by S. E. Smith
CC smiled grimly. “Unsuccessfully, as I have this in my hand.”
“I was assured there were only a few copies of the picture - all handed over without a murmur. I recovered them via your murdered clerk. Until now, I was convinced this was the only remaining copy.” He tapped the one on his knee. “But if Gull made this partial and false one ... Who else lied to me all those years ago?” Gold flipped the picture over and smiled. “Ahh good! I did put the names on the back.”
Something nagged at the corner of CC’s memory. Clawed its way out of the fog and fought to be heard. “Grandfather insisted photographs were taken of the family servants. But he was never in them,” he said slowly. “Symington has photographs taken with his entourage, but only because it irks Grandfather. It’s not common to mix masters and servants - and yet Bravo, Gull and Mrs Bravo are in this photograph. Why?”
“At the time, I thought it was because it suited Bravo.”
CC looked confused an action that elicited a snort of amusement from the pawnbroker.
“Oh, Sir Charles! Your face!” Another snort. “Your face is proof you just wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all.” Gold chuckled before fixing CC with a sombre expression. “I told you, Bravo was ambitious. Later, I wondered if he wanted a photo as proof of our association. But now I realise neither Bravo nor Lil orchestrated this.”
“How can you be so sure?” The words escaped of their own volition.
“You see who I’m standing next to?” Gold pointed to a man with a dimpled chin, sideburns and heavily pomaded hair.
“William Gull,” CC confirmed, adding: “Byrd has a photograph of the two of them and the King in his study.” CC stared at the image again. “Gull’s in an atrocious mood.”
“There was another man, he took the photograph. Gull didn’t like him. None of us really liked him. I certainly didn’t. Too tidy. Too precise.” Gold shivered.
CC sat back in his chair and blew his nose. “None of this makes sense!” his frustration was obvious.
“I know.” Gold fell silent, staring almost obsessively at the photograph until he pulled himself together and smiled at CC. “I’m sorry, this conversation, pleasant as it has been, draws to an end.”
“And these other people?” Despite his dismissal, CC refused to give up.
“All the names are on the back.” Gold stood and offered his hand.
CC took it with his usual show of reluctance. “What are you up to?”
“Please, Sir Charles, you need to leave before I become indiscrete and put you in terrible danger. All the names you need for your inquiry are here. Take this and keep for as long as necessary.”
The pawnbroker paused and bit his bottom lip before continuing. “If I should die – of something other than poison – give this to your cousin and make sure to ask Lamb about Kerzenende. I think Flo ...” Another bite of his lip this time accompanied by a shake of his head. “Better still ... you see that boy standing next to Langley?”
CC gazed at a gangly youth with the beginnings of facial hair.
“The man who took the photograph – this Kerzenende – used him as a punchbag. I offered Billy a job with the Impereye to help him escape and he took it. Ask Lamb about Billy Pearce, if he can’t remember Kerzenende. That should jog his memory.”
“I don’t recognise the name,” CC admitted. “Did Billy leave your employ?”
Gold stared at his guest, all customary amusement missing from his features. “You could say that.”
His voice had a tremulous quality. One that in any other man CC would have said was fear.
“He was set upon one night back in ‘79. Had his throat ripped out.”
From Reports.
As letters of its kind went, it was insulting.
You will present yourself at Byrd Hall at 5PM to explain why you are chasing after my grandson.
Fflint
The reply wasn’t much better.
I read your request with interest. Go screw yourself.
It was unsigned.
Calling for his driver, the duke left Byrd Hall.
At the commotion echoing its way up the stairs, Emily unhooked herself from her chair, roused a sleeping Danny, and – after hiding Lilian Poulter’s diary in plain sight – arranged herself at her writing desk.
“You have a visitor,” the landlord intoned in his crispest of North Walian accents.
“He’s not in a good mood, is he?”
“No, miss. Want me to hang around?”
“Thank you, Deryn, but no. Please, show His Grace in and bring a bottle of brandy.”
“Brandy will not be necessary, Miss Davies. This is not a social call.”
Impatient and sure of his power, the duke had not kicked his heels in the bar despite the landlord’s best attempts to delay him. On first inspection, the man at the doorway was nothing like Byrd or his cousin, and Emily decided they favoured their paternal grandmother. Except when you looked closely. Except when they all tried pomposity. Then there was no denying their resemblance to the man before her.
She tried hard not to laugh. If the duke expected her to be cowed by his glower, he had another think coming. She was Impereye. Her uncle’s apprentice. More than a match for a duke.
It was the work of moments to see chagrin, at his inability to rile her, replace the anger. Her head tilted, and her face filled with a mirth that was pure Uncle. “It ain’t for you!” She held out her hand. “Na come in, si’ yerself down an’ let’s jaw over your mistake as adults, not spoil’ chilrun.”
Wrong-footed, and frankly disgusted by her atrocious accent, the duke was tempted to ignore the offered hand, knowing this would add further insult to his visit. Except it wouldn’t, he realised as he recognised the martial light in her cornflower blue eyes. The woman before him expected him to behave churlishly.
Unused to being read so accurately, the duke gripped her outstretched hand in a bid to show her who was boss.
It failed.
Expecting a woman’s limp handshake, the duke found himself on the receiving end of one firmer than his own. Their greeting broke at the precise moment etiquette demanded. Then, much to his surprise, Emily directed him not to the two comfy armchairs in front of the fire, but instead to the wooden chair in front of her desk. As though she – not he – was doing the interviewing. He stared at the harlot, unwilling to admit she unnerved him just like the late Queen did in her younger day.
“Now, Your Grace, explain to me why you’re being so rude?” Emily picked up a letter and pretended to read.
The change to precise pronunciation and upper-class idiolect wrong-footed the duke again. Ignoring the chair at the desk, he manhandled one of the comfy ones across the room until it faced her.
“I have it on excellent authority that towards the end of last year, my grandson met you on one of his investigations,” the duke said as, a little out of breath from his exertion, he sat down. “And that he did the unthinkable and moved you into his Mayfair apartment. Took you to Leeds with him. Paraded you around the Palace of Westminster.” Determined to prevent interruption, the duke continued, “Threw you out just before Christmas.”
Emily raised an eyebrow.
“You, however, did not accept your dismissal and followed him here and persuaded him to resume your ill-advised affair.”
Smiling beatifically, Emily put down her correspondence. “Excellent deduction, Your Grace, but wrong on most counts. I see where CC gets his skill.”
A bark of laughter met her sarcasm, though it was clear the old boy remained wary of her and her intentions. The perfect host would stop and put the man’s mind at rest. Emily was not a perfect host. She was Portia - determined to have her day in court and best this man.
“Let us work backwards,” she said. “Had you bothered to do your homework, rather than rely on village tittle-tattle, you would have discovered I arrived in Hope a full twelve hours before your grandson, and booked these rooms before he attempted to do the same. If we were in collu
sion only one of us needed to book my accommodation.”
Signing a further piece of paper, Emily tilted her head, as if considering how to refute his accusations. “True, I did move out of the earl’s apartment just before Christmas, but not because he threw me out. I left him.” She put her pen down to emphasise her point. “Strange as it may seem, ours was a business arrangement. The business being concluded, there was no need to outstay my welcome.”
The duke’s upper lip curled contemptuously. “Impossible! My grandson does not work for common people. He moved you into his flat and employed a female to wait on you. I know you slept in his bedroom.”
Again, the duke tried to ruffle her feathers: again, he failed.
“With this level of deductive prowess at the head of the family, I wonder how either of your ... grandsons ... maintain their reputations within Scotland Yard.”
The duke’s eyes flashed fire as Emily’s smile broadened into a harsh grin. “Nanny was my chaperone - not a servant. Please don’t insult her again by implying otherwise. It won’t end well.” She touched her finger to her eye as she spoke and recognising the threat, Fflint’s mouth dropped in disbelief.
He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Emily continued her verbal assault.
“Yes, I slept in Sym’s bedroom. It was safest, and you can ask the earl why. I don’t intend to humour you. And yes, you’re totally correct: your grandson doesn’t work for common people. But then, I’m not common people. I am Emily.” She stood, and held out her hand, cat tattoo to the fore. “Now as I’ve allowed you to insult me far longer than I permitted Sym on first meeting, this delightful conversation is over.”
Good manners required a response. The duke rose. They shook hands. “Come to dinner.” It was an olive branch and one he expected her to take.
Emily gave him her most regal and condescending of smiles: “No thank you, Your Grace. Ask me again when you think you know who I am.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
After leaving Emily, I decided it was probably prudent to visit Major Thomas Leadbetter, the Chief Constable of Denbighshire before word of my involvement in Lilian Poulter’s murder reached him. His secretary –a very efficient, pretty lady on the wrong side of fifty – told me he was out and not due back till morning. Following a further bout of flirtation, she divulged Leadbetter’s direction, and I drove myself there.
A tall man with an aquiline nose and piercing eyes met me in the snug of the local hostelry, and, over a glass of wine, we discussed the case. Agreeing with my findings, he authorised my involvement there and then, before inviting me to dinner.
Afterwards, I took the opportunity to telephone CC. But my cousin had no news and simply urged caution. I sensed frustration in his tone but put it down to the fact neither of us trusted the telephone. Especially as the local operators were in the pay of our grandfather.
Reaching Byrd Hall some minutes past midnight, I discovered that, contrary to my orders, Sampson remained on duty. I arched an eyebrow in reproof as the door shut behind me. But rather than respond, he just handed me a drink. It was abundantly clear he had things to tell, but it was not until I lounged in my jim-jams that my valet deigned to divulge his gossip.
“Probably a wise thing you were absent this evening, Major.” Sampson handed me a piece of pink paper, the size of a receipt. “Mr Grime gave me this. Arrived while you were en route to the chief constable.”
Reading Emily’s missive, I groaned. “Oh God, Sergeant, what the hell has Grandfather done this time?!”
“My thoughts exactly, Major.”
“Did Grime add anything to the mystery?”
“Only to say, sir, that on receipt of this, His Grace left a trail of destruction in his wake.” Sampson’s voice lowered still further. “I understand two vases and a decanter went to meet their maker before he drove to Llong.”
I wanted to laugh. I didn’t dare. I looked at Sampson. He was wearing his holiest of faces. It did not bode well. “Oh God! Anything else?”
“Only that on his return, he went around apologising to all and sundry then locked himself in his study until he went to bed.”
“I wonder what he was doing?”
“Mr Grime said his copy of Debrett’s was open on the table.”
I closed my eyes, let merriment consume me. My dearest Emily! Not only had she bested the beast; she set him a challenge. Gods and fishes! Was there no end to her majesty? “He’s not going to find out who she is from that august tome, is he, Sergeant?”
Sampson allowed himself a wry smile. “Indeed not, Major. Indeed not.”
Thursday 7th March.
Over a breakfast – served and dispatched in solemn silence – as staff walked on eggshells, Grandfather seemed his usual self. His eyes flashed fire and every so often he would purse his lips as though preparing to speak. However, nothing came but sighs and fury designed to make me solicitous of his health. Something I refused to do. I departed the breakfast room, shortly after downing the last of my toast, and headed into the village.
It was a reasonable day. Clouds hung over the Clwydian Range and gave the impression they were there for the long haul. Lambs gambolled in the fields, bleating as they searched for world-weary mothers who were no doubt grateful for the respite. Sampson, knowing I was in a contemplative mood, matched his driving to my thoughts. Thus, a journey that normally took ten minutes, took half an hour.
Stopping at Constable Evans’ cottage only to find that good soul sitting at his kitchen table, sans blue serge, tea in hand.
“I’m glad of this, my lord. I’m out of my depth,” he told me after he read the chief constable’s missive.
I raised an enquiring eyebrow, and, with a hearty sigh, the constable continued. “I had word this morning, less than ten minutes ago, truth be told. The lab boys in Chester completed the tests on the samples your young lady’s lad sent over. Rushed them because she made it clear the chief constable wouldn’t tolerate any delay.”
A scorpion danced. “Well, Evans, what’s the diddly?”
“Your Miss Davies is correct, sir. The old lady was murdered. Poison and an unusual one. In fact, never seen a case like it, the lab boys haven’t. Ever.”
My heart fluttered. My liver and kidneys tightened. “No, don’t tell me, Evans. It was antimony?”
Orbs as wide as saucers, he nodded. “How’d you know?”
I ignored him. “Have you told my companion this?”
Evans shook his head. “I sent a lad ‘round. But he returned not long before you arrived. Miss Davies is not at the pub, sir. Deryn said she went off to talk to the rector.”
“I see. Then I better join her.” I turned to leave and had nearly made my escape when a horrible thought assailed me and would not go away. “Constable Evans?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“This rector ... what’s he like?”
Evans scratched his head and looked thoughtful. “English. And not tolerant of sin.”
A duke is the nearest to royalty that the common man saw. No one, not even the almighty, criticised a duke. So, when I swore, Evans took me as an extension of my grandsire and accepted my blasphemy with a: “Would say the same if not on duty, sir.”
I thanked him for his forbearance and strode off into the Welsh version of sunshine, my cane tapping the ground in an agitated tattoo. A single solitary scorpion dancing to it.
I found my quarry ensconced in the front parlour of the house of the Rector of Llong. Later she was to tell me he attempted to turn her away until hearing my name tumble from her lips, opened the door and welcomed her as if she were a “bleedin’ duchess”.
I remember laughing at the image she created of the vicar: all righteous indignation at the arrival of the gutter trash, grasping relative of his lady friend ... until she told him of our connection: when he became jocular and avuncular.
He disapproved of her. That much was clear from the unbending nature of his spine but would say nothing d
isparaging ... at least to her face.
I am not a religious man. I do not bother the Almighty, and if He is bothered by my proclivities, He wisely keeps silent, preferring to employ Sampson as my conscience. But when a vicar professes a close connection to the Divine, it should ooze from every pore. It should not be turned on by earthly connections, or by the knowledge he needed to keep in my good graces. It is - to quote King James - not meet, not right.
But to begin at the beginning, as the King in Alice in Wonderland said ...
The Reverend Carillon stood about 5’5” in stockinged feet. He had a fine head of white hair and a patrician nose, on which sat a pair of very dirty glasses. In his sixties and with a robin-like chest, this worthy man was clearly going to make the most of our visit.
“You would like me to do the service?” he asked in a gentle yet patronising tone.
Emily nodded. “Uncle would not want it any other way.” Emily lied. Gold wouldn’t give two hoots.
Smiling sadly, Emily dabbed her eye with a lace scrap. “I take it you knew Aunty Lilian had a sister in London?” she said, bringing the silence to an end.
A reluctant nod met her question. “A respectable woman, a widow I believe. I’m surprised she sent you to visit her dearest sister.” The insult was clear. Under the veneer of politeness, he still thought her a grasping guttersnipe.
Emily’s smile became brittle. “That sister died a couple of days before Lilian. Hence my visit.”
This time the rector’s nod was academic.
“I came to tell Aunty of Flo’s death and was shocked to find her sister also on the road to meet her maker.”