A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  “It will do, when I explain to the Prince why I extended it.”

  “From what I’ve read of the Prince of Wales – he won’t be too pleased.”

  “It'll be fine,” I assured her. “Bertie’s got a strong sense of justice; he’ll understand.” I patted her hand in an avuncular manner. “Now tell me, why did you really accept the lift back home? Your views on Fairbrass could wait for another day, surely?”

  “Indeed.” She leaned back against the squabs, and spent a few minutes taking off her hat and letting down her hair. “I hate wearing my hair up,” she confided. “Reminds me of ...” she stopped suddenly and shuddered. “Ignore me, Sym. I’m being silly.”

  She wasn’t though. It didn’t take a fool to realise she unwittingly revealed more than intended.

  “I understand,” I said because something needed saying. Then, to lighten the mood, I added: “It’s the reason I hate toppers. Always have to wear one when visiting Her Majesty.” I smiled before continuing. “But you didn’t join me in this rattletrap to talk headgear, did you Emily?”

  She smiled – a small grateful little thing – obviously happy that I'd not pursued her half-spoken thought. “No, I didn’t. After I got your telegram about Millie’s landlord, I asked Figg, one of Uncle's associates, to hunt Algernon down to see what he could find out.” Emily ran a hand absently through her hair.

  “And?”

  “He turned up yesterday afternoon. Told me he found Algernon in a pub drowning his sorrows – under the pretext of welcoming his new son into the world.” She stopped and looked thoughtful. “Anyway, from what I could gather when Algie, as we used to call him as kids, had a couple, he got quite angry about the investigation. Said the police were dragging his sister’s good name through the dirt. That they should leave it as suicide.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, Millie’s landlord was a complete and utter bastard and a bit of a thieving git. According to Figg, Algie alleged that even though Millie always paid a month ahead for her rent – the landlord tried to con him into paying again.”

  “Good lord! The gentlemen is ... enterprising.” I scratched my chin. “I wonder if CC’s men had any luck finding her client list? I’ll phone later and ask.”

  “Excellent.” She tilted her head from side to side. “You know what, Sym? Now we’ve met Cobarde, it wouldn’t hurt for one of CC’s men to pay him a visit too.”

  Conversation turned to other things and – all in all – it was a pleasant journey, giving me high hopes for a convivial evening. But as we headed out of The Strand, Emily tapped Watkins on the shoulder and asked him to let her out.

  “No further. This is my world! You stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  She gave me a sad-eyed look. “Keep away from Uncle,” she advised earnestly. “He’s playin’ you and you ain’t clever enough for his games.”

  The car stopped.

  “Are you sure you’ll be fine, Emily?” I asked when all I wanted to do was get to the bottom of her warning.

  “Of course,” she snorted. “I’m not one of your West End girls, frightened off by a little rain. I’ll send you a telegram when I’ve more news.”

  I leant forward and watched as she descended into the early evening rush.

  She never made it to the pavement.

  I heard, and felt, a bullet ricochet off the car.

  Back in India, for a brief moment under attack on the Kyber Pass.

  Helpless as Emily reeled under its impact.

  And back here and now, finding the manual dexterity I forgot I possessed.

  Pulling Emily back into the vehicle, I slammed the door shut, and shielded her body with my own.

  “Watkins,” I shouted. “Mayfair – the apartment – and don’t waste any time.”

  From the Testimony of Peter Watkins, Driver to Earl Byrd.

  Driving back to the earl’s gaff took forever. Knowing any jolt or bang could move the bullet and make it worse, the guv kept changing his mind.

  One minute it’d be, “Watkins if you want to have a job in the morning, stop dawdling. Gads man, even Grandfather drives faster!”

  The next, “Slow down you imbecile!” and, “That’s it, Watkins! You’re fired!”

  But I’m not one of the best drivers in the business without reason.

  Letting the guv bark out orders like we were back in the army, I ignored him and wove me way through London. It was just like being back in Deli; dodging me way through heavy traffic in one of them taxi/rickshaw things.

  Except the guv weren’t singing like he did after a night on the tiles.

  From the sound of it, he was tearing Miss Davies’s clothing and swearing; not like some officers do – when they say each bit of the word – but properly. Like a trooper.

  I was about to pat myself on the back for a job well done, when this right proper curse comes from the back, and he’s using language that’d have old Sober-sides Sampson rushing for the smellin’ salts! So, I put me foot down and drove like I was being chased by the whirling dervishes themselves.

  It wasn’t until later that I realised the choicest expletives came from her.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  “By the God’s of Hell! Listen, Emily! The bally bullet’s still inside you!” I removed my jacket and – ignoring her stream of unladylike complaints, mostly Anglo-Saxon and colourful – placed it under her; folded my scarf into a pad and used it to apply as much pressure as I dared on the wound.

  Emily groaned, swore again, and closed her eyes. “Oh no you don’t!” I slapped her cheeks to wake her. “Now listen, old girl, stay with me. You’re not going to sleep until a doctor’s examined at you! Come on old thing, wakey-wakey!”

  Emily’s eyes fluttered open and she threw me a look of utter disgust.

  “Who you calling old girl?” she muttered. “I’m young enough to be your daughter – git.”

  “Watkins, don’t stand around gawking, man. Get the doctor!”

  I didn’t wait to see if he followed my orders, I was too busy carrying the now barely conscious Emily to the lift. The porter did the necessary, leaving me free to talk a whole load of nonsense at the girl. Every so often her eyes would flicker, but apart from that there was no indication Emily heard me.

  “Sergeant! Battle stations.” I roared as I neared the door to my apartment.

  “Hurry up, man. You’re as bad as Watkins for dawdling. Dear God’s man, get a move on, will you? Emily’s been shot! I’m going to need help. Get the doors to my room! It’s the safest. Then get a knife. No, make that scissors. Dammit, Sergeant, we’re going to have to remove the rest of her dress. Well, don’t just stand there!”

  Sampson needed no second bidding. But of course, in the rush to get her to safety, neither of us thought about the doors.

  “I know we've done the field dressings and whatnot,” I said as I emerged from my bedroom, “but be a good chap and phone the doctor, Sampson. See if he’s on his way. I’ll shut the front door.”

  “Bit late for that son, don’t you think?”

  I turned around. Straight into the barrel of a Webley-Fosbery.

  I swung round again, determined to make a run for it, but the only way out was blocked by an individual, who gave the impression he had once been far larger and less muscled. Over six foot, with cauliflower ears, misshapen nose and flattened face; there was something about the heavily scarred bald man I couldn’t like.

  “My men have the place surrounded, son. Now why don’t you and Mister Sampson take a seat?” It was not a request.

  “Mr Gold, I presume?” Keeping my tone steady, though I felt anything but calm, I turned to the unwanted guest, who’d deliberately taken up residence in my favourite chair. Observing that, in addition to the cauliflower-eared man in the doorway, the chap I’d mistaken for the Fournier Street door-keep was accompanied by two enormous oriental gentlemen, who were quite obviously retired sumo wrest
lers and brothers - if the shape of their nose and ears were anything to go by.

  Western in dress, although both maintained their chonmage, the taller of the two stood behind the sofa, while the other took up position behind his employer. The tableau was completed by a solemn-faced Indian gentleman, standing slightly to the right of our intruder, but it was the seated man who dominated everything.

  “Emily’s in the room behind me, Doctor,” I hazarded his profession as we took our places on the sofa – prisoners in our own home.

  The Indian gentleman picked up his bag and headed in the direction of my bedroom. Sampson made to follow, but I put my hand on his knee and shook my head. At the same time, a large hand rested on my shoulders – keeping me in place.

  Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed. There was no conversation; just a growing tension and a sense that more than Emily’s life was riding on the result of the doctor’s ministrations.

  Eventually though, when the mood was at breaking point, the door to my bedroom opened and the doctor emerged.

  “Well, Mohandas Khan? Will she live?” Gold demanded gruffly.

  Khan's smile was broad and reassuring. “Of course. You'll need to give her laudanum – enough to give her bad dreams, I’m afraid – but the wound was quite deep and she wouldn’t be put out; said the pain would make her think, especially when she saw the bullet. I left her staring at it. It’s unusual. Not what you’d expect an assassin to use.”

  Gold's eyebrows folded in on themselves and the doctor glared at me as if this was my fault.

  “I am hoping, Mordy, old friend, you’ll make the child see sense.”

  My intruder barked a short, sharp snort of derision. “Unlikely, Mohandas! Though I will remind her she only has seven lives left.”

  A rueful shake of the doctor's head was followed briskly by: “I will leave my card, Lord Byrd. Miss Emily can’t be moved for a few days. And she’ll not like that. Should you need me I can be here within the half-hour.”

  I raised my hands in a prayer-like gesture and bowed slightly. “In that case, Sampson, with Mr Gold’s permission of course, take our guests through to the kitchen and look to their refreshment. I have no doubt Emily’s uncle would like to talk to me privately.”

  Very well my lord, Mr Gold.” Sampson turned to the doctor; “Will you be joining us, Doctor Khan?” he asked in perfect Hindi.

  “Alas no, Mr Sampson; the good doctor has a prior engagement,” Gold answered quickly, making it clear he understood what had been said.

  Khan bowed. “Thank you for the offer Mr Sampson,” he said as he headed for the door. “No, please – tend to the earl’s guests. I am quite capable of letting myself out. Goodnight Lord Byrd, Mordy.” And with a slight bow the doctor was gone.

  “Now tell me,” Gold said, once Figg retired into the kitchen, and the two wrestlers wandered to one of the large windows to stare at the Mayfair skyline, “why bring her here? Surely she would have been safer with me?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. In the preceding minutes, I’d been too nervous of the outcome of this home invasion, to pay attention to the Eastern European who pointed a gun at me. Now it was time to turn the tables; show him he couldn’t cow me with violence.

  It wouldn’t be easy.

  Dressed to display not only elegance but obvious wealth, Gold was, by far, the most impressive man I had met. From the full head of hair – no longer white but jet black and vampiric – his brown eyes, hooded under white brows, gave the impression the world amused him greatly. And yet, at the same time there was a cold, ruthless set to his mouth.

  Adding to this was the way he sat – hands folded over his stomach; exuding a patience that suggested he had all the time in the world. It was unnerving and done deliberately to put me on edge – and it succeeded.

  The hands were remarkable – big yet delicate; and once seen, never forgotten. A scar, old and blackened, ran the length of his left hand. And while nine of the nails were well-manicured; the index finger of the left hand lacked a top. On the middle finger of the same hand sat a bronze crow’s skull ring, the like of which I never encountered before.

  “I can see why you wore gloves the first time we met,” I said, settling back into the sofa.

  The old man showed his teeth. “You’re almost as observant as Emily,” he said, his Eastern European accent more muted than before. “But please: answer my question. Why bring her back here? Why risk my wrath, son? She would be safer with me.”

  “She tests for Chubb,” I said in a tone that indicated those four words should be enough. It wasn't, so I was forced to continue. “Besides, we were only three miles from your place when we were shot at. Not far from Ma Chars to be exact.”

  “Which means you should have brought her home.”

  “No,” I snapped.

  Gold leant forward in his chair, and I held my ground, realising this was the make or break moment of the evening. “Explain.”

  “But of course.” A pause. “My reasoning was simple. If Emily were the target, rather than the victim of some freakish accident, then we’re either dealing with someone who’s not afraid of you; or at least someone with a complete disregard for his safety. In those circumstances, you cannot protect her. I can.”

  “But what if you’re the target?” he asked.

  “A reasonable assumption.” I observed Gold’s face - soulless, unamused. “If I am the target, then, like you I want to be in my stronghold.”

  Gold’s laugh was like the earlier gunshot, sharp and menacing. “You consider this flat to be your stronghold? A flat you didn’t lock?” His hands flew upwards and he laughed with genuine amusement. “Really son, you try my patience.”

  “My stronghold is through those doors,” I told him simply.

  “Your bedroom?” He was incredulous. “A stronghold? I would have said, given your reputation, whore’s boudoir would be a more appropriate description!” Gold's stare sent shivers down my spine. “I do not like this turn of events, son,” he said sharply. “By bringing her here you ignored every warning you’ve been given about what happens to men who take advantage of my Emily. And – to add insult to injury – you’ve drawn me out of my kingdom – that rarely happens.”

  “It’s a safe room, Mr Gold.” I continued as if the old man hadn’t spoken. “Chubb brothers designed it for me years ago. When locked down, no one, I repeat no one, can get into it from the outside.”

  I deliberately held the silence to let that snippet of information sink in before adding. “It holds enough air for 48 hours, and there’s a direct telephone line to my cousin at Scotland Yard.”

  “Be that as it may,” Gold retorted with venom. “By visiting you here, word gets back to the killer your relationship with Emily is sanctioned. What if I don’t want that? What if I don’t want anything more than this case solved and my Emily’s peace of mind restored?”

  Then suddenly and mercurially, he transformed before me; became avuncular: a soul topped to the brim with the gleeful amusement of life. It was an amazing thing to behold, and yet it left me more unnerved than ever and allowed my scorpions to scuttle across my brain in a wild, untamed dance.

  “You intrigue me, son. I can’t for the life of me fathom why a man who has all the resources of Scotland Yard and the government at your fingertips should want my help.”

  I opened my mouth to disabuse him, only to shut it again because he was correct. I did need his help. I could not navigate Millie's world without his benediction.

  “But because you do, and it amuses me to be a bloodhound, I will play your game – for the time being.”

  On the surface what came next was a change of topic. “We will discuss your findings from today’s visit to Parliament when Emily is recovered from the effects of the opiate. Opiates I will need to give her soon before she tries to get up. Which gives me time to ask one question.” The laughter vanished. The gun was back in his hand. Akio and Kato were back in position, alert and ready to act, and I knew I had to be ca
reful.

  I took a deep breath, and with a flippancy I didn’t feel said, “Ask away, dear sir. Ask away.”

  There was no responding smile. No humanity at all in the old man’s face. “What made my Emily careless enough to get her shot?”

  Sampson’s return prevented any further conversation. Not that I knew what to say. My explanation of Emily’s change of mood after our encounter with Cardew took on a sinister edge, followed as it was by the shooting. I wanted time to work out how to tell Mordecai Gold about the meeting.

  “We will come back to this later, son.” The gun returned to the side table; Gold was back to his amused self.

  “I took the liberty of bringing a selection of tea and coffee, my lord.” Sampson, acting as though he missed the exchange, set the tray down on the Queen Anne coffee table. “I felt sure neither of you would want anything stronger.”

  “Thank you.” Gold answered, taking charge yet again and leaving me with the feeling that I would love to witness a showdown between the pawnbroker and my grandfather.

  We served ourselves, leaving my valet to tidy the room. A noiseless occupation that prevented conversation from being anything other than light and meaningless.

  Gold stopped my valet as he reached the door. “Mr Sampson, Emily will be staying here for quite some considerable time. I hope this doesn’t cause you too many problems.”

  “We will manage, Mr Gold,” I said in an attempt to regain control of the conversation.

  The old man took a sip of coffee and ignored me. “Now, tell me, Sergeant, this is an all bachelor establishment is it not?”

  “If you mean we have no female staff, then you are correct, sir.” Sampson agreed with pride.

  “Then would you please send Figg to me immediately?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  After a few moments, Figg poked his scarred face around the kitchen door. He looked guilty and had his hands hidden behind his back. “Yes, Boss?” he muttered thickly. Clearly, he was eating.