An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

  Emily screwed up her nose and shook her head. “No. But we’ll find him. Uncle’s got the children out looking.”

  “Children?” The word hissed into existence before I could stop it.

  Emily shrugged. “No one notices them, hanging around on street corners. Sitting on benches; playing in the street. They’re not spies; they’re just children.”

  Powerless to help myself, my upper-class privilege came to the fore. “I thought Uncle didn’t hold with exploitation?”

  “They work when they want to. Stop when they want to. Obligation to the Impereye only happens as an adult. You know that.” Warming to her theme, Emily continued, “Besides, he pays well, and on time. It helps their families out. I did my first jobs, for Uncle while out playing. Noticing things that happened on the streets, telling Uncle what I saw.”

  I stared at her. I think my mouth was open in an ‘O’ of shock. I shut it a couple of times. But it kept returning to the slack-jawed position.

  Emily laughed heartily. “Just coz you went into the British Army as an officer and got promoted to the level of your incompetence; it don’t mean the rest of the world works like that. In the Impereye, we only progress while we’re useful!” She leant over, and with a gentle hand, put an end to my fishlike naivety.

  “And Kerzenende? Has anyone heard of the man?” I asked because it was the loose end: the unsolved elephant in the room.

  “No. Not a word.” Emily bit into a slice of toast with a violence that reminded me of my cousin. Diverted by the action, I wondered if Emily’s sojourn with us last year caused this mimicry. Or perhaps she was equally infuriated by the number of dead-ends and failures we endured, and this was her own way of demonstrating her annoyance. Either answer was possible, I suppose. I too was frustrated and when I was frustrated, I became my cousin.

  Breakfast concluded, Sampson pottered around, making himself useful. Danny sat in the corner; a coiled python ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger. Deryn came and went as the brewery drays brought kegs to the cellar doors. I took out my diary and read for a while. But my notes, although comprehensive, still didn’t reveal who Lilian Poulter’s killer was; or how the poison had been administered.

  I was about to give up and contemplate my eyelids when:

  “Walk with me.” On the surface a simple request. But as always there was nothing simple about Emily or her requests.

  “I’m coming wiv ya!” her young minder insisted.

  Emily shook her head. “No Danny. You’ll stay here, with Mr Sampson. He’ll buy you a pint and tell you about India!”

  The boy went to argue, but she held up her tattoo and, with a hefty sigh, he fell silent.

  Escaping the lad’s disapproval, I watched the gentle sway of Emily’s hips as she led our way through the bar. I was not alone in my observation, I noticed wryly. A snort of laughter reached my nose, and I suppressed it with difficulty. Typical Emily! Using men’s weakness for a pretty face and body against them. Deryn’s expression indicated he thought my luck was in, as she took my hand and we headed outside. But as I looked back towards the inn, I couldn’t help but notice Sampson’s worried face staring out of the window.

  We walked, seemingly without purpose, along the street. Curtains twitched and our path was crossed by a patrolling cat, but otherwise, we were alone with our thoughts until the village shops were behind us and we’d reached our destination.

  Nestling on a slight hill opposite the village school, the church was a picturesque and peaceful place. Everything was pristine and ordered. Neatly tended with grass cut by local sheep, uniform headstones marked the final resting places of village worthies.

  My family vault was here, nestling under some trees and marked with a slate obelisk. Grandmother, my mother and father; even CC’s notorious mother, pushed up daisies with the rest of the village hoi polloi. I found the whole thing ironic, and with a smile decided that Mr Marx might have the right of it. Why should we wait for death to be the great leveller?

  Stopping at a newly dug grave, Emily ended my musings. “They’re going to bury Lilian here,” she said pointing to the ground. “Will you attend the funeral?”

  “Of course, but you didn’t bring me out here for that.” I took her gloved hands in mine and rubbed them for a few seconds, before turning one hand over to look at cat tattoo made up of Gold’s initials. “What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath. “Sym, is your offer of last year still open?” It was said so quietly that I almost missed it.

  “My ... offer?”

  “Mohandas phoned just before you arrived, Uncle collapsed, and while he was unconscious, Mohandas took a blood sample ... it is antimony and there’s a lot more of it than should be for the mildness of his symptoms.”

  I stared into anxious eyes and vowed, there and then, I would move heaven and earth to help her. “You want me to visit Fournier Street and discover whether his illness has anything to do with the case?” I said with a brisk nod. “Grandfather will be apoplectic, and we may have to explain ourselves to the prime minister, but if it’s for a good cause ...”

  Emily wrenched her hands from mine and took up a fighting stance. “Oh, for crying out loud! Shut up and listen, you stupid man! I don’t want you to pop and visit like you’re courting me. I want you to spend your days and nights with me. Make Uncle believe I couldn’t resist your charms any longer!”

  Stumbling, as though hit by more than her words, I grabbed the nearest headstone for support. “Good God woman! You’d whore yourself just to find out who’s after your uncle?”

  Her hands clenched. “Why not? Blokes use girls like me to scratch an itch. Happens all the time. Dad and Mum. Uncle and Flo.”

  “This is different.”

  “Is it?” Emily sent me a look I refused to interpret. “It’s just business, Sym. A quid pro quo. Uncle wants an heir. I want your help. You want me.”

  My outrage at her blunt approach to intimacy brought harshness to my response. “Why Emily? Why? You made it clear last year you wouldn’t be my mistress!”

  “And I still won’t be.”

  Her words (coupled with a cricket bat wielding scorpion) knocked me off kilter again. Not sure what to do, whether to laugh at her or throttle her, I put another grave between us. “Then what by all that’s holy and immortal are you blathering on about?”

  Emily checked we were still alone: “I know I ain’t sophisticated like that Serena of yours and I ain’t no beauty like that little piece you play billiards with at the Keppel’s... or even Mrs Brightlingsea.” She tilted her head as she considered the women of my past. “We both know I ain’t going to keep you in me claws. I just need you to be around long enough to find out what’s going on.”

  I opened my mouth, not sure what to say. Glad when she ignored my inadequacy.

  “It won’t be forever, just a few weeks - a month or two at most. You can do the pretty for that amount of time? Surely I’m attractive enough for the honour of a few weeks of your undivided attention?”

  Feeling weak, I shrugged my answer. Emily smiled and ploughed right on.

  “Besides, Uncle’ll expect us to blow hot and cold. You can’t stay faithful, and I don’t like betrayal.”

  Two scorpions came from different directions and walloped me so hard the world threatened darkness at more than just the edges. I reached for another gravestone and clutched at it for dear life. “But darling,” I drawled, amazed at how steady my voice sounded. “Uncle has the Impereye to protect him. You don’t have to move me in like some paid for bit of fluff.”

  Emily’s fighting stance took on a matriarchal hand on hip quality, and I was nine years old. Back in front of Grandfather, my ears blistering from one of his famous set downs. “They ain’t done a good job so far, ‘ave they?”

  As the scorpions cavorted like lunatics, their cricket bats high above their head like trophies, I conceded her point.

  From Reports. Scotland Yard, Sunday 10th March.

  In the
end, knowing the earl was safely in Wales, Barker waited a few days before giving the chief inspector the bad news.

  “You idiot! God knows why Lamb insisted you be better than the other fool I was considering. For all your cleverness, you’re a bloody liability.”

  “If you want my resignation, Sir Charles...”

  CC’s reply was swift and blistering. “Oh no you don’t! That’s Lamb’s little stunt, not yours! You can suffer this job like the rest of us!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Barker waited for CC to calm down before he made any attempt to give his commanding officer better news. “I did manage to find Langley’s brother. Works as a groundsman at City Cemetery. Want me to talk to him?”

  “No! Given your track record on this case, who’s to say he won’t be dead by the time you get there.” CC’s fist slammed the table so hard that the tea cup jumped like a house in an earthquake. “You can stay here and write up the reports. Find out exactly how the people in that photograph died, down to the minutest detail. I don’t want it said I didn’t have all the information to hand when my cousin gets back from Wales!” CC glared at his helpless subordinate and whispered lethally: “Get. Out! And be sure to use the typewriter.”

  Lamb Remembers.

  The lad fled. Don’t blame him. Not when faced with a boss with a temper that would kill faster than a knife in your guts. I gave him half an hour before bearding the lion in his den. Keeping as quiet as possible, I cleared away the remains of the tea from the top of the chief inspector’s desk. Then I waited.

  “Bloody. Gold.”

  Not what I expected CC to say. He’d already discussed the old man’s motives, and it wasn’t like the boss to return to a topic so soon after leaving it.

  “Hoards favours like a magpie.”

  “He’s not called The Crow for nothing, chief.” I bit my tongue at the carelessness, but the boss didn’t seem to mind.

  “That too, Lamb. That too!” CC glared into mid space as he contemplated the pawnbroker of Fournier Street. Then, suddenly – as if making up his mind – he opened his notebook and stared at its contents. “Anyway, Gold asked if we could do him a favour.”

  I stiffened. The hairs on the back of my neck rose in alarm.

  “Well actually, he asked if you could do me a favour.”

  I didn’t like the way the words ‘you’ and ‘me’ were emphasised. “He did, sir? What kind of a favour?”

  “Wants you to rack that brain of yours.”

  I remained tense.

  “Reminded me you worked the Bravo case.”

  I relaxed, though I took pains not to show it.

  “Said you might remember someone called Kerzenende?”

  “Who? I don’t...”

  He waved my protests aside. “No don’t answer, Lamb. Think about it and give me the answer when we’ve spoken to Langley’s brother.”

  Glad of the reprieve because I really didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, I nodded and went to organise a car to take us to Manor Park.

  From Reports. City Road Cemetery, Manor Park.

  The rain that plagued Wales, plagued CC; following him through the city without sign of respite. Getting out of the car, and into a squall of wind and fury, he slammed his hat firmly on his head and turned his collar against the wind.

  Fortunately, it was only a short distance to the grave of Billy Pearce. A simple stone of medium height topped a horizontal slab which kept weeds at bay. Judging by the well-mown lawn to either side and the lad’s neighbours residing in ostentatious mausoleums, his grave would be tended for many years to come. To some, the absence of flowers showed nothing more than casual disrespect not fitting a Victorian way of death. But to CC it confirmed Gold’s fondness for the youngster, especially once he noticed a stone sitting on top of the headstone.

  He was about to turn away and move on to the section of graves, worked by Gordon Langley, when the lad’s date of death caught his attention. CC frowned. November 1888 - aged twenty-six. “What the hell are you up to Gold?” he muttered before calling over to Lamb who was distracted by a grave a little way off.

  His sergeant started, almost knocking over some flowers in his haste to join him. “Sorry, sir. Thought as I was here, I’d pay my respects.” He stared at the headstone behind his commanding officer and frowned slightly. “Old friend; she and I knew each other in the days before Mrs Lamb. If you get me drift. Lovely girl, she was ...” Lamb turned away from the grave and looked back up the little hill to where he’d been standing moments earlier. “Said she liked the idea of me being a policeman.”

  CC grunted in what could be taken as agreement, or not, and lengthened his stride. If he intended to keep ahead of the gloom of sunset, CC didn’t succeed. The sun was well over the yardarm before they found the groundsman. “Mr Langley? Mr Gordon Langley?”

  Grey haired, gnarled features, their quarry struggled to his feet. “Who wants to ...?” the words died on Langley’s lips. His eyes darted to the shadows and, on seeing Lamb, took on a haunted quality.

  Sensing only one avenue of escape, Langley dived to the right of CC and was off. Faster than a hare, he dodged them; setting off in the direction of the chapel of rest. “After him man!” CC shouted.

  Lamb sighed, touched his forelock and, with all the speed of a greyhound, set off in pursuit.

  For a few seconds, CC followed the chase with pride then he too joined the fray.

  Keeping his eye on Langley, CC edged round a remarkably fine anchor memorial and waited. Too concerned with the man on his heels, Langley piled headfirst into CC.

  Both men went flying and landed in an ignominious heap. There was a struggle. Langley brought fists into play but CC, with the dogged determination of a man who played rugger in his salad days, prevailed.

  “Why’d you run?” CC asked after establishing Langley didn’t intend escaping again.

  Langley glared at him and rubbed his cheek vigorously. “Well, how was I to know you was real?” As justifications went, it was acceptable, even if it raised more questions than it answered.

  CC blew his nose and waited for the groundsman to continue.

  Lamb took out his notebook and licked the lead. “Just stick to the facts as is, and don’t go off on flights of fancy. You understand, Mr Langley?”

  The groundsman threw Lamb a look of intense dislike and seemed about to say something, that may or may not have been derogatory. However, Lamb – made of sterner stuff – returned one that promised retribution in any world and Langley subsided.

  “The last couple of weeks there’s been this bloke, in an overcoat like yours, turning up at my lodgings. Asking funny questions of me landlady.”

  “Questions such as?” The warning note remained in evidence.” What time did I go out? Were me habits regular? Did I buy toffees from Black’s? Did I get me groceries from Smith’s?”

  Lamb took notes. CC stared at the man stone-faced, “And do you?” he asked.

  “Yes, to the first. No, to the second. Me landlady gets the veg from the top of the road.”

  CC nodded. “Did you tell this bloke that?”

  Langley shook his head. “No, I bleedin’ didn’t. Don’t like people nosing in my business. Kept meself to meself after that business in ‘76. That’s why I ran from you bastards.” He glared at Lamb who tapped his notebook in a warning tattoo. “Suppose the landlady might have said summet. She was getting mightily pissed off with him. You’d have to ask her.”

  “You been feeling bilious recently?” Lamb asked, putting his notebook in his trouser pocket as he did so. “Or been going to the loo more frequent?”

  “Jeez! Bloody nosy you police, ain’t you?”

  “We’re only doing our job, sir.”

  Langley’s belligerence increased tenfold as he told Lamb where to get off.

  Fournier Street.

  For a man at death’s door, Gold looked well. Not that the lad knew the pawnbroker was working against the advice of his doctor. No, all the stocky l
ad with two missing teeth knew was that most feared man in Whitechapel summoned him to do a little favour.

  “You wanted me, sir?” His voice showed a caution becoming to his years.

  “I understand your mother has trouble making her rent?”

  An innocuous question. But Malcolm knew the man at the desk didn’t ask idle questions. Keeping his face as passive as possible, he nodded.

  “My Emily also says you know how to keep a secret.”

  “Sir?” Rumours the older man never quite shook, thanks to the malicious tongue of a former employee, rose from the recesses of the boy’s memory and played across a face too innocent to mask them.

  Gold coughed and, knowing that it would be foolish to allude in any way to the boy’s silent concerns, moved swiftly to the point. “I need you and some friends to go into Old Nichol.” Gold’s hand and intermittent coughing stayed the boy’s immediate response. “Yes, I know it’s changed its name. Still the same place though, for all they’ve widened the streets and built those red-bricked monstrosities.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “I need to find someone. When it was Old Nichol, I knew where he lived.” Given the old man rarely left the shop these days, Malcolm decided his story rang true. “Now, alas, with all the turmoil and rebuilding, he’s gone to ground.”

  Malcolm nodded his understanding. The government’s pet project to clear the rookery caused chaos for the undeserving poor and a lot of hardship for those who couldn’t afford the new flats and tenements.

  “I know he resides somewhere to the east of the new estate,” Gold continued between coughs. “But where? ... Danny went there to collect a gun for us, but a club to the back of the head did for his memory. And I need to find this man. Discretely. Quickly. Before Emily returns and berates me for not keeping my promise.”

  It was an entry into shared male camaraderie, which Malcolm didn’t take up as he eyed the old man shrewdly. “And Mum’s rent?” Emily was correct, Gold decided, the lad was quick on the uptake.