An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

  Knowing what was expected of me as the Duke’s heir, it nonetheless took three more jumps from my cousin and the girl, before I too plucked up the courage to stand at the railings and glance down at the water cascading beneath the bridge.

  “Ydych chi’n mynd i fod yn ysgubol trwy’r holl fywyd?” Grandfather shouted as I held back.

  Grandfather always said the taunting chant that followed: “llwfrgi!” (coward) was the thing that got me moving. It wasn’t. It was knowledge Myfanwy picked the same bit of the bridge to jump from every time. But even so, I waited until she finished the final of her five dives. Beating me. Beating CC. Earning her money before I acted.

  Unable to sleep, during the early months of my time in Wales, when the scorpions danced their fiercest tarantella, I took to practising handstands and vaults off the nursery landing bannisters, and I was pretty confident I could replicate that earlier success on the bridge before me. “Give us a hand, CC!” I called over the roar of the water.

  He threw me a fulminating look as I tore him away from his flirtation. But Myfanwy’s eyes followed his back and, determined to win her by playing the loving older brother-figure, he gave me a leg up onto the bridge.

  With CC returned to Myfanwy’s adoring company, I began to crawl into position; focusing on the sound of the tumult beneath to block out the children’s screaming abuse.

  As I stood bouncing on the rail to get my balance, I realised my cousin knew what I was up to. His whole body filled with delight and, after dismissing Myfanwy with a whispered word, he committed the ultimate sin of calling out Grandfather’s given name, not his title.

  Time stopped.

  Had I not been so intent on my task, I would have enjoyed the sight of CC on the end of one of Grandfather’s blistering set downs. As it was, I knew CC’s intervention bought me seconds, not minutes, so I hurried on.

  Placing my hands thumbs out, fingers ready to grip the rail, I sensed everyone looking at me, and so rocking I completed the handstand on my second attempt. Perching motionless, gaining my centre of gravity, I felt rather than heard the stillness.

  At the pinnacle of their awe, I took the crowd higher.

  Turned my back to the water ...

  Fournier Street, 1901.

  “... And then you jumped in?” Gold’s voice broke the memory of my triumph, and I grinned at him.

  “Oh no, Uncle. I dismounted like any gymnast should. Straight into the deepest part of the water. The same spot Myfanwy hit every time she dived in backwards.” My grin broadened. “Grandfather was furious. I didn’t eat for a week, and neither CC nor I sat comfortably for a few days. But it was worth it. No one’s ever forced me to perform like a seal again.”

  Gold raised an eyebrow and I realised, with an uncomfortable start, I was still a performing seal.

  Old Ford Road, Manor Park. Monday 13th May.

  As the sun set on a pleasant evening, Robert Langley decided the decision to stay with his brother Gordon was the best thing he ever did. That and lending his brother his boots. Especially when the police came to tell him “Robert’s” body had been found floating in the Thames.

  It had been a bit touch-and-go following the police visit. His idiot, immediate superior at the cemetery was harsh in his criticisms. Less competent than usual, forgetful of where things were; the list of complaints seemed endless. At the back of the conversation, lurking like the elephant in the room, was the unspoken phrase “Bringing a cemetery into disrepute.” But Robert, doing a passable impersonation of his twin, fobbed the idiot off and kept Gordon’s job.

  And of course, by becoming his brother, Robert escaped the retribution that stalked him. The retribution that got all the ravens in the end. Even Flo ...

  Except, he remembered suddenly, Flo didn’t work in Balham; wasn’t there the night he, and Lil and the others, went to the theatre. Didn’t even know the girl who teased and led him on till he couldn’t have stopped, even if he wanted to.

  Warming to his theme and aroused by the memory of her struggles, Langley walked even more briskly to his brother’s house. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself that the tart killed herself after he took her hard against a wall. Rightly pointing out as he did so that tarts and teases like her wouldn’t know who fathered their bastards.

  Not his fault - hers ... and the doctor’s assistant who told her how to do it.

  Before he knew it, Robert Langley was at his front door, staring down at a package on the doorstep. A curt note from his landlady indicated it arrived that morning. Once inside, safe from the prying eyes of the world, he opened it to find cheese and port. Grinning his delight at this unexpected good fortune, Langley put said delicacies on his table, then went to divest himself of his outdoor clothes. That done, he took a plate from the cupboard and a knife from the drawer and cut himself a decent slice of Stilton, noticing as he did so, the cheese was missing a chunk.

  Two hours later, in pain and starting to feel a little sick, Robert staggered to his medicine cabinet, took out an evil looking bottle of mixture his brother swore by and drank.

  Screwing his face into an image of disgust, for it tasted vile; he put the bottle back and took himself off to bed.

  Three hours later, the first of many gripes clutched at his stomach, unmanning him. Desperation driving him, Langley called for help, shouting his pain for the world to hear. But they never left his head.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  By the time word reached us in Fournier Street that Gordon Langley was dead, I found myself growing used to the sounds of the East End. The raucous noise of the journeymen; the sounds of drunken rows and domestic bliss that echoed out of houses, in which too many people lived - all this became commonplace.

  But whilst I found solace in this world, I did not find peace.

  “Another potato, Nanny?” I’d been doing the pretty all evening, buttering up to this – on the surface – flighty woman. She wasn’t falling for my flummery, however.

  “No.” she batted my offered help away with a sharp little blow to my upper arm.

  “Ouch!” I retreated, rubbing my arm as I did so.

  Gold sat at the head of the table, his eyes twinkling with amusement as every trick I possessed failed to charm his oldest friend. “Give the boy a break, Miryam, there’s no harm in him.”

  Pink shawls fluttered. Lips pressed themselves into tight little lines. A hint of exasperation escaping just before they did so.

  “What you’ve got to understand, son, is that when Nanny here was a young girl, she turned many heads.” The pawnbroker lowered his voice and folded his arms across his chest, as if he were imparting the greatest of his organisation’s secrets, rather than gossiping about an old friend.

  Emily’s hand on my thigh prevented any interruption on my part. Not that I intended to do so. I was enjoying the interlude too much.

  “No one got close though.”

  Another sigh, another swish of irritation. “What Mordy’s hinting at is that I had my heartbroken at a young age.” Nanny snapped waspishly.

  The hand on my thigh became vice-like.

  “I didn’t of course! Gregor was a lovely boy, and yes, he died young, but he didn’t break my heart.”

  Gold’s eyes twinkled their merriment. “Of course not! That’s why you insisted on breaking with tradition and going to his funeral!”

  “He died a horrible death, Mordecai Adonais! You were lucky to survive snail fever yourself. Father had a terrible time with you both.” Nanny’s knife headed for the potatoes she previously eschewed and with a vicious stab, speared herself the largest one left.

  The twinkle vanished. Gold sobered. “Of course, Nanny.” He seemed about to say more but as he opened his mouth, his face contorted and with a speed I understood, having been sick in my time – though usually from excess, not illness - left the table for the privy at the back of Danny’s mum’s café.

  “For goodness sake, Sym! Come to bed!” Normally when lady friends of my acqu
aintance say such things, it’s in a sultry tone and their eyes have a come-hither expression. Being Emily, however, there was more than a hint of exasperation to her imperative. “Pace anymore and you’ll be through the carpet, the floorboards and in a heap in the shop!”

  “We should have taken him to the hospital.” I muttered.

  “Yes, perhaps, “Emily agreed. “But after Mohandas popped in with some of his tablets, Uncle rallied.”

  I sucked my teeth and raised an eyebrow. “Strange that.”

  “You’re seeing shadows where there are none!”

  “Am I?”

  There was silence for a while. I ceased my pacing, and Emily settled under the eiderdown. “Mind you,” she said through yawns as I slipped into bed beside her, “it’s strange how he’s always worse when Nanny visits and miraculously better when Mohandas arrives.”

  “Indeed, old girl ... Now get some sleep; we’ve got a busy few days ahead.”

  The following day, I took myself off to the British Museum to view Captain Cook’s belongings - specifically a small silver-looking cup, that he carried with him on every voyage. From thence, with a spring in my step, I went to visit an eminent quack who, having fallen on hard times, awaited trial for a series of crimes he never bothered to deny. He was as helpful as ever – especially about Snail Fever - and I returned to Fournier Street more than ready to tell Emily my findings.

  I got waylaid of course. Danny arrived with a message about a sighting of my cousin and his team at Manor Park and by the time I returned from that crime scene, my earlier discoveries were relegated in importance.

  From Reports. Old Ford Road, Manor Park.

  There were those who said things improved since the days of Jack the Ripper. This, however, was not one of those things. The crime scene was horrific. Not for its violence, but for its stench; and would have benefited from a good sluicing down. Evidence be damned.

  “Samples. Photographs. Don’t go for finesse, just take as many as you can and then get out of here!” CC ordered, pleased beyond anything to find his team didn’t need additional chivvying, as they got to work. Collecting prints; bagging evidence.

  Watching them work, CC returned to the contemplation of his cousin’s madness. Yes, she was a pretty piece, and his cousin was a happier man for knowing her. But, by moving in with Emily and that uncle of hers; Symington crossed a line in the sand.

  “Take a sample of the cheese!” CC barked. “Find out what else he’s got in his cupboards.”

  “Sir.” Barker corked a test tube and having collected two paper bags from his kit, removed two fine slivers of cheese: one from the half-eaten bit on the plate, the other from the remainder of the round sitting on the sideboard.

  “Liked ‘is cheese, didn’t ‘e?” Lamb muttered as he came over to take a photograph of the table.

  “Looks like it.” CC agreed.

  “Landlady said it came earlier in the day. She put it in her larder till about half hour before Langley was due in,” Lamb told CC. “Most put out she was. Hoped it wasn’t contagious.”

  “What wasn’t contagious?”

  “The cheese.”

  “Why?”

  “She ‘ad a bit.”

  “Bloody hell.” CC swore.

  “My thoughts exactly, sir.”

  “Have you photographed the dead man?”

  “Doing it now, sir.” Moving over to the bed, CC watched Lamb stare down at the body for a few moments as if contemplating the scene before him. It wasn’t surprising, CC had done much the same, for Langley’s face was strangely calm... at odds with the violent nature of his death. What was surprising was the way Lamb made the sign of the cross before moving closer for another look at the dead man’s face. Rubbing his upper arm vigorously; Lamb’s expression narrowed. He shook his head as if troubled by something and opened his mouth. He never got the chance to speak.

  “Fortunately, whatever killed him’s not in the cheese. The landlady’s fine!” Byrd’s dulcet tones wafted their way up the stairs, and his footsteps followed quickly on their heel.

  CC rammed himself into the doorway. “Go away!”

  “I will,” Byrd said, and to his credit made no attempt to peep over his cousin’s shoulder into the room beyond. “I know when I’m not welcome. Just tell me, one thing. A simple question, if I may? Lamb, does it look like Bravo’s crime scene?”

  “Dunno, my lord. Haven’t sent the samples off to Doctor McGregor!” Barker replied instinctively.

  “Shut it, Barker.” CC growled.

  But over that roar came an answer to gladden the earl’s heart. “Yes, my lord. Though something’s not right. Don’t know what!”

  “Enough, Lamb!” CC bellowed, as a sober-faced earl jigged imperceptibly. “Get out Symington. God knows how you knew to come here!”

  Byrd laughed. “Thanks, Lamb. Thanks, Barker. Thanks, CC. Oh and check his cupboards. I think you’ll find the poison’s disguised in something mundane, like wine or beer or heartburn tonic.”

  Something hit the floor with a loud crash and whatever CC had been about to say was forgotten as pivoting he found Lamb staring down at the camera he’d been holding seconds earlier.

  “What the hell?!” CC rounded on his sergeant. “Lamb, there are times you are a more of a liability than Barker here. Pick the bloody camera up... and pray it’s not broken ... You do want to retire on a pension, don’t you?”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  From Manor Park, I headed south of the river to Southwark to keep my rendezvous with the good Doctor McGregor.

  As expected, I found the mortuary key - cunningly hidden under a flowerpot and let myself into the building. Respectful of my surroundings, I avoided the natural and facetious desire to holler a view halloo. For a start, the corridors in this building were so small as to be non-existent. Secondly, I wasn’t in the presence of the dour Scot of my acquaintance but a youth of some twenty summers whose portly frame seemed at odds with his agility.

  “Name’s Byrd. Didn’t know McGregor employed an assistant! I’ve come to view Langley’s corpse.”

  The lad didn’t speak. Too busy wielding his scalpel to bother with me. So, perching on a laboratory stool, I waited and watched. And learned.

  “I don’t remember seeing you with McGregor before,” I tried a different tack. The snort I received in answer was a direct copy of the Scotsman.

  “A relative?” I tried for the third time.

  “Nephew.” There was a ghost of a laugh in the word. But I ignored it.

  Nephew. I twisted the word around my tongue. That might account for it, I supposed. Yet, I was surprised to see the youngster worked unsupervised. McGregor never afforded me such luxury on the few occasions he allowed me to potter in his mortuary.

  I watched fascinated as the liver, heart, and kidneys were removed and weighed, and yet throughout all this meticulous activity there was no sign of the good doctor. It was unlike him to be late. McGregor wore his painstaking punctuality like some wore their titles; as a way of identifying his worth in the world. Starting to worry, my gaze slipped to the clock, not once but several times.

  “Well look lively, and put that on the microscope. An’ try no a break it.” As accents went, it was dreadfully thick. A brogue which gave clear indication that the boy hadn’t been in the smoke long.

  “And do you hail from the same fair city as your uncle?” I asked as I took the slide out of a well-manicured hand.

  The lad shrugged, but I was diverted by my discovery. Well-manicured hands in a mortuary. That struck me as odd. Very odd, and I cast my mind back what I knew about Angus McGregor. His hands were dextrous hands to be sure. Nails well-trimmed, functional. But not manicured. McGregor had no time for such foibles and surely would have drummed them out of any assistant.

  “Dunny stand there, blatherin’ man. Make y’rself useful.”

  I stared at the slide, focusing on the sudden lyrical nature of the lad’s accent; not really registering it
s contents, just acting like an automaton as I put the blasted thing under the ‘scope. “What do you want me to do, Mr ...?” It didn’t help. The sense of disorientation grew especially when the accent vanished.

  “Look down the microscope and tell me what you see.”

  I saw, as I should have known I would, a sliver of pink paper.

  Emily.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded as, finally, poor soul, I saw through her disguise.

  “Oh Sym, given CC won’t let either of us near the crime scene, I had to call in a favour and knowing McGregor won’t let you do this, I was the only person for the job ...” She smiled to remove the insult. “Besides, McGregor tells me he worked for me first, and I have the right to ask.”

  I raised an eyebrow for further elucidation... and was ignored.

  “I keep telling him, association with the Impereye never ends well. But he says what’s sauce for the earl, is sauce for the doctor.” Emily tilted her head and looked rueful. “We should never have used him last year, it’s like we encouraged him to open Pandora’s box and look inside.”

  “Excitement is the spice of life, my love.” I edged towards my lady, ready to take her in my arms. But she swatted my intended attentions away.

  “Enough, Sym. Uncle ain’t here to listen at doors to the cooin’. McGregor’ll be here any moment now.”

  “It’s a real cadaver then?”

  “Symington, Earl Byrd, meet Robert Langley.”

  “Robert? Don’t you mean Gordon Langley?”

  “No, I don’t! Patience a moment, and I’ll tell you how I know this is Robert.” Emily gave me one of the looks she only reserved for fools and, chastened, I stepped over to the body. Immediately, we were all business. A well-oiled, perfectly matched team.