by S. E. Smith
I grinned and let him make of it what he would. “How good was Millie? Was she what I might call average, Haymarket wares?”
Jethro shook his head. “No, Major. Her clients were well to do toffs. Real high-end indeed: some even came from your part of London. But only because she knew how to look after them – if you get my drift. Very discrete. Very talented.” Pride wove through every word and I realised my former sergeant was more than just a publican with a sideline in the London underworld.
Putting away a sorrow for the way Jethro’s life - post army - panned out, I considered the rest of his information. Such news might account for the cufflink. It might not. But I could return to that later. For now, I needed to know about my midnight marauder: the mysterious Miss Emily.
Determined to blindside my former comrade, I exploded my question into the silence. “Why the hell didn’t the girl tell me that you were the source of the leak, when she turned up in my apartment?”
To my surprise, Jethro wasn’t startled. He was sheepish. Embarrassed.
“Ah ... well … sir,” The strong Irish brogue, I remembered from our army days, returned. “She was going to – and she was going to tell you her name. But ...” He trailed into silence and shrugged the rest of his reply.
For a moment, his action confused me. Until...
... Remembering the pink piece of paper, I’d been given not once but twice, I winced. “Came across as too bally arrogant, didn’t I Mr Jethro?”
He nodded eagerly seemingly glad I’d answered my own question. “To use her words – you’re too up yourself and needed bringing down a peg or two. Sorry.” His body shrugged again. “Miss Emily said it was obvious you was too used to getting your own way and assuming everyone else was – to put it in her parlance – lacking smarts. She said you needed to learn a bit of humility first. No offence meant.”
“No offence taken.” I smiled a grin I didn’t feel and ploughed on because I didn’t want my scorpions contemplating her words too closely. “Just a couple more things, if I may?”
Jethro’s eyes constricted into hard slits of wariness and I sensed he worried I’d return to our discussion of Millie.
“I can’t call her Emily, Sergeant Jethro, can I?”
He relaxed immediately. “Indeed, you can’t sir. Boss wouldn’t like it. Her father’s name – well the man what married her mother that is – his name was Davies.”
I sensed mystery and said so. But my veiled request for further enlightenment was rebuffed.
“That’s as may be, Major. And a conversation for another day. One you’ll be having with someone higher in the Impereye than I am.”
Jethro smiled and although his words were pleasant, the meaning was clear. I was dismissed. “Now, unless you’ll be needing anything else. I suggest heading off to the address the old biddies gave you. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. And knowing Miss Emily, she may not give you the time of day then.”
Thanking him, I turned to leave. However, something – akin to the kind of madness that caused my scorpions to dance – stopped me walking out of the pub. “This Mr Gold, what’s he like, Jethro?”
The Irishman’s eyes clouded, took on the haunted quality of earlier. “Someone you’ll not be wanting to concern yourself about. Not unless you have to; or not until he wants you to. If you have any sense, you’ll keep well away from him. The boss collects souls, Major. And once he has them, he never lets them go. Ever.”
Unable to help myself, I shivered and this time, as I turned towards the exit, I listened to my scorpions.
From Reports.
Pulling up her collar and wrapping a woollen scarf tightly around her neck, Emily walked briskly in the direction of Victoria Park. The sound of footsteps, a discrete distance behind, would have worried a lesser woman. After all this was Whitechapel. Jack may not have committed any crimes for twelve years, but memories ran deep.
However, instead of quickening her pace, she listened to the clump, clump, clump of the uneven tread before calling out, “Niall, I’m aware Uncle told you to look after me, but I’m capable of getting home alone.”
There was a laugh followed by, “Please don’t make me go back and tell him I didn’t do my job properly. He won’t be pleased and I’m rather fond of my teeth.”
Emily sighed heavily: “Oh very well. Walk with me, Niall.”
And the fifty-year-old – who told her he lost his foot in a fight with an ‘alligator in Africa’ – took Emily’s arm and saw her home.
Some twenty minutes later, as they reached her lodgings, Niall stopped. “I won’t come any further, if you don’t mind, Miss Emily. You’ll know I’ll end up having to talk to Mrs R. about the baby and what not … and the wife’s doing hotpot!” He gave a toothy grin, which vanished as a rough man in overalls and a flat cap pulled low against the night scurried past. “I’m partial to a bit of hotpot.” He gave Emily a worried face. “If that’s ok, Miss? I mean, if you want me to I will ... But if I stay here until you get to the door, I’ll just catch the last bus.”
“No worries Niall, I’ll give Mrs R. your apologies. Goodnight.”
The grin widened and, doing something he’d not done for a long time, Niall hugged Emily.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
It was easy to see the chit of a girl was distracted by something, judging by my ability to follow her successfully from the pawnbroker’s Huguenot dwelling on Fournier Street to this small, prim and very English terrace. But what to do next?
With the large Glaswegian dogging her footsteps, any kind of approach would lead to a bloody nose, if not worse. Consequently, I waited, taking the opportunity to overtake them and turn the tables when she stopped to say goodnight to her squire.
Hurrying to the bottom of the street I quickly located her lodgings – the only one not in darkness – lit a cigar and puffed copious amounts of smoke out into the street. I left a stub, with the brand label, on the railing and, shoving a note through the door, darted into the shadows.
Reaching her front door, I thought for a minute she was going to ignore me. But once her front door was opened, she called out. “It’s going to take more than a la-di-da to make me fall at your feet!”
“You wound me, my cigars are superior quality!” I laughed and began counting. The door shut behind her.
Four ... five... Six
The door opened and she emerged, note in hand.
“Eleven will be perfect, my lord.”
Then she slammed the door on my laughter; silencing any hope I had for the last word.
Walking back to the city and my grumpy but ever-dependable Watkins, I found myself listening to the warning claxons sounded by my scorpions. They worried that my decision to turn the tables on the chit was unfair and likely to backfire. But I sent them scurrying into the shadows with a shaky laugh. In bringing up Sikkim she touched a raw nerve, and I would just have to live with the consequences.
Sometimes the dead should be left as just that. Dead.
My hope of a peaceful end to the day was doomed. As Watkins turned the Mercedes into the top of my street, I noticed my flat lit up like the Blackpool Illuminations. “Bloody hell!”
Dropping me at the front door, before going round to park the car with my others, Watkins repeated my invective, wished me luck, and drove off. Part of me wanted to wait for his return, but I knew Watkin’s would do his utmost to avoid a confrontation with his old CO even going so far as to sleep in the garage and so, with a sigh, I girded my metaphysical loins, entered the lobby and made my way to the lift.
“I’m sorry. Sir Charles refused all offers of hospitality,” Sampson said as soon as the door shut behind me. “I tried to tell him to go to bed but ... well ... he’s in a belligerent mood.” A strained grimace accompanied the information. “In happier news, a package from Brighton arrived while you were out. Knowing its importance, I took the liberty of opening it.”
“And?”
“Very small – but –
you were correct, major; it bears the same mark.”
“Excellent. We progress. Send it back to Doctor McGregor post-haste along with my undying gratitude and thanks.”
I couldn’t say more.
CC cannoned down the corridor.
“And what time do you call this?” Beyond anger, my cousin’s fists clenched and unclenched like a locomotive at full steam. “And don’t you dare tell me you were out and about with the sergeant. Sampson’s been in London all week. I checked.” My cousin was like a jack-in-the-box; he couldn’t keep still. His feet controlled pacing legs, turning him this way and that; wearing a hole in my carpet.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to, when we’re in the sitting room and I have a bally drink in my hand.”
“You’ll tell me now,” CC hissed. “And then I’ll decide if I’m staying.”
I danced a prizefighter’s distance between us and went into a fatuous mode. “Now see here, CC. Calm down. There’s a good chap.” I kept this up until safely in my chair.
The express train that was my cousin, careered after me. “Don’t you dare now see here me!” he growled. His fist turned into pointed, jabbing things poking at my face.
Sampson sidled closer, but I waved him off. CC was no threat. His was a blunderbuss temper – all smoke and smells.
“Don’t you tell me to calm down!” Each word emphasised by a rapier punch with his finger. “You tell me what’s going on and what you’re up to. And only if I believe you ... will I ... calm ... down!”
I glanced up at him and capitulated, for there really was no point prolonging his ire. “Very well. I went to Chubbs’,” I said. “On my return, I paid a visit to Ma Char. Tonight, I saw our former corporal, Jethro. And tomorrow morning I’m going to the Royal Academy to stare at the latest picture of the Prince of Wales.”
CC backed himself and his finger away and slumped into my second favourite chair.
“Yes, I appreciate all that!” he said in a voice that indicated he had no time for my games. “And I’m not interested in your plans for tomorrow. It’s what you did after seeing Jethro that interests me.”
No point prevaricating. “I went to see Emily.”
“You don’t have a mistress called Em … oh my God!” Realisation dawned and the locomotive gained steam once more. “She’s the tattooed trollop from your flat, isn’t she? The one that wouldn’t let the suicide stay as such.” CC drew himself up to his full height. “You should keep away from her, she’s trouble.”
“I know what I’m doing, cousin. And stop sounding like Grandfather!”
Instead of being irked by the comparison, my cousin deflated into the nearest chair. “No. I don’t think you do, Symington. I’ve got the prime minister demanding closure on this case! And you ... going off at tangents doesn’t help!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sampson slip from the room to collect his notebook from the hall stand. Thus retrieved, he deposited it on the arm of the third-best chair and poured CC a drink.
“CC, I’m sorry I’m being facetious,” I said quickly before he could continue his own line of thought. “She’s woken my scorpions and you know what I’m like when that happens.”
I waited for his slow nod of agreement before I lowered my voice. “Everyone I’ve spoken to about this woman … this Emily ... is frightened.”
My cousin pursed his lips. Sampson’s pencil paused mid-scratch.
“But not of her. They’re frightened of her owner.” I ignored CC’s intake of breath and continued in what I hoped was an innocent way. “Jethro was scared witless when I asked about him. Niall – the bodyguard who saw her home – was determined to do so because, and I quote, he didn’t want to lose his teeth! And Sir George Chubb employs her not because he wants to, but because a Mr Gold told him to.”
I stopped and stared at my cousin and in doing so realised one thing.
He wasn’t scared. He was petrified.
Confused by this unnatural reaction from a man twice decorated for bravery I ploughed on, barely noticing the way his hands clenched his glass as he brought it to his lips. “CC, who is Mr Gold?”
Sunday 11th November.
Emily’s place of work, hidden behind the black door of a three-storey former Huguenot silk weaver’s house on Fournier Street was nothing special. You could pass it and think little more than the door had been painted recently and the owner was engaged in the jewellery trade. The shallow steps leading up from the street were spotlessly clean. The iron railing shone in the morning sun and the large front window showcased an array of rings and bracelets, watches and necklaces. Everything was as it should be. But behind the door, once you were away from the front shop, the house on Fournier Street – which in fact was once two separate dwellings – was as I was to learn later – a veritable rabbit warren of narrow passages, doors and increasingly steep staircases.
At the door, I turned to see if I could identify the cause of the unease that grew exponentially. A woman carrying something in a sack passed me first. She muttered something in Russian about the sack being heavy and the price unfair. If she was my watchman, she was too obvious in her approach. I looked again.
On the far side of the street, a couple of tailors argued over a shipment of cloth that the cartmen refused to hand over till it was signed for. Unlikely to be any of that trio. So, apart from eyeing up a suspicious couple of youths, in neckerchiefs and boots, who lounged outside a kosher café a little further up the street, I could see no concrete reason for my scorpions to dance so wildly.
Part of me wished Watkins or Sampson accompanied me. But Sampson returned to the NCO club, intent on discovering anything and everything there was to know about Jethro’s civilian life. Whilst Watkins had been uncharacteristically poker-faced and disapproving all morning. He stood opposite my converted Ford Van, designed to appear like a delivery truck waiting to be loaded with fruit from the market, and glowered.
Stalling, I glanced at my watch, jumping as the time it told was confirmed by the bonging of the church bells. Taking one last look at my driver, I pocketed my watch and rapped a brief tattoo on the black door between the pub and the pawnbroker’s shop and waited.
Just as I despaired of ever gaining entrance, the door was opened by an old man. White of hair and rounded in on himself; the door-keep gave the impression that he had once been tall. Time and age lessened him, physically; though not the hair which was huge, almost bouffant, in appearance.
“Miss Davies is expecting me,” I said, meeting the old man’s gaze and not flinching as he stared at me from the safety of cracked pince-nez.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” It was a thick accent, possibly Polish, maybe even Romanian, possibly Russian. Difficult to tell – especially when only a few seconds of speech existed with which to make my judgement.
Struck by the bizarre idea he sized me up, I willed myself to be patient and waited for what seemed a lifetime until the old man nodded. “You understand fear,” he said, “but you don’t show it. I’m delighted you and Emily have that much in common.” The door opened wider and I was ushered into the outer lobby. “I’ll take you up.”
Progress up the narrow staircase was painful. Each step measured and precise, designed to slow me down and make me uneasy.
Judging by his age, I believed the old man’s pace might be caused by rheumatism; or childhood rickets. But his legs didn’t seem twisted enough for rickets to be the cause. And he didn’t have the wheeze I knew went hand in hand with rheumatism. Perhaps Miss Davies ordered the old man to go at this pace to put me off guard. But if that were the case, she would need to rethink her strategy.
Truth be told, this pace eased my scorpions and I took the chance to examine the pawnbroker’s domain. Like the outside of the building, the corridors were clean and recently painted in shades of brown. Gas lights cast shadows and, while I knew it to be impossible, I had that strange feeling that – yet again – someone watched me.
“Emily likes the place clean. S
pend most of my days now paintink!” he told me as we reached the top of the stairs and began the shuffle down yet another corridor.
“Not Mr Gold?” I dropped my knowledge casually into the conversation. “I thought he was the boss?”
“Ol’ man’s retired. Emily’s in charge now!” the door-keep informed me sharply.
I thought that highly unlikely. Coupled with what CC spat at me last night, I knew a man who could coerce a woman into the oldest profession – just to pay off a family debt; a man who could instil fear into soldiers such as Jethro and my cousin – would not relinquish the reigns of his underworld empire to a girl, however competent. Besides, the tattoo on Emily’s arm was intact, not cancelled to show she’d gained her freedom.
No, the pawnbroker might find it amusing to let the world think a slave ran the show, but Gold would only give up control of his empire the day they buried him six-feet under: and perhaps not even then.
The doorman’s pace slowed to an almost crawl and, finally, the wheeze I’d expected since we began our ascent, appeared.
“Jethro says you’re a good sort,” the old man muttered in his exceptionally thick accent.
We’d reached the door by this point, and his gloved hands hovered over the brass knob as if to indicate that he’d not decided whether to let me any further. “You better be. You don’t want Gold dealing with you if you hurt her. She’s a chip off the old block she is. Maybe a bit softer than his Imperial Highness – which, by the way, is how you address the head of the Impereye -for all her smiles. But you’ll not catch me crossing her. No one does, not since she came out of short dresses anyway.” He laughed. But whether it was at the thought of Emily as a child or me addressing Gold like he was a member of the Russian Royal Family – I had no idea.
