A Cowardice of Crows
Page 10
I chose my words carefully. “Dinner, theatre; a shared suite in a rather swish hotel. Obviously with a room of your own and one of the best chaperones in the business, in the form of Sampson. As I said, I only said what I did to rile you.”
“So you say, but let me make this clear, Symington Byrd; I’ve no intention of following in my mother’s footsteps.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Explain. Please.”
“My mother took a protector at the age of nineteen to rebel against her saintly father,” Emily clarified without emotion. “By the time she was twenty-five, I was four; the drunkard she married, because her protector demanded it, was dead; and we were in the Portsea workhouse.”
I made to say something comforting, but that shiver was back, and her eyes were dark and hard like jewels. “When she died, three years later, I was sold to the trustees of the Leytonstone Workhouse, for their use and pleasure. And then Uncle bought me for his pleasure and use.”
“I understand,” I replied, horrified by the implications surrounding such simple words.
“No. I don’t think you do.” Emily’s voice matched the hardness of her eyes. “So, let me spell it out: if we ever become intimate it won’t be because you paid for the privilege. It’ll be because I want it as much as you.”
This time it was my turn to suck my teeth in shock. What the hell happened to her? I wanted to ask. I didn’t dare. Besides, it wasn’t my place to interrupt her confidences.
“Thanks to my usefulness to Uncle and the Impereye, I don’t need clothes, houses, money, jewellery or worldly riches. Oh ... and one last thing, don’t ever patronise me again.”
“I won’t.” I held out my hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Emily took it and attempted to shake it.
Thwarting her actions, I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it lightly. “And do you want me to explain everything to your uncle?”
The smile for all it was genuine, put me in my place immediately. “Oh no … Sym … darling, that won’t be necessary. You wouldn’t have got beyond the front door if Uncle thought you’d be bad for business.”
Plender Street, Camden. Monday, 12th November.
Sunrise can be pretty, but not when you’re being kept waiting outside in the freezing cold. For the third time in as many seconds Watkins, who was with me for support, thumped on the front door of the apartment building where Millie resided prior to her death. Judging by the speed with which his foot tapped the floor, I could tell he was even angrier than me by the reluctance of the landlord, Bill Morris, to do the necessary and let us in.
A weasel of a man - with monkey paws, a nasally voice, thin greasy hair, and the stance of a bare-knuckle fighter - Morris’ eyes widened at the sight of us, before narrowing shrewdly as he showed us up to the dead girl’s apartment.
Assuming we were discerning gents, who liked to take our thrills in ghoulish surroundings, he assured us that this was an establishment where nobody interfered with anyone – for the right price, of course – and painted a lurid tale of Millie’s last day on this planet.
Once upstairs, a well-timed right hook from a totally disgruntled Watkins disabused said landlord of his dreams of largesse. Morris tried to rise but with the bit firmly between his teeth, Watkins hit Morris repeatedly, until I decided enough was enough and pulled my own bare knuckle boxer off the bloodied man.
“The young lady whose room this was: tell us about her,” I growled. “Specifically what she left behind and what you didn’t tell the police!”
“She didn’t leave nothin’.”
“That’s not what we’ve heard!” Watkins raised his fist in a threatening manner.
“I ain’t saying!” Morris blustered. “You don’t scare me!”
But we did. And we scared him more when I pulled a pink piece of paper from my pocket and shoved it in the man’s face.
“You realise what this is, don’t you?” I hissed.
Suddenly, the little man with the big ego and the monkey paws was all contrition. “Oh shit! I’m sorry gents.” Arms outstretched to such an extent that you could see the holes in his shirt, he started begging. “I didn’t know. I’m sure I wouldn’t have been rude! Honest to God! But Miss Millie told me she was independent. I swear it; I swear that’s the truth. And I swear on me mum’s grave, she didn’t leave nothing here when she went out that last night.” He backed himself into a corner as Watkins closed the distance between them.
“No. You’re lying.” My driver punched Morris in the stomach.
“I ain’t.” The landlord looked for a way out, but seeing me block the door, stayed put.
Watkins thumped him again. “Where’s the diary?’
“Diary?” The next blow sent the landlord flying across the little room, breaking an already rickety chair as he landed.
Before he could move, before I could move ... Watkins was in the landlord’s face, his hands around his neck. “Hand my boss the diary! Or I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”
“Lord guv, no. I swears I’m tellin’ ya the truth!”
Realising he was close to capitulating, Watkins released his stranglehold, while I cracked my knuckles and took a menacing step forward.
With a cry, Morris scrambled to his feet and scurried in the direction of the bed. He lifted the mattress, to reveal a small black book. “Here it is. And may you ‘ave a better days luck with it than I ‘as.” The landlord all but threw the book at Watkins, who caught it easily and flicked the pages. “Sod it Major! It’s empty.”
“It ain’t!” The landlord sneered as his eyes took on a knowing look. “A girl like her don’t leave things to chance! She used invisible ink. Probably gin. Easy to get your hands on round ‘ere, what with Gilbey’s being so close. And you’d know that if you worked for Mr Gold. He leaves nothing to chance. But you don’t work for Gold, do ya?”
Sensing that things might be turning in his favour the landlord snatched the diary out of Watkins’ hand. Holding it just out of reach, he taunted us: “Gold’ll kill you when he finds out,” he said craftily. “’E don’t like people takin his name in vain!”
He crossed his hands over his chest and awaited our confession.
Poor chap.
“I never said I worked for Gold. I’m a friend of Emily’s!” I said as Watkins removed his blackjack from his pocket.
At the use of Miss Davies’ first name, some of the newly acquired joyousness left the landlord.
“Now, we can’t make you give us the diary ... No we can’t, Watkins,” I continued as my driver thumped the blackjack against his palm. “But I can tell Uncle, you were holding out on him. I mean, as he’s sort of family it would only be right, don’t you think Watkins?”
My driver nodded grimly and thumped his palm again.
“Look! Take the soddin’ thing.” The landlord flung the book at me. “I was hoping to use it to get a bit of a nest egg. Well, old age is hard to face when you’ve only got a couple of houses. And you can tell the old man, I only found it today, when I did me cleaning. I was going to bring it to him. But you got to me first.”
As lies went, I’ve heard better.
“You can rest assured, thanks to your co-operation, your name won’t be mentioned … You’ll be safe as long as you haven’t been indulging in a bit of blackmail.” I smiled again. “I mean if you’ve tapped Millie’s killer … You do get my drift, doncha?”
The last dregs of colour drained out of the landlord’s face. His legs wobbled and he had to hold on to the wall for support. “No, I ain’t telled no one I ‘ad the diary. No one at all!” he whispered.
Watkins stared at Morris in a way that implied he didn’t believe a word of it and opened the bedroom door.
Point made, and feeling happy about the way things went, I turned on my heel and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Mayfair. Wednesday, 14th November.
“Blast it, Symington! We’re no further forward!” CC threw the diary on the floor as he spoke.
“At least we know more about her everyday life,” I told him.
CC swore roundly. “But I thought you said it was her client book.”
I shrugged. “That’s what Morris led us to believe. Yes.”
“And that trollop, Davies …”
“Has been pretty accurate with her information,” I interrupted before my cousin could disparage Emily’s character further. “Just because this tome turns out to be a diary, not a client book, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t trust her.”
CC’s eyes narrowed into slits of scepticism. “Assuming she’s not sending us up a blind alley, d’you think Morris has the book we need?”
I waved a hand regally in the air and thought carefully before answering. “If you saw the way he reacted to the thought I was involved with Miss Davies, you would say no.” I paused and considered the matter further. “I’m beginning to think there’s something in the real diary he thinks will protect him from the pawnbroker.”
“Or more likely: he’s a fool.” CC observed me closely and shook his head. “Give this up. I’ll tell the prime minister there’s nothing in it. You’re in above your head. He’ll understand.”
“Why are you so scared, cousin?”
“One of us needs to be. And as it’s not you, or that bloody landlord, it needs to be me!” CC stated in clipped tones. “Like I said before, you don’t dance with the pawnbroker and come out alive. That torso that turned up in the Thames round the same time Jack did his thing … I’m positive Gold ordered it. No proof of course.” CC raked his fingers through his hair and gave me a look that required an answer.
I refused to oblige.
“Be it on your own head!” he snapped. “When are you taking her to ruffle parliamentary feathers?”
“Tomorrow. And I’m not changing my mind about it, so you can argue ‘til you’re blue in the face.”
“Good.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Good.” CC buttoned his coat slowly.
“Why?” I was suspicious of this volte face and said so.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Symington. I’d prefer you to walk away from this affair. But as you’re being stubborn and pig-headed, and refusing to listen to rational advice, I’ll tell you this: one of the names that woman gave you, appears on the Serjeant at Arms list. He’s a secretary to one of the Leeds MPs.”
Thursday 15th November, 2:54pm.
“I’m glad you came today,” I said as we walked hand on arm along the Victoria Embankment, prior to our trip to the Palace of Westminster. “You could have refused to come to this meeting with Victor Cobarde.”
Waiting for an omnibus to pass, Emily regarded me steadily and shook her head. “I am Impereye. Without our word, we’re nothing. Besides, this is as much my investigation as yours.” She smiled and changed the subject. “D’you like me outfit?”
I did and said so. Raking my gaze over it, as if to emphasise my ownership of the wearer and her gown.
When I’d telephoned last night, to tell her CC’s news about the man on the list of Millie's former beaus; she'd agreed not only to accompany me to the meeting, but to dress like a secretary ‘with benefits’. And she outdid my expectations.
On the surface, it was a very respectable but obviously very new dress with shoes – of a quality not normally worn by the legitimate secretarial ladies of my acquaintance. Her kid leather gloves were equally new, and came higher up her wrist than the fashion dictated; and I realised – with a start – that they were designed to cover her tattoo. But why? The MP’s secretary, having worked in the pawnshop would know of it, so why hide it?
“Emily, that’s a lovely handbag,” I said before my curiosity got the better of me and I asked about the gloves. “But don’t you think it’s a little expensive?”
She stared down at it then at me. “But darling!” she exclaimed in a voice that carried. “Girls like me, we’re high-maintenance... and as you know, I like big things!”
She laughed at the barely disguised double entendre. I didn’t because, at a respectable distance and hidden unless you knew he was there, Niall the giant kept a discrete eye upon us.
“I came because I was curious to see how much Victor's changed in the last ten years,” Emily said as we stopped to watch boats ply their way along the Thames. “For a while, he was destined for great things in the Impereye.”
I raised an eyebrow and she obliged my curiosity. “He was a handsome chap and some of Uncle’s elderly clients took a shine to him, so he wasn't going to stay in the shop all his life. But after the previous apprentice ...” Emily hesitated “... left us ... he told Uncle he wanted a bit of glamour and he wasn’t going to get that as a pawnbroker’s clerk.” Uncle didn’t rate him as highly as my predecessor did, even with his lucrative sideline … so let him go.
She touched the railing and sighed. “Given his ambitions and close friendship with my predecessor though, I’m amazed Uncle didn’t keep tabs on him.” She screwed her unnecessary glasses to her nose. But if she considered the matter further, I was not privy to her confidences.
“Sampson has a friend who’s a porter in the house. Says he’s a bit of a bore.” I explained when she didn't continue with her recollections.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Millie said he was a dry stick.” She grinned suddenly. “Mind you, she said that of anyone who didn’t immediately make love to her. What’s he doing working there?” She waved her hand in the direction of the Palace of Westminster.
“Secretary.”
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “And that’s glamorous?”
“We can’t all lead devilishly exciting lives, Emily my love.”
She changed the subject. “If memory serves though, he was more handsome than you are, Sym.”
I clutched my chest and danced around theatrically. “You wound.”
She chuckled. Over her shoulder I noticed Niall glared.
“Why weren’t tabs kept, Emily?” I changed the subject, hoping for further insight into Cobarde’s exact place in her past.
“I was sick,” she replied curtly, “and Uncle was too busy hunting the cause.”
“Are you just hoping to bump into Victor and his MP master?” Emily asked as we stopped to admire one of the statues in the garden outside Parliament.
I grinned in a rakish kind of way. “No, I’ve made an appointment! The only person I hope to bump into is you!”
Emily gave me an arch look, then giggled. “Oh la sir! You are a one!”
A passing policeman gave us a strange look, before tipping his helmet as he recognised me.
Once he was out of sight, Emily sobered. “What’s his name?”
“Sir Arthur Fairbrass.” The name meant nothing to Emily. “Splendid chap, a little pompous. Not part of my crowd. But likely to be terribly impressed by our visit.”
“Why?”
“I’m hoping that, like all politicians, Fairbrass is open to flattery and a chance to climb that greasy pole. If he is, we’re going to use it to convince him that friendship with me will advance his political career.” I grinned and kissed her hand. “Now, my dearest Emily, are you ready to put the cat amongst the pigeons?”
“Always, Sym.” She glanced about and, as we were almost alone, slipped back into her cockney accent. “Sides a gull like me don’ of’n ge’ a chance to be taken in such places!”
My eyes widened at the blatant innuendo and, on seeing my response, she laughed loudly.
“What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, Sym,” she twitted, referring back to my own attempt at such things.
“You child, will be the death of me!” I snorted. “Now behave yourself!”
Until now, I never really paid the Palace of Westminster that much attention. But with Emily on my arm, I felt infected by her obvious and genuine interest in the buildin
g. So much so I nearly missed the porter, who came to remind me of the need to sign my guest in.
“My lord, wonderful to see you. How are things with His Royal Highness?”
“Not bad at all, Barco. And you are well?” Warming to the task I raised my voice so that it carried to the nearby groups of people sheltering from the weather.
“In rude health, my lord. But my good lady’s been poorly.” Barco glanced suspiciously at Emily, who gave him a vacuous smile and hung on my arm.
“My new secretary, doncha know. Lovely girl. Very shy. Thought I’d show her about a bit.” I lowered my voice and had one of those man-to-man moments. “Of course, if you see my grandfather, please don’t say anything.”
Barco smiled and assured me I could trust his discretion. I couldn’t of course. That’s why I’d chosen this particular entrance. Word would be around the building in moments, ensuring much gawking at me and my lady friend.
As if sensing Barco was not a man of his word, Emily wrapped herself around my arm and gave me such a smile of adoration that I nearly choked.
I made our adieus and, having taken a possessive hold of her arm, spent the next twenty minutes or so, pointing out the various paintings and statues that lined the corridors of power. A few men passed us and smiled. There was the occasional surreptitious glance in our direction, but otherwise, we were ignored.
“This isn’t having the effect you wanted, is it?” Emily whispered as we stopped to stare at a remarkably ugly painting from the last century.
“No, my dear, it isn’t.” I spied the Prime Minister’s secretary – a tall man with a walrus moustache, and, in an attempt to draw his attention, made a big show of kissing Emily’s hand before moving my head close to hers. “We may need to become more obvious. May I kiss you?” I whispered before glancing surreptitiously to see if he was looking. “Bugger! He’s gone! What’s the betting he’s getting Salisbury to phone Grandfather!”
Emily stared at me as if I’d grown two heads. “Now I know you got rocks in your head! If you think the prime minister’s going to phone home just cos you brought your floozy to work! Snap out of it, Sym! Hunt out the biggest gossip in the place and leave it to me.”