An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

  “No end to your cleverness, is there, miss?”

  Emily’s good mood vanished instantly. Memories scurried out of sight; chased by the demons she allowed us to see. “One day, when all my secrets are known, you’ll see I’m not clever at all. Until then, I’ll enjoy pitting my wits with the best of you fine gents.”

  And with that, she returned to the previous conversation.

  “I’ve seen that word before. Boojum; and not in the poem. In Lilian’s diary,” Emily told us. “I put a piece of paper in the page. Just in case it proved important.” There were several pieces of paper, so her hunt took a while. “Then last night, after we got back from Lilian’s, I underlined the section, just for good measure.”

  “And?”

  She handed me the diary. “Read it and tell me what you think.”

  There was a letter waiting for me when I got back from Chester. From Robert. Bad news. Another’s dead. That just leaves me him and the boojum. But no one would dare kill the boojum. He’s too scary. Besides, he’d nothing to do with it.

  I passed the diary to Sampson who read the piece through frowning brows, before copying out the section in his meticulous hand.

  I looked at Emily, who took my action as a cue to speak. “Didn’t somebody else die like Lilian? From diarrhoea and sickness. And ain’t I right in saying he didn’t say anything about how the antimony got into his system?”

  “Yes. Charles Bravo.”

  Her eyes turned in on themselves.

  “But from what you’ve told us, miss, Lilian’s sister died from a shotgun wound.”

  “Which implies two different killers, my dear,” I added.

  “But why kill an already dying man, Major?” Sampson asked when it became apparent Emily was lost in her own world.

  “Perhaps he threatened to expose his killer, and the poison didn’t do its work fast enough?” I mused.

  “No, Sym, that don’t wash!” Emily interrupted quickly. “Bravo never told, and Lilian never screamed.” She rubbed her nose distractedly. “Maybe they can’t tell anyone what’s happened to them.”

  “Which implies in silencing Langley, our killer didn’t know about the side effects of the poison ... which makes him careless or an amateur using the poison because it’s notorious.”

  “If silence is a side effect. It might be coincidence, Major.”

  Time for more contemplation. Sampson made himself useful, heading to the bar for some drinks, I picked up Lilian’s diary and flicked through it.

  “And yet,” Emily said into the silence, “I don’t think we are ... looking for two killers, Sym. I think we’re dealing with a very resourceful individual who doesn’t want us to realise what he’s up to.”

  At first, I thought Emily used the male pronoun to see if we listened. But I soon realised my mistake. “But poison’s a woman’s weapon,” I reminded her.

  “Someone should have told Romeo that!” she said. “Would have saved a whole lot of hysteria, don’t you think?”

  Constable Barker’s Report

  By the time I left the boss’s office, the rain was even more torrential than usual. Taking the train out to Balham I was at out of it for a bit, but the walk from the railway station to the records office soon found the hole in me boots and made me as grumpy as anything.

  As much as I like visiting different places, in the course of my investigations, I have to be honest, I don’t like trips to other nicks. Whilst me and the lads at the Yard see ourselves as just ordinary coppers doing ordinary jobs, other people - especially those working in records - view us with suspicion bordering on contempt. Occasionally you met a good bloke, but they were few and far between. Some were offhand, some downright rude. And then there was this one. Bloody rude and one of the most miserable buggers on the planet.

  “Oh you!” he said, as I shook the rain from my coat and took off my helmet. “What you want?”

  “Looking for information about a couple of people who used to live ‘round here.” Lamb had instilled in me the need to mix politeness with an edge of contempt.

  “Lots of people live ‘round here.” The man at the desk retorted with an equal nastiness, suggesting he too learned policing at the hands of a master.

  “Lived up near the park. Would have been around 75–76.”

  His nose wrinkled in disgust at my words. “Oh, Christ! Who’s trying to advance their bleedin’ career by diggin’ into the Bravo poisoning?”

  I expected this, had me innocent look, and reply, already planned. “Not my boss. Well not as far as I’m aware.” I looked apologetic. “Look sorry to do this, but according to my sources, while the people I’m looking for worked on the same road as the Bravos, that’s the nearest the connection goes.” I paused, “Though the boss thinks a brother might have worked for Bravo.”

  Nose returned to its proper position. “Give me the list and I’ll see what I can do.” I took out my notebook and made a show of examining it. “We’re looking for a Faye Milliner, Lily Jones, Mary Bell, and Gordon Langley. I need to check the records. See if any still live in the area. If any are known to the police.”

  Two hours later, I had answers. They weren’t the kind you wanted to tell the boss. No, they were the kind you had to tell the boss - preferably from the other side of a door. They were the kind of answers that would make CC shout.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Deciding that I might as well do something to earn Grandfather’s disgust, I sent word to Byrd Hall that I intended to spend my time with Emily. Sampson gave me one of his disapproving glares, which was ruined by the speed with which he disappeared to dispatch the news to the duke’s driver.

  Then, because he was loath to trust the local forensic chappies, my valet retired to the bathroom to carry out his own set of tests on the samples he’d taken from Lilian’s room. Knowing better than to interrupt him, I spent the afternoon in conference with the inside of my eyelids while Emily read and reread the diary. But if I hoped the activity would help me work out what the rector had done to make the scales fall from Lilian Poulter’s eyes, or indeed why the dearly departed lady should take offence over Deryn’s admission his wife saw service in London; I was doomed for disappointment. Thus, when Danny bounded up the stairs to tell us dinner was ready, I was first to follow him.

  A simple but hearty affair, beef stew with dumplings and huge fluffy potatoes meant little was said until the last of the main course dishes were taken away and a pudding of Welsh apple cake set before us.

  Danny - whose whole face lit up at the sight of such sugary goodness bit into his portion with gusto.

  Emily eyed the dish with some misgivings, and I remembered dessert was not her favourite part of the meal. Not that I deduced such things. Indeed, it was not until Imran came to me, with the evidence strangling several innocent pot plants, that I realised the fact. Confusion reigned. Given Emily’s naturally sweet tooth and love of toffees, I wondered at her actions. Not that I got a reply to my questions. She apologised prettily and honestly to Imran but refused to be drawn.

  Tonight, her eyes plotted, and given the absence of horticulture, I wondered how she was going to deal with the situation. I feared for the floor – and indeed my best jacket – should she decide to stage an accident.

  But my worries were groundless. With a flourish worthy of the best abracadabra men, Sampson cut what on the surface appeared to be a huge slice of pudding but was in fact a small sliver of cake barely thick enough to be seen at a distance. A second even more elaborate flourish saw the offending article covered in cream, thereby hiding its original size still further.

  Smiling broadly, Emily thanked Sampson. Then she took a small bite and covered her customary grimace with an: “Mmm, lovely.”

  Deryn beamed and, with a slight bow, left us to our deliberations. Once he was out of sight, Emily pushed the cake towards me and retched as I finished off the plate in seconds.

  “One day, you’ll tell me all about your hatred of desser
ts,” I said in a low tone, as Sampson removed all evidence of our subterfuge, and I handed her a restorative brandy.

  Her gorgeous cornflower blue orbs flashed angrily. “I don’t think so, mister,” she growled. “It ain’t a tale worth telling.”

  But it was, Emily reminded herself. It kept you on your toes; kept you from falling too deep into trusting other people. And although she didn’t mean for it to happen, she was back in that dreadful place.

  Portsea Workhouse, 1879.

  An elderly woman, with lice for hair and dirt for skin, talking to her mother, turned Emily this way and that. “Neither of you is going ta last long lookin’ like that! E’ll ‘ave is ‘ands an’ wot-not on the pair of ya as fast as finkin it. Cut yer ‘air. Dowse yerselves in mud and filth. It might just save ya!”

  Emily didn’t understand. Well, you don’t before childhood ends. But the woman’s words galvanised her mother into action, and it didn’t take much to make them look like the rest of the lost souls huddled in the corners of that foul, inhuman hell.

  Assuming she was safe, Emily played amongst the other children, copying their mannerisms and accents. Losing the last of her former life. Keeping her head down till she couldn’t help but sneak into the kitchen to stare at the desserts being made for the governors’ table. Discovered and carted off to the master’s office; they made her watch her mother pay for her crimes.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Llong, 1901.

  The sound of a clock striking the hour brought Emily into the present. She shook her head as if ridding it of unpleasant memories and accepted the glass I offered; swirling its contents, first clockwise then anticlockwise, without realising what she was doing. Sampson put his pen down and followed the hypnotic action, reminding me of that time Nepal when we had to pull him away from a snake and its sapera. It was touch-and-go then. It was touch-and-go now.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. Lilian never worked for Uncle. Had her own fish to fry.

  Unsure how to respond, I waited for her to continue, realising – as always – half the conversation had already taken place in that labyrinthian mind of hers.

  “Oh, he knew her, socially I believe, when he was with Flo. But she didn’t turn tricks or run for him. She didn’t even work in the legitimate side of the business.”

  I stared in surprise. “I thought your uncle was ...”

  “Incapable of emotion?” Emily finished my sentence for me, making me realise I was witness to what I did to others. It was a salutary lesson; one I enjoyed, coming as it did from a woman I admired on every level.

  “Oh, he is!” she said on the ghost of a laugh. “Uncle Carmi – who lives in Holland – once told me that Uncle had some understanding of emotion before his wife died. But after he buried her and his stillborn son, he sold his emotions to the devil.” Watching her wrap her arms around her body as though suddenly cold I decided I could well believe Emily’s reaction to her uncle’s lack of emotions was real. I felt the same in the old man’s presence. His affable inhumanity was, to say the least - disturbing.

  “He kept Flo – not just for the company – but cos ‘e was trying to scotch rumours.”

  I didn’t need to ask what rumours. “It didn’t succeed, I take it?”

  “Never has, never will.” Her grin took the hurt out of the next rumour. “There are those who say you share me with him.”

  I smiled and attempted to reply in kind. I’m not sure I succeeded. Emily slapped my hand, and Sampson growled his disapproval.

  “But he remained grateful to Flo,” Emily continued, “both for trying and for her loyalty afterwards. Never talking about their relationship. Never trading on the connection. Saw she was well-provided for. Both at the time of their association, and when she wanted to go legit and marry her butcher.”

  “How’d you know she was well-looked-after?”

  “Uncle’s like you. Generous. She kept mementoes of their time together, the gifts he bought her. And they weren’t shabby. Underwear, jewels and such. She even had a handkerchief with his ... Oh, bloody hell!”

  “Oh, bloody hell what, dearest girl?” She didn’t glare; didn’t stare. Her mind was in another place, and I had to wait for her to allow admittance.

  “Did you see the rector’s kerchief?”

  I nodded. Sampson nodded.

  Emily’s smile danced with pure anger. “I thought I recognised it! The bastard!”

  I waved a regal encouragement and used it to scatter the suddenly swarming scorpions.

  “He had one of Flo’s bleedin’ hankies, Sym. One Uncle gave her.”

  I dared her anger. “It could be a coincidence, darling girl.”

  Her mouth thinned and hardened. “Perhaps. But tell me, did you see the monogram?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I was too busy listening to the old snore bones as our Deryn calls him.”

  Emily’s hands curled into tight little fists; her eyes became uncompromising. My answer wasn’t what she wanted.

  Fortunately, Sampson came to my rescue. “I saw it, miss. Last year, when your uncle visited Mayfair, he left one behind. I laundered and returned it. It was definitely one of his.”

  The penny dropped but it was Emily who voiced the question. “Which begs the question, how the hell did it come into Carillon’s possession?”

  Friday 8th March.

  After a breakfast where we discussed and discounted the possibility that someone might have mistaken Flo for Lilian, and Robert for his brother Gordon, Emily – ever conservatively dressed – took my arm as we headed over to the rector’s. He was in; writing his sermon and much too busy to see us.

  I played my hand as heir and de facto benefactor and gained admittance.

  The bonhomie and avuncular nature, seen during our previous visit, was very much in residence. But this time I recognised it for falseness. This man did not want us in his house. Flo’s kerchief was an embarrassment.

  “You have caught me out in a lie, my lord,” he said as an uncomfortable flush worked its way from his dog collar upwards. “My relationship with Lilian was beyond platonic. I found it one evening. I asked her about it.”

  “And?”

  “She said her sister had a gentleman who gave it to her as a token of his affection, and that sister gave it her on a previous visit.”

  “Did she give the gentleman’s name?” Emily pressed.

  “No.” The word snapped into existence, and I realised we touched a raw nerve.

  “But it caused an argument?”

  Carillon grimaced and continued his anger. “I didn’t like thinking about what that poor girl’s sister must have endured at the man’s hands.”

  Emily’s body took on a hooded quality and she frowned at the reverend’s response. He seemed oblivious.

  “He was Jewish,” Carillon’s top lip curled its disgust. “But my Lilian wouldn’t hear sense on the subject. Said her Flo’s gentleman had been good to her family and deserved respect.”

  “And you disagreed?”

  His chest puffed with outrage and anger. “I did, indeed. I reminded her what they did to Our Lord. What they did to me. But she wouldn’t have it. Said good went beyond religion and you shouldn’t judge everyone by the actions of one. Or by how they said their prayers.”

  Carillon’s offensiveness was beyond acceptable. Yet if we were to play this game to its conclusion, I needed to stay silent. I put a hand on Emily’s arm, hoping she would see my gesture as a cause for restraint. She was stiff; motionless like the eye of the storm. Intimidating.

  “What makes you hate the Jews?” Sampson asked with the assurance of one who knows his scriptures inside out. “If the Sanhedrin didn’t hand Jesus over to the Romans, there’d be no Christianity.”

  The vicar’s tone turned bitter. “I am everything and nothing because of a Jew. He cuckolded me and made me a laughing stock. He was why I went to Africa.”

  Damning and revealing. Carillon could be tal
king about anyone - or one man. I ventured a glance at Emily. She was the image of her uncle, angry beyond words. As if scalded, I dropped my hold, leaving my arm to hang redundantly at my side. I waited for her to strike, fearing for the vicar’s sanity and survival and yet she did nothing; content to let the ominous silence engulf us.

  “Are you alright, miss?” Sampson broke the silence with his solicitous question; a sentiment that should have been mine to utter. Unsure how to proceed, I continued staring at the rector, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish at the fair.

  Stirred to action by my valet’s gentle question, Emily tilted her head. “The man who took me in – when the Christians in the workhouse finished with Mum and left her to die that is – is Jewish.”

  Carillon’s face lost all colour and animation. He stared at Emily as though she’d grown two heads. Then he gazed at me, and I could see pity and revulsion all too clearly flit across his face. Not for her, but for the hell he believed was my reward for our association.

  I returned a haughty glare. As the gentleman tasked – albeit briefly – to look after her, I wanted to be that knight in shining armour rushing to her defence. But I caught both hers and Sampson’s warning and decided that, as better minds than mine prevailed, I would stay silent.

  “A moneylender in the East End.” Emily paused and let her words sink in. “But he made sure I could read Torah, Koran and Bible in their native tongues before I reached my eleventh birthday. Very Christian outlook for a man like that, don’t you think? Perhaps I should reserve my anger for those who in the name of Christianity took my childhood. But Uncle taught me evil is individual and an action; not collective and innate.”

  I nodded my support. Sampson did the same.

  Carillon’s saw our reaction and his immediate, bilious apology was a joy to behold. The man and his words fell over themselves. He stumbled and stuttered. Declared he meant no harm. No offence. Until he ran out of words and gestures, and sat shame faced.