate and reassure failed as my cousin’s face contorted with rage.
I tried again. “Dear Gods, man! You’ll even find it in some massaging creams - softens keratinised skin, doncha know? Leeches into water and wine and all things fine ... All in all, I think we can say the connection to the Bravo case is slight. Mere coincidence. Besides, no one else in the photograph worked for Bravo or his widow.”
The coiled spring that was my cousin exploded. “Slight! By all that’s holy! That woman’s done for your intelligence! Langley worked for Bravo! I admit we didn’
t suspect him at the time but, like the gardener, he disappeared afterwards!” CC’s shoulders disappeared behind his ears. “And let’s be abso-bloodly-lutely precise about this Symington ... Langley doesn’t just have traces of bloody antimony in his system; the good doctor estimates that at time of death he had enough to fell a bull elephant.” CC drew breath. “Deliberate. Poisoning. Is. Not. A. Coincidence.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Like my valet, my cousin missed the second piece of information the good doctor gave me in his telegram.
McGregor hailed from Brighton, a decidedly adorable venue for assignations and bacchanalian fun, it is true ... but not a hotbed of violent crime. And yet our worthy McGregor knew lupara were common! In Brighton? I sincerely doubted it. But until my cousin and factotum realised this, I would hold my peace. A man without secrets was, to my mind, poorer for their absence.
Sampson poured coffee and waited; CC’s ire rose.
“A lot happens in twenty-five years. Hell, a lot happens in six weeks. Witness poor Bertie. And that is why I say the connection is slight.” I stopped to let that sink in then changed the subject. “Who’s doing the legwork?”
“Barker.”
I nodded my approval, for though Barker was young, he was efficient, and went to stare at the Carrington place. As always, the house opposite was a hive of activity. Callers, servants; all life went through those doors. The activity and routine of my neighbours calmed my mind and allowed me to form my next statement. “He’s a noticing kind, and he asks the right questions.”
“Mmm.” CC, ignoring the cup Sampson already poured, walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to his own coffee.
“And he didn’t deserve your anger the last time I was there.”
“I didn’t take my anger out on him.” CC swung around and glared at me. “The boy’s a bloody fool. I kept my temper.”
“He is not a fool! And you treat him like you treated me back in Sikkim, as a butt for your frustrations. CC, I know and you know full well, you shouted.”
CC blew his nose.
“Exactly ... He’ll not put up with you, the way Lamb does. The way I did.” I let a silence hang between us. “How’s Violet?”
CC grimaced. “Now the funeral’s over, and London society has settled, she’s taken the children back to the country.”
I caught sight of Sampson’s pained expression and changed the subject again. With Violet back in the country, CC would be left to the tender mercies of Bamber. A fine butler and valet for sure, but an utter snob who used his master’s familial connections to increase his standing amongst those he called friends. Poor Sampson! Bamber wouldn’t rest until his position as a bosom companion of the valet who-served-the-man-who-had-the-ear-of-the-King, was assured.
Ear of the King indeed! Bertie rarely listened to advice at the best of times - I’d more chance charming a spider into leaving its web, than persuading the King of England to steady the buffs. Even in the matter of my marriage, Bertie refused to listen to reason.
Desolate and suddenly bereft of mirth, I came down to earth with a bump. “Serena’s brother-in-law’s holding a small dinner party tomorrow night,” I said in an attempt to jolly myself up. “Come with me. Otherwise, I’ll be put next to the aunt with a squint.”
My cousin snorted. “So, she’s forgiven you for your walk on the wild side?” He might not like Serena. Indeed, he thought the widow a fool for encouraging me, but he liked her more than any previous association.
“I fear so.” I turned back from the window and grinned at my cousin. “You know me - irresistible.” I expected a snort of derision, I didn’t get it.
“What made you suspicious, Sym?”
Ah. I was Sym now, was I? A nickname my cousin picked up from She-we-did-not-mention and used to twit me.
“I was curious,” I told him honestly. “Why did the stomach need to be destroyed?” My cousin’s face reflected the same question. “Like you, it made me wonder if there was something that needed hiding.”
Stillness. My cousin’s thoughts on this matter would stay with him a while longer. I carried on: “But, CC old bean, if I hadn’t seen Cardew, I wouldn’t push the issue. Especially as you don’t really want it pushed. But there was something in the old buzzard’s reaction. He seemed frightened when I told him Langley was dead.”
CC shut his eyes. “God in heaven! What happened to the simple cases?” he said through clenched teeth. “Especially when you factor in where Langley went into the river.”
“Blessed Barker’s friends worked it out?”
“Not for certain. But somewhere on the north side. Probably the docks.”
A newly washed plate, close to being returned to its residence in the sideboard, fell to the floor and went the way of such things. “I’m sorry, Major. Don’t know what came over me. I’ll clear it up.”
I waved a regal paw. We both knew the cause of his discord.
The docks.
Her world.
That dark and violent place, where life was cheap and murder the easiest way to solve differences.
Only ... Langley’s slight connection to the notorious Bravos ensured police involvement. It was no wonder CC’s face wore anger like a shroud.
“I take it that Sergeant Lamb quizzed the locals and got nothing?” I was pleased with the steady quality to my voice.
“Usual stonewall. But if I thought this bore the hallmark of that ... pawnbroker ...”
Her world.
“Colonel!” A single word. But in it, a clear rebuke.
Ignoring Sampson’s disapproving face full of its lines and angles, I walked back from the window to the coffee pot, pouring myself a drink so as to give my hands something to do. “Want me to poke about a bit?” It was difficult to sound disinterested when my heart raced the way it did.
When CC didn’t answer, I panicked. Decided he was, in the face of my valet’s seething disapproval, going to send my idea packing. Squaring my shoulders, I braced for disappointment.
“Won’t harm, I suppose.”
“Sir Charles.”
CC ignored Sampson’s shocked outburst.
“And because of last year and that woman, your men might succeed where mine failed. Just don’t go yourself. Or the prime minister will gut us both.” CC downed the last of his coffee. “You know you’re well out of that relationship.” There was heavy emphasis on this last statement.
I pretended to agree.
A cough interrupted my subterfuge. “Should you require my services further, I shall be in the kitchen, my lord.”
Sampson never got to the kitchen, to share his outrage with Imran and Watkins, because the telephone rang. Turning on a sixpence, and with his best parade ground march, he went to answer it.
“Of course, sir. I’ll tell Sir Charles at once.”
Like a stage magician in a puff of smoke, my valet was back in the room. “That was Downing Street, Sir Charles. The prime minister has changed your appointment. He’s due at Buckingham Palace in two hours and wondered if you could brief him beforehand? He says he’ll see you immediately.”
“Bugger!”
Sampson went to retrieve the coat my cousin no doubt left lying on the floor when he arrived, leaving me to face my, now flustered, cousin.
“Symington, I’ll do what I can to keep Salisbury onside and smooth his ruffled feathers. But you’re going to need to promise me not to go anywhere near the crime scene.” He gave me a hard stare. “You do nothing more than sit here and let the information come to you. Even one foot inside that bedevilled area, breaks the promise you made the prime minister to have nothing more to do with that pawnbroker. Just make sure your men find something.”
I nodded.
“A nod’s not enough, Symington. I want your word.”
Crossing my heart, and mentally crossing my fingers, I straightened my face. “I promise ... I won’t go anywhere near the crime scene or Fournier Street.”
Pleased with my response, CC turned to
leave. “Make sure you keep your word. Salisbury’ll die of apoplexy if he finds out, and we don’t need another election. We’ve enough of that nonsense already!”
From the Testimony of Peter Watkins, Driver to Earl Byrd.
We split the work. Imran talked to them that made the docks their home. Well, he was the best for the job, given he had the boss’s ability to speak too many bleedin’ languages. And of course, he had a friend who owned a café he could work in. Ask questions without raising suspicions.
Me and old Sober-sides, who had a right snit on, divvied the pubs, and dens, and dosshouses between us. I got the short straw, of course, dragging my sorry carcass from lodging house to dosshouse, while Mr Sampson sipped beer.
He said he was doing it to save me from myself.
I told him where he could get off.
From Reports. Fournier Street, Sunday 3rd March.
The old man didn’t need to say anything. Every nuance of anger was there in the way Emily returned the receiver to its resting place.
“I don’t like it when you’re quiet. It makes me nervous.” As opening gambits went, it was an interesting one. Gold was never nervous. He left that emotion to others.
Emily stared at the phone. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I was wool-gathering.”
“I would never have guessed bubbeleh,” a smile took the sting out of the sarcasm and when Emily returned his smile, the pawnbroker continued. “What is it about Flo’s murder that causes you to frown?”
“The way no one knows anything about the gun. It’s a lupara. You’d think it’d be easy to find.”
Gold put his knife and fork down and pushed his dinner away from him. “We knew this could take time.”
A loud, hacking cough interrupted any further conversation. Emily, mind out of her own problems for a moment, tried not to make her concern obvious when she caught sight of blood on her uncle’s handkerchief. “Are you ...?” words failed her
