A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  “I don’t intend to hurt her. And I’m aware from my investigations, that I’d be better dealing with anyone but Mr Gold. But I have to be here.” I said truthfully. “Rest assured, I’m a great admirer of Miss Emily and her intelligence.”

  The old man snorted. “So, you say.” He stared pointedly. “But you’re a playboy. And like a leopard cannot change its spots, son; you cannot change your nature. None of us can.” The old man paused before continuing. “It’s not wise to underestimate Emily Davies. I did it once, and I regretted it.”

  The frightening look vanished, replaced by one of such amusement that for a moment I wondered if I’d dreamed the man’s previous expression. I had not as the old boy’s next words confirmed.

  “And as for anyone who tries to take advantage of her feminine state. Well let’s just say: we in the Impereye protect our own. Her uncle destroyed the last man to hurt her.”

  A lone scorpion demanded immediate explanation, but before I could word its request the old man removed his right glove and thumped the wooden door with a vigour at odds with his slow shuffle.

  Intrigued I assessed him and his hands. No gnarls, lumps or bumps of any kind. In fact, the hand might be covered in paint – but it was the hand of a man maybe ten years younger than the walk and rasping voice suggested.

  Too many questions, and no time to formulate them.

  “Well come on in, Lord Byrd. You took your bleedin’ time!” Emily stated and immediately, I forgot the old man and stepped into the room.

  Dressed in a grey suit complete with the sleeve protectors so beloved of clerks, my nemesis finished her letter; blotted it, folded it and placed it inside an already written envelope. Task complete, she removed the protectors, and put them inside the top drawer. Then, smoothing out her sleeves, stepped out from behind the imposing, well-ordered desk and shook my hand. It was a steady firm grip and, like the handshake in the apartment, meant business.

  “You want me to stay, Bubbeleh?”

  “No. Thank you. I can deal with his lordship.” She gave her letter to the old man, who after looking at it, turned his attention to me.

  Gone was the amusement of earlier; in its place stood a man completely devoid of emotion and understanding: a man who was ... soulless. “I’ll wait outside then,” he muttered.

  “I prefer you dealt with the mail.” Emily’s smile was full of affection.

  “I will – later. For the moment, I’ll wait outside. Count yourself lucky for that amount of privacy …” And with that the old man shuffled to the exit, closing it with a quiet click.

  Eyes hooded, Emily regarded the door for a few minutes before indicating I should sit in one of the fireside armchairs. On the mantelpiece were framed drawings – obviously, the work of a child – and a picture of Emily, aged about ten dressed in her finest and looking like miniature royalty.

  “You took your time!” she repeated. “So much so, I started to wonder what I had to do to pique your interest.”

  I glanced at her necklace – a crow’s skull of gold – resting at the base of her throat and shivered.

  “When you didn’t turn up immediately after my little prank in Brighton, I knew I needed to do something more drastic, and more obvious, than leave a pawnbroker’s ticket with my address on your pillow.”

  “You must think me an idiot,” I apologised softly.

  “Indeed.” The smile in her eyes took the sting out of the insult. “I find most people are. They see a girl, especially of my class, and make assumptions. Like they do about you.”

  “Assumptions?” I was all innocence.

  “That you’re a playboy – a clown; only interested in a good time.” Emily wandered over to the fire and attacked it with the poker.

  “What made you change your mind about me? Enough to involve me in your hunt for Millie’s killer, that is?”

  “Jethro. He doesn’t give loyalty to fools.” She removed two chipped mugs from a cupboard and a jug of milk from the window ledge. “How d’you take your tea, my lord?”

  “Symington” I corrected. “Or Byrd if you want to be formal. And I usually take my tea with lemon in a cup. However, milk and a mug are also acceptable.”

  “Then with lemon it is.” She laughed and I realised the mugs were yet another test. One I passed. Emily, it seemed, preferred honesty to politeness.

  Nothing more was said until the kettle boiled and the tea – jasmine flower – was served in two matching dishes.

  “You’re a very educated young lady.”

  “Uncle has his reasons for giving me airs and graces.” She would not be drawn further so I changed the subject.

  “Tell me about Millie’s life before she went on the game. Anyone in her past who might want her dead?”

  I sensed Emily was grateful for my business-like approach for she warmed to her explanation readily and expansively. “Not that I can think of. Millie was always a popular girl, if you get my drift. She learned early on that being nice to gentleman usually meant they were nice to you. Perhaps that’s why she was so happy to turn tricks to pay off the family debt.”

  “She had many callers, then?” I replied, realising we could both talk in euphemisms.

  “Yes. Give me a moment and I’ll compile a list.” Putting down her cup, Emily went over to the desk, pulled on her protectors and began to write. I watched, envious of her methodical approach.

  “And after she went up in the world?”

  “I don’t know. That was between her and Jethro. Uncle’s never been concerned with the who, just the financial consequences of the business.” Emily finished the list and looked up. “They’ll be in her client book. Didn’t Jethro give it to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I wonder?” Emily picked up the telephone. “Hello, Operator, could you get me Stepney Green, three-five-two-four? Thank you.” She waited to be put through then spoke quickly. “Jethro, Millie’s client book. Why didn’t you give it to the earl?” She listened intently for a few minutes and then put the receiver back on the hook.

  To be honest, I didn’t know what to make of her reaction to the conversation with my former comrade. She chewed at her bottom lip for a few moments then tilted her head. Closing her eyes, I got the feeling she was counting and for want of something better to do with my time, I joined in. I reached nine.

  “He doesn’t have it. And as far as he can tell it’s not in her flat. D’you want me to send him to Camden for another look?”

  “No. Leave it with me. I’ve got the resources of Scotland Yard at my fingertips, remember. They’re very ... thorough.”

  “If you think so? Personally, I don’t rate them.”

  “Not as huge a list as I expected,” I murmured before I could voice my unspoken reaction to her dismissal of my cousin’s expertise. Sensing if I did so, it would ruin our fledgling friendship.

  “Knowing Millie, there’ll be others. Give me time. She liked men. They liked her. Most of Uncle’s minders were on intimate terms. Actually, most of the shop were as well.” Emily took the protectors off and returned to her armchair. “What else can I do for you?”

  “My cousin wants me to warn you off further involvement in the case. He doesn’t like the company you keep. And if I continue to associate with you, I’m off the case.”

  The pitying expression returned and this time I recognised it for what it was. “I expected this.”

  “You’re not surprised?”

  Emily put her dish of tea carefully back on the tray and looked at me. “The tattoo on my wrist. I noticed the way your cousin kept glancing at it. I knew once he placed it, it would only be a matter of time before he said what he did.” She smiled grimly, “He and my uncle have spent too many years trying to outwit each other for either of them to let us work together for long.”

  “It’s an unusual design. On the surface a cat ... but as I said to the ladies at Ma Chars, it’s really a sign that Gold bought you on the open market.” If I expected her to wince, or look asham
ed, I erred. She met my gaze squarely and held it before answering.

  “Indeed. The pawning of items isn’t just confined to the labouring classes, or even to possessions. Slaves – like me – are a commodity the same as any other. Pawnbrokers buy and sell everything to anyone and everyone.”

  “Including MPs?” The question escaped half-formed but she understood my intent.

  “Not personally, of course. They usually deal through an intermediary. But many people will use the services of an establishment such as ours.” There was a grin that didn’t make it to her eyes. “Besides, if you had a choice as an MP, or a peer of the realm – or even a member of the royal family – to send someone to do your dirty work, why come yourself? Would you sully your hands with this kind of trade? Or with people like Uncle?”

  I found myself agreeing with her, though not her premise.

  “Moneylenders are the scum of the earth,” she continued, “thrown out of the temple by the Son of God for their perfidy. Slandered by Shakespeare and Walter Scott.”

  “Hence your reference to Portia.”

  Shrugging her agreement, Emily picked up her dish and took another sip of tea. “House of Commons cufflinks come to us from time to time – as do trinkets from even the wealthiest of people. But they’re rare.”

  “Do you remember any?”

  She shook her head. “Not during my time as an apprentice. Though Uncle might have kept it quiet.” A small shiver started at her shoulders and went down her back. “It’s more likely to have been something my predecessor would have acquired. He loved that kind of thing.” The shiver returned through her spine and shook her shoulders once more. “I’ll ask Uncle and get word to you.”

  I smiled my thanks and resumed my questions. “What happened to them? The cufflinks: not their owner. Did someone collect them? Did you sell them on?”

  “We never sell things like that. Too hot an item – if you understand me. Uncle holds on to them and then – as is customary – sends them to another branch to be melted down.”

  “In London?”

  She shook her head. “No, Lord Byrd – Leeds. We send things that have to disappear to an associate of ours who runs part of the Impereye for Uncle. From time to time we do the same for him.”

  “How does it work?”

  “In the old days, Uncle would get someone new to do it. A test of loyalty, you might say. Now a man called Figg acts as the go-between. He comes down to us, three-four times a year, when Uncle requires his services or when there’s items to swap over.”

  I made to change the subject, but it seemed Emily wasn’t ready to give it up. Moving to the desk, she began to write as she talked.

  “He’s a wonder with the accounts. Far better than I’ll ever be. In fact, I’d go so far as saying he’s as proficient as my predecessor.” She paused but there was no accompanying smile. “Sometimes, when Figg was busy, Millie handled things. Taking items to Leeds and coming back with the equivalent value in uncut gems.”

  “Is that usual, Miss Davies?”

  “Sometimes, it’s better business.” Emily handed me another list, this time titled ‘shop and Impereye workers’, and I read it carefully before slipping it into my trouser pocket.

  “The stones McGregor found in her purse ...” I looked up at her. “Sorry, that was me, thinking out loud. Was your friend stealing from your uncle, do you think?”

  Emily snorted her amusement. “You never had reason to do business with Uncle, have you?”

  A scorpion danced. I kicked it into the shadows and returned my attention to the young lady.

  “When you do,” she continued, “you’ll realise one thing: trust and my uncle are not synonymous. Possibly oxymoronic; more likely an anathema.”

  The scorpion came back. I booted it away.

  “No, she wasn’t stealing; Millie had the gems in her possession because she was taking them to Amsterdam. And you don’t go to Amsterdam via Brighton.”

  “We’ll need to go to Leeds,” I said after a few moments silence.

  “I’m glad you said we. Because, and no offence, Wachsmann won’t talk to you ... unless you speak Yiddish? Do you?”

  “No call for it in India, alas,” I retorted flippantly. “But language barrier aside, this Mr Wachsmann may not talk to you darling.”

  Emily rolled her eyes to heaven at the endearment, though her amusement didn’t last long as I added insult to injury with my next statement.

  “You’re a woman in a man’s world. And not all men are as forgiving and accepting as myself, or your uncle and his staff.”

  “Are they not, Sym? You surprise me.” She didn’t seem surprised. Her eyes glinted with barely concealed sarcasm.

  Ignoring this and the suddenly waltzing scorpions, I adopted my best caddish tone. “Besides, dearest, darling girl there’s more for us to do in Leeds than visit a pawnbroker.”

  Her hands clenched into unladylike fists and her face became a mask of irritation. But I wasn’t done. She had to atone for Sikkim.

  “Like wot?” she snarled in her appalling cockney accent. “Time in the hay?”

  I winked and licked my lips in my best caddish manner only to be destroyed with a single sentence.

  “Look, mate, you ain’t that gorgeous and I ain’t that stupid. Now come clean and I’ll forgive you. You’ve got something else you want us to do in Leeds. Something to do with the case.”

  I retreated and regrouped. Revenge for Sikkim would wait. It had to.

  “You’re right. Even though CC doesn’t trust you, he took your advice seriously and uncovered addresses for the other members of Millie’s family. I thought we should go and talk to them. Eliminate them from our inquiries as the police are so fond of saying. If you don’t think they’ll give you the cold shoulder because you’re not your Uncle?”

  “Uncle’s all but retired. I’ve handled much of the business for the last nine years. Don’t worry about any cold shoulders I might get. There won’t be any. I am the apprentice and that, if nothing else, ensures doors open.”

  Her chilling smile reminded me instantly of the door-keep.

  “Now, if you can promise you’ll keep your hands to yourself, I’ll take up your offer of a lift.” She looked at me, “When d’you want to go?”

  I grinned happily. “Not for a few days – perhaps a week – especially as there are things to arrange.” I stopped, unsure how she would react to the next part of my plan. “However, my dear – if you don’t object, I’d like to ruffle some feathers before we head north.”

  Emily sat back, resting her chin in the gap between the index and middle fingers. Weirdly the action reminded me of the crows on grandfather’s estate, who would stare at me from their perches – seeing all, saying nothing.

  “Interesting,” she said eventually. “And how do we intend to do that?”

  Again, that sense of déjà vu as cornflower blue eyes met mine. I had stared into that exact same shade many times, though I failed to place their owner.

  Deciding I saw mystery everywhere, I shook my head to clear it. Then plastering another suitably lecherous expression to my face, I said in as straight a voice as I could manage: “I would like to take you to view my etchings.”

  I wasn’t really sure what her reaction to my outrageous suggestion would be. After all, she’d already pulled a gun on me when I suggested such a thing in the flat, and I’d seen the way her hands fisted at my Sikkim driven suggestion. So I knew she didn’t mind using physical violence to protect her honour. But instead of closing the distance between us to slap or punch me ... instead of going over to the desk to retrieve her revolving pistol, Emily surprised me by sinking into her armchair.

  And laughing.

  And when I say laugh, I mean she creased up with hilarity.

  Nearly choked herself to death with mirth.

  When she finally had herself under control; holding her sides in a way that indicated that they hurt like hell; she burst my pomposity with a simple: “How the hell d
’you get your reputation as a playboy, Sym? Even a fourpenny trembler gets a better chat-up line from her clients than that.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve never ...”

  “Come to an arrangement with a girl of my class before?” The laughter returned and I struggled to get out of the hole I’d dug.

  “Miss Davies, please ... let me explain. Obviously, I don’t really want you to be my mistress. I said what I said earlier to rile you!”

  “O la sir! From insults to injuries!” The theatrical cockney accent was back. Hand on her forehead, like some heroine in a melodrama; and fluttering her eyelids in what can only be described as a die away air, she declared: “Ain’ I goo’ enuff for a toff like youse? O la sir! I is sooo mortified!”

  “Emily would you please be serious.”

  “Oh ... very well.” She subsided, but the teasing expression stayed. “Tell me.”

  “I already have, my dear. You’re not listening.” I held up my hand and used my fingers as counters. “Your best friend’s been murdered. A cufflink from the House of Commons was stuffed down her throat. You said yourself cufflinks from that august body make their way to your uncle’s establishment. Now I don’t know if that’s a red herring or a clue: but I want to parade you around the corridors of power and see what occurs.”

  Her eyes widened at that, so I ploughed on.

  “Some of them know I work for Salisbury and will seek us out if they have information. And there are gossips enough to put the cat amongst the pigeons, and pass on the juicy gossip your uncle’s a pawnbroker and you’re my latest mistress.”

  She sucked her teeth and tilted her head.

  “Either way, old fruit, I’m hoping the men who pawned their cufflinks will make contact with us – so we can eliminate or add them to our list of suspects.”

  “And when we’re in Leeds? Despite what you just said, you want everyone to think I’m your mistress then, don’t you?” she said silkily.

  I nodded eagerly. Glad she’d accepted my plan so readily, until I caught sight of the barely controlled anger in her eyes.

  “And if so, what do you want of me?”