A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  “I do. I do. But the moment they clap eyes on you, they’ll clam up. You’re not of their world.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Bloody Hell, Sym stop patronising me! D’you know what it’s like to go hungry for days, or even weeks on end? To be in constant fear of the repo man? To have no option but to live off the generosity of the parish? Well, do you?” She glared at me and, as much as I wanted to argue, Emily was correct. I never struggled; I never starved.

  “You’re right! I can’t even begin to understand,” I admitted. “But a gentleman – of any class – doesn’t let a lady wander around alone.”

  “Millie’s husband’s no fool. He’s older than me and the others by some fifteen years. The nearest thing Uncle had to a son till I came along. Oliver Pratt might be a drunkard now, but he’ll see through any charade. He knows the original reason Uncle bought me, and why he changed his mind. He’ll smell a rat immediately if I turn up with you.” She put up her hand to ward me off. “No, I’m better off with Sampson as a bodyguard.”

  “You are?” I was intrigued. This husband – this Oliver Pratt - had been in the running for Emily’s position in the Impereye and she supplanted him. An interesting red herring.

  “Why? He’s nothing like your usual minders. They tower over him. They did – even when he was ...” I stopped and slapped my head. “Oh of course! Your protection’s drawn from the ranks of the army, isn’t it? That’s why Uncle let you hire me to find Millie’s murderer. How lowering.”

  “That’s the gist of it, yes. There’s hope for you yet, Sym.” Laughing, she stood and shouted down the corridor. “You ready Mr Sampson?”

  Coat on and hat in hand, my valet emerged from a side door. “Yes miss. I checked the timetables. If we’re quick, we should be able to catch the next tram. It goes near where we’re heading but I ought to warn you, it’s probably about a five-minute walk from there.”

  Emily lifted her dress slightly to reveal a pair of stout walking boots. “Then I was right to put these on.”

  “With your permission, Major?” he added as Emily rested a gloved hand on his arm.

  “You played me! Miss Davies, Sergeant Sampson, You two are in collusion!” I sobered. “Keep her safe, Sergeant,” I ordered. “I don’t want Mr Gold taking it out on me because you were derelict in your duty.”

  When they were safely on their way, Nanny emerged from the room she shared with Emily. She was carrying a bundle of clothes: thread-worn trousers; a granddad shirt with a frayed collar; patched coat, shiny hat, and well-worn gloves.

  “Borrowed them from Jethro,” she told me. “He often gets strange things left at that dosshouse of his. Thought you might need them.”

  “Nanny, you are an absolute angel!” I made to hug her. She dodged with a dexterity which surprised me and placed the clothing on the sofa.

  “Don’t waste your flirting on me; I’ve beaten off better rogues.” Nanny looked at her watch. “By my reckoning, by the time you’ve got changed, she’ll be at Clara’s. So, she won’t be looking out for you.”

  “What does this Oliver look like?”

  “Handsome – or he was. If he’s gone to fat, like they say, he’ll be as ugly as his father.”

  I stopped to look at her. “You really think this Oliver is going to hurt Emily, don’t you?”

  Nanny pursed her lips and gave me a hard look. “He’s a nasty piece of work and she took his livelihood away. What d’you think?”

  I didn’t answer; simply scooped up the clothes and headed into my bedroom.

  It was the work of moments to change; the work of a few more, to grey out my hair with powder and apply theatrical make-up, turning me into a man nearer Gold’s age. Hobnail boots and a scarf completed the ensemble. Then it was out, down the servant’s stairs, and into the midday masses.

  From Reports.

  A woman of greying appearance eventually opened the door of number thirty-six and glared angrily at Emily and Sampson. Rolling pin slapping violently, she advanced menacingly, stopping only inches away from Sampson’s face. “He ain’t ‘ere. He ain’t been ‘ere for a couple of months an’ I’ve no idea when he’ll return!”

  “My god Clara! You ain’t lost your East End roots, have you?” Emily peaked out from behind Sampson and used her very real shock, at finding her former best friend in this state, to her advantage.

  The woman stopped mid-rant. “‘Ere, do I know you?” she asked suspiciously, raising her rolling pin slightly as Emily dodged past the valet to stand in front of the world-weary woman.

  “Might do! What’s it to ya?” The middle-class accent that Gold had been so intent on forcing upon Emily was gone.

  She was seven again. Standing at the top of the pawnbroker’s steps; watching the other children play – not daring to join them.

  1882.

  Gold stood behind her, hands on her shoulder – half protective, half encouraging – as the older of the girls come forward. “Ma mum says you gunna be his dolly mop when youse grow up!”

  Ready to run back into the shop, Emily stopped as his hands dug into her shoulders like claws. “Keep a civil tongue in your head Clara Jones. Or I’ll remind your mother of the dangers of spreading gossip about me.” Gold didn’t raise his voice, but it carried and the street cleared, leaving only the children – too frightened to move – and Emily in awe of the man who fought for her. “This is Emily.” He pushed her forward, forcing her to look at the other children. “She needs friends of her own age to teach her how to be a child.”

  There were some sniggers at that. But not from the eldest. She stared Gold out, as if defying him to carry out his threat. “Can you be her friend, Clara Jones? Can you teach her what it’s like not to have a care in the world?”

  1900.

  Emily remembered that the little girl bobbed a curtsy as she told Uncle she would be “‘onored” to do as he asked. It was the same little curtsy she bobbed now as recognition dawned, and joy replaced fear.

  “Oh Miss Em. I didn’t recognise you!” Clara gushed.

  “Miss Em? When d’ya get so formal?” Emily said as she wrapped her arms about the woman and hugged her tight.

  Afterwards, Emily was glad Clara couldn’t see her reaction. The big dress and pinny hid much – but once hugged, it was easy to see that Clara lived a hand-to-mouth existence, which didn’t sit right with what Emily knew of her past.

  As a child, Clara had been prone to plumpness – a fondness for toffee apples and Niall’s missus’ cake prevented her being as trim as Millie, who was all muscle, thanks to her workouts at Mr Zuan’s. But Oliver seemed happy to encourage her; telling the world he liked meat on a girl’s bones and Clara worked assiduously to become his kind of woman, because she knew Oliver was destined for greatness and wanted to be part of it.

  Staring at her now, Emily wondered if Clara hadn’t seen the real side of Oliver's delightful personality until after her marriage, because the last time she’d seen her friend – just before she chased off after him– Clara was bright and bubbly and full of life.

  Releasing her friend, Emily forced herself to be everything Clara was not. “May I come in?” she asked. When Clara hesitated, Emily used the magic words. “I’m up here because Uncle wants me to be.”

  Of course, such incantations might no longer have the desired effect – of opening doors. After all, Clara’s decision to marry Oliver meant she turned her back on Emily and their friendship and – more importantly – the Impereye and its rules. She just had to hope Clara would see sense and that Emily wouldn’t need Sampson's shoulders to force the issue for her.

  Time slowed as the woman before her considered Emily's request, then with a sigh and a semi-belligerent stare, Clara opened the door as wide as it would go. “It ain’t very clean. I’m bakin’.”

  To say the house was cramped was an understatement. Fourteen-foot square, a dirty half-torn curtain split the room into a kitchen and living area.

  Three children of indeterminate a
ge and gender sat on the floor playing with poppet dolls. An older boy, who was the spitting image of his dad at the same age, sat hogging the fire, his head pressed into a book. He didn’t look up and pointedly ignored his mother’s request to, “Lend a hand.”

  “You heard your mother, son.” Sampson barked in a tone that smacked of the parade ground. The boy’s head snapped out of the book and he glared.

  “It’s woman’s work! That’s what dad says.” The boy retorted in a bluff and hard at the edges northern accent.

  “And a real man knows how to be a host,” Sampson replied steadily. “Now let’s you and me make ourselves useful while your mum talks with Mr Gold’s niece.”

  The boy jumped up and began bustling around the kitchen. But whether it was the threat of not being man enough or the judicious use of Gold’s name, Sampson couldn’t say. And, of course, it brought the woman’s attention to him.

  “Is this your young man, Miss Em?” she asked. “He’s quite a looker, though a bit old ...?”

  Sampson, in the middle of putting the kettle on the stove, froze. To Emily’s barely concealed amusement, he looked horrified by the prospect of being anything other than Emily’s escort and, as if to emphasise nothing could be further from the truth, became more military in bearing as he resumed his chores.

  Emily bit the inside of her lip, counted to five, then said. “No. He works for Lord Byrd.”

  “Lord who?”

  Emily took a deep breath and decided to tell Clara the tale concocted the night of the conference. “Uncle used him a couple of years ago to investigate some petty thefts at the office. Likes to think of himself as an amateur detective.” She snorted and added: “A regular Sherlock Holmes, if you like.”

  Clara stared at Sampson who studiously ignored their conversation. “Not like Mr Gold to go outside the Impereye.

  “He’s ex-army” Emily shrugged. “He’s a bit of a player, if you get my drift, and didn’t want payment in the usual way. So, Uncle agreed he could have the company of one of the business girls. So here I am.”

  “But why you? You’re no toffer. You got book learning, not like the rest of us.” Clara screwed up her eyes and gave Emily a really hard stare. “Besides, he’s got Millie. She does toffs.”

  Emily grabbed her friend’s arm and steered her towards what could laughingly call the sitting area behind the curtain. “What d’you mean ‘does’, Clara?”

  “She ain’t allowed in there.” The young boy called out. “Dad’ll beat her, if he finds out.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Sampson advised as he began rolling the forgotten pastry.

  “Then he’ll beat me,” the boy retorted. “And last time he did that, I ended up sleeping in the corner for a week.”

  Sampson leant in, “If you learn how to fight back, you won’t.”

  “Look Jake’s right, I shouldn’t ...” Clara attempted to get up only for Emily to push her firmly into place.

  “I’ll deal with him. Don’t worry.”

  “Yes ... probably ... but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She twisted the corner of her dirty pinny. “Mind you we could be all right; he’s not been home for a while now. Been peaceful.” Clara slammed a hand to her mouth. “Oh hell, Em. Forget I said that.” She glanced around fearfully as if she expected her husband to appear at any moment.

  “Do you really think he’d be silly enough to show me the nasty side of his temper, Clara? Remember, book learning wasn’t the only thing Uncle taught me.”

  Fortunately, Sampson’s well-timed intervention stopped Emily from saying more. “Pie’s in Mrs Pratt. Do you want me to go find anything else to go with it – a dessert perhaps? I saw some apples in the basket. You want me to stew them down for you?”

  “Oh, no. that won’t be necessary.” Clara fluttered. “That pie’ll do us. More than enough for me and the children.” She hopped out of the chair.

  “I thought I saw a cooperative at the end of the street, Miss,” Sampson continued. “Might have some other fruit to go with the apples. If it’s alright by you, I’ll take the children and buy what catches their fancy.”

  “That would be perfect, Mr Sampson, I don’t want the children hearing this.”

  “Indeed not, miss.”

  Emily waited for the door to click shut and peace to descend before she went back to the matter in hand.

  “Clara, are you going to sit down?”

  “Well, Miss Em, if you say it’s alright, then I’m sure there’s no harm in it.” Clara perched nervously on the edge of the chair and continued to fiddle with her pinny.

  “I take it you’ve not heard?”

  Clara shook her head. “Millie don’t write much. Don’t like Oliver.” Clara smile was a little sad around the edges. “She came up in June while Oliver was away. Like you on business for Mr Gold, she was. Full of herself and boastful. Told me she’d discovered something that was going to make her fortune. But if she has, the scheming slut ain’t passed any of it my way.” Clara paused and as if realising this wasn’t what Emily meant by her question turned accusing eyes towards her guest. “Why you askin’ Miss Em? Surely you saw her before you left London?”

  Emily took Clara’s hands in hers, and in a low, gentle voice delivered her bombshell.

  As expected, Clara reacted badly. From initial disbelief and the accompanying silence that always accompanies such news, Clara went through all the emotions. Floods of tears; declarations of filial love; loud gulping words of devotion that Emily knew to be a pack of hysterical lies.

  Millie and Clara had never been close. They’d tolerated each other, until Oliver’s disgrace, when Millie publicly washed her hands of the younger woman.

  But in the hope of finding out more, however, Emily let Clara rant.

  At some point, Sampson returned; shooing the girls out on the step to eat their toffee apples before they heard too much. Jake stayed, sitting at his mother’s feet: solemn and tight-lipped. Every so often he would look at Sampson, waiting to see what the man would do before acting himself.

  At the end, when her friend exhausted and relying on sniffs to convey her sorrow, Emily made her move.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear?” she said. “Surely someone in the family would’ve told you? Or the police? Haven’t they come around?”

  Clara shook her head. “No one. Only the rent man. And I can’ pay ‘im.”

  Crafty eyes stared at Sampson and he sighed, knowing, what the woman expected. It always boiled down to money in the end.

  “Where’s your husband Mrs Pratt?” he asked, jangling his pockets.

  “Came back beginning of July, left middle of September.” Clara told them between sips and sniffs. “Not seen ‘im since. Mind you, not seen much of ‘im at all these last three or four years. Couple of nights here, couple of days there. Said everything he was working for was coming to fruition. Went off with a right jaunt in his step. Left money – for a change. Said there would be more. Lied of course ...” she trailed off pitifully.

  Sampson reached into his inside jacket pocket to remove his wallet.

  “No!” Emily said with such force that Sampson’s hand halted mid-movement, and Clara shrunk into the chair in fright. “No money, Clara. It isn’t our way and you know it.”

  Much to Sampson’s horrified amazement, the amiable clever woman of his acquaintance changed before his very eyes into the spitting image of her uncle – the hard eyes, and the smile that went no further than the middle of her lips; even her tone of voice was his.

  “Now you be a good girl, Clara and tell me everything. And if you want, I’ll make sure Oliver never sets foot inside this house again. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?” Then almost to herself, Emily added, “Perhaps I should’ve done that years ago. Rather than ruin him; I should’ve run him through with a knife, when I had the reason and the chance.”

  Clara paled. “Oh no, Miss Em. Don’t do that! I love ‘im too much!”

  Ignoring the woman’s wailing, Emily di
rected her attention to the boy. Undernourished, and resigned to the poverty all around him, he now met her regard steadily and without the earlier belligerence. Clearly, time with Sampson had been enough to show him his father was the aberration, not the rule. “You know who I am, don’t you, Jake?”

  The boy nodded warily, another point in his favour. “Yeah, you work for Gold.”

  If Emily heard the insult to her uncle, she ignored it. “Really? Flat on my back no doubt! Is that what Oliver told you?”

  “No miss.” Jake hastened to reassure her, and she accepted his lie because it was well-meant. “Mostly he said you took his livelihood away. That you fluttered your baby blues at the old man, and he forgot all his promises.”

  “Explain.”

  For a moment, the boy seemed unsure; his eyes darting first to Clara, then to Sampson, then back to Clara again.

  “Tell the truth,” Sampson advised when the boy looked over at him for a third time. “Even when others don’t believe you should.” Jake nodded as he digested this piece of advice. Then he looked at Emily and squared his shoulders.

  “You won’t like it, but when Dad was in his cups, he used to tell me that you were supposed to be nothing more than a good little earner; easy money because of your looks. But you wanted more than that, so you turned the old man against him and framed him.”

  “And did he say what I did?”

  The boy shook his head. “Only that Mr Gold believed your lies. Real bitter he was. Last time he came home and moaned about you, he blamed Aunt Millie too. Vicious about the pair of you he was; said you was no better than a Covent Garden whore the way you teased him then played the victim when Jethro caught the pair of you.” The boy gulped as if remembering something else.

  “Go on,” Emily prompted. “Better out than in. Besides, if I don’t have all the facts, I can’t make the correct decision.”

  The boy bit his bottom lip. “Sorry, Ma. You ain’t going to like it, but I must tell her.”