by S. E. Smith
Carillon gave Emily a strange look. “Indeed, a shocking thing. But forgive me. You said you were Lilian’s niece. She only had the one sister and her surname was Long. Yet you introduced yourself as Davies.” The reverend’s smile reminded me of a lion ready to pounce. “May I ask why?”
Emily’s replied immediately. “There’s an East End tradition to have blood and friend relations. Her best friend is my uncle’s best friend.”
I stifled my snort. Gold didn’t have friends.
The good reverend’s eyes widened in shock and made to interrupt, but Emily was having none of it.
“Given her and Nanny were close, I didn’t want the undertaker doing shabby by her.” Her smile was that of a rattlesnake, and it trumped the lion into submission. “And because of the state she was found in ... Well, it would have been all too easy to assume a pauper’s burial would do. Had I known you and Aunty Lilian were close, I would of course have deferred to you ...”
Emily’s voiced trailed into silence, and I waited for the rector to fill the void. He did, and while I decided he didn’t mean to be condescending, it came across as such.
“You found the body, I understand, Miss Davies. It must have been awful! No wonder you called for the earl’s comfort.”
Feeling the conversation called for a show of compassionate concern, I took Emily’s hand and patted it in my best non-avuncular manner. She nearly broke my fingers in return.
“Indeed, Rector. Sym’s a tower of strength.”
Sampson – who, after his initial splutter had sunk into the background, a flurry of efficient note-taking – raised his eyes to heaven; knowing full well that comment would make its way back to Grandfather. I cast a glance in Emily’s direction and caught her smug grin. Minx! Grandfather must have seriously irritated my friend for her to use the vicar as a means of revenge.
“How long did you know the Poulters, Reverend Carillon?” I said in attempt to move the conversation away from uncharted waters.
The rector squinted through his glasses, frowned; took them off and cleaned them - badly. “I never met her husband, my lord. He died before Lilian came to live here. Indeed, she was here when I returned from my missionary work in Africa.”
“Africa?”
Carillon preened at the interest. “I did five years out there. My way of giving back to God for his generosity in accepting my sins.”
Sampson, who took his God seriously, turned to his book in disgust at such piousness.
“Long time to be a widow. Twenty-five years?” Emily went through the motion of counting her fingers. “Did she never think of remarrying?”
“Not to my knowledge. There were those that tried to entice her back into that blessed state, but she enjoyed the benefits of widowhood too much.” He smiled, and the chest puffed. “In the later years, I counted myself as one of her closest friends.”
“And before?” I asked, not wishing to ruffle his raven-like collar.
The rector shook his head. “I’m not one to gossip.”
Emily gave a gentle cough and smothered her mouth with her handkerchief before her amusement became too obvious.
I said loudly, “Grandfather’s always spoken highly of you.”
The cough transferred to Sampson.
“Thank you. Kind of you to say so.” The chest expanded until I decided the only option left was for it to explode. “But as I was saying, Lilian lost interest in Deryn before I took up my living, and I’m a firm believer in not judging when one’s own past is murky.” Carillon looked embarrassed and changed the subject. “Another tea, my lord?”
“Please.”
“Did she speak much of her past?” Emily asked as he rang for his housekeeper.
“To be honest, she didn’t. Kept herself to herself. Occasionally went into Wrexham. Rarer still to Chester. But I do know she had her boots sent up to her from London.” He stopped and considered the matter further. “When I asked about the extravagance of the gesture in one so frugal, she said good bootmakers were hard to find, and when you had one who understood your feet, it didn’t do to change.”
Emily nodded, and a peaceful silence descended as we awaited the housekeeper’s return.
“She spoke more of her past when she got the letter, of course,” Carillon said once tea was poured and cake devoured.
“From Aunty Flo?”
The rector shook his head. “No. Came from abroad. Not that I saw it. But the postmistress’s son told me all about it. Never seen a stamp like it apparently.” He put his cup down as if to indicate he said his fill, but as always Emily ignored such obvious sentiments.
“And she spoke more of her past as a result of it?”
A curt nod met her question, again an attempt to shut her down.
“About her being a cook, perhaps?”
“No. She said she was going to meet a friend from her youth. He worked for a man who lived a few doors down from her place of employment.” Carillon stopped and looked ... concerned.
“Charles Bravo you mean?” Emily dropped the name and watched the ripples create a veritable tsunami.
“Absolutely. I was shocked to discover she worked next door to that terrible family.” Carillon nodded furiously and, unable to stop himself, added: “Utterly immoral. Utterly degenerate.”
Emily pretended to change the subject. “What then? Did she say she intended to meet Nanny?”
The vicar stared sharply and shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. My Lilian was a little tight-lipped about anything else she intended to do before coming home.” He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief pulled from his waistcoat pocket. I saw Sampson turn thoughtful as he caught the action, and Emily channelled her uncle. But unable and unwilling to draw attention to the side play, I had no recourse but to wait until the brow-mopping was complete before moving the conversation on. “She said nothing? Nothing at all?”
Carillon shook his head. “She was drunk, I’m sorry to say. I got no sense out of her. Just that she didn’t see why the ‘unkind’ ravens had to die when it was all Langley’s fault. We rowed. She hit me. I defended myself. She ran off in the direction of the pub, presumably for more drink. She left the following morning, days earlier than planned. I never saw her again.”
Originally, we decided that, after quizzing the reverend, we would retire for lunch at the pub. But on leaving the rectory, we turned away from the hostelry and headed in the opposite direction; skirting around the village and taking ourselves a little way up the local mountain.
Little was said, the three of us seemed lost in our thoughts. Only Danny – who dogged our footsteps – seemed interested in his surroundings, yet even he stayed silent. Perhaps overawed by the majesty of the vista? Perhaps simply copying our own introspection? It was hard to say.
Only every so often he would stare at shadows then shake his head as if to clear it. Whether we would have continued to the top, to stare out over the valley, I don’t know. Perhaps if the rain hadn’t deluged out of a too full sky, we might. But the rain turned biblical and not wanting to report to Gold that Emily died as a result of my neglect, we returned to the pub.
A studied, solemn silence met our return. Eyes that only this morning welcomed, now stared in condemnation. Immediately knowing Grandfather was behind this volte-face, I opened my mouth to say something cutting but before I could do so, Emily dipped a curtsy worthy of court and retired to her room. With her departure, conversation returned, and Sampson and I decided to discover what the old goat said to disparage the lady’s virtue.
It was a difficult assignment, my position as the duke’s rarely seen grandson meant that rather than chase gossip to its lair, I was forced to do the pretty with every one of his tenants.
Not only did flesh need pressing, but each group needed to know they received special attention. It would also not do for me to side with the wrong party and upset Grandfather’s carefully crafted village war. That would see me summoned to his study for the kind of tongue-lashing not seen since he sent me to b
oarding school. So, I trod my self-made tightrope carefully.
Just as I was running out of anecdotes and witty repartee, mine host rescued me with the news luncheon was served, and I retired to our table, to await Emily’s arrival.
When she finally slipped into the seat beside me some minutes later, I realised Emily had no intention of acting like any of my usual lady friends. Dressed in a conservative gown more effective in scotching the rumours faster than my poor efforts, Emily maintained conversation with Sampson as she settled down to eat.
An intriguing move. Sampson, rated by villagers and ravens alike, engaged her in a witty and wide-ranging discourse, designed to reinforce the view he approved – for once – of a lady.
Replete and sublime, I thanked the publican in Welsh for our first course, thinking nothing of it when the discourse - as he joined us after lunch - carried on in that language. He had questions to ask about my companion and wished to spare her blushes.
I risked a glance at Emily to see what she made of Deryn’s conversation. But her eyes and expression were blank, making me confident that the Cymraeg was not part of her extensive education. Sampson spoke Welsh, of course, having learned it to understand the chapel services when billeted here. But as he was reading his bible, I decided he wouldn’t say anything to the young lady. Besides, if the landlord thought Emily was lovely, and I was lucky to be her choice, why should I disagree?
Flattered by his reaction to Emily, I decided I liked mine host. He had a straight way about him and an eye for anticipating his customer’s needs. Yet as we talked, I realised why a woman, determined to leave behind the roughness of her upbringing, might turn to the gentler, if more pompous, rector for comfort.
“Of course, the night Lilian left she was round here in a right state, thanks to the antics of that old snore bones,” Deryn said, once the pub was empty enough for more discrete kind of conversation to take place. “Took nearly half a bottle of brandy to steady her; and the language – begging your pardon, my lord – was enough to make a sailor blush.”
“Did she say what was behind it?” Emily asked in Welsh.
Deryn and I stared at her in open-mouthed shock. Sampson bit back a snigger - which turned into a cough as I subjected him to my best commanding officer stare.
“No, miss. She didn’t,” the landlord replied, regaining his equilibrium far faster than I.
With colour mounting at my stupidity, I turned my attention back to the landlord, now eying Emily with open respect. “It didn’t take much to gather, miss, that Carillon said something, or did something he shouldn’t that night. But given she was handy with her fists, I refused to push the issue.”
“Are you sure you don’t know what it was?” Emily pressed. “It could be a great help to us; she died a horrible – unnatural – death. If she said anything that might shed light on who wanted her dead ...”
“No. Nothing.” Deryn’s hands clasped and unclasped as he spoke, as if they were the only things keeping his unruly emotions in check. “No, I lie miss. She did tell me. Said, during her row with Carillon, that he’d let slip my big secret as well as one of his own; and that I was – begging your pardon, miss – a bigger bastard than he was for keeping her in the dark.”
“And?”
“That was when she told me to hand over a bottle of gin and stormed out.”
“What did you keep from her?” Emily asked, holding the man’s attention with a look that reminded me of the snake charmers of India.
“That I was English. That my late wife was in service in London in the 70s.”
“But you speak the Cymraeg so well and have such a North Welsh accent. I thought you were born here?” Shock made me stand and walk a little way off from the rest of the party so that I could study the landlord closer.
“Oh no, my lord. Came here 82. My wife was local to Llanarmon.” His eyes took on a sheen that told me he really loved the late Mrs Deryn and wasn’t embarrassed to show it. “Part of me convincing her to take me on was me learning her mother tongue.”
Unsure how to respond to such naked emotion, I hesitated, long enough for Emily to retake control of the interrogation:
“Not many men would do that. Upend their lives and learn a new language to keep a woman,” she said.
Deryn smiled. “Then they’re fools, miss. The right person is worth moving heaven and earth for.”
Emily nodded encouragingly. “What happened?”
“I wooed her by letter and when we met, it was love at first sight, so to speak. After our marriage we lived in Llanarmon for three, maybe four years. Then this livelihood came up, and I went for it. Your grandfather liked the cut of my jib, so he gave me tenure.”
Emily leant over and pressed his hand in a comforting gesture, whilst Sampson and I exchanged glances. In all the years I knew Deryn, he never hinted at anything other than a landlubber’s life; this bore further investigation.
“And your wife? I don’t recall meeting her?”
“You wouldn’t have, my lord, Blod was never well – rarely came into the bar. Never really got over Geraint’s birth, and soon after, she got sickly. Real bad it was. So much so Rebekkah, her sister, came to live with us and look after her whilst I built up the business.”
We looked around the pub and made complementary noises of genuine appreciation as Deryn continued:
“My Blod died not long after we moved here, and now our Geraint’s working in Liverpool, Rebekkah went home to nurse her mother.” His eyes dimmed. “I was in Liverpool when she died. Catch-up with old shipmates who’d travelled with me from the Windies. But the vicar, Rebekkah, and our Geraint kept watch that last night. Rebekkah said Carillon was very attentive and did everything could to ease Blod’s passing and her mind. Those final hours, by all accounts, were not pleasant.”
He paused and wiped away his tears with the back of his sleeve. “Your grandfather paid for the funeral. Ensured the local undertaker did all that was necessary. The Duke even paid for the redecoration of our quarters afterwards. Wouldn’t raise rent for me to pay him back.”
“Why on earth did he do that?”
“The smell, my lord. Said it would scare customers away. And he wasn’t letting me use it as an excuse to buy the tenancy.”
We laughed until Deryn’s expression turned tearful once more.
Emily let him wallow for a while until, having sensed the publican was quieter in his mind, she let her change of topic appear an innocent diversion. “I’m sorry to come back to Lilian, but it’s important. Did she tell you anything about what prompted her to go to London after all these years? What she hoped to discover?”
The publican shook his head gently, not in denial, but like one who had to do so to bring the memory to the forefront of his mind; then he smiled. “She did, miss,” he told her happily. “Not much. She said she was off to find out whether the snark was a boojum.”
From Reports.
Back in the Yard that Thursday afternoon, and nursing a head only achieved after a night on the tiles with his cousin, CC stared at the photograph.
True to his word, and proof yet again that Gold was up to something, the pawnbroker turned out to be correct. The photograph recovered from Gull’s office had been altered, Gold hadn’t been standing next to anyone. And, of course, now he had the original, it was obvious the one found on Langley’s body was part of the same photograph, not a separate snap.
Alas, this would mean one of his cousin’s conflabs, and given that woman and her uncle were involved in the business, they would be there too. So much for the promise he made the prime minister. So much for the quiet life such promises brought. A cacophony of warning bells sounded all the louder, but in an attempt to end the catastrophic and thunderous headache that crashed around his brain, CC knew he had no option but to return to Downing Street and give the Salisbury the bad news.
Still, the benefits of being the boss meant CC didn’t suffer alone. He strode to the door, ready to ask Lamb what the devil Gold meant by
his parting comment, but the office was empty, save for Barker who did his utmost to become invisible. “Look lively, Constable. I’ve got a job for you.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
With the landlord’s revelations finally at an end, we adjourned to Emily’s room. I’d been there many times in the past when Serena stayed at the inn. But even though the room was the same, Emily somehow managed to make it look like an extension of her uncle’s world, by the simple expedient of moving the writing desk from the wall. I smiled. If this were where my Grandfather bearded the lion, no wonder he was in a right snit.
“Well, I think we can say that boojum isn’t a word most people would use to describe your uncle, miss,” Sampson said. He was in the other chair, leaving me to lounge on the bed.
“I’m not sure,” Emily mused, “people who displease the Impereye do disappear.”
“Oh no, miss. They don’t vanish into thin air like the Baker from ‘The Hunting of the Snark’ did.” Sampson stared into the fire as he spoke. “The police do find their bodies. They just can’t make the link to your uncle.”
Emily laughed.
And things were as they were last autumn.
“How long have you spoken Welsh?”
“Uncle made me learn. Never understood why till today.” She shrugged. “You know Uncle. He just insisted that if I was to make my way amongst the rabble of London, I needed to speak more than the Queen’s English.”
“You have a fine North Welsh accent.”
Emily’s head tilted, and she blushed. “The man who taught me’s too busy furthering his career in parliament to remember me. I was only a means to paying his rent and being too young to capture David’s roving eye, Uncle saw no harm in employing him.”
I looked at Sampson. His eyes were narrow, his brows raised. Like me, he was sceptical that her tale told all the truths it might. But whilst I had time to try and unpick fact from fiction, he went down a different path.