by S. E. Smith
“He’s not Impereye, miss.” Niall’s formality made her stop and stare quizzically at her uncle’s minder.
“He’s not? Then why’s he here?” A thought struck and wouldn’t let go. “He’s not police, is he?”
“Oh, good heavens, Miss Em. Stupid I might be, but I’m not that daft. Only police to get past me is the colonel and then only if the boss tells me to.”
Emily stared at him impatiently, and Niall got the hint. “Says he’s got information. I put him in the private room at the back of the shop.”
Emily smiled for the first time in what felt like forever and put down the diary. “Come with me, Niall.”
“Like I’d do anything else!” the Glaswegian muttered as he clumped down the stairs in her wake.
The back of the shop was a hallowed invitation-only area, reserved for favoured customers, or couriers who preferred the veneer of respectability. In the centre of the room sat a table with three chairs. On the table, on top of a velvet mat, were a couple of ring sizers and a pair of jeweller’s glasses.
As she opened the door, Emily’s guest sprang to his feet. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m Uriah Spinnaker. I own a small livery and cab firm outside the city.” The lisping speaker was a relatively well-built man who gave the impression he spent his early years as a manual labourer of some description. Now in his fifties, blond greying hair framed a face whose nose had been broken several times at least. His handshake – always Emily’s first gauge of character – was firm. Like her uncle, one hand was injured. But unlike Gold, who suffered little from the loss of the top of his finger, Mr Spinnaker’s right hand hung lifelessly at his side.
“A friend of mine was at Canton Sue’s,” the man began, “he said you were looking for a shotgun.”
Emily liked the way Spinnaker got straight to business. After the games of last night, it was a balm to a tortured soul. “I am. Please, sit.” Clearly, Emily’s businesslike demeanour reassured her visitor, because unlike most, Spinnaker didn’t seem put out by her abruptness and hastened to do as she asked.
Once comfortable, the man wiped his top lip with a white napkin which he folded carefully before continuing his tale. “About a fortnight ago, I picked up a fare in Limehouse, not far from The Basin. Thought nothing of him at the time. Not chatty, but not everyone is, and I put his quietness down to it being gone midnight. Wanted me to take him out Norwood way.” Spinnaker’s smile revealed crooked teeth. “Sorted out the price in advance, and we set off. Easy job. Client fell asleep; roads were empty. We made good time. Dropped him off and got paid for me pains.”
Niall tapped his good foot against his peg, his usual sign of irritation. The man’s tale bored him. He wanted Spinnaker gone.
“Indeed, it weren’t ‘til morning that I realised something was wrong, and then not until I went to clean me cab.”
Emily leant forward. “Go on.”
“The floor was sticky, and full of footprints. When I cleaned them up, I realised they were made in blood. I thought nothin’ of it. Well, you get all sorts in the back of a cab. I assumed he was a butcher. Except he didn’t carry any knives ...” Spinnaker shook his head. “And there was something wrong with the shoe prints. There weren’t any heels.”
Niall and Emily exchanged looks. “Maybe one heel broke, and he removed the other to even his tread?”
Spinnaker appeared to consider the possibility. “Possible. But I’m off the point, I’m here about the gun. A lapara?”
“Lupara. A sawn-off, double-barrelled shotgun.”
Spinnaker nodded eagerly on hearing the description. “It’s at my place. He left in the back of the cab. I didn’t realise it belonged to you ... or I would’ve brought it sooner.” Spinnaker’s eyes took on an expression that could be taken for pleading and Emily smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, you’ve done the right thing. There’s a £20 reward. I’ll send Danny – one of our boys – back with you. He’ll take the gun, hand over the reward ... and you can go back to being a law-abiding citizen.”
Emily stood to indicate the meeting was over. Spinnaker picked up his cue and thanked her profusely for believing him and hearing his ramblings out. She smiled and as usual waited until the man reached the door before asking one last question. “Mr Spinnaker? I don’t suppose you remember the man’s name or the address in Norwood?”
Spinnaker turned abruptly and looked at her. It was a cold, calculating glance, at odds with his previous persona. Then suddenly, it was gone, and the cabbie’s face was wreathed in smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do, miss. He said his name was Kerzenende. But as for the address; can’t help. I dropped him off outside the cemetery.”
Danny was champion of the East End, and as he readily admitted later, careless and cocky. Strutting his stuff, like Mr Jethro did, he forgot one important thing. Jethro always kept watching and listening. Danny couldn’t. He was too busy carrying the gun-bag in one arm and strutting with the rest of him.
It didn’t take a hard blow to the head to fell him. Not enough to knock Danny cold but enough to ensure he lost grip of the shotgun; and hard enough to mean that he was winded sufficiently not to be able to run after the man who nicked it.
“But I did see something, miss,” he said after he recovered enough to stagger back to the shop. “Two things actually. I thought I saw Mum’s boyfriend watching the place, which ain’t possible coz he’s at sea; and I saw the shoes of the bloke what hit me. They were shiny, miss, and they didn’t have an ‘eel. I don’t know how he could walk let alone run in them shoes. I ain’t ever seen anything like them.”
Having instructed Niall to walk the lad back to his mother, Emily made her way upstairs to her uncle’s office.
“Well, how’s the boy?” Gold asked once she was comfortable and sipping cocoa.
Emily grimaced. “He’ll survive. More damage to his ego than anything else.”
“Won’t do him any harm.” Gold coughed.
“Indeed. And someone obviously doesn’t want us to examine the gun. Probably this Kerzenende.” Had Emily known such a thing was possible, she’d have said Uncle looked worried on hearing the name. Instead, as soon as the idea registered it was gone, and the old man’s cynical urbanity was in place.
“I wonder why? Unless he’s heard of your prowess with the forensic arts ...” Gold retched and stared at the contents of the bowl when he was done.
“You should get Nanny to have a look at you,” Emily advised. “Red paint’ll only go so far to cover up the fact you’re ill.”
Her uncle smiled but refused to be drawn. “I asked Mohandas,” the old man told her. “He’s given me some medicine. Nanny too for that matter.” He pointed to the range of pills and potions on the window ledge.
“They don’t work!” Emily grunted. “They both need to come back.” She went over to Gold’s bookshelves, located their copy of Bradshaw’s Railway Guide and placed it on the table beside her chair.
The old man waved dismissively. “I’ll see how the next week goes.”
“You do that.” She wound her feet under her, picked up Lilian’s diary and became lost in a world of possibilities and intrigue.
Knowing this could last some time, Gold picked up his book and began reading. From time to time he would retch into the bowl, strategically placed on the floor beside him, and mutter viciously in Yiddish. Emily paid little attention; not even when he took a sip from one of Nanny’s bottles of medicine. Not even when he disappeared to their bathroom to be sick.
“Well?” Gold asked as Emily marked the page in the Bradshaw’s guidebook with an envelope, closed the diary, and stretched like a cat to restore blood to her limbs.
“It took a while, but I think I’ve discovered where in Wales she went to live after she left London.” She handed over the notes.
Reading them, Gold looked thoughtful and in an unusual gesture bit his lip. “Well, well, well ...” he said. “What a small world!” He raised an eyebrow. “Another coincidence. I see Lil out
side the pub. Flo winds up murdered. We need to go tell her, and you track her down via a diary she hasn’t come back for... to there of all places ...”
“Indeed. But don’t worry, I’ll be careful. The duke’ll never know I’ve visited, and Uncle Robert won’t accuse me of breaking our promise because we know Sym’s in London.”
Gold’s eyes narrowed still further until they were hidden under his eyebrows. “Take Danny with you,” he told her. “The boy could do with a few days away from his mother. He’ll heal faster without nagging.”
Emily stood and smiled at her uncle. “I’ll find out if the local pub has two rooms. If it does, I’ll take Danny. If not ...”
“The boy can sleep outside your door.” The old man’s voice brooked no defiance. “You need loyal lieutenants.” He coughed, and Emily watched in concern until the fit passed and Gold was back in command of his emotions. “Now, bubbeleh,” he said he threw the hankie in the fire before she could see the contents, “what do you want me to do while you are away?”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Imran’s companion was of the rough and ready kind. A burly man with muscles like barrels of gunpowder, he filled the porter’s parlour; where I met him to spare his blushes and discomfort.
“This is Pete,” my chef said by way of introduction. “He’s got something he wants to give you in person.”
“I’ll get straight to it if you don’t mind,” Pete said. “I know who you are, and the less time I spend wiv you the better. The pawnbroker won’t like it.” Removing something from a greasy edged pocket, he held out a docker’s hand - big, scarred and dirty under the nails. “I was going to hand this to Miss Emily. But it slipped my mind.”
Wordlessly I took the envelope from him and stared at the neat copperplate name: Lilian Poulter and then at an address full of extra consonants not used in English that housed a letter agreeing to meet him at The Grapes.
“Tell the major where you found it,” Imran ordered.
Pete looked shifty. “In the man’s shoe.”
“You took the dead man’s shoes?” Sampson’s incredulity masked my lack of suitable response.
“He didn’t need them, and I got a pretty penny selling them.”
“I see.” A sinking feeling developed in the pit of my stomach. “Do you know what that top bit says – that bit where the address is?” I prompted in a vain attempt to stop the ever-growing sense of doom that threatened to engulf my existence.
Pete shook his head. “And I ain’t ever seen anyfin’ like it, either? Is it somethin’ foreign?”
I gave the paper to Imran, who handed it to Sampson - who swore.
“You could say that.” I told him, “It’s Welsh.”
Nothing more was said on the subject of Wales until Pete had ridden into the proverbial sunset, well paid for his endeavours and happy as Larry.
By that time, we were back in the flat. Me – brandy and soda in hand – trying to laugh at the world while Sampson wore his belligerence like a cloak. Imran retired to the kitchen, banging pots and pans together. Watkins was out with the Henry Ford.
“Do you want me to telephone His Grace and apprise him of our imminent arrival?” Sampson inquired when he judged the silence stretched too far.
I waved dismissively. “No. See if the public house in Llong can accommodate us.”
Sampson’s face took on a disapproving lot. “We would be better staying with His Grace rather than Deryn.”
Justly irritated, I snapped waspishly. “We would be better sharing accommodation with a cluster of tarantulas than bunking down with him.”
Sampson arched an eyebrow. “I will tell Watkins to service the Citroen, and get her ready, my lord.”
“You’ll do no such thing! We’ll be travelling by train. That way we can’t stay with Grandfather.”
“I am not sure that would be wise, my lord.” Sampson’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline.
“When I want your opinion, Sergeant. I’ll ask for it.”
Sampson bowed. “Indeed, my lord.”
I was surprised the door didn’t slam.
Still in a foul mood by the time CC arrived, I gave him the bare-bones of an account.
“Grandfather’s not going to like it.” He showed Sampson a comradely face, which I chose to ignore. “At least take Watkins, that way you can have dinner with him.”
“No. Watkins can give you a hand down here. He doesn’t like the Welsh roads - says the Khyber Pass is straighter.”
CC gave me a despairing shake of his head. “On your own head be it, when Grandfather finds out.”
I ignored my cousin and turned to my valet. “Any word from the pub?”
A supercilious expression crossed Sampson’s face, and an ‘I told you so’ look passed between him and my cousin. “Indeed, my lord, I telephoned an hour ago. Bad news. Both rooms are taken, and the private parlour.”
I swore. “If you telephoned when I asked you to ...”
“They would still have been taken, my lord. Back bedroom went last night. The other this morning. In light of this I’ll telephone His Grace and make arrangements to be collected at Buckley.”
Anger won over discretion. “Go boil your head, Sergeant.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
This time the door did slam.
Determined to see them all in hell before I let them know how much I agreed with my cousin and my staff, I went to see Serena.
My lady was unimpressed with my news. Even more vitriolic on learning that not only was I leaving the capital, but I was leaving without her.
As regal as any of Bertie’s swans, Serena took my assurance that Sampson would be my only companion with a cynicism only vaguely mollified by the news that the pub was full to capacity. A couple en route to Holyhead occupied one room and a woman with a servant, who would sleep in the doorway – until the Holyhead couple moved on– arrived on the morrow.
Aware I would be staying at the house with Grandfather, she fell into a brooding, speculative silence which ended with the kind of laughter women understand, and men fear. And so, disheartened by her failure to understand my predicament, I took leave of my lady friend and returned home to indulge in fitful sleep, full of Stilton dreams, more fitting to the mind of Mr H.G. Wells.
Fournier Street.
Despite her stated intention of going home, Emily insisted on repeating her description of the visitor for what must have been the twentieth time. Her uncle, realising she did so more to process her own disquiet than to check his understanding, humoured her, replying in the age old mantra:
“Well, bubbeleh, we shall see, what we shall see” until Emily finally readied herself to leave for her lodgings.
“Let’s hope Wales answers your questions,” he said as the cold air of the entrance hall mixed with the warmth of their parlour.
“Indeed.” A thought struck her. “You’ll keep an eye on Spinnaker in my absence?”
The old man nodded. “And I’ll also hunt down the mysterious Mr Kerzenende; if he hasn’t vanished away. People of his kind tend to.” Awkward laughter surrounded his words, and to stop any questions, Gold held up the crow ring until it winked her into silence. “Peace bubbeleh, I always keep my word. Just as you will keep yours and come home safely.”
After enveloping her in his customary bearlike hug, Gold pushed her in the direction of the doorway. “Sleep well. Your train’s booked for the afternoon so there’s no need to rush in the morning.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Tuesday 5th March.
Sampson proved a disapproving travelling companion. Every time I tried to engage him in conversation, he huffed and buried his head in his book. When he could be tempted to speak, his tone was terse and formal. Every other sentence ended with ‘my lord’, as if to emphasise I remained in the doghouse.
“‘Tis only for a few nights.”
The page of Sampson’s penny dreadful turned with such force that t
he pages creaked and threatened to break. “Even I take longer to get into trouble with Grandfather than that.”
The page turned loudly again and was followed by a snort of disbelief. “If I may be so bold as to remind you, you haven’t seen His Grace for a year,” Sampson declared in an ominous voice. “Given you refused his invitation to spend Christmas, you’re already in trouble - before you arrive.”
He had a point. Not that I would and did admit it.
“When His Grace discovers you’re only staying with him because – to quote your earlier dubious levity – ‘there’s no room at the inn’, and then you tell him you’re only visiting because prime minister wishes it; you will – in the modern parlance – be up the creek without a paddle.”
“It could be worse,” I quipped.
Finally, my valet looked up; the eyebrow raised. “How could it be worse?”
I grinned wickedly. “I could’ve brought a lady friend.”
For the first time in our travels, Sampson’s twitched lipped response matched my own feelings. “Then I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.”
On arrival at the station, we found Grandfather’s driver on the far side of the level crossing, ready to take our luggage back to the hall. I wanted to head straight into Buckley in search of Mrs Poulter’s house but driving rain – the type you only get in Wales – prevented such things. So, with a heavy heart, I got in the Mercedes and resigned myself to yet another delay. Still, I comforted myself with the knowledge that telling the old girl of her friend Langley’s death could wait until morning.
Dinner was horrendous. Well-cooked and succulent, the food and wines were all a man lacking in feminine companionship could and should desire. Even my host proved amiable until, putting down his claret, he said: “Your last case ... Salisbury tells me it was tricky.”