by S. E. Smith
“Get Nanny,” Gold ordered. “You have an hour.”
Figg winced and quickly stifled an expression of horror before he swallowed. “Can’t one of the others go?” An overly bright smile took the criticism out of the words.
“No. You can earn your keep for a change.”
“Aww boss.” The tone grated but I put it down to my instant dislike of the man rather than anything inherently wrong with what he said.
“Let me guess, walnut cake?” Gold asked. There was an indulgent edge to the conversation.
Another sad little nod.
“If it’s as good as this Victoria sponge, you’re forgiven. God knows what Joseph will do with you when you go back; he doesn’t run a sweet-toothed establishment.”
Figg grinned – revealing a missing tooth in the centre of his mouth. “I’m sure Lord Byrd will let you take some with you ... once you’re back with Nanny ... won’t you, son?”
“Of course, mia casa su casa.”
“Exactly, son. Exactly.” Gold watched Figg leave before turning to his Japanese minders. “This is Akio and his brother Kato,” he said by way of introduction. “They also have a sweet tooth, though not as bad as Figg's. His is beyond anything I've ever seen in any man.” He chuckled. “Do you think your chef, Imran, would be able to rustle them up a snack?”
I nodded, wondering how he knew my cook's name. “But of course.” I stammered. “First door on the left; follow the longer part of the corridor to its end.”
The two sumo wrestlers bowed and the taller, heavier of the two preceeded his brother out of the room.
When they were gone and the door shut behind them, Gold returned his attention to me. “Now you will forgive me, I think I shall visit Emily,” he stated steadily. But instead of getting up, the old man leant down and began to unlace his shoes.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if were waiting for my reaction, he removed the shoes and after brushing away imaginary fluff from a trouser leg, Gold stood up, put the shoes neatly by his chair; removed his jacket, undid the top two buttons and loosened his tie. Then with a grin that started in his eyes and went the entire length of his body, he headed for the bedroom.
From Reports.
Thursday 15th November, Time Unknown.
Bill Morris sat in his dirty little room that smelled of decay and rats, and looked at the dead woman’s diary like he couldn’t believe his luck. To have conned that sanctimonious toff Byrd was a wonder in itself. To have successfully continued Millie’s business proved, if such things were necessary, that he was a man on the up. And things were fine. Despite what that toff said, no one tried to kill him. Or frighten him.
Instead, life in the last few weeks saw him with money beyond his wildest expectations. Five pounds here, ten pounds there; nothing too big – that would cause his clients to baulk at their payments or mean he could retire to Margate. But it all mounted up. And tonight, two very wealthy men indeed, both with reputations to maintain and links to Lancelot Mattherson, a former chairman of Leytonstone Workhouse, were due to visit.
Morris didn’t know what Mattherson did to earn such vicious punishment at the hands of the pawnbroker. Nor how Millie made the connection from that ponce to Cardew. And quite frankly, he never wanted to know. Millie’s veiled hints of sodomy and rape were enough to ensure Mattherson’s former friends and associates paid handsomely to keep their secrets.
Still gloating at his success in giving Byrd exactly what he asked for, Bill didn’t hear the doorbell until the second ring. Smiling as he realised this must be the first of his clients, he stood slowly, and padded to the door; little black book in one hand, pencil in the other; ready to take payment.
Bill didn’t recognise the man on the other side of the door. Though with his hat obscuring his eyes and a scarf hiding the lower half of the face it was difficult to tell if they’d met before
“My employer’s apologies. Couldn’t come in person. Didn’t want the wife to know.” A faint northern twang to the cockney made Bill suspect he knew who the employer was.
“Then, you better come in.” Bill began walking down the corridor and didn’t see the newcomer leave the door on the latch.
From Reports.
I can’t leave you alone for five minutes can I, bubbeleh?” Gold chided gently as he shut the bedroom door behind him.
“Seems not,” Emily hissed as she shuffled under the covers in a vain attempt to get comfortable.
“Does it hurt?”
Emily ignored him. “Did Niall see anything?”
“He’s not said so – yet.” The silence hung there, until realising no answer was going to be forthcoming from the old man, Emily looked up to find his hand outstretched, with a solitary boiled sweet in the middle of the gnarled palm. “Go on,” he said gently. “It’s only a sweet.”
“My mother said not to take sweets from strangers,” Emily told him with a smile.
Fournier Street. 30th September, 1882.
“I’m not a stranger child, I’m Mordecai Gold,”
The sweet twinkled in the light. “Mother died.”
Gold took her hand and pressed the sweet into it. “Everybody dies Emily Davies. It’s part of life’s rich tapestry. We are born. We live. We die. It’s how we live that’s important.” There was no humour, no compassion in the voice. He stated facts. Pure and simple. “I’m the one who paid for your release from Leytonstone Workhouse.”
“Oh!” A small light of hope she’d found a benefactor died.
It didn’t take an idiot to see why the Beadle left her with the Irish soldier, and scarpered into the darkness that was London. Anything would have been better than facing this man’s wrath. Because the man who towered over her was angry and more frightening than the men on the board of the ‘house; and they were frightening enough; especially Mattherson – the bully.
Shutting her eyes against unpleasant memories, she counted to ten and then to ten again as she struggled to calm her fears.
“Open your eyes, bubbeleh,” the old man ordered after she reached thirty. “It’s time to find out how you’re going to be of use to me. Look at my shop window and tell me what you see.”
Dutifully she hopped down the steps to stand in front of the window. Closing the fingers of one hand around the sweet and crossing the index and middle finger of the other, Emily took a deep breath.
“You keep the biggest and gaudiest items at the front. They’re flashy; designed to make stupid people part with their cash.”
She glanced up at the old man – expecting that to be enough of an explanation. But he simply nodded and invited her to continue. “Me? I like the things at the back,” she told him honestly. “The stones are smaller, but they’re clearer – they sparkle differently. These are for people who know what they want; who appreciate size isn’t everything.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Eat the sweet.”
“Am I right?” she asked as she popped it in her mouth, sucking the sugary goodness out of it; relishing every morsel. Though her monsters told her sweets came at a price.
“Go on.”
“As for business, you sold three mourning rings in the last week; that must be because Mr Pritchard died. I know that because as me and Jethro got here, a hearse went by – and I saw three people wearing shiny rings and heard his name.” Emily stared at the window. “On the left, there was a fob watch. And the selling of that, I think, surprised you.”
“Why'd you say that, bubbeleh?” the old man asked.
“It’s been there a long time.”
“And I repeat, why do you say that?” There was an edge to the voice. A harshness that seemed to suggest that if she were lying to him: there would be retribution. But Emily ignored it. She knew what she saw.
“Oh, don’t be silly; it’s obvious.” And forgetting all her rules, Emily returned to where he stood, seized Gold’s hand and directed him to the relevant section of the big window. “Look at the baize, Mr Gold,” she s
aid with a certainty at odds with her age. It’s far darker where the watch rested on the cloth. Now the area where the mourning ring boxes stood is also dark, but not as dark. That watch has been there the longest of all the items.”
Emily took a deep breath and unable to restrain her excitement continued, “Now I’m probably exaggerating ... it’s the greatest of all my sins. I get it from my dad, Mother said … but it takes longer than a few weeks, or months, for something to leave that kind of mark on cloth.” The little girl looked up, delighting in the surprised expression on the pawnbroker’s face. “Am I right?”
“You are, bubbeleh. But don’t let on. That’s a talent and a half you have there. Now come in and we’ll continue this interview in my office.”
Later, Emily wondered at the word interview. Why Gold used it and not ‘conversation’, but when you are seven, adults are strange creatures: kind one minute, cruel the next; and Emily put it down to the old man trying to knock her off balance, because that’s how men acted.
By time they headed up the increasingly narrow stairs, Emily could not remember how she put one foot in front of the other. But she did. She had to.
As he always did on entering the room, Gold moved straight to the window and retrieved a jug of milk. But his routine was promptly forgotten, as he turned to his guest.
Shaking from head-to-toe, though determined not to show it, Emily hung back, her eyes widening with fear as she stared at the truckle bed in the corner. Gulping and unable to stop her tears, she realised, yet again, she'd allowed herself to be fooled by an adult. Taking a huge, deep breath, Emily began to unbutton her dress. Her trembling fingers got no further than the second button, however, when she was stopped by a disgusted cry:
“Don’t!”
Emily turned to find Gold's eyebrows folded in on themselves to such an extent that she could no longer see his eyes.
Wide-eyed and unsure as to whether she'd misread the situation and he was genuinely revolted, or this was yet another twisted ploy, Emily continued to examine the pawnbroker warily. Unsteady steps walked him to the stove; trembling hands poured milk into the pan. Task complete, he turned, and she studied his face. Interesting: Gold's lips were twisted; the eyes which had danced with a soulless amusement on the doorstep, now flashed with something Emily realised was disgust
“Go sit by the fire!” he snapped and she recoiled at the ferocity. “I’ll be back in a minute. Keep an eye on things and don’t let the milk burn.” Waiting only to see that Emily complied with his instruction he pivoted, and in three strides exited the room.
By the time he returned, with a small woman in tow, Emily warmed her hands in front of the stove and kept her eyes firmly averted from the bed with its flowered eiderdown and spotless pillows.
The newcomer nodded darkly, before placing herself in the rocking chair in the far corner. Once comfortable, the woman unravelled her knitting and began to add to her creation. Gold remained where he was, hovering in the doorway – as though waiting for permission to enter his own home.
As the clack of needles filled the air, Emily found herself beginning to relax and she edged even nearer to the grate, curling her knees up under her chin and allowing herself the first, small inklings of a smile.
Taking this as his cue that he'd allayed her fears – though maybe only for a few moments – the pawnbroker returned to the hearth and took the pan off the boil. “Tell me, child, what do people say about me?” Gold asked gently, as he went about the ritual of making drinks; pouring the now steaming milk into mugs and stirring briskly.
Emily tilted her head, watching carefully as he made a great show of taking a mug over to the woman, who took it and said something in an unknown tongue.
After replying in the same language – though with less marked intonation – Gold returned to the fire, picked up the remaining two mugs and gave Emily the choice of which one she took.
“What'cha up to? Is it drugged?”
“You tell me, Emily Davies. Smell.”
Emily’s initial suspicious sniff, turned into an ‘O’ of surprise as she recognised the drink. Cocoa! An unheard-of luxury only served to the board members’ ladies.
“What ya wan’ of me?” she squeaked as she took the mug; putting it on the table next to her, still suspicious that the smell masked something nefarious.
Gold put his mug down and crouched in front of her, “Now that I have met you, two things. Your mind and the truth. My interests don’t lie in the direction you fear.” He nodded at the bed and briskly re-buttoned the top of the little girl’s dress. Then before she could react, he rose, crossed to his desk, and sat down watching her face carefully, as fear warred with the beginnings of trust.
When he sensed she was as trusting as he would get on such a slight acquaintance, he resumed his questioning. “Well, you’ve been in this room long enough. What have you learned about me?”
A maelstrom of conflicting emotions, Emily picked up her drink and warmed her hands.
Then she took a small sip and decided to enjoy every minute of this unexpected treat while it lasted and deal with the inevitable consequences later. Because there would be consequences. There always were.
“Mostly, they say you’re a businessman. Jethro says one day, when he comes out of the army, he’ll work for you; because you look after people who work hard and stay loyal. The Beadle said you buy and sell stuff – living stuff, dead stuff. ‘E said you bought me. And that you’d use me and sell me on when you ‘ad enough.” She picked up her drink and took a sip of the cocoa. “An’ that’s what you planned, didn’t you?”
Gold didn’t answer immediately. Standing up, he crossed over to her; gently took the cup out of her unresisting fingers and put it on his table. Then taking her little hands in his, he knelt before her again. “If I demand honesty of you, bubbeleh, the least I can do is return it. Yes. I bought you. For my pleasure and use. But not the pleasure or the use you fear. I already told you, and I will say with Nanny as my witness: my interests don’t lie in that direction.”
He paused and waited for her to tilt her head in understanding: a little gesture that confirmed all his suspicions.
“I bought you, Emily Davies, because you have your father’s eyes and your grandmother’s mannerisms. And, if what I believe about your birth is true, one day I could make a bit of money out of you. And therein lay my initial pleasure and your initial use. You see, I think your father’s family will pay a substantial amount to keep your existence secret.”
“Then I shall do my best to keep myself safe until you have need of me,” the little girl said solemnly. She tried to stand, but the old man stopped her.
“However, bubbeleh, from what I learned today, you are much more of an asset than anything in my shop and in the whole of my brother’s Impereye. And I am going to keep you very close. Very close indeed.”
He smiled, more to himself than to her. “I get the feeling you are going to earn me a hell of a lot of money and kudos within my family. But before I make my final decision – tell me: are you prepared to work hard?” He held out his hand. “Are you prepared to better yourself; take yourself out of the gutter? Become my equal. And more so.”
Emily decided she had nothing to lose. “Let me get this right,” she said quietly. “You want my smarts, Mr Gold?”
“Call me Uncle, or Mordy if you prefer,” he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. “And yes Emily, I want your smarts. And only your smarts.”
The little girl sucked in her breath and tilted her head again in that strange bird-like gesture.
“Do we have a deal?” The old man asked, handing the mug back to her and watching transfixed as she copied the way Nanny held her mug between sips.
“Yes, Uncle, we do.”
The silence that followed was companionable, but Emily soon realised the pawnbroker wanted more from her than he let on. She considered her mannerisms, the things he said belonged to this mythical grandmother and laughed. Workhouse brats didn't have
family. They died.
But he was giving her a lifeline. Perhaps he could make money from her. It made sense. And yet she hesitated to speak. How would he take any interrogation because he didn't seem like a man who liked people asking questions?
Jethro implied Gold was a good sort, and Jethro hadn't lied to her, yet. And the woman, for all her shawls and knitting, had the air of one capable of making decent judgements. So perhaps she should take a risk ... even though the Beadle said the man before her was the very devil ... and see how long she could keep his interest.
Almost as if sensing Emily's disquiet, Gold moved away to stand by the window, waiting until she'd finished her drink before joining her; kneeling at her feet.
“Well, bubbeleh?”
Emily gave him a serious look that belied her years. “You do realise that one day you are going to sell me, don’t you?”
Gold made to deny it, but she held up her hand – showing off the tattoo he insisted she be given on the day Jethro paid for her release. “You’re going to have to,” she told him evenly. “After all Uncle, business will always come first.”
1900.
Back in the present, Emily regarded the man holding the sweet through narrowed eyes “What are you doing, Uncle?” she asked gently.
“Making myself at home.”
I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” Emily said dryly. “Personally, I call it a pissing contest with the earl.”
“You spend too long with Jethro and Niall!” Gold returned quickly.
“I spend too long with you, Uncle. You know you always make me suspicious when you’re being quixotic.” Emily patted the bed and smiled as the old man plonked himself down next to her and drew her into a close embrace. “Oi, watch it!” she warned. “That’s me bad arm; besides I’m too old for this!”
“Nag, nag, nag!” the old man chided in return. “Cease your moaning, bubbeleh. Eat the sweet, and remember we paid Alan well for your elocution lessons. So, practise what he taught you.” He smiled, cutting across her complaint with, “Besides, when did you last require a cuddle because someone shot you?”
