by S. E. Smith
“When Emily and I ...”
Sampson’s muttered disgust, like the rest of my reply, was lost as my cousin’s glass fell to the floor, smashing into a thousand pieces.
Ignoring my staff’s outrage, I fixed all my energy on my cousin. “Nothing to say CC?” I waved my hands theatrically.
If looks could kill, I would be dead thrice over. CC’s gills flared; his cheeks rouged. Had he been in possession of something more substantial than his ever-present handkerchief, I feel sure it would have been bowled at my head with all the cricketing skills of W.G. Grace.
“What the hell? Did I hear you right?” he hissed.
“You did, old bean.” I went for facetious bonhomie and open stupidity. Plastering a vacuous air to my otherwise handsome visage, I opened my arms widely. “Congratulate me, cousin. Emily has made me the happiest of men.”
The blow, when it came, was painful and deserved. I stumbled back into a waiting chair, covering my bleeding nose with my hands, I waited for more blows to rain down.
Yet nothing happened. Despite the fact the punch didn’t calm my cousin, there was no more violence. For, without stopping to see the results of his handiwork, CC stormed out into the hall, retrieved his, and his men’s, belongings from the coat stand, and, having all but thrown their coats at Barker and Lamb, turned on me again.
“I was going to tell you about a death we got called to on a tip off from Jethro,” my cousin snarled as he forced his arms into his coat. “But you can talk to that woman and her uncle about it when you’re cosying up together of an evening. I’ll be in touch when you’ve come to your senses and used your brain, not your ...”
I didn’t need to see CC, Lamb, and Barker depart. I – and the whole of Mayfair – heard them.
From Reports. Fournier Street.
Emily was glad to be home. Accepting her cup of cocoa gratefully, she used the ritual of warming her hands as an excuse to avoid the awkward questions she knew would come after her news.
“Did things go well in Llong?” Nanny asked. “Not really. Lilian’s dead.” Emily kept her tone light and her sentences short.
Nanny and Gold sucked at their teeth and murmured something in the old tongue.
“Foul play?”
Emily nodded. “I’ll get Doctor McGregor to run tests on the tertiary samples Mr Sampson took, but yes, Uncle. They buried her today. I paid.”
Gold smiled. “Well done. And the separate sampling is a sensible precaution. How’s the good valet?”
Emily’s returning smile was not pleasant. “He didn’t like it that Sym and I got friendly. All pretence of a truce ended last night when he found out just how friendly.” It was a lie, sort of; the pretence of truce would end the moment Symington told the older man of their plan.
“Oh! That is good news, bubbeleh!” Gold’s eyes twinkled, then – as if realising how his words could be misconstrued – hastened to explain himself. “About you and the earl, I mean.”
Emily grinned her response, glad that to see her uncle suddenly more chipper.
Nanny’s needles stopped their infernal chattering, and she glared at the head of the Impereye. “I’ll blame you Mordecai Adonais if this all gets out of hand. The girl doesn’t need the heir thrust upon her if she’s not ready.”
Gold held up his hands. “Peace, Nanny. They’re both adults. And a babe’s a blessing.” As usual. Gold’s words reminded Nanny that they may have been childhood friends, but that friendship was not to be played upon. Not when this was Impereye business.
Still irritated, but knowing her place, Nanny changed the subject. “How’d Lil die?”
“Nasty.” Emily stifled a yawn that wasn’t totally fake.
Gold held up his hand. “Later, bubbeleh. Judging from that yawn, you left early and haven’t stopped until you got here. Now go and get some sleep. I’ll let the earl know, he has my permission to visit you tomorrow. Then and only then you two lovebirds can tell me all about your adventures, and we can swap notes on all these murders.”
Realising the dismissal included her, Nanny made a great show of gathering her bits together so as to make it look like the decision to leave was her idea. “Well I’d best be off, Mordy,” she said from the doorway. “Flo’s children’ll want to know about their aunt.”
“They didn’t want to know her in life.”
“If Lil had money, Mordy, they’ll be interested.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Wednesday 13th March.
Sampson did not come with me to Fournier Street. It was below his “dignity to abide in a den of thieves” he said when I pressed him; adding that it was also “against his sense of decency” to do more than “pack my bags and wish me well.”
I had no comeback for that. “You can always resign,” I reminded him, feeling that since last year this suggestion was a reoccurring codicil to our arguments.
“No need for me to put my resignation in, my lord,” he said in his best disapproving tone. “I’ll just wait at the flat for you to come to your senses - if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Watkins drove me to the pawnbroker’s. But even he left me, like the new boy on the first day of term, to carry my bags the short distance from the market to the shop.
Niall, opening the door as Watkins drove off into the sunset, gave me one of those looks reserved for officers who’ve had too much sun. But at least he took my bags and told me where I’d find my lady and her uncle before he left me to climb the stairs to their lair.
Bizarrely, I felt like Pip visiting Miss Havisham for the first time. With every step I took my pace slowed until I dragged my feet. Giving myself a strict talking to I mounted the last set of stairs, continuing my monologue until I reached the room indicated.
Pausing for a second time, I shined my shoes on the backs of my trousers, straightened any creases out of my jacket and ran unaccountably nervy fingers through my hair. Then taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door.
“Come in, son.”
Gold and his niece sat in front of the stove fire, looking very much at home and enjoying life. Bowing slightly to a pale cheeked but otherwise perky Gold, I kissed Emily because I could, and I wanted to. Then I pulled up the spare chair and let the ruse begin.
Not that it felt like a ruse. For there was nothing loverlike about our behaviour. We simply discussed the case so far and Jethro’s notes on the crime scene.
By my reckoning Spinnaker’s death brought the death toll to eight. But Emily disagreed, arguing that the cabbie’s death was not part of the same investigation. His name was not on Gull’s list.
“But my dearest girl! Witness the injuries to the face ...”
“Done either because the murderer hated him, or needed to hide something.”
“Flo’s face was blown off to make it look like suicide. And you know what ... the more I think upon’t, the murderer did what he did to Langley as a warning.”
She sucked at her lower lip and tilted her head. “Say I agree? A warning to whom?”
“Lilian? It certainly made her scurry back to Wales.”
“Where no one would link her death to anyone else’s.”
And ... from thereon in, we bickered like children.
Until long past the time a caller should go home and take her beau with her. And I realised I’d not listened properly to what Emily told me in the graveyard. Now as all things became clear, I knew why I couldn’t sleep on a chair.
“Forgive an old man and his bluntness,” Gold said as he went through the nightly ritual of cocoa for all. “If this affair proves long lasting, you two won’t want an old man under your feet, so I’ll set about searching out a nice little property in Angel. Or Cripplegate.”
I waited for Emily to protest, but she merely smiled.
“My choice is neutral territory,” the old man informed me dryly as I made to demure. “With a property near Fournier Street, order is restored, and the relevant warnings issued.”
I wav
ed regally, though my mind and scorpions raced over the implications of his words. My scorpions danced an: if-he-knew-that-we-knew-that-he-was-and-we-were dance until cracked of voice, there was only one answer. “I am yours to command, Uncle.”
“You are indeed, son.”
Not sure whether Gold issued a threat or a warning, I took it as both and settled into a lifestyle that could become all too permanent ... if I wasn’t careful.
Saturday 13th April.
It took longer for me to get used to the rabbit warren of buildings at the heart of Gold’s empire than it did for the locals to get used to the sight of me. Two houses combined into one to the front, it extended into at least one of the properties in the street behind. Constantly busy, I was reminded of New York. For like that city, this house didn’t stop either.
My time in Sikkim made me a light sleeper, and once awake, finding it difficult to return to Morpheus’ arms, it was my habit to take a short perambulation to the kitchen. I’d warned Gold, hoping it would ameliorate the situation. To little success. For even though I was under Gold’s protection - grim-faced men and women viewed my nightly manoeuvres through partially opened doors. Their blackjacks and knives; hastily hidden when they discovered their prowler was none other than my humble self.
Entering Gold’s parlour, some two days into my sojourn, with a spring in my step and a whistle on my lips, I found the table set for breakfast and coffee percolating. Gold, sans shoes, looked up from his newspaper and smiled benevolently. “How’s Emily?”
“Asleep.”
The smile evolved into habitual amusement. “Good. My Emily needs her sleep. She works too hard.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee to save myself the necessity of answering the old man and sipped the brew with increasing enjoyment. “This is good.”
“My mother’s recipe. I remember as a child sitting in the old country, listening to the sound of it brewing. I like it like this, so does Emily.”
It was the entrée I needed: “I hadn’t realised you weren’t born in England ...”
He smiled his approval at my question and slipped into the role of confidant. “We came over as an entirety. Four families in total, including Nanny, whose father was my father’s best friend. We had to get away from one of the Tsar’s pogroms of my people.”
I nodded my understanding. Even in England, word of such things rattled the corridors of power, bringing unease for the future of the Russian Government.
“Not that England was our intended destination, son. My grandfather’s heart was broken by the need to leave all but his most important jewellery equipment behind, and so the family only got as far as Bohemia before that broken organ beat its last. I would have been about nine. My older brother eleven. Joseph and Carmi, the twins, were born in Prague.”
“A lovely city.”
“Perhaps. But we weren’t wanted there either. Beset by quarrels, the family split. My grandmother, Uncle Mordecai and his family headed west to Amsterdam - where he set up shop in the Jewellery Quarter and made quite a name for himself as a courier. We left Prague after a couple of years later. We’d believed time would create harmony between us and the gentiles. It didn’t. So, we came to London.”
“Very handy for the Impereye.” The comment was flippant.
The reply was not. “Exactly, son. My brothers and I found a home in the organisation. It gave us order, stability; a future.”
“Where did the rest of the families go?”
“Třebíč. A lovely little town in Moravia. Beautiful Jewish Quarter, nestling in the hills, overlooking the rest of the town. A real community. Not like London.”
Gold was lost in memories, and I let him be for a while, using the time to drink my coffee and process what he told me.
“You were a big family?” I asked, as I poured us another cup.
“Indeed, son. By the time we reached England, I had six brothers and five sisters. Alas, most of us are cursed to lose children either in infancy or pregnancy; though my sisters, Carmi and Joseph had more luck.”
“A lot of children. A lot of deaths.” I fell silent, feeling I pried enough.
We drank our coffee, companions in our contemplations, until ... “And you?” Mordy asked, though I felt he already knew the answer to that.
I took another sip, considering my reply. Tempting as it was, to tell the truth, I settled for the well-rehearsed and oft-repeated lie. “The heir, the spare, and of course my sister. Not that we’re close. She despises me. Went to live in Canada to emphasise the point. My brother despairs rather than despises. He’s an academic. I do not bother him. He does not bother me.”
“And then there’s CC.” Gold said, determined to show his mastery of my lineage.
“And then there’s CC,” I agreed in a tone that made it clear there would be no more answers on that delicate topic.
Gold laughed, poured me a second cup of coffee and changed the subject. Except Gold never changed the subject. He was like Emily in that regard.
“I am surprised - pleasantly surprised - to see you here, son. I thought you and my Emily would take longer to reach an understanding.”
I didn’t answer; too glad he used the word understanding and not implied we were in love. Yet again, it was all I needed to ask my questions. But I hesitated to take advantage of the fact. I think I realised that the more I knew of him, his world and his past; the more I would be tied to the Impereye and all it stood for. And that could - would - cause problems for CC.
“She worries for your health, Uncle.”
A pause occurred during the pouring of his second cup of coffee and his eyes shone with more than his usual bonhomie. “No reason for worry, son. I tell her so, repeatedly. I am an old man, with an old man’s ills. Nothing more. Nothing less. I feel better every day you are here.” The soulless amusement grew, and, not for the first time, I suspected this illness was little more than a ruse - though the why eluded me.
“And the handkerchief?”
Gold’s smile vanished into his vampiric eyebrows. “To bring people to heel.”
“And the cough?”
“Old men cough.” His shrug indicated I should argue with him.
I did not. “Sometimes it’s not the coffin that carries you off!” I kept my tone as flippant as possible, knowing he would expect such a thing from me.
He subjected me to a harsh stare. “Rest assured, I’ll not die until the Impereye heir knows their letters and the ways of business.” Gold’s amusement curled into a Cheshire cat of a grin. “And as Nanny was non-stop advice on how to prevent that occurrence last year; it is highly probable you’ll have me around for a while to come.” As he reached the end of his sentence, the old man’s grin faded.
And in that instant, it hit me. Emily was right to be worried. The old man was afraid. And not because he needed his heir. I tucked the conundrum away, for later ponderings.
Gold pottered. I stewed; until a bright-eyed, sleep-tousled Emily joined us and breakfast began.
“When I was a boy, Grandfather decided CC and I needed to learn to swim,” I said as I tucked into my plateful of kosher fare.
“Having had the joy of meeting him,” Emily said in an equally light tone, “I’ll bet my eye teeth his methods were crude?”
“Yes, but effective. He took us to Beddgelert for the day. The youngsters of the village were jumping off the bridge into the river.”
Gold twinkled with a memory that might prove useful to our investigation, but rather than rushing him, I settled down to tell my tale ...
Beddgelert 1867.
Despite the cold, the sun sent sparkles across the stream that wound its way through the sleepy village, home to Gelert’s dog. Children screaming their enjoyment were barely audible above the rushing water, which white waved its way over and around the boulders. It wasn’t deep, more of a plunge pool than an ocean but to a novice this tree-lined river, full of rocks and torrential water, was frightening.
Looking for reassurance,
I stared at CC. He was – how shall I put it – angry. Never did like being paraded around, shown off; ‘specially as at sixteen, he had to put up with the nine-year-old me, dogging his every footstep. Treating him like my own personal Good King Wenceslas. But that day I sensed the anger wasn’t with me, and relaxed.
It was a lovely green afternoon, and local sheep were taking advantage of the sunshine to eat, drink and be bleaty. In the distance, the mountains – normally so menacing in their stark greyness – seemed benign presences. Turning my back to the bridge, I stared out towards The Royal Goat, trying to catch sight of the folly that is Gelert’s grave. But the sun was in my eyes, and all I could see was the dust motes twinkling their way from heaven to earth.
I was brought out of my dream state by Grandfather’s loud, rusty voice, echoing off the nearby houses. “£50 to every last one of you that beats my boys into the river! And none of that sitting stuff. I want to see standing jumps from the bridge. Backwards.”
The roar that met his initial offer faded into the background. One by one the children turned their back on his largesse. “Mam strap me,” I heard one boy mutter as he slunk into the crowd ... until only one remained. A flame-haired, sixteen-year-old siren, who became CC’s first crush, and later performed the same duties for me.
Myfanwy met Grandfather’s eye and negotiated him up to one hundred. Thirty in advance; the rest on completion. Then she took up her pose on the bridge, while – like idiots – CC and I watched this graceful figure fall backwards into the water, curling herself slightly so her back wasn’t flat.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the roar of the crowd as she emerged like a Greek goddess. It was a sound larger than any I’ve heard at a formal sporting event.
Of course, the sight of her near-naked form galvanised CC into action. Stripping off his tie, and shirt like a man possessed, he bolted for the bridge. Hopping up as though such physical activity was a regular occurrence.
