by S. E. Smith
With a snort, Emily settled down sucking at the sweet and making a face as she tasted the sedative hidden in its core. “Why are you doing this, Uncle?”
“Doing what child?”
“Making him question our relationship? You told me you wanted him to bed me.”
“No, I said you needed a friend; someone as intelligent as you; and if more than friendship comes out of it ...” he trailed off.
“That’s not what you ...” Emily said in a slightly slurred tone.
“It’s what I meant.” A pause then: “Besides, from what you said about him, Byrd relishes a challenge. I’m merely adding some spice.”
Emily yawned. “But it feels like you’ve changed your mind again. You want an heir and he’s your choice to be the father. Though heaven knows why. He’s not exactly who I’d have chosen. And I get it, Millie’s death has brought our plans forward. But he’s not going to bed me if he thinks he’s poaching on your territory.” She snuggled down and let the old man stroke her hair – a child in need of comfort. Within minutes her breathing deepened and she was asleep.
“You’re worth too much to give up without a fight.” The old man whispered fiercely, his accent more prominent than it had been all night. “The Crown Jewels of my Impereye. How can a collector part easily with that?”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Peace never lasts long in my house. Within half an hour of Sampson clearing away the tea things and my guest entering the bedroom, I heard the sound of a key in the lock and a cloud of outrage that was my cousin materialised before me.
“I heard on the grapevine someone shot you? Why didn’t you send for me immediately?”
“There were other things to deal with.”
If he heard the warning in my voice, CC chose to ignore it as he persisted with barely a pause for breath. “But you’re fine? Good. I’m glad.”
“I wasn’t hurt. My companion, however …”
“Your companion? Oh God Symington! I warned you. But you didn’t listen. Did you?” He stopped, “Hell she’s not dead, is she?” A horrified expression settled in for the duration. “Because if she’s dead, you’re in serious trouble. The old man doesn’t understand the word mercy, Symington.”
“Rest easy. She’s not dead. Just shot.”
Neither of us heard the bedroom door open.
“What the hell?” CC drew himself to his full magisterial height. “I told you that trollop’s trouble.”
“She’s always been trouble, Sir Charles. And your concern for your … cousin’s … safety is noted.” Gold's arms moved into a wide, expansive gesture as he lowered his voice. “But please, I would appreciate it if we toned things down and let my Emily sleep.”
CC – unused to being told what to do, especially by someone he obviously despised – reddened and was momentarily silenced.
I stood there, fearful yet amused. Gold had done it again. Taken advantage of our preoccupation to assume an effortless control of the situation. He was, indeed, the king of crows, the ultimate of spiders – controlling his vast web with ease.
CC spun around to face Gold, then, without stopping, returned full circle. “Symington Byrd are you mad?” he demanded. “It’s bad enough she’s here ... but in your bedroom! Bloody hell! Couldn’t you put her in one of the guest rooms? How could you be so bloody foolish? I’m tempted to turn a blind eye for the first time in my dealings with this man, and let him get away with your murder!”
Gold listened to CC’s tirade with ever-increasing amusement. Shutting the glass doors, which to all intents and purposes acted as the divider between this room and the bedroom, he walked back to his chosen seat. He was laughing – shoulders rippling in a silent chuckle.
“I never thought the day would come, Sir Charles when you and I were as one on any subject. I note it pleases neither of us to see Emily here. But as Shakespeare says: ‘What’s done is done’.” Gold turned his attention to me. “Can you find out what’s keeping your Mr Sampson, son?”
It was an order crouched as a suggestion, but nevertheless, I hesitated. “Don’t worry about us.” He waved at CC, “I’m sure your ... cousin ... and I can be civil to each other during your absence.”
Deftly dismissed, I did my best to be the perfect host. “CC take a seat. You’re spoiling the view! Mr Gold, if you’ll forgive me?” I bowed, and in a move designed to show I retained some semblance of control in my own home, I said, “I really must see what's keeping Sampson with the drinks.”
Before I could go anywhere a sharp, musical, tattoo from outside heralded Figg’s return; and within seconds – even before the faint snap of the closing door could be heard – the bald man was back in the room. For an instant, I thought he was alone. But with a nod at the pawnbroker, Figg stood to one side, revealing a shawl encased, little old lady. Frail to the eye, she stood no more than four foot five inches tall, and looked as though the slightest breeze would knock her over.
Gold rose from his seat and crossed to the door in three quick strides. “Nanny,” he boomed, seemingly ignoring his earlier advice, as he embraced the little woman in a bear-like hug. “Thank you for coming. I am so sorry it’s terribly short notice. I didn’t interrupt your evening, did I?” Gold let her go and offered her a seat, showing me that my hopes of mastery in my own home were hollow.
“I was knitting, Mordy,” Nanny told him in heavily accented English. She refused the seat and stared around the room in a way that said she didn’t approve of ostentation. “I hope you didn’t mind, I brought it with me.”
The old lady glared at me, then at CC – her eyes narrowed and I felt like we were back in the nursery. “Figg tells me you need me to chaperone Miss Emily.”
Gold nodded.
“I take it Mohandas prescribed laudanum?”
“Yes,” Gold admitted. “I gave it to her, in a sweet. As always, Emily is a bad patient.”
Nanny shook her head. “I can’t say as I hold with the stuff.” Another fulminating glare. “But given Mohandas is the best sawbones, after my father, to work the Whitechapel area, I will follow his diktats tonight. And tomorrow, should she require it, I will give her something more suitable.”
And with that Nanny fluttered into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“When she is well enough to travel, Emily will go home, Sir Charles,” Gold said conversationally.
“Agreed,” CC snapped before I could say anything.
“I will find out who’s responsible for her injury.” Gold kept his tone light. “And they will tell me who ordered it.” He paused, his eyes freezing the atmosphere immediately. “I will, of course, pass that information on to you, on the understanding that you agree to leave the man who pulled the trigger to me.”
“I cannot condone you taking the law into your own hands, Mr Gold,” CC told him sharply.
“I understand, but it’s not open to negotiation. It’s what will happen.”
The two extremes of the criminal world glared each other into eternity and back.
“If I do nothing, I lose face. There’s no heir.”
He shrugged as CC gave him a ‘not my problem’ kind of look.
“The man who ordered the execution is a fool and deserves what’s coming to him through the courts, because that’ll ruin his chances of hurting me further. The man who pulled the trigger, does—”
“I can’t agree to this!” CC interrupted, stopping only when Gold held up his partially fingered hand.
“The man who pulled the trigger’s a pawn. Bought for a few pennies. A short sharp lesson from me will be far more effective than hanging at the end of a rope. Surely you don’t want to send innocents to the workhouse? It’s no place for children.”
“I don’t like it ...” CC’s voice wavered, always a sign he was ready to give ground. “But,” he stopped and began again. “Very well. I concede your point about the gunman.”
“And if the mastermind behind the order cannot be dealt with by the courts
? Will you let me deal with him too?” Gold asked quietly.
CC wavered, fought against instinct, and as he stared at Gold, I knew the moment the law lost, and justice won.
As he told me later, if Gold reacted with triumph, all deals would be off. But it was just business.
“I ... Yes.” CC agreed.
Gold rose, smoothed down his coat and surveyed the room. “Thank you for your prompt action today, son.” He kissed my cheeks. A signal honour, I realised as I caught sight of my cousin's startled expression. “Until Emily is ready to travel you can expect more of my company. When this case is done, she’ll come home.” A change of volume and tone: “Figg, Akio, Kato,” he called out to the bald, cauliflower-eared northerner, and the two-thirty stone sumo wrestlers – ensconced with Sampson and the rest of my staff: “Time to leave.”
“What do you want me to do about payment for Nanny?” I asked carefully.
CC whistled and had he been standing would have taken a step or two backwards.
The pawnbroker laughed. “No offence, son. You mean well ... but I’ll sort payment. Nanny’s a wonderful fixer. She brings you into the world and lays you out at the end. If you’re a girl in trouble she’s the nanny to go to.” His hands waved as he warmed to his topic. “Had she been a man, I am sure she would have been head of the Royal College of Surgeons,” Gold told me proudly. “But she really doesn’t care about herself. If you pay her, she’ll only spend it on boots and shawls; and milk for cats. I’ll make sure the rent’s paid and the pantry’s full.”
“I understand, Mr Gold.”
“Uncle,” the old man admonished.
The two oriental gentlemen emerged from the kitchen first and bowed before leaving. Then there was a gap of a few seconds and they were followed by Figg, clutching what could only be a large slab of walnut cake wrapped in brown paper.
“You spoil my staff, Mr Imran” Gold called out to my reclusive but very talented chef. “If you ever want to earn an honest day’s living rather than work for what Mr Watkins calls a capitalist pig, then all you need to do is call me.” He shot me an amused glance. “There are tea rooms galore up and down the country calling out for gifted pastry chefs and cake bakers. Thank you for giving my man seconds or ...” Gold eyed the parcel, “possibly thirds.” With that he turned and tipped his hat. “Sir Charles, a real pleasure to meet you in civilised surroundings. I’m sure the next time will not be so delightful.”
He laughed, as did my cousin.
From Reports.
Camden, Saturday, 17th November 9:22am.
Joining the force back in 1860, Lamb cut his teeth on gruesome cases. From the torso murders to the handiwork of Jack; Lamb thought he’d seen it all. So, when the newest of London's bobbies requested his advice about a rather nasty occurrence in Camden; he prepared to be avuncular and soothing ...
Unfortunately, all that went out the window as he stepped into number fifteen, Plender Street. The first thing to hit him was the stench; then the sight of entrails strewn around the room. Not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, Lamb nevertheless crossed himself and tried hard to push the memories of Mary Kelly’s room from his mind.
It didn’t work. The stench, the blood. All the same as that dreadful scene, with the exception that this victim was strung up from a hook in the ceiling.
“Did we take photographs?” Lamb asked to stop himself thinking about the blood and the gouged-out eyes.
“Yes, Sarge. And that fingermark powder’s been used on the doors.” Barker averted his eyes from the body as he spoke.
“Good lad. Is there a telephone?”
“Yes, Sarge. One of the old tenants put it in.”
Lamb didn’t ask the name of this enterprising tenant. He was starting to get one of his nasty feelings: a feeling that made his left arm hurt. To hide his disquiet, he pulled out a dog-eared calling card and all but threw it at the younger man. “Ring this number. You’ll be talking to a gentleman name of Sampson. Tell him where we are and what we’ve found. If the chief inspector's there, you don’t need to do anything else. If he’s not, telephone the Yard.”
“Yes, Sarge.” The young lad looked at him with a hopeful expression Lamb recognised.
He sighed, “Well lad?”
The young constable rocked on his heels reminding Lamb of his youth. “Sarge I was wondering ...”
“Spit it out man.” Lamb went through the motions of pretended innocence, even though he knew what was coming.
“Can I nip off for a crafty, after? This scene’s given me a nasty turn.”
Lamb shook his head. “No lad, you can’t. And don’t let the chief inspector, or his cousin catch you having another one either.”
Barker nodded and went off in the direction of the telephone.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
By the time CC got out of bed, I’d already breakfasted and was reading The Times. My cheerful mood – the result of the knowledge that Emily didn’t die in the night – obviously rattled my cousin, if the scowl that accompanied his arrival was anything to go by.
“Didn’t you sleep well, cuz?” I asked innocently as he crashed his way through the chafing dishes.
“Best night for a long time,” he answered a little too quickly. “And your guest?”
“Best ask Nanny – she’s just taken in a bowl of porridge to Emily.”
CC raised an eyebrow. “Emily? When did you get so informal?”
I grinned and wouldn’t answer.
“Haven't the events of last night warned you against getting too involved with Gold and his world? Really, Symington, I thought you had more sense!”
Nanny’s return from the bedroom saved me from explaining anything, which – on reflection -was probably wise. His overnight sojourn gave CC time to stew and, in that state, he never listened to reason.
“Morning, milord. You’ll be pleased to hear Miss Emily’s awake.”
“Did she sleep well?” I asked, still amazed by the difference between the outward appearance and the strength of voice.
“For someone with a gunshot wound, you mean? Yes, she did.”
“Treated many such wounds?” I inquired conversationally. But answer gave she none, thanks to the ringing of the telephone.
CC contented himself with narrowing his eyes and blowing his nose.
Nanny went for what I was starting to describe as a Goldian pose; her eyes brimming with amusement. While Sampson, who appeared from the direction of the kitchen, allowed himself to pause for a second - as if waiting for the curtain to go up on some fine entertainment – before marching down the hallway to answer the telephone’s incessant demands.
My valet’s ensuing responses might have been monosyllabic, but I knew that tone and, before he could return, was already issuing orders in my best parade ground voice. “Get your notebook, CC. Scotland Yard’s found something. Nanny, I’m not sure when we’ll be back but make yourself at home, and tell Emily I’ll brief her later.”
“Very good, milord.” Nanny walked towards the bedroom. “Niall will be here later to give me a bit of a break; so, don’t you worry about her needing company. And don’t fret if Imran complains the larder’s been raided in your absence,” the old lady confided. “Like all Mordy’s men, Niall’s got hollow legs.”
As Sampson spluttered, I thanked her. “Now come on CC, we’ve no time to lose.”
This time on the way to Camden, Watkins kept up a stream of chatter about how the area went downhill during the middle of the last century, when wily entrepreneurs turned the large houses into tenements. Knowing Watkins wasn’t just talking for the sake of it and having learned years ago to listen to him at times like this, I shut my eyes and let him ramble on; leaving CC to take the occasional note.
“Don’t like this!” CC said, as the car pulled round into Plender Street. “One of the lads popped in yesterday and, from what he told Lamb, Morris was on the road to sainthood.”
“Whoever killed him must h
ave been after the diary, Colonel.” Watkins said from the front.
“He maintained he didn’t have it, and my men searched his hovel of a flat very thoroughly indeed. Nothing.” CC blew his nose and glared at his handkerchief.
“No, because you searched the places Morris’d put it. Not where Millie would. I bet he’s kept it in the original hiding place because it’s the safest and the best.”
“Let’s hope so.” CC stuffed his offending hankie in his pocket and opened the car door.
As he strode off to take control, I turned to Sampson. “You know what to do?”
My valet nodded and, after pleasantries with Lamb, headed upstairs –brownie box camera in hand.
“It isn’t pleasant, Sir Charles,” Lamb told CC as he led the way down the none too clean little corridor. “He must have really irritated someone.”
“As Shakespeare said: ‘when blood is nipped and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl’.”
CC threw me a look of exasperation, so I hung back, and let him take charge.
Whilst he gave orders, I looked up at the door frame and smiled. “Well done, Lamb. You remembered from last time.”
“Not me, my lord. The young lad Barker.”
“Oh well done, Barker.” I glanced up, catching the young man in a blush. “You were at my last talk on fingermarks, weren’t you?”
Barker nodded.
“Splendid. Splendid.” I paused mid-dance, remembering this was a crime scene and I didn’t need to play the fool. “What made you look where you did?”
“Well, my lord, when I couldn’t find any on the door handle or finger plate, I thought what the hell! And dusted both sides of the door. But nothing there either. And actually, the handle and finger plate were wiped clean.”
“Which implies what Barker, old thing?”
