An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

  “That confused us, for a while.” I glanced around the room as I spoke, nearly faltering when I saw a light of approval in my grandfather’s otherwise emotionless eyes. “Lilian and Langley never met. He was dead before she left The Grapes. And Deryn never left Llong.”

  “But he didn’t need to leave Llong.” Like a well-oiled team, where I finished, Emily picked up. “He knew Lilian wasn’t due to meet Langley till the 22nd. He also knew the duke was sending Clifford off on some fool’s errand to London.”

  Everyone turned towards the footman, who pinked around the gills. “That’s right, Miss Emily. Deryn asked me to do a bit of digging. Said Mrs Poulter was meeting an old friend who’d fallen on hard times. Said if I liked the cut of his jib – as he put it – I was to drop off a bottle of decent wine as she’d deserved a good night.” Clifford flushed further. “Well Langley might have lived in a good part of town, but his landlady was a belligerent piece. Gave me the bum’s rush when I went a calling, so I went back later and dropped off the bottle of port along with some cheese, pretending it came from his usual suppliers.” Clifford hung his head in shame.” I am so, so sorry.”

  Sampson put a comforting hand on the footman’s shoulder.

  Later, when only Emily, CC, Grandfather and my staff remained, the duke asked the final set of questions to bring this affair to its conclusion. “Do you think he wanted to kill you, Byrd?”

  “Oh yes, Your Grace.” Emily’s smile never left her mouth. “He knew from the conversation over lunch that Sym was on to him. He had no idea who I am, or what our relationship is; just assumed I was yet another mistress.”

  “Death of a playboy and all that. A terrible prank gone wrong,” I quipped. “I bet he hoped to divert attention away from where I died, long enough for gossip to do his thing. The good Carillon would claim he had no idea how the chalice came to be on my bedside table. But there’d be suspicions. People would remember Blodwen’s death and would whisper. And you’d prefer that as it would quash all other rumours that would circulate.”

  “Rumours?” My grandfather’s question sounded more like a demand for information.

  Sampson closed his eyes and shook his head in desperation. CC blew his nose in preparation for what followed. Watkins admired the carpet.

  “Maybe Sym took the chalice as a dare?” Emily replied seriously, “Maybe drinking from stolen goods was part of our sordid and depraved bed sports!”

  My grandfather blustered and spluttered. CC blew his nose again. Sampson and Watkins, having made eye contact, exchanged mirth filled looks, before setting to work handing around drinks. Emily watched Grandfather and I watched her.

  “But whatever rumour circulated after your grandson’s death,” Emily continued, “Deryn was counting on you to squash it and sent me packing with a flea in my ear! After all you made your dislike of me well known. He assumed, like Lady Serena, I’d throw a temper tantrum big enough to let people think, like Mrs Bravo, I’d killed my man.”

  “I see.” For a moment, I thought the duke would apologise, but instead a remaining question slipped over his teeth. I tensed. “Miss Davies ... Emily ... The knife you pulled on Deryn ... do you know how to use it? Or was it another bit of serendipity?”

  She laughed, trilling, fulsome and genuine. “Oh la, sir! What kind of girl do you take me for? It was the first weapon Uncle taught me to use.”

  Tuesday 18th June.

  London’s smog was a welcome smell after the Welsh countryside. Full of fury and mystery, I inhaled deeply, taking the familiarity of it deep into my lungs. Hugging it to my heart like a friend. Emily and Nanny came with me on the train while Sampson and Watkins went ahead to make sure the little place in Cripplegate was clean enough to hand back to the pawnbroker.

  I’d not discussed the contents of the jar with Emily for no other reason than Kerzenende was no Canton Sue or Deryn. His despatching needed the master not the apprentice. Of course, Grandfather and CC were privy to my plans. I’d expected disapproval of my decision to go to Gold with this, however, as I directed the water taxi to drop me outside The Grapes, I knew they supported this decision.

  Emily’s uncle waited in a quiet booth near the back. Niall and Jethro watched hawkishly from the bar - where to all intents and purposes, they were simply two old friends enjoying a beer. Akio and his brother Kato – still heavy with cold – took over the fireplace. But no one dared complain. Retired they might be, but both men were still formidable wrestlers, whose fame preceded them.

  Jethro’s eldest sashayed towards me and signalled to where the old man waited. Then job jobbed, as the saying goes, she curtsied and left me to my conversation.

  Wordlessly, I handed over Salisbury’s letter. Gold eyed the unbroken seal briefly before tearing it open.

  “The prime minister authorised me to release you from all promises.” I told him as he read the missive.

  Gold’s eyebrows folded in on themselves. “The price for my help is high.”

  “He said it would be. I’m ordered to accept your terms without discussion.”

  Amusement took the old man’s shoulders and stayed there for a while. “Please thank him for his generosity when you see him. And give him my regards.” His shoulders shook one last time and he sobered. “Tell Robert ... I’ll miss him.”

  “Emily said the same.”

  Gold nodded. “And now for my terms.”

  I took out a notepad ready to write them down, even though I knew they would be seared on my soul. “Go on.”

  The old man’s lips twitched. “I require three things. Firstly, the keys to the Cripplegate house and Emily’s return before nightfall tomorrow. Secondly, Emily will accompany you to Salisbury’s funeral.”

  I refused to work out the logistics of getting Emily to a prime minister’s last rites. We would work that out later. “And the third?”

  He gave me a hard and soulless grin. “A little favour as the payment you will make without question. I’ll let you know the details when Kerzenende is dead and autopsied.” He took off the crow’s head ring, turning it so the beak faced his heart, and its eyes no longer flashed their all too macabre warning. I’d seen the gesture often enough during my sojourn in Fournier Street. I was dismissed.

  I stood up and downed my drink in one. “Thank you, Uncle. I look forward to doing what you want of me.”

  Amusement took his shoulders for one final time, and he waved me away with a careless hand. It wasn’t until I was outside, paying the ferryman to take me back down the Thames that I realised I’d been holding my breath.

  From Reports. Tuesday 25th June.

  An old man’s stick hitting the cobbles wasn’t an unusual sound for this part of London, though the darkness of the night indicated it should be. What was unusual – for the owner of the cane – was the slow nature of his walk as he turned towards Farringdon.

  “Niall, either hide off home to the wife or find the bed of a willing whore.”

  “No thanks, boss! I’ll see you in The Ten Bells!”

  “Good call, my girls are cleaner!”

  Niall swore and stomped off into the darkness, Gold’s shout of laughter mocking him until he was round the corner and out of hearing.

  Immediately, Gold’s demeanour changed. Gone was the hesitant walk. Instead, there was purpose and speed; a man with a destination to achieve and the desire not to tarry, until he stopped at the gates of the newly opened Finsbury Circus Park.

  It was hard to glean from the impassive face, what the old man made of his surroundings. Possibly, the occasional tut could be interpreted as disgust. Yet whether this was for the disappearance of the old Georgian houses or for the replacements – Portland stone-fronted buildings that hugged the oval park like a lover – it was difficult to say.

  Reaching the middle of the green, Gold sat down on a random bench and gave the world the impression he was simply going to sleep.

  If he paid attention to the footsteps coming towards him, he made no sign. Indeed, it wasn’t unt
il their owner was comfortably arranged on his star-shaped napkin that Gold deigned to open his eyes. “I’ve a bone to pick with you.”

  “I didn’t like the tone of your summons. It was demeaning; unworthy of my calling.” Kerzenende said metallically.

  Gold’s crow’s head ring glistened in the gaslight. “Your recent activities, Mr Baker, they’ve created a great deal of interest from people I try to avoid.”

  Kerzenende raised an eyebrow. “The police? Fools. All of them.”

  “Not the ones I deal with.”

  “Ah yes, the redoubtable Sir Charles Carter.” Kerzenende sneered the name into existence. “A true bluebottle ... His cousin, now there’s a worthy opponent. Shame he can identify me. I did enjoy our encounter. Fortunately for you and him I need to lie low for ... let us say... another ten years. But rest assured, I will come for him.”

  Gold’s face retained its amusement as he changed the subject. “Very generous of you.”

  Kerzenende took a napkin from his pocket and dabbed the corner of his lips. “I am sorry about Flo.”

  “The manner of her death would indicate otherwise.”

  “I needed to send a warning.” Kerzenende folded the napkin as he spoke ...

  “To whom? My silence is assured.”

  ... And twisted it

  “You disagree?” Gold continued his monologue. “The others wouldn’t have said anything, didn’t say anything. Even when Spinnaker recognised you when you got in his carriage that night, the fact you reached your destination proves he didn’t intend to do anything other than a little blackmail and you could have paid that - easily.” Gold paused as Kerzenende turned the napkin by 90 degrees.

  “And what did you have to fear from Langley? A man who worked with the dead because the dead tell no tales. No, he’d never talk. And poor Lamb who interviewed you in ‘76 and remembered you in ‘88 only because you pressed. How could he say anything? No one listened the first time.”

  This time Kerzenende yawned. “You did ...”

  “But who am I to tell tales? Unless I am threatened.” Gold’s cane tapped the paving stones.

  “... and you bore me.”

  “Flo didn’t deserve what you did to her. She cleaned your clothes and kept your secrets. Neither did Spinnaker. Nor Alice McKenzie and Francis Coles, who had their throats cut in ‘89 ... and all because they saw you with Mary Jane that night.” Gold stopped and fiddled with his ring. “Neither, for that matter, did Billy Pearce.”

  Kerzenende stopped his incessant turning and folding and yawned once more. “And yet, you’ve done nothing about it.”

  “My silence was bought... and your continued existence was part of that deal.” Gold spat.

  Kerzenende’s mouth turned up in disgust. “That wasn’t very nice!” he said coldly. “I didn’t know I’d been part of your horse trading for Emily. How...lowering.” Kerzenende crushed his napkin and, as if fixing his attention on the trees opposite, stared through Gold. “My earlier offer is off the table. Forget ten years, you have until Salisbury’s dead and buried to get that heir of yours out of her body. After that, Emily and that lover of hers are fair game.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” The eyes of the crow’s head ring glittered.

  “Don’t push me, Gold. Everyone knows she’s your weakness. Even though you rarely leave Fournier Street, she does. Trust me, it would take mere moments to slip a cord around her throat. Perhaps, given I’m older, I’ll take longer to do to her what I did to Mary ... though of course I’d leave the baby at the scene this time. Just to make sure you died of a broken heart.”

  Anger consuming him, Gold rose like a phantom. Arms wide, cane high; eyes flashing fire. “This conversation is over,” he snarled. “You will leave my Emily alone. Or you will regret it.”

  “Wrong. Way. Round! I will not leave your Emily alone, and you will regret it!” Kerzenende laughed, a cruel, taunting thing that wrapped its way around the park, smothering all sounds: even that of Gold’s cane as it, and its owner, strode towards the exit.

  At the edge of Finsbury Circus, near to where the old church once stood, the pawnbroker turned and raised his hand in a salute that wasn’t returned, though Kerzenende stopped laughing long enough to hear a strange whistle hiss into existence before he slumped forward on the bench.

  His hand back at his side, Gold stopped to talk to an old lady, huddling in a doorway for warmth. “In a few hours, the police will find a body. They will ask you what you know?”

  She looked up at him fearfully. “I didn’t see nuffin’, Mr Gold!” she assured him. “I’ll tell ‘em, I saw nuffin.”

  The old man dropped to his haunches and took her trembling hands in his. “No, you won’t. Tell them you’ll only talk to someone from Scotland Yard: a man by the name of Lamb. And when he comes, tell him the man on the bench is Kerzenende, Gull’s assistant ... and he’s safe.”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Life returned to normal. June became July, and summer brought welcome relief from the rain. I danced attendance on Serena - even accompanying her brother-in-law to a club where he wished to gain membership. But my heart wasn’t in the business, and I was mightily glad when Serena and her sister-in-law took one of the White Star Line ships to the States.

  Glad of the temporary reprieve from my mistress, I threw myself into the role of a doting uncle after CC’s daughter made her appearance even later than anticipated. A quick telephone call from the harassed father telling me his news also revealed that Lamb deposited his latest resignation a week earlier than I’d picked in Watkins’ sweepstake.

  The prime minister, of course, summoned me to Downing Street for a debrief. But the twinkle in his eyes told me I was forgiven for my entanglement with that world, despite my promise to leave well alone.

  Even my staff forgave me. My favourite foods were served. The camaraderie returned.

  By September, however, I needed solitude.

  So, having given the staff the night off, I sat in the glow of a small fire, contemplating everything and nothing. I blame the warmth, cognac, and boredom for the doze that could have become a deep sleep had it not been rudely interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  “Go away, CC!” I refused to open my eyes.

  Two sets of footsteps padded in my direction.

  “And take the good sergeant with you.”

  “Can’t do that, Major,” came an Irish accented reply.

  “Jethro! Didn’t know you had a key?” I said with as much languor as I dared given there could only be one reason for his late-night visit.

  “I don’t. Ma has the contract ...” My regal wave sent him into silence before he could tell me the ins and outs of the Ma Char Domestic Agency.

  “I take it Mr Gold wants me to pay my debt. What is it? Babysit some diamonds on the Blue Train? Or a little trip on the Orient Express with some emeralds for the Tsar?”

  “Not quite, Major.” I opened an eye to find a letter inches from my face. “Read this. Sets out the boss’ terms.”

  Hurriedly, I took it. Forgoing the simple pleasure of the letter opener beside me for the simpler expedient of a finger, I ripped the envelope in two; extracted its contents and read the single sentence.

  The cost of my help is simple: Emily will reside with you until you and she have secured my heir.

  It was signed with a child-like drawing of a crow.

  I looked up as Jethro moved aside. Standing behind him, like the character from Whitcomb Riley’s ‘Little Orphant Annie’, valise in hand, was Emily.

  My bewilderment didn’t last long. Barely had I time to stand and make my way to greet her, than she told me exactly what was going on. “Next time you make a bleedin’ deal with my uncle, Sym, get it in writing. He ain’t no gentleman.”

  She rounded on Jethro, who backed away from her obvious anger and jabbing index finger. “And as for you? You snake! Go tell him you delivered me as ordered, and I’ll telephone when he’s got wha
t he wants. Until then – if you dare – you can tell my uncle to go boil his arse.”

  A lot is written on Jack the Ripper and probably will continue to be written long after this century is confined to the annals of history. Everyone has their own theory as to the whys and wherefores; the who and the how.

  The same is true for the death of Charles Bravo, whose poisoning by antimony in 1876 remains unsolved. Was it the wife, the gardener, or the housekeeper? Or did Bravo kill himself in error?

  There is a link between the Ripper and Bravo - one William Whitney Gull. An eminent doctor – famed for his work in the field of anorexia – and one of Queen Victoria’s physicians; he attended the deathbed of Charles Bravo.

  He was identified as a Ripper suspect in 1970, when Dr Thomas Stowell’s assertion he’d seen evidence implicating Prince Eddy was published in the November 1970 issue of The Criminologist. The theme was developed further in the BBC drama-documentary, Jack the Ripper, in the book, The Final Solution by Stephen Knight, and by Melvyn Fairclough in The Ripper and the Royals.

  As claims go, Gull’s identification as a suspect is far-fetched and unsustainable. Too much rests on Gull’s forgetfulness, rumours of bloodstained clothing; claims he was institutionalised under the name of Thomas Mason 124; his behaviour during the last days of Bravo, and of course his professional link to the royal family and ergo Prince Eddy - suspected because of his visits to prostitutes in the East End. But it got my creative brain thinking.

  As did a comment by my father. He carried the test tubes of urine samples for the doctor who proved the widespread taking of performance enhancers by the East German cycling team. Telling me of the event, he said: “History never remembers the test tube carrier.” Enter Kerzenende.

  I doubt the world will ever know the identity of Jack the Ripper. Yet, of four things I am certain. One, he terrified people into silence: the people who cleaned his clothes; drove his carriage; lived and worked alongside him. Two, his was a twisted, compulsive and methodical mind. Three, Mary Kelly wasn’t the last, nor Mary Nicholls his first victim. And four? Like the Baker from Carroll’s ‘The Hunting of the Snark’, he softly and suddenly vanished away at the hands of a boojum.