by S. E. Smith
I nodded, hoping to God and all his angels in heaven that the prime minister had not been lulled into indiscretion by my all too astute grandsire.
“Solved without scandal, I understand.”
Another nod.
“Salisbury tells me you were not alone in your investigations.”
My heart hit the pit of my stomach and rolled.
“That your assistant was a totally unsuitable young lady.” Grandfather imbued his words with utter disdain.
I smiled, hoping it would be enough.
“You have severed the connection.” It was not a question.
“I doubt I will see her again.”
“I am pleased.”
And there was an end to it. Dinner ruined.
Over port, I contemplated my grandsire. Only one description from my first impression as a small child applied. He remained a cannonball of a man - in attitude and speech. Well into his eighties, he surveyed the world through amber eyes that showed no sign of blindness. His nose and ears, missing the customary hairs of old age, were equally sharp. As was his wit and insight.
Family history maintained he married his childhood sweetheart, who having borne him five children - one of whom was my sainted papa - lived in London and spent his money with abandon. This happy state of affairs lasted, until having run out of insults and acerbic logic, she turned up her toes thirty years ago, leaving the world a more peaceful place.
Grandfather mourned her loss to London by creating an all-male environment ruled by a butler, who learned the world from one of Her Majesty’s vessels of war and was – like Sampson – unflappable. My grandfather’s other companions included Davies his driver, Gregory his valet – with minions to do his work for him – and a pair of Labradors. Sloppy, floppy, black beasts, whose tails wagged too much and whose tongues were on roller blinds.
From the way Gregory and my grandfather were around each other – the teasing camaraderie and biting sarcasm – I suspected there was more to their relationship than master and servant. Which meant Grandfather’s attitude towards me and my paramours was hypocritical. Not that I would say anything. I loved the old goat too much.
Wednesday 6th March.
The following morning Sampson and I, dressed for the threat of oncoming rain, yomped into Buckley. Making our way to the station, I found the stationmaster sitting on the platform. Shirt out, cap off, and tie undone, it was obvious – even if he hoped I missed the hastily stubbed out cigarette – no train was expected in the foreseeable future.
I greeted him courteously and exchanged a little gossip before asking him for directions to Mrs Poulter’s place.
The man smiled and having accepted a replacement cheroot, from the ever-efficient Sampson, told me in clipped ponderous tones – which clearly indicated English was not his first language – how to find the old lady’s cottage.
Judging he reached the end of his comfort of English, we slipped into Welsh.
“Tis strange, my lord,” the stationmaster said as he brought our conversation back to the beginning. “You’re the second person to ask about Mrs Poulter, this morning.”
“I am?”
He nodded. “Lovely woman, her niece I believe. Real polite. Lovely manners. Staying at the pub.”
A few moments later, I rounded up Sampson, who was skimming stones and remembering things long gone, and we headed out in the general direction of Poulter’s house.
It was a pleasant walk up from the station and onto the main road, and with the prospect of interrupting the old girl en famille – as the saying went – we took our time, slowing our route march down to an amble. The peaks of distant hills showed signs of snowfall and stopping to admire the view, I breathed deeply and coughed.
“Clean air. Not used to it, that’s your problem, Major. Too much soot in your veins.” Sampson slapped me on the back. Instead of helping my cough, his actions made it worse. But at least he didn’t laugh. That would have been too humiliating.
Without a word we continued on our way, only stopping to pause and regroup when we saw a black bike propped up against the hedge of one of the houses further ahead.
“Local bobby?” Sampson enquired.
I nodded. “Probably a duty call. Some old biddy seen poachers in her garden.”
But as we got nearer, it was obvious the local constable was not on a social call. The bike was outside the address the stationmaster gave us, and there were voices. So, I thought, the guests were the querulous kind. Dear Hades, an old lady roused to anger by grasping relatives, wouldn’t welcome my questions. I would be out on my ear before a how-de-do was view hallooed through the door.
The constable, certain of his authority and procedures, spoke for long periods of time. The second voice barely got a word in edgeways. But when she did speak...
My heart slammed into my mouth.
My pace quickened. Either that or Sampson slowed to a dead halt.
I turned around to chivvy him onwards, only to find him shaking his head slowly.
“I swear I didn’t know ...”
I broke into one of those half-runs people adopt when they don’t want to appear too eager. From my valet’s snorts of derision and anger, he wasn’t fooled.
I arrived at the doorway of Lilian Poulter’s house in time to hear a: “Be that as it may, Miss Davies. But you must come with me to the station so that when the Wrexham man gets here, he can question you.”
Followed by: “You’re not moving that body till I’ve taken photographs. No saying what damage’ll be done, once the funeral men arrive. And don’t try and talk me out of it you bloody idiot.”
Judging by the way the constable spluttered at her words, Emily was about to spend a night in the cells of Wrexham jail; something that would displease her uncle - and lead to trouble. I took a deep breath: “The young lady is correct, Constable.” I held out my warrant card as I entered the house. “It’s always important to preserve a crime scene doncha know?”
As one they turned and, before I could draw breath, said young lady skipped over, and enveloped me in an utterly intimate embrace. “Thank heavens you’re here darling!” she declared loudly before, leaning her head near to my ear, she added the following furious whisper: “I told him we’re acquainted, and he doesn’t believe me. Apparently, I’m not your type! So, kiss me you idiot and prove him wrong!”
Grandfather brought me up to oblige a lady. I obliged this lady with alacrity.
A discrete, if irritated, cough followed by a, “We’ll put the kettle on, shall we, Constable?” brought me back to earth with a crash.
Dazed by the way Emily returned my kiss, I could do little more than smile at the constable but my actions only warmed his back, so I turned to the young lady, partially hopeful of a continuation of our intimacy, only to find her hands on her hips. “What the bloody ‘ell are you doin’ ere?”
“Would it pain you to learn I had no idea you’d be here, my dear?” I said when it became clear that her opening salvo was not an insult.
When she continued to stare at me, in that adorable way of hers, I felt honour-bound to continue. “Emily, darling, why are you here ...? Not that it ain’t delightful to see you and all ... but what’s your business with my witness?”
“Your witness? What do you want with her?”
“A friend of hers got shot and dumped in the Thames. You?”
Emily looked at me warily. “I’m on business for Nanny. A friend of hers, Lilian Poulter’s sister as it so happens, was found murdered and I wanted to find out what she knew.”
“And?”
“Too late.”
Realisation dawned. “Bugger.”
“You’re here about the bloke Watkins was asking after?”
“At Canton Sue’s? Yes.” I smiled. “He said you acquitted yourself well that night.”
“‘E promised not to say anything!” she squeaked, looking around to see if she could use the window as an exit from the long arm of the law.
“He d
idn’t. I earwigged.”
The anger and hurt and pent-up tension evaporated, and she laughed. “Oh, Sym, you’re are incorrigible.”
I blew her a kiss - glad beyond words that serendipity allowed me a few more hours in her company.
She crushed it ruthlessly in her fist. “Not your usual type of crime though. What you bothering about it for? He got shot by someone and Jethro’s boys dumped him. It’s an East End crime. It don’t get the interest of your sort.”
Seeing no point prevaricating, I got straight to the point. “Agreed, but his name was found in a diary in a Whitehall office, and when he wound up dead ... You know how it is, panic runs amok in the corridors of power.” I knelt in front of the cold grate and prodded about with a nearby poker. “How long’s the old lady been dead?”
“Not sure. I got here just after nine.”
“Natural causes?”
Emily shrugged. “That’s what Constable Evans thought when I sent Danny to get him. Said old ladies died in their sleep. Wanted to get the undertakers in to move the body. Thought me most odd when I told him not to disturb a crime scene. Got really shirty and refused to let me go back upstairs. Said if I did, he’d arrest me - which is when you came in.” She threw a disgusted look in the direction of the kitchen.
I needed to keep her attention focused on the case, and her ire focused on me. “What makes you think something’s not right?”
“Oh, for crying out loud! If it was alright, there’d be no need to take pictures of Lilian’s bedroom. Nor would I send Danny to get PC soddin’ Plod to look at the body. And I wouldn’t need you to kiss me.” Emily counted under her breath and calmed: “I’m sorry. The constable irritated me.” She’d been irked longer than that. The policeman was just the latest recipient of her anger.
Always the knight in shining armour, I decided to become the object of her choler. “On the off-chance that the constable’s correct, could it be a natural death? Old ladies do die suddenly.”
“I wish people would stop telling me that ... like it’ll make any bloody difference.” Another count, then Emily shrugged. “Sym, when ‘ave you ever known me wrong?”
I hadn’t. But I wasn’t going to let her know that, especially when she donned her cockney accent. “Not that I don’t believe you, my dear; but do you want me to have a gander at the body? Two of us might stand a better chance of convincing PC Evans he needs to act.”
Emily’s relief was palpable. “Please.”
At the doorway to Lilian Poulter’s bedroom, Emily stopped. “You might want to cover your nose,” she advised. “It’s ... nasty.”
I didn’t bother to tell her I gathered that. The strange scent of sickly old lady – which had been faintly present downstairs – grew stronger the nearer you got to the bedroom – turning now into the solid stench of a death most horrible.
I did my best not to cast up my accounts in front of Emily - whose stomach was evidently made of sterner stuff than mine - and opened the door. I was just about to congratulate myself on a recovery well made when I spied the chamber pot - full to overflowing.
Bile rose in my throat at the sight of the hardened mess on the carpet, and I clamped my teeth against its escape. I counted to ten; then ten again, before surveying the room once more
“It’s everywhere.” Emily didn’t need to say more. I counted again and stepped into the room.
“You would have thought she died in agony; screaming out for someone to come to her. But the neighbours heard nothing,” Emily told me as she joined me inside the room. Her hand slipped inside mine, and I squeezed in a comforting gesture.
“I asked the man next door about her last few days.” Emily led me around the room as she spoke, pointing out the state of the washstand and basin, where the poor woman had thrown up in the early part of her illness. “He said Lilian came home screaming blue murder about travelling playing gyp with her stomach; went inside and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Not a peep.”
“But this looks like agony.” I shuddered. “A truly horrible death ... And yet no one heard anything? ... No cries? No sound at all?”
“According to the neighbour: nothing. Of course, he might have wanted to spare my ears in the telling of the truth. Because, like you, I can’t imagine Lilian kept quiet through all this.” Emily shivered. “We should talk to him together. You’ll get more sense out of him. I’m only a woman, and an English one at that.”
I decided silence was the better part of valour, and having finished our preliminary examination of the room, I ushered Emily into the relatively clean air of the landing. After the confines of the room, it was like being in heaven.
“Are you thinking poison?” I asked, closing the door to the bedroom on the reality if not the memory.
Emily nodded. “I sent Danny to arrange a courier to send some samples to Doctor McGregor.” She paused, obviously expecting me to say something. When I didn’t, she continued. “I know I shouldn’t use him, but he’s one of the best. I also hoped to return to London with a phial of blood. But Evans stopped me taking a sample.”
“Danny?” I changed the subject before her ire could return to the hapless village bobby.
“One of Uncle’s new men. Only a boy really. His dad died; left them in the workhouse. Uncle found out, paid for their release and him and his mum came back to London. Opened a café on Brick Lane. Uncle gets food from them once a week and is training the boy up to run errands.”
“A lot of trust to put in a child,” I said, ignoring the ultimate fate awaiting a youngster working in Gold’s organisation.
“He has to start somewhere. Didn’t you start as an errand boy in that army of yours?” Emily rubbed the bridge of her nose as the truth of her words played across my face. “And given you’re here, Uncle’s right, for all he’s not well. I do need a chaperone.”
I ignored the change of topic deciding that if Gold’s illness was relevant – and not just Emily venting her spleen – it would be a topic she returned to. “We should go downstairs,” I told her, “Constable Evans won’t be happy we’ve viewed the body against his say so.”
Emily agreed and let me lead the way back down the narrow staircase. “Let’s just hope Sampson’s been able to sweet-talk the rozzer round.”
It was amazing what tea could achieve. On our arrival at the door to Lilian’s little kitchen, my valet and Evans sat convivially at the table, jawing about the late queen’s funeral and my relationship with His Majesty.
“Please, don’t stop,” I said as Sampson made to rise. “Not on our account. Do continue.”
I settled Emily and myself at the other end of the table and made busy pouring tea until Evans lost his shyness and the conversation about the death of Victoria resumed. Emily sat quietly, happy to let me take control. Or at least let Evans think that was the case.
“Tell his lordship what you told me, Constable,” Sampson encouraged when I finished my kitchen duties, and Emily appeared engrossed in her cuppa. I knew better. Emily had what my grandfather called ‘Boris ears’. Boris, like all old dogs, was deaf as a post – until the leather strop touched the knife – then he was a puppy, under your feet and demanding food before the younger dogs caught wind of the situation. No, Emily was listening; you just had to recognise the signs. Her eyes were closed. She was still stirring sugar into her cup. And – I realised happily – she wore the ring I gave her.
“Well, I was just telling Mr Sampson here that Mrs Poulter kept herself to herself. Polite, but what townsfolk would call reserved. Didn’t like people looking into her business.” A smile took any criticism out his speech. “If there were strangers in the area, she would always bolt herself into the house and not come out. Even if it meant missing church. And she never did that if she could help it.” The constable took a sip of tea and chewed it down.
“Rector’s the nearest to a friend - them both being English. She had a relationship with the publican for a while. But Ma said that soured when she went teetotal and found re
ligion.”
“And when was that?”
Evans scratched his head. “Some ten years,” he said, his eyes scrunching together with the effort of memory. “Got to be. Ma’s been dead eight.”
When the undertaker arrived for the body, Emily swung into action, arranging for her dear auntie to be placed in the chapel of rest in Wrexham. “Well it’s bigger than the one in Mold, isn’t it, Mr Hughes?” she said, battering her suddenly big blue eyes at the formally attired stork of a man. “And I know given the manner of her death you wouldn’t want your apprentice to deal with the arrangements.”
The undertaker, a balding man in his fifties, lapped up her flattery and agreed to have the clothes Lilian was wearing packaged up, and stored; rather than burned, as was his initial desire. Of course, the couple of guineas Emily pressed into his hand went much of the way to soothing any ruffled feathers.
During their conversation, when everyone was watching Emily’s display of business acumen, I discretely nodded and, on the pretext of stretching his legs, Sampson wandered upstairs to take the photographs Constable Evans previously denied. Given that I saw him open my Gladstone to retrieve a needle, syringe, and phial before heading off, I knew he intended to do more than take photos.
He wasn’t long. Even for one known throughout the regiment for his cast-iron stomach, he wouldn’t linger. Catching sight of his wan and thoughtful visage, I knew immediately he agreed with Emily and I: Lilian Poulter’s death was no accident.
We stayed, dutifully mournful, until the coffin left for its eleven-mile journey to Wrexham.
Constable Evans – having shaken our hands with a sincerity born of imagined friendship – locked up, collected his bicycle and rode off into the sunset. I escorted Emily to the pub.
“This is a lovely place,” I said as we stopped outside its wooden door surrounded by pot plants. “I usually stay here, rather than with Grandfather. Deryn’s got a wonderful way with pies and keeps a good cellar.”