A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Wednesday 7th November.

  Chubb and Sons Lock and Safe Company Ltd was an impressive five-storey, red-brick building, with a remarkable turret structure linking two sides of the factory. Chubb had recently taken over the site; demolishing what was left of the workhouse to build this impressive monument to Victorian engineering success. Their name proudly emblazoned in white lettering on the balustrade as a sign of their eternal optimism and confidence, could be seen from miles away.

  “At least it’s being put to better use, now.”

  Watkins shut the door behind me and doffed his cap. “That’s as may be, guv. But I pity the poor sods who lived here. Not that you can call it living. Not in one of them places.” He shivered from personal remembrance. “Still it begs the question, what happened to ‘em? Just coz you get rid of the workhouse, don’t mean you get rid of the problem.”

  Watkins hesitated and gave the matter further consideration. “Would be nice if getting rid of poverty could be achieved in my lifetime. Course if women ever got the vote ...” He paused and we both gave the idea its head. “World’ll be a different place when that happens!”

  “Quite possibly, Watkins. Quite possibly.” My mind was full of scorpions, otherwise, I would have debated the matter with him. Instead, I nodded absently and headed off towards the firm’s entrance.

  A big man, Chubb accentuated his increased girth by dressing his waistcoat with a gold Albert chain on which hung a sovereign. A bluff northerner in outlook and speech, he greeted me with a complete lack of ceremony or obsequiousness.

  Of course, the matter at hand could not be discussed immediately. Typically, the press got wind of my visit, sending a reporter to dog my every footstep. No doubt his editor was searching for gossip he could sell on to the scandal rags of Fleet Street. Not that I blamed them. As Sampson would say, ‘Man cannot live by bread alone.’

  Consequently, making all the right noises and being terribly indiscrete and fatuous, I allowed myself to be taken on a tour of the factory, by the equally business savvy baronet.

  As I told CC when I was back in London, I didn’t know what to make of the shop floor. Far too haphazard for my liking, although the neat rows and ingenious system of lifts and pulleys were well worth admiring.

  Small strongboxes nestled between larger, room-size monstrosities. Men in cloth caps and overalls were hunched over small safes while others in white aprons, stood on steps while they worked on the locking mechanisms of the taller ones. All in all, a fascinating morning and one that would come in useful one day.

  It was clear by the end of the tour, I’d worked my magic on the young reporter, who shook my hand with gusto. “Thank you! Thank you!”

  “My pleasure.” I extracted my paw and watched the man bound down the stairs with all the enthusiasm of a puppy who has snaffled a juicy bone from the kitchen.

  “Come Byrd,” Chubb’s voice boomed through his beard. “Luncheon awaits.” And reporter immediately forgotten, I followed my host upstairs.

  Food consumed and Merlot replaced by a decent port, I brought the conversation around to the matter of my nocturnal visitor. “I got burgled two nights ago,” I said by way of an opening gambit, “hence my decision to visit you.”

  “The safe?”

  “Was breeched, yes. But theft was not the aim of my marauder.” I regarded Chubb carefully, scrutinising the older man for a sign that would shed light on the activities of that night. But the locksmith was as closed faced as a poker player. “When I asked the young lady how she did it, she directed me to you. Said you knew all about it.”

  Chubb’s face laughed. “She’s a clever sod, isn’t she?” He fixed me with a stare that sat well under bushy eyebrows. “Bit too much for my liking – and unfitting in a woman. But as my brother Harry is so fond of telling me: if you don’t use the best, someone else will.”

  “I see, and how long’s she been in your employ?”

  “About ten years, officially. Probably longer than that … Certainly since McCarthy got too old, too blind, and too arthritic to carry on.”

  Chubb pushed the port decanter towards me and rubbed at his beard. “I’m not sure how she’s related to McCarthy. But he’s mighty proud of her prowess as a picklock, and when old man Gold – who’s put a lot of business our way over the years – told us he would underwrite her work ... well only a fool would say no.”

  “Indeed.” I sipped my port and looked thoughtful. “Ever met the girl?”

  “No. As I said ... Don’t hold with doing business with women, so all the paperwork goes through McCarthy.”

  “But you know who she is?”

  I could have sworn Chubb’s eyes took on a scared quality as they glanced into the shadows of the room. “Leave it be, Byrd,” he growled. “Just take my word for it. You don’t want to know, and you don’t want Gold knowing who you are. Trust me on that.”

  “If you insist, Chubb.” Deciding he was being melodramatic, I allowed the conversation to turn to other things – the suffragettes and their foolhardy desire for the vote; the strike twelve years ago in the Bryant and May factory with its far-reaching consequences for anyone who employed men and women.

  Eventually, though, I turned the conversation to the girl. “You must have told her she wasn’t the only one testing the safe,” I stated as the other man passed me the port.

  Chubb shook his head. “All my testers work in isolation. She didn’t know about you, just as you didn’t know about her. Mind you, it’s very unusual for two people to be working on the same thing.”

  “I’m intrigued. Why now?”

  “We’re trying to get one up on Yale. The Americans believe theirs is a better system. We’re out to prove it isn’t. Hence the need to try out our new safe with our best safe-crackers.”

  Another nervous glance into the corners.

  Seeing his reaction, I ploughed on. “Forgive me for pushing. Could she have asked your brother if I were testing the safe?”

  “No, Byrd. She did not!” Chubb snapped, clearly appalled by the idea. “My brother, thankfully, has nothing to do with Gold and his world. That’s the cross I bear.” His expression indicated this part of our conversation was over. Now what else can I get you? Another port? Coffee?”

  A couple of hours later, I left the Chubb factory, with much to think about but little new evidence as to the identity of my night-time visitor. Of course, I could visit McCarthy – as one lock pick to another, but without the girl’s name it would be easy for the old man to fob me off with some cock and bull story. No, I would need to try a different route.

  And the girl had known that – right from the start.

  “Where to guv?” Watkins asked as soon as we were clear of the factory. “Old Sober-Sides did tell me he’s booked us into a little country inn about two hours away, near Oxford, but if you want to push on for home?”

  I didn’t reply immediately. “As much as home and the comfort of my bally bed sounds delightful, we should avail ourselves of the inn. I told CC I wouldn’t be back until Friday. And tis only Wednesday. He’ll be suspicious.”

  I smiled at Watkins, who grinned.

  “Deffo, guv! The suspicions of CC are the last things anybody needs!”

  I slept for much of the journey to Oxford. Or at least that’s what I wanted Watkins to believe. So, as I snored, he tutted.

  Finally, as the car pulled into the inn’s courtyard, I opened my eyes, stretched and smiled.

  “If you don’t mind me saying guv,” Watkins told me as he opened the door, “you look like the cat that got the cream.”

  “Indeed, I have!” Knowing the eyes of the world were on me – in the form of the innkeeper and his wife – I danced a quick jig. “I think I may have found a way of discovering her identity.” My smile grew. “A slight change of plan, Watkins. Drop me at Oxford station in the morning. I’ll take the train home.”

  “My drivin’ not bloody good enough for the c
apitalist pig?” he demanded loudly with exaggerated hurt in his voice.

  “As always Watkins, your driving’s perfection. However, I need to pay Ma Char a visit. And as the roads around her part of Aldwych are appalling, I’ll get there much faster if I walk. Now, if you’re able to remember you’re my servant, not my equal, and carry my baggage into this hostelry – we can at least maintain the fiction that I’m a pleasure-seeking man about town.”

  Watkins laughed. “Yeah right, guv.” He picked up my bags and made great show of carrying up the stairs to my room. “Not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to pull that one off. Not now there’s an intelligent woman involved.”

  “Stow it, Watkins.”

  From Reports.

  Thursday 8th November, Scotland Yard.

  “Well, Lamb?” CC didn’t glance up.

  “You were correct, Sir. Took a bit of time, but eventually, we found the other family.”

  “Really? Where and what?”

  “Leeds. And it’s not just a second wife and kiddies. There’s a sister and her family too. Want me to get the addresses?”

  “Please, Lamb. I’m meeting my cousin tomorrow evening. It would be good to have specific news for him.”

  It was easy to eliminate Cripps from the investigation. He turned up at a small but very exclusive hotel in Regents Park, medals on his chest and a fine military moustache hiding the evidence of a fracas over a native girl. He greeted Sampson as an old friend; was apologetic for not keeping in touch with Banks; but explained that with Mrs Cripps leaving him when he wouldn’t finance the drinking, or tolerate the prostitution, he felt too embarrassed to pay his old comrades a visit.

  Which left Jethro – and there was no point looking for him until night fell.

  The Grapes, Limehouse.

  A burly red-headed man, all brawn and muscle; known to the world as Jethro – was found standing outside The Grapes, staring out over the river. A man seemingly without a care in the world ... until you looked closely. For the eyes that had been wide and carefree only seconds before, narrowed with suspicion and a touch of guilt on spying Sampson making his way across the river.

  “A pleasant evenin’ to you, William.” Jethro greeted the valet jovially enough, even going so far as to offer to help him out of the boat that brought him downstream to the pub. But there was an edge to the Irishman’s bonhomie that gave his unease away. “I expected the major, not you.”

  Sampson, ignoring the Irishman’s helping hand, climbed the ladder quickly and without fuss. At the top, he turned and told the boatman to wait and do nothing until called; then he took out his tobacco pouch and made a great show of rolling his own cigarette. If the valet did all this to increase the tension – it worked. By the time Sampson finished lighting the fag, took a drag, and expelled the smoke into the night sky; Jethro was very edgy indeed.

  “It’s His Lordship to you,” Sampson snarled. “He’s away on business. And too busy to deal with scum like you.”

  A pause. Another drag. “Why’d you do it, Jeth?” As preludes to interrogations went, Sampson's first salvo was gentle.

  Jethro shrugged his shoulders. “Don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Someone broke into the earl's apartment. Told him stuff she didn't have a right to know.” Sampson stubbed his cigarette out and flicked the end into the Thames.

  “Not got a clue what you mean William.”

  “That's Mr Sampson or sergeant to you. You lost the right to my Christian name when you told a bit of skirt all the major's secrets; when you sold the regiment for a bit of horizontal refreshment.”

  Jethro's fingers tapped a disjointed tattoo on the balcony. “You watch your manners, William.”

  “What is she? One of your toffers?”

  The tattoo stopped. The fingers flexed.

  “From the way the major describes the girl you turned traitor for, she’s that alright.”

  Sampson got no further.

  Without warning, Jethro’s hands were around his throat. “Your visitor’s no Haymarket wares, William Sampson!” the Irishman spat. “She’s a proper lady. Better than any society miss.”

  “Who is she?” Sampson brought his hand up in a sharp movement and grabbed Jethro’s arm, pulling it away from his throat and twisting so hard that he pushed the Irishman over the pub’s balustrade.

  To the casual observer, it appeared as though Jethro was worse for wear and Sampson merely helping him upright. Closer inspection made it clear that one wrong move on the Irishman’s part and an arm would be broken.

  “Promised her I'd only tell the major her name.”

  “You made his lordship a promise too!” Sampson growled his grip become more vice-like by the second. “Or have you forgotten what we swore on the Bible that night?”

  “No. I. Haven't. And while you’ll not believe me; I swear I told her nothing.”

  “You told her something.” Sampson hissed. “She knows too much for it to be pure guesswork. Spit it out, Jethro or lose your arm, because I swear to God, I’ll rip it out of its socket if you don’t!”

  Sampson jerked the arm a third time for good measure, stopping only when the Irishman howled. “Very well. Let me go, William and I’ll tell you.”

  Breathing heavily, they sized each other up. “If I find you’re lying Jethro, I swear it’ll be me that deals with you, not the major.” Sampson loosened his grip on the other man's arm, but did not relinquish it completely.

  Jethro nodded. “I understand, William.”

  The heel of Sampson's boot came into contact with Jethro's toes

  “Oi, cut it out ... will ya?”

  Sampson smiled grimly. “Get on with it, before I throw you into the river. And don't say I can't. I've kept my hand in, not like you! You've gone soft with all the pimping you do.”

  Jethro attempted to dance off; put space between them, but the grip on his arm made that impossible. Raising his hands into tight boxer's fists: “D'you want answers, or d'you want a bloody nose.”

  “Answers.”

  “Then listen. I'm only telling you this once. When the young lady asks me for something she can use to get the major's attention, so he can see she’s done her research and piqued his interest like; I told her – and I swear it’s all I told her – to mention he was a gentleman, and ‘e didna need to do what he did that night. Many wouldn’t.” Sampson jerked on his arm and Jethro howled in protest. “I didn't tell her what he did. Or where. Or why. Or how. I promise.”

  Snorting disbelief, Sampson twisted Jethro's arm once more for good measure. “Then how the hell did she find out about Sikkim?”

  Jethro cursed. “She’s a knowing one! Ways of finding these things out. More capable than that uncle of hers. But I swear, William, on my sainted mother’s grave, I told her no more than I tell you.”

  “Your mother’s still living.” Sampson derided. “Now tell me, who she is?”

  “I can’t. Don’t push it, William. Orders is orders!” Jethro paused and chose his next words for maximum effect. “Besides, I value my life. She’s more precious to the boss than I am. If she didn’t do for me; he would.”

  Sampson opened his mouth. But there was something in the man’s expression that stopped him dismissing his former comrade.

  The Irishman seemed genuinely scared, as he issued the following instruction: “Tell the major, he comes here – alone – and I’ll give him her name. He brings you and all deals are off.”

  Nodding his reluctant agreement, Sampson released Jethro’s arm. “Very well.”

  He lifted Jethro upright and stared dispassionately as the burly man rubbed his arm vigorously. “The major’s back from the Midlands tomorrow. You can expect him within the next two days. And don’t lie to him. He’ll be livid you told the woman that much.”

  “Perhaps” Jethro conceded. “But if you’re unlucky enough to meet my boss, you’ll realise why I’m prepared to risk the major’s anger.”

  Sampson glared at him.
>
  Jethro ignored it and continued. “The boss wouldn’t kill me immediately; just make me suffer. Increasing the torture until I begged him to end it.” The publican held up his hand. “Na, I’ve said too much already. And I’ll say no more. Until later, William.”

  He opened the pub door and headed inside without a backward glance.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Friday 9th November.

  The Ma Char Domestic Agency, situated in the soon-to-be demolished rookery of Aldwych, was not a place for the faint-hearted. Spotlessly clean in an area where poverty to rival the East End went hand in hand with dirt and disease; Ma Char’s organisation stood as an oasis of calm in the middle of absolute chaos – and had done so for the last fifteen years.

  Set up – rumour had it – when Victoria was young, the firm, until its move out of Whitechapel in ‘85, had been a true agency for char ladies. Cleaning pubs, schools, churches; indeed, any kind of building that wanted reliable staff at reasonable rates. In the last fifteen years, the business branched into more interesting avenues.

  Its cleaners – known the empire over as girls – earned a formidable reputation. Labelled, by some, as hatchet-faced harridans and gorgons; these women worked anywhere and everywhere. Incorruptible souls of discretion, a Ma Char girl could be relied on to undertake a job from beginning to bitter end. Fending off advances with a ruthlessness even the Tong baulked at.

  And here I was, heading for their sacred portals – taking a risk that might not pay off.

  The Misses Templeman and Graves were reputed to be harridans of the highest order; and – as many an erring husband found – as incorruptible as Solomon. However, I reasoned, as my midnight intruder gave me their names, it was worth a punt.

  Ignoring the stares of the youths and older men, who lounged against the railings and blew smoke into an already smoggy world, I walked quickly from Temple Station; and headed towards the agency. Keeping my head up, and gaze fixed on the Ma Char doorway, I wanted the majority of those who kept an eye on me to think they saw a calm man about town. Yet, I hoped the more observant would notice that the overcoat pocket bulged slightly. And I counted on the blackjack it concealed, to get me safely to my destination.