by S. E. Smith
Emily’s face danced with mischief. “Oh dear, Sym! Have I left you out in the cold?”
I twirled my imaginary moustache and turned my face into the image of a modern melodrama villain. “You know very well your uncle wouldn’t mind me topping and tailing with you!” I laughed like a bad actor in a fourth-rate production and twirled the ‘moustache’ again for good measure.
That did it! To my delight, Emily giggled. “La! You are still a one, my lord! ‘Ow can you think such wickedness when I is ou’ ‘ere ... in the middle of nowhere ... wiv only a boy to protect my virtue!” Her giggle became laugh-like, lasting until our sides ached with mirth.
“The other couple left this morning, and I moved into their room to give Danny’s back a rest,” Emily told me once our sobriety returned. “But if you want, I’ll move back to my previous room; and you, Danny, and the inestimable Sampson can bunk together. I’m sure they’re too polite to mention your snoring!” Seeing my mock outrage, her laugh returned; and sweeping an intricate, theatrical curtsy Emily disappeared inside the pub.
From Reports. Downing Street.
Robert Gascoyne, 3rd Marquis of Salisbury, sat back in his leather chair and folded his arms over his massive chest. “This case I asked you to investigate, Sir Charles; do I need to be worried? Is another scandal brewing?”
“Too early to say, for certain,” CC replied cautiously.
The prime minister picked up a foolscap folder and leafed through its pages. “Last week, you told me it was a simple matter, easy to solve. Now you tell me antimony’s involved, just like the Bravo case. Then to add insult to injury, you tell me Byrd is of the opinion we have links to the East End.”
CC decided to nod rather than speak.
“Should I hope it’s all a coincidence, as your cousin would have me believe?”
A further nod as ...
Silence fell.
Became unbearable.
“There are a lot of coincidences in life prime minister. Not all of them sinister.” CC offered.
“Perhaps,” Salisbury conceded with a frown, “but this is the East End we’re talking about. It’s a hotbed of disease and corruption, and the simplest spark causes one huge ‘flagration.”
“Links are ... at this stage, tenuous,” CC reiterated. “All I can say is our killer isn’t careless and doesn’t make mistakes. Only a clever man, or woman,” CC amended quickly, “would leave a body in the one place guaranteed to dispose of it for him.”
Salisbury pulled at his beard as sharp eyes looked out through bushy eyebrows. “And where was that?”
“The Grapes. Limehouse.”
Salisbury whistled and his eyes vanished still further into his eyebrows.
Expecting to be dismissed, CC started to gather his belongings together, so close to escape when:
“Or vengeful, CC.”
CC slumped back in his seat. “I beg your pardon, sir?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like cracked tin.
Salisbury didn’t answer. His eyes, now out of their brows, were narrowed flints. His mouth set in a grim line. Turning to his nephew, who sat silently in the corner of the room, he said, “Arthur, whilst no doubt you would like to stay and listen to this, I require a moment alone with the chief inspector.”
A faintly disapproving look crossed the younger man’s face but ever the consummate politician, Balfour nodded his compliance. “I’ll be waiting in the anteroom.”
“I will start by assuming that your cousin refused to mention the following when he told you what he knew about Gull. Just as you kept it from me out of misguided loyalty. Do I make myself clear?”
Confused, CC watched the prime minister move away from his desk to stare out of the window. “As you are probably aware, our current Imperial Majesty is no saint. Nor was his eldest son ...”
Aware some response was needed in the silence that followed, CC declared acerbically: “Bertie, His Majesty I mean, is my cousin’s boon companion. They are of a like mind when it comes to the fairer sex.”
Salisbury pulled at his beard. “Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced. “My point is that in addition to dealing with royal illnesses, Gull also dealt with the royal family’s peccadilloes.”
CC’s eyebrows knotted, giving his usually open face a stern appearance. “I didn’t know.”
“And while sorting out one of Prince Eddy’s more unfortunate entanglements, he came into contact with a young solicitor. The man had dealings with the young lady’s family. He proved very useful in dealing with ... things.”
“Bravo?”
The prime minister gave a tight little smile that didn’t leave his mouth.
“And?”
“The matter was dealt with - the child provided for. Honour satisfied all around.”
“And yet, my lord, I sense a however ...”
Salisbury returned to his desk and shuffled his papers. “Ah ... Well ... here’s where it gets difficult. Bravo was one of those solicitors who sailed close to the wind.”
“Not unusual. Especially if he were as ambitious as you’d have me believe.”
“Indeed. But this one sailed closer than most. His skills at finding those who didn’t want finding were in demand. By the time he died he was in possession of an intriguing client list.” Salisbury paused as if to consider his next statement fully. “Though how one gentleman on that list first came across Charles Bravo, I shudder to guess. Perhaps, if you ask him, he may tell you.” Salisbury tugged his beard and avoided CC’s eye. “I asked him years ago. He laughed in my face.”
A heavy, sinking feeling developed in the pit of CC’s stomach, and he shut his eyes against the accompanying wave of nausea. When he opened them a few seconds later, it was to see a piece of photographic paper flutter its way across the desk. Still mindful of his stomach, CC didn’t pick it up until the prime minister added: “You’re not to tell Byrd about your visit to Fournier Street. Is that understood, Sir Charles?”
“He won’t hear it from me.”
“Splendid. It would be unfortunate ... Very unfortunate indeed if your cousin realised my agreement with Gold and his niece was open to negotiation.”
From Reports.
As the police car turned into Fournier Street, CC decided he hated being a policeman. Being nice for the sake of information stuck in his craw. But responsibilities were responsibilities, and – though he would never admit it – he enjoyed pitting his wits against Gold. For a man without morals, the pawnbroker lived by a very rigid code that others would be well advised to adopt even though it led to ... complications of a murderous and unprovable kind.
Not waiting for the driver to come to a complete stop outside Christ’s Church, CC jumped out and walked briskly towards the pawnbroker’s domain, as though chased by all the demons of hell. Greeted by a member of the counter staff, he was ushered through to the back room, where he kicked his heels until the door opened and one of Gold’s sumo wrestler bodyguards appeared.
CC held out his hand and found it encased in a huge slab of a hand as the man returned his greeting. Yet, for all the man’s baulk the handshake was firm but not oppressively so.
“Sir Charles,” Akio said in a precise tone as the greeting ended. “If you would follow me?”
Feeling something was required, CC asked after the big man’s health.
“I am well. Thank you, for asking. My brother, Kato, however, has a slight cold. The consequence of living through an English winter.” Opening the door, Akio led the way - not to the office CC expected, but to the staircase. CC’s mind raced. They never met this deep into Gold’s lair. It was always downstairs; where the rooms were airy and minders close by. But as he and the broad backed Akio walked to a final flight of stairs, which, if truth be told, was little more than a substantial ladder, CC could only conclude that Gold was running scared. Which brought him to a sudden halt. The pawnbroker was the last person, anyone would associate with such an emotion. Ever.
At the bottom of the ladder, Akio s
topped. “No further for me. Not because of my girth, you understand,” he said with a smile and a tap of his substantial stomach. “But because Mr Gold wants privacy.” Akio stared at him gravely. “Good luck with your quest, Sir Charles. I hope the Impereye are able to help.” The sumo wrestler bowed again and turning his back, effectively blocked CC’s escape route.
Thus, left to his own devices, CC marshalled his wayward thoughts, drew himself to his full height and prepared for battle. But before he could raise his hand to knock, Gold’s voice boomed through the woodwork.
“Come in Sir Charles.”
The door opened, not by his nemesis but by a small, sparrow-like woman with faintly greying hair. CC stopped dead in his tracks.
“Have I disconcerted you, Sir Charles?” The voice boomed again.
“A little.” CC glanced around the office as he tried to locate the speaker. But the room was empty ... until a door to the left opened, and the pawnbroker appeared – as if by magic – rubbing his hands on a white towel.
“Do sit down, my friend,” Gold said as he set a kettle on the small stove that heated the room.
Taking the proffered chair, CC arranged his coat-tails and sat, warily watching Gold return to his desk to sign a stack of papers. It was an obvious power play tactic and one designed to remind CC that here, Gold was king.
“Is Miss Davies joining us?”
Smiling the pawnbroker shook his head. “No. She’s abroad: business you understand.”
“Splendid, my cousin is also ... abroad. On business.”
They fell silent, seemingly at a loss for words until having dismissed the sparrow-like woman Gold said: “But pleasant as it is to chew the fat about my Emily and your ... cousin, you didn’t come all this way to tell me Lord Byrd was abroad.”
CC raised an eyebrow. “No. It’s delicate ... An employee of a former contact of yours was murdered.”
Gold’s eyes narrowed in return. “I have many former contacts, Sir Charles and some of them – over the years – have been murdered. Call it the curse of the East End.” The eyes of the crow’s head ring glinted. “If I’m to help you, you’ll need to be specific.”
“Bravo.”
Gold’s expression took on an even more closed quality, if such a thing could happen. “What could you possibly have that connects me to his death?”
“I don’t, Mr Gold. I have something that connects you to the death of his clerk, Langley.” CC dropped the name into the conversation with as much subtlety as he could and waited for a reaction that never came. “A photograph to be precise. Found in the papers of another associate of Charles Bravo. One Sir William Gull and, of course, he’s ...”
“Dead. Eventually.”
CC frowned at the unusual addition to the old man’s utterance. But deciding Gold was intentionally enigmatic, he moved on. “I was about to say, not in the photograph; just you and two dead men.”
Gold leant back in his chair. His hands – the left with the top of its index finger missing – crossed over the right and settled over his lean stomach. His large crow’s head ring dominated the upper hand, beak pointing towards his chest. Amusement lurked in the shadows of his eyes, and yet, CC sensed the older man lacked real mirth.
“How many did you say were in the photograph?”
“Just the three of you.”
“No women?”
CC didn’t bother to respond. Not that he needed to, the point was more of an aside than a comment.
“And you found it in Gull’s possessions?”
CC nodded.
“Where exactly? If I may ask?”
“His office in Whitehall. Salisbury gave it to me.”
Gold’s eyes lost their closed look and took on one of unholy mirth. “And as we all know, Gull’s been nowhere near that office in at least four years.” Suddenly his hand covered his mouth, and his face lost all colour. With surprising speed, the old man rushed to the closet.
“Ten. Ten years,” CC muttered with more satisfaction than a policeman had a right to. “Gull died in ‘90.”
When the vomiting didn’t stop, a concerned CC opened the door to shout for help. But it seemed that Akio was on the case. Doctor Khan was already on his way.
“You rang, Mordy? Good afternoon Sir Charles.” Khan bowed a greeting before setting out the contents of his Gladstone bag. “Fine weather we’re having.”
It wasn’t. It was raining. But it was the only thing to talk about under the circumstances. “Indeed,” CC said politely.
A few seconds later, Gold emerged from the little room; grey around the gills but otherwise his usual cheerful self. “My tablets, if you please, Mohandas. Yet again, I seem to have eaten something that disagrees with me.”
Although the words were light, CC realised there was a wealth of hidden meaning in them. Sweat drowned Gold’s hair. Dark shadows lined his eyes, and there was a tense quality to his unfamiliar, weak sounding voice.
Khan frowned and whipped out a thermometer, which he placed under a protesting tongue, before taking the old man’s pulse. “Nanny wants details,” the doctor stated. “And you know what she’s like,” he added as Gold decided against removing the thermometer.
Holding fire until the examination was complete, CC read through his notebook ...
Until – unable to hide his interest any longer – CC watched the doctor hand over a substantial pile of little green pills. “You’ve got enough poison in your system to kill you. Some days, I think there’s not enough gold in the world ... Take them and I’ll see you later.”
Gold counted the tablets carefully and handed one back. Then, with a carelessness, which surprised CC, downed them in one.
“I’d ask you don’t mention this to your cousin,” Gold ordered once they were alone. “I’d not like him to break his promise to the prime minister, by coming here to check I’m still alive.”
Unwilling to concede any further agreement on the wisdom – or otherwise – of telling his cousin anything about Gold, CC brought the conversation back to the investigation. “Did you make much use of Charles Bravo’s talents?”
Gold took a swig of water before he answered. “Not as frequently as the man would’ve liked. He was ambitious; had a vindictive streak that didn’t sit well with me. But enough times to make him rich at our expense.”
“What skill could he offer?” CC thought the question was chancing things a little.
“Bravo had a way of finding things: people, information ... scandal. He’s how I discovered about you and your cousin, how I decided which one of you should ...” Gold stopped abruptly and smiled. “He’s also how I found Emily. Not that I was looking for her, you understand.” Gold – his mind in the past – sat back and fiddled absently with his crow’s head ring.
It was a disturbing sight, and for the first time in their long association, CC got the impression the old man was unsure of himself. Then, almost without warning, Gold’s brows furrowed into a thin line of contempt. His mouth hardened, and his eyes lost both habitual sardonic amusement and their soulless quality. “And I’ll tell you what, Bravo was destined to go places and, had his heiress wife died instead, he’d have used her fortune to crawl his way to the top.”
“Are you saying he made enemies?”
“No one is without enemies. That’s what makes allies of us all.” Gold gave CC a meaningful stare. “But, and I am not lying Sir Charles, the Impereye did not kill him. Perhaps had he outlived his usefulness I would tell a different tale.”
“Or not, Mr Gold. Remember I know you of old.”
Gold’s laugh vanished. “Perhaps. But poison’s not used for internal threats.” He removed the crow’s head ring, placing it on the table beside him before continuing. “No, you need to search closer to home. Antimony – after all – decreases sexual ardour. “
“You think the wife did it, then?” CC leant forward in his chair and subjected the pawnbroker to a hard stare.
Gold shrugged. “It’s also a laxative and an emeti
c. Some families pass an antimony tablet down through the generations. Perhaps he took it for those reasons.”
“So, he overdosed?” CC said, refusing to think through the logistics of a laxative pill passing from one family member to the other.
“Perhaps, with help. All things are possible, Sir Charles,” Gold replied without rancour.
“Thank you.” CC made to rise, but the old man stopped him. “This photograph you claim links me to Gull and Bravo, do you have it?”
Nodding, CC rummaged in his wallet and withdrew a print, which Gold took with a quiet word of thanks. Staring at it, first with the naked eye and then with his jeweller’s glass, Gold sucked at his teeth.
“Is there a problem?” CC asked. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr Gold?”
Gold stared at the photograph again. More teeth sucking, followed by, “Oh Gull! What have you done? What have you done?” The pawnbroker looked up at CC. Fear danced in the corners of pale and suddenly life-weary eyes. “This photograph’s wrong.”
CC looked at him. “Explain.”
For a moment, he thought Gold was going to ignore him. But, with effort, the old man roused himself from his chair and walked over to the albums sitting on a nearby shelf. After staring intently for a few minutes, his claw-like fingers settled and withdrew one from the row with a fluid, almost pincer-like movement.
Opening the album on a page of fading photographs, the old man turned to CC. “Give me a minute. I have the original plate as well!” Gold vanished down the stairs, as though his earlier malady were nothing.
“It was a picnic, if memory serves,” Gold said on his return. “The day that photo was taken, Bravo engineered our meeting under the pretext of a birthday shindig, south of the river. Lass by the name of Lil Poulter; one of Nanny’s oldest friends. I was friendly with the girl’s sister.”
“Are you sure I need to hear this?”
Gold grinned at CC’s shock; his eyes brimming with amusement. “A lovely little earner, and very accommodating, till she found life as a butcher’s wife more lucrative.” He shook his head. “But I digress. My lady friend’s sister wanted the photo taken. I stood to the side, thinking myself safe, and just out of shot. But as you can see, I got caught on film despite my best endeavours. Of course, once I realised what happened, I took action to recover the situation.”
