by S. E. Smith
“Paid for a fortnight, whether you find him or not ... If you get word to me within the week and it proves true, the rent’s paid till quarter day. That should give you time for your mum to sort things out, yes?”
“Wow!” Malcolm breathed, but whether his statement was in response to the pawnbroker’s munificence or the sight of a spot of bright red blood on the hankie, Gold could not, or would not say. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
“I know you won’t Malcolm.” Gold kept his tone light as he stuffed the soiled handkerchief into the recesses of his pocket before holding out his hands. Knowing what was expected, Malcolm put his hands into the pawnbroker’s, turning them until the old man’s hands were on top. “And get your friends involved,” Gold instructed once they’d completed the ritual and Malcolm accepted the proffered toffee. “A guinea in it for the lad, or lass, who finds Spinnaker within the next two days.”
The grin was all he really needed, but the “thank you, sir,” which followed was – in light of recent contretemps – the most welcome gesture of all. Gold watched, soul toe top full of amusement, as his latest recruit left in a flurry of importance.
With the door closed behind the lad, Gold turned to the picture on his desk. A child’s drawing of him and Emily done months after her arrival. “I know ... I know ...” he chided, “A touch generous, but I’m not getting any younger ...” Gold took the hankie out of his pocket, smoothed the creases from it; folded it and put it back in the top drawer of his desk. Immediately after, he picked up the tablets sitting by the water jug and swallowed them.
Scotland Yard.
As the car turned into the carpark, CC brought the matter back to Kerzenende.
“I racked me brains, and I can’t remember anyone by that name.” His body language, as well as his words, spoke of Lamb’s confusion. “Is it important d’you think, or is the pawnbroker toying with you?”
CC blew his nose and looked up from his notebook. “How many times has your path crossed Gold’s, Sergeant?”
Lamb blinked, like a trapped rabbit in the sights of a shotgun, before sitting upright and swearing like a trooper.
“I agree, Sergeant,” CC said when the outburst ended. “The man’s a menace, but he seems to think that as he did me a favour last year ... I. Now. Owe. Him.”
Lamb’s countenance turned fatherly. “Always the way with a man like that, sir. Only way he knows how to do business. My boss before I joined the force was the same.”
As CC’ hunted for a handkerchief, Lamb’s hand went for the door handle.
“Well, sir, can’t be sitting around here all day, I’ve got notebooks to go through.”
So nearly free.
“Why does Gold think you of all people should remember Kerzenende?”
Lamb’s hand hovered around the door handle. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
“I’m not going to ask again, Lamb.” CC smiled. It was not pleasant. “It would be wise to tell me. Gold said someone who worked for him was murdered. He lied about the date. So, he might have lied about how he died. Throat ripped out.”
“Oh, Christ!” Shoulder’s slumped; eyes wide with an emotion akin to terror, Lamb turned from the main entrance and like a man facing the gallows walked the short distance to where his boss stared at him. “When I saw you at ... just thought it was coincidence ...”
He didn’t get a chance to say more, however. A shout from an upstairs window saved him. “Sir Charles? The prime minister’s office is on the telephone. You’re wanted in Downing Street.”
“We’ll continue this, later!” Glaring balefully at Lamb, CC slammed the car door shut and threw himself back into his squabs. Gilbert and Sullivan had the right of it, he decided. His lot was not a happy one.
Some twenty minutes later, brandy in hand, CC couldn’t help but compare the political head of the empire with the man who sat spiderlike in his lair in Fournier Street. Both meticulous, both ruthless. Both ill.
“Your grandfather telephoned, CC.” Salisbury, unaware of the policeman’s inner turmoil at the realisation, waved CC to a vacant chair.
Doubly perturbed, CC put down the brandy, took out his handkerchief, like a knight of old preparing for battle, and blew his nose.
“Seems my attempts to keep Emily and your cousin apart ...” Salisbury’s smile disappeared into his beard.
CC groaned and blew his nose. “The bastard assured me she was abroad.”
“Your grandfather is livid,” Salisbury continued conversationally, “said he’s never met such a termagant.”
Not the impoliteness usual to his grandfather. CC’s blew his nose again, this time to conceal lips twitching with unwanted amusement.
“Demanded I use everything in my power to have her eliminated.”
CC choked back a laugh as Emily crossed the thin line from enemy to ally. “Oh dear. She must have won the encounter.”
“Exactly.”
“You won’t of course?” CC’s question was only half in jest.
Salisbury’s appearance took on a soft, almost fatherly quality. “No. Your grandfather asked who she was! I told him as much as required to buy his silence.”
CC raised an eyebrow but on receiving no answer to the unspoken question, he tried a different tack. “How long have you known her?” he asked as the prime minister picked up his glass of whisky and stared into the past.
The old man took a sip. “When we were looking to demolish the Old Nichol rookery; I took time to visit the place. Went with a bodyguard. Dressed as plainly as a man of our class can.”
CC kept quiet and decided with a beard like his, Salisbury would have about as much chance of incognito, as his cousin of staying faithful to one woman.
“Adults are always watched by children in that world,” he continued. “We’re easy marks, I suppose. But they go out of their way to stick to the shadows. They don’t draw attention to themselves. One girl did though.”
“Emily.” There was a bitterness to the name, CC couldn’t quite hide.
Old Nichol – 1885.
“Hello, my lord.”
Not that it started like that, the prime minister reminded himself. It started with a child – nine, maybe ten – dressed like all the other children: white pinny, grey dress, and sturdy boots. No different to the others, yet Salisbury found his gaze returning to where she stood on the raised area by the church. Watching the comings and goings of the world; as though this were her kingdom, and he the intruder. Standing there for hours like the cemetery angels, unmoving. Unblinking. Unnerving him with a stare that delved into his soul and found it lacking.
Unsettled by her regard, he turned his attention to the work at hand; listening to the stupidity and frustrations of the men whose job it was to discover the true owners of these rented hovels. And yet, try as he might, he couldn’t dismiss the urchin completely. There was something compelling about a child who could outstare a prime minister.
Catching her regard again and determined to prove his mastery of the situation, Salisbury blasted her with his haughtiest glare. The kind that sent underlings scurrying; collapsed negotiations; wrecked diplomacy. To his utter embarrassment, taking it as her cue, the child skipped over. Her eyes maintained their scrutiny until close enough for him to see without trying, she looked down ...
Watching her feet, but not because she was worried about tripping but because she was administering a test. One he had to pass before she would talk to him. Intrigued Salisbury considered the girl and her actions. The skip faultlessly executed; perfect in every way, wasn’t natural. It was something she’d learned rather than distinguished.
Which meant ...
... She played at being a child.
Impossible!
Children didn’t play at being children. They were children. They mimicked adults ... unless, somehow, somewhere, she lost her childhood. Poor mite! And yet, there was nothing cowed about her. Her actions both now and in her earlier regard, exuded an adult’s confidence: an adult’s p
ower.
Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he turned his attention to the wider Shoreditch street. Time slowed enough for him to inspect the other children, and he saw ... cautious glances darted at the girl when they hoped she didn’t notice. A strange combination of hatred, fear, and respect. The kind of looks he engendered from those who owed him their positions in government.
The girl reached him and although she stared at the floor, she held her hand out for him to shake. Innate politeness made Salisbury return the gesture, although he wasn’t sure what he expected. Definitely not a firm grip. Businesslike and purposeful. Nor did he expect the cleanliness of her nails, the lack of ingrained grime in the skin.
“Hello, my lord; I’m Emily,” the child-not-child told him. “Uncle said you might find my company useful. I open doors.”
Staring at her clean head of hair, Salisbury was confused and revolted. No wonder Gladstone tried so hard to save the women of this area, even in the face of speculation and rumour. No wonder she had to pretend to be a child. “I am not interested in children,” he told her, unable to keep his disgust at her suggestion at bay.
“Good!” her answer, and its companion surprised him: “Because if you were, I would not be here, and Uncle would be dead.” There was so much venom contained in those words, the greatest man in the empire believed her.
Heedless of his gaping minder, the mud and other debris lining the street, Salisbury dropped on to his haunches. “I’m sorry; but if you’re not here in a misguided attempt by your ... uncle ... to provide company, I fail to see what possible use you could be to me, Emily?”
Her head snapped up. Cornflower blue orbs grinned into his own.
He stumbled, reeled; nearly fell backwards into the mud. Saved himself by putting his gloved hands down. Something squelched beneath them, ruining the leather forever.
“I told you,” the child said with an adult’s amusement. “I’m Emily, and who I am opens doors.”
Downing Street, 1901.
Salisbury looked at a shocked CC and gave a paternal smile before recalling his surroundings. “And she did ... open doors. Landlords hidden in the shadows came forward. Rent collectors who previously claimed they had no idea who the rents went to, suddenly waxed lyrical.”
“You became Uncle Robert.” For all his shock and anger at the revelation, of their engineered meeting, CC kept his tone light.
“Not immediately,” the prime minister admitted “... but eventually.”
Not sure how to interpret the expression of sadness which crossed the other man’s features, CC returned to the investigation. “When did you meet Mr Gold?”
Salisbury pulled at his beard. “Some months after my meeting with Emily I had the felicity of a summons. He owned some of the properties himself and wouldn’t deal with a lackey. Only with Emily’s Uncle Robert. At the time, I believed he threw Emily at me to get better compensation. Now, of course, I know better.”
The arrival of Salisbury’s nephew, Balfour, file in hand, prevented CC from demanding more information.
“I take it, you, your cousin, and his associates will convene on his return?” the prime minister asked once Balfour had taken up his previous seat at his uncle’s right hand.
CC nodded gloomily and took out his handkerchief.
“Excellent.”
CC blew his nose.
“I also understand a witness implicated the late Dr Gull?” So Gold was an anonymous witness now, was he? Interesting. CC went to blow his nose at the discovery, deciding against it as he registered Balfour’s snort of disgust at the mention of the doctor.
“He implicated the man behind the camera, my lord” CC’s reply was equally vague. “Said he worked for Dr Gull.”
Salisbury sat upright and raked his fingers through his beard. “Really? Did he give a name?”
“Kerzenende.”
The name dropped like a stone into water.
Ripples of disquiet engulfed the room, and CC found himself studying the prime minister’s now revolted expression.
“How did the name come into the conversation?” The question was innocent. The intention was not.
“My witness said if he died of anything other than poison, I should ask Lamb about this man.”
Salisbury pulled at his beard. “And have you done as this witness asked?”
“He’s not dead, but yes I have. Forewarned is forearmed. But Lamb claimed not to remember him ... not until I mentioned the boy: Billy Pearce. Didn’t get a chance to ask any more. You wanted to see me.” CC was rambling, unable to stop himself.
“I see.” A further tug at the beard before the prime minister turned to his nephew. “Arthur, could you give us a moment?”
Balfour sighed his irritation: “Will five minutes be sufficient?” he asked as he gathered up his notebook.
Salisbury nodded, waiting until they were alone before returning his undivided attention to CC: “It would be best if you could ... field your cousin’s questions on the subject of Mr Kerzenende, should he have any. Be polite. Be vague. Do nothing but give him words ... It would also be sensible not to pursue the matter with Lamb ... Unless Mordy’s prophecy proves accurate.”
“You think this man wants the pawnbroker dead?”
Salisbury pulled once more at his beard. “What I am about to tell you remains in this room. Do you understand?” He went to a filing cabinet and extracted a folder containing a single sheet of paper. “We also found this when we cleared Gull’s room. I didn’t give it to you. It wasn’t relevant”
CC opened the document and read its contents - not once but several times before he found his voice. “Oh. Bloody. Hell.” CC found the world slipping away from him. A horrible sense that threatened all he stood for. “How the hell did you stop Gold taking his revenge when Doctor Gull went to him with his suspicions? I’m mean some of those girls worked for him!!”
For the first time, in all the years CC dealt with the prime minister, Salisbury refused to meet his eye. “I gave him something he wanted in return,” the old man said as his beard bore the brunt of his emotional turmoil. “Something more valuable than Kerzenende.”
“Which was?” CC’s question fizzled with anger.
Salisbury was saved the necessity of answering by his nephew’s return.
Boundary Estate.
The man known to Emily Davies as Uriah Spinnaker examined his crooked teeth in the mirror over his small washbasin, smiled and took them out. Things were definitely going to plan. Especially as – having timed his visit to the pawnbroker’s during one of the old man’s synagogue visits – he avoided awkward questions and potential recognition from that most perspicacious of gents.
Divesting himself of the prosthetic mask that was Spinnaker’s face, before washing himself a little too methodically and carefully, the man now known as Kerzenede decided the gossip was wrong. Emily Davies wasn’t a genius. She was just another bloody stupid woman who couldn’t see past a simple disguise. Not that he was going to chance his arm with a second visit. Not unless she bred, or the old man rallied from his mystery illness. He stayed hidden too long to be caught through carelessness or hubris.
A sudden knock at the door brought Kerzenende out of his reverie and back to matters of immediate importance. Patting his face on the nearest pure white towel and walking with a briskness – unhampered by the too small shoes, and the need to keep his shoulder still – he reached the front door of his flat in moments.
Recognising his visitor, Kerzenende allowed his greeting to carry loudly down the street. “Good to see you. You haven’t aged a bit, Uriah Spinnaker.” Opening the door on the open plan flat, he revealed a warming fire and a table – on which sat a jug of mother’s ruin and a bottle of Haig. With a smile that never made it to the corners of his eyes, Kerzenende waved his visitor in, and closed the door on a night, not fit for purpose.
“Thought we might spend a quiet evening in, reminiscing about the old days,” Kerzenende said as he pulled the stopper
from the gin, poured his companion a substantial glassful and pressed it into the man’s good hand. “But if you want to go to the pub first, Uriah; this gin’ll keep ...”
Too far away from the door to hear what the men said, Maisy, one of Malcolm’s street spies, knew something about the visitor and his host didn’t sit right. So, when her mates decided it wasn’t worth sticking around, Maisy remained in the Arnold Circus bandstand.
As dawn wove its magic over the London sky, the little girl recognised the coat that left Spinnaker’s home, rather than the man who wore it. Sensing something was still wrong, Maisy followed the coat to Shoreditch Station and on to the tube. She nearly followed the coat as it got out at Mark Lane - until a handkerchief caught her attention. The man who opened the door had a white hankie just like it. So, she made her way to the next compartment, retrieved said hankie; changed platforms and, with a huge gulp of fortifying breath, set off for Fournier Street.
With more confidence than most who turned up at the nondescript door, Maisy banged three times and waited. Expecting Niall, the Giant, she was nonplussed to find it opened by an elderly man in overalls.
“I ‘as a message for Mr Gold,” she whistled, through the gap in her front teeth.
The workman waved his brush in greeting and opened the door wider as if to let her in. But Maisy knew once you crossed the threshold, this house swallowed you up and stole your soul, so she shook her head and stayed put.
“No fanx, mister.” She eyed the workman warily. “I’ll give it to you if ya don’ min’; an’ be on me way.”
A chuckle threatened to engulf not just the old man’s shoulders but the whole of his body, but he answered her seriously enough. “And what’s your message?”
“Spinnaker had a visitor last night.”
“Did you recognise him?” he asked in a thick eastern European accent.