by S. E. Smith
I would have let him off. Changed the subject.
Just as Emily appeared to do.
But of course, being Emily, she couldn’t leave without delivering a coup de grâce. “My grandfather was a rector, you know, just like you. Only his parish was in Hampshire. I understand how difficult your calling can be,” she told the man sweetly. “Turned my mother out of house and home for daring to bring a bastard into the world.”
Hand tapping the side where her knife resided, Emily stood, forcing all of us to remember our manners. “I’m sorry, I cannot stay here any longer,” she hissed. “Sym, Mr Sampson, it has been a pleasure ... But I really, really must leave this house before I do this ...” She directed a venomous glare towards Carillion, “person... permanent damage.”
A few hours later, having judged we gave her enough time to recover, we found Emily sitting on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by notebooks. Her own and ones pilfered from Sampson’s bag. Exchanging the look of men who know what battles to fight and when to retreat, we left her to it. Me to change. Sampson to procure refreshment.
“Discovered anything useful, miss?” Sampson asked as he placed a cup of tea beside her.
Emily looked up; her face saddened by a wisdom mine would never possess and shook her head. “No. Have you?”
Smiling at Sampson – a gesture he took as permission to take a comfy chair and rest his weary bones – I took refuge on the bed and answered her. “Oh yes. The good reverend became loquacious. Very accommodating. Begged your pardon and explained that he was thwarted in love by a rival who stole his girl. Thought he got over it until Lilian declared her intention to visit her sister whose old flame was a man – as he put it – of the Jewish persuasion. I probed and prodded; asked if he knew the name of said old flame? But he was mum. As quiet as a sleeping priest in the confessional doncha know. He couldn’t recall whether he took the hankie when he first found it, as a punishment, or whether Lilian had dropped it the night of the row. “
Emily took a deep breath. “If it’s important, we’ll come back to the thing.”
“I agree. And what have you been up to dearest, girl.”
Another deep breath. “I sent Danny to send a telegram to the archbishop, to find out where Carillon did his training, and how long he’s been a priest.”
“You know the archbishop?!” My incredulity showed in the way my arms flailed wildly.
“No, silly! You do!”
I laughed, and the world laughed with me. Except the laughter stopped short of my sweet Emily’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I sobered. “Do you want me to go back and call Carillon out?” I twizzled my imaginary moustache. “Fight a duel in your honour, good Dulcinea?”
“No. My mood has nothing to do with the reverend. Or our lack of progress in the case. Like the archbishop, I also received a telegram. It’s on the side. Read it.”
Sampson jumped to her bidding. Collecting the missive quickly, Emily smiled dejectedly as my valet handed the sheet of paper to me and read it over my shoulder:
Your uncle’s condition worsens. He’s been sick twice in the last twenty-four hours. Mohandas.
I looked at Emily. If anything, she was paler than before.
“What does it mean?” I demanded hoarsely.
“Uncle’s been ill on and off since Christmas. This is the nearest Mohandas will get to ordering me home.”
“It doesn’t read that way, miss.”
“Because you are not a slave, Mr Sampson. You see things differently. I went to university because it amused Uncle. I’m allowed latitude because it amuses him. If he dies before the heir’s born; there’s no guarantee what position – if any – I’ll hold in the new regime. Because let’s face it: a woman running the Impereye is ... unheard of.”
Chagrin replaced my usual bonhomie, and I realised something else. “That’s why Nanny isn’t with you? Why the boy dogs your footsteps? Uncle’s creating your powerbase.”
Emily nodded. “That and Danny was attacked. Uncle thought it would be good for him to recover away from his mother’s presence.”
“I don’t wish to disagree, but you’re a human being, Miss Emily. You have free will.” Sampson’s tone was sharp, and I know he spoke to distract her from the maudlin thoughts surrounding Gold’s illness.
Her eyes flashed fire. “Maybe you have, Mr Sampson ... But you’re the exception.”
Sampson raised an eyebrow in encouragement and Emily, warming to her theme, pointed at me.
“Look at the Sym, he’s a slave to his need to rebel; to best his grandfather and his cousin. He’s also Uncle Robert’s lapdog. Performing tricks for his political masters. A slave to duty, to honour, to Sikkim.”
Her shoulders shrugged an apology, as she referenced a time I wanted but couldn’t forget.” In a sense, he’s no different to me, ‘cept I was bought openly. His slavery crept up.”
The fight to tell Emily she was misguided, that I was more of a rebel than a slave, died as my lips clamped against suddenly numb teeth. She was correct, the army made a man of me. But, thanks to Sikkim, I was a slave to duty. My scorpions danced and took away my ability to recall anything but that horrific night and its consequences.
Fortunately, my madness didn’t last long and, as the scorpions retreated with my unwanted memories, I found solace in Emily’s gentle look. “Sym, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my dearest girl. Ask away.”
But the moment was lost as Danny bounced into the room, a ball of righteous indignation.
“Bleedin’ hell, Miss Emily. This place is full of ghosts!” The lad stopped and threw me an awful look as he all but shouted, “And you? You can get off her bed! Nanny warned me about you!”
I stayed put. “What ghosts, Danny?”
He put up his fists and advanced.
“Danny, answer the earl,” Emily ordered. “Sym’s okay where he is.”
“But Boss said I ‘ad to protect you.” Danny took a step closer.
“Uncle trusts the earl,” Emily said with a patience I admired and doubted I would have, were our positions reversed.
I repeated my question.
The boy glared: “I keep seeing Mum’s gentleman friend. The one she had in London! The one that’s supposed to be at sea. An’ given it ain’t possible for him to be there an’ ‘ere and at sea, I ‘as to be seeing ghosts. How else d’you account for it, eh?”
Emily and I questioned the lad carefully. But, in the way of youths disinterested in the love lives of their mothers, all he could say for certain was that Mum’s gentleman friend was of the same height as Sampson. This was a bit of a puzzler. This part of Wales bred short men for the most part, and Sampson – not known generally to be a tall man - towered most of Grandfather’s servants: except ...
“The old bugger’s sent Clifford to spy on you and your uncle!” I exclaimed suddenly. “Stupid fool. Hope to God Gold doesn’t find out!”
“Clifford’s a sensible man, he’ll not do anything to harm the Impereye.” Sampson spoke eloquently in the servant’s defence, while Emily remained silent and brooding.
Eventually, though, it became obvious that, if we were to get to the bottom of the mystery, we would have return to Grandfather’s house.
“Oh bleedin’ ‘ell, Sym! Do I have to?”
As we got to the top of the drive, Emily finally told me what occurred between her and my ducal grandsire. After a hearty laugh at said man’s expense, I agreed to Emily’s request remain within the confines of the car, thereby upholding her promise not to cross his threshold.
Unfortunately, the best-laid plans of mice interfered with her intentions. No sooner had Sampson opened the car door on a rapidly cooling evening than Grandfather marched towards us. Clearly, he heard us arrive and was all too ready to continue his attack. Ready to come to my lady’s defence, I was shocked to the core by the unusual sight of Grandfather, stopping at a decent distance. “Miss Davies, I am aware you are in the car...I spoke to... Ro
bert,” he said loudly.
“And?” Emily asked sweetly.
My grandfather hopped like a pigeon that had lost a foot. “You are Ko-ko’s ward,” he told her cryptically, “and I would be advised to seek no more.”
A chuckle of Goldian proportions escaped the vehicle followed by a trim ankle. “La! Get me! Cinders is orff to the ball!”
Deciding I liked my grandfather when he mixed and matched his Shakespeare with his Gilbert and Sullivan – though I could make neither hide nor hair of the allusion – I helped Emily alight.
“And do you understand?” she asked him, in lieu of a traditional greeting.
Grandfather bowed and smiled; the same smile, which as a child irritated beyond measure, telling – as it did – of secrets I was not party to. “I do indeed Miss Davies. I do indeed.” And to my shock, horror, and general distress, the duke offered my Emily his arm and led her into Byrd Hall.
Seated in his favourite armchair, dogs snoring loudly at his feet, Grandfather admitted that Danny’s ghost was indeed one of his staff, though he maintained he only sent Clifford to ascertain the nature of the Whitechapel riff-raff his heir aligned with. “If the fool returned to that neck of the woods on his weekend’s off: so be it.”
“Perhaps.”
I left Grandfather to ruminate on Emily’s interjection and rang the bell.
Shamefaced Clifford – a footman of middling years, receding hairline, and sharp features – appeared, wringing his hands and begging forgiveness.
On seeing Emily quietly in the background, the man blanched and bowed. Grandfather took it to be a sign of respect for his august position. I knew better and decided not to waste time on social niceties.
“You do know what Mr Gold will do to you if he discovers you’ve been spying on him, doncha?”
“Who, my lord?” He tried to brave it out, but his voice cracked on the words, proving him to be a liar.
“Young Danny’s employer, Emily’s uncle.”
Clifford whitened still further, and he wrung his hands in a Uriah Heap like way. “I didn’t mean to get involved with Mrs Bryant,” he admitted with only a hint of desperation in his voice. “It was just one of those things.”
He looked at me, then at my grandfather; and – finally – at Emily.
“I’ll break it off immediately, my lord, Your Grace. Miss.”
Following an imperceptible nod from Emily, I answered for us all — while Grandfather, no doubt, pondered his servant’s ordering of titles. “No. You’ll not.”
Fear turned to confusion.
“Not unless you’re dallying with the woman,” I continued ruthlessly. “If this is a game, and you’re just toying with Mrs Bryant ... you will end it.” I gentled my tone. “If you’re serious; visit Miss Davies when she’s back in London. Answer every question she asks, and hope she’s far more forgiving than her present mood would indicate.” I grinned unpleasantly, hoping I’d mastered Gold’s manner. “If you don’t, then be it on your own head. You know the Impereye way.” Clifford gulped and glanced at the impassive face of my companion. Again, doing my best to channel her uncle, I held the silence for a moment longer than necessary before changing the subject. “Now, let us talk of more interesting things. Snarks, boojums, and railways shares! Or, if you prefer: what’s the word on the street about Mr Gold’s illness?”
It seemed what Clifford told me mirrored Emily’s earlier fears; and, as the man continued his account, I watched her straighten into the doppelgänger of her uncle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grandfather’s demeanour also change, and was surprised his eyes filled with a concern I realised was for my benefit.
“Miss Davies is widely applauded for proving her uncle’s up to something. It reinforced the view she’s the right choice for the apprentice.” Clifford’s voice was that of a well-trained servant; slightly beyond monotone with words chosen for effect and brevity, but it shook slightly around the edges, showing either his disquiet at being so long in the presence of ‘quality’, or because of the content of his account. “At the same time, people rest easier in their beds knowing Mr Gold’s not on death’s door. They also like the way you dealt with Canton Sue, miss.”
“They think Mr Gold’s up to something?” I interjected, before any explanation of that statement could wend its way to Grandfather.
“I would think that the moment word reaches London, you’re together at the family seat, there’ll be wise nods and bets being taken as to the date the heir puts in an appearance.”
I saw Grandfather’s eyebrow raise as the implication of Clifford’s confidences hit home. But to Emily’s face, he remained a polite and deferential host. Which was interesting. Whatever the prime minister divulged – about the conundrum that was Emily Davies – it had Grandfather worried. He usually called a spade a spade and a strumpet a strumpet. Yet tonight, he held back; too busy watching the interaction between Emily, Sampson, and me. And for my sins – and his disgust – I played to his fears with overt flirtation.
Taking her leave an hour or so later, I walked Emily to the car. She’d not wanted to accept the offer of a lift, saying Danny – who would by now, be waiting for her – was in need of the walk. But I saw rain hanging around the edges of the evening and persuaded her otherwise. Kissing her cheek before aiding Emily into the back of the Mercedes, I kept my tone light. “What are Uncle’s symptoms?”
“Diarrhoea and sickness. If it wasn’t such a diluted response, I would say our killer is after him.”
“Perhaps the killer knows the danger of killing your uncle, and only wants to frighten him into silence?” I quipped, adding quickly: “Besides as Lilian wrote in her diary, neither your uncle nor Nanny were involved in what happened.”
She sighed and gripped my hand tightly. “Which means we’re looking for a killer closer to home, not here in Llong.”
“It seems that way, yes,” I agreed, tucking the Stewart tartan rug around her knees. “Most of the victims died in the environs of London. Indeed, your Lilian took ill there. It’s only because you came to tell her about Flo’s death, and I came to find out what she knew about the Bravo case that we’re here at all.”
She nodded, but I sensed Emily’s mind was elsewhere.
“Meet me for breakfast, she told me absently. “Danny sent other telegrams. Not just to the archbishop but to Uncles Carmi and Joseph. I asked them about Kerzenende and Spinnaker.”
“Who?”
Emily shrugged and told me of Spinnaker’s visit to Uncle’s shop and his assertion the gun, which she suspected was used against both Langley and Flo, was left in his cab by a man named Kerzenende.
I was none the wiser — and said as much. To my surprise, Emily responded with a raised eyebrow and a: “Call yourself a detective?” Which left me even more perplexed.
Saturday 9th March.
The morning dawned bright and sunny, however, knowing the window to be a liar, Sampson insisted I add a jumper to my ensemble; leading me to feel that I was part of an ill-fated expedition rather than a man on the way to see a friend. That sense of ill-ease continued when, upon arrival at the pub, I found Emily the continued object of snide remarks and even snider glances.
Standing unnoticed in the doorway, I gathered from the whispers that — despite her demeanour and Sampson’s approval, something he never conveyed upon any of her predecessors – the young lady with her lowly roots was only after my money.
Striding confidently into the room ended the mutterings; though, by their looks, the judgement didn’t end with my arrival. No Saesneg should be that fluent in the mother tongue, or that North Walian in their accent, unless she was after my title.
“Grandfather, thanks you for a pleasant evening,” I said as I reached her table.
Emily smiled wanly. “Please return mine to him. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. Uncle worries if he doesn’t know where I am.”
“His health’s no better?”
She shook her head. “Please, sit down.”
Taking the seat opposite, I stared into dark circled eyes. “You didn’t sleep well?”
She shook her head unwilling to say more until Deryn, having brought coffee and toast, departed for the kitchens.
“What did the archbishop have to say?” I asked as soon as the landlord left us to our own devices. I don’t know why, but I expected her to pass me the telegram that sat at her side.
She didn’t. “Amongst other things, Carillon came highly recommended. Spent some time in French Africa ... Missionary work, then did his training here in Wales. Llong is his second parish.”
“Ties in with what Grandfather said.” I ran a hand through my hair and grimaced.
Emily tilted her head. “Did you learn anything more about Deryn, after I left?”
I shook my head. “Just what we already know; except that the wife was a shrew, and no one here understood his devotion to the woman. Never a nice word for anyone. Always accusing him of playing away.”
“Any truth to the rumours?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. Man’s been a model widower.”
Emily bit into her toast with workman-like gusto. “Uncle Carmi drew a blank with both Spinnaker and Kerzenende. But Uncle Joseph remembers a cab driver called Spinnaker. Drove him from the station to Uncle’s a couple of times. They got talking.”
I nodded thinking about the only other member of Gold’s family I’d met. “Strange that your Uncle Joseph remembered such a thing.” I kept my tone light so as not to make my words a criticism.
Emily grinned at my carefulness and replied with equal nonchalance. “From what he said when he phoned. It wasn’t the man he remembered. It was the name. Uncle Joseph’s always loved spiders; just like Uncle’s surrounds himself with passerine.” Her grin broadened into a smirk.
Unable to utter a polite riposte, I changed the subject slightly. “Could Uncle Joseph describe him?”
