by S. E. Smith
“Cardiac infarction.”
“Brought on, according to the landlady, by a surfeit of cheese.”
“That agrees with the stomach contents.”
“The room was a veritable fest of vomit.”
Emily made a note of something and nodded.
“You checked for antimony I assume?”
She smiled. “Yes, and no doubt you were the one to tell your cousin to hunt for a heartburn tonic or bottle of wine?”
“How...?” Ready to ask more, the door to the mortuary swung open, breaking the moment.
McGregor, dour and dapper, entered with all the majesty of the king himself. Ignoring my outstretched paw, he made his way to the slab and without further ado, inspected Emily’s handiwork and notes.
She left him to it and went to wash her hands.
“Not bad, Miss Emily. Not bad at all.” McGregor smiled. I grinned like a loon.
Emily wiped her hands. “Blood work is interesting.”
“Is it?” McGregor smiled. “I take it the sample is here?” He turned to the microscope, bending low and fixing his eye to his task. A tsk of disapproval. “Your idea of a joke, my lord?” the Scotsman snapped.
As our American cousins would say, I was about to sing like a canary, when Emily intervened. “No, Doctor. Mine. He didn’t recognise me.”
And the dour Scot melted like snow in sunshine. “It is an excellent disguise, Miss Emily,” he conceded. “I forgive you, for your lack of perspicacity, Byrd.”
I bowed.
“But a gentleman, especially a youth of the size and age you wish to portray, rolls with a more confident swagger. Age takes a toll on the hips.”
She dipped a neat curtsy, spoiling the effect by laughing as the police surgeon turned to me and said, “Byrd, you really should be more observant.”
I agreed I should and, lesson delivered and learned, we turned to our examination of the correct slide.
McGregor blinked as he took his eye from the microscope. “I’ve heard of Laveran’s work on malarial parasites of course, but never seen it till now. What made you suspicious?” He smiled at the young woman, and I preened in the reflected glory.
Emily laughed. “I wasn’t, I was just curious about blood in general. I took a sample from the dead man and compared it with my own. And in a heartbeat knew this was Robert Langley – home from abroad, not his brother Gordon who never left England, even on holiday.”
I stared at the marvellous McGregor and saw his uncertainty mirror my own.
“If this were the stuff of a penny dreadful or The Strand Magazine- rather than the events of real life,” I said, “the murder of two sets of siblings, in such a short space of time would rightly be regarded as an absurd and contrived coincidence.”
“Except,” Emily replied, “to mix the Conan Doyle with the Lewis Carrol, when you’ve eliminated the six impossible things before breakfast, whatever remains must be the truth.”
From Reports. Wednesday 15th May.
As dusk settled into darkness, an elderly man hobbled slowly along Brick Lane, before heading into one of the small streets of Huguenot houses that lay beyond the brewery.
Very few people out on that cold and windy evening paid him any attention, except to remark on the poor quality of his coat and the threadbare nature of his gloves. For muffled firmly against the elements all that could be seen of his face were two rosy cheeks.
Had anyone got close enough, all they could confirm was that his clothes had an unwashed smell about them, and he stank of stale beer.
Knocking on the door of Nanny’s little house, the old man made a great show of retrieving one of the many cats who made a bid for freedom the moment the door opened. This amber eyed Tom accepted the old man’s homage and fuss in a way that implied the gentleman caller was known to him and, before the old man latched the door against the night, the cat could be seen escorting his caller down the passageway to the rooms beyond.
Ten minutes later, the old man – still escorted by the cat – exited the building. Calling out his “Goodbyes” as he left, the elderly gent’s cane could be heard, tapping its way down Fournier Street where he turned into the pub, bought a pint of London and disappeared out back - as men did when nature called.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
I had my answers, which meant I was happy. When I am happy, I sing. At home Sampson, Watkins and Imran ignored my warbling as well-trained servants should. Here, my discordant snatches met with rolled eyes and heavy theatrics.
Emily displeased with my musical prowess, sat on the floor, a huge roll of lining paper laid out in front of her; making notes from notes in a frustrated attempt to link the deaths of Pauline Gregson, Lilian and the others.
Every so often she would scrunch her nose and stare at the photograph Uncle loaned CC, but I could see she was no nearer to working it out. With all inhabitants of the photo, bar Uncle, dead – and Uncle only present at the party by virtue of his relationship with Flo – the only thing linking our two very disparate cases were segments of a birthday photograph, none of which contained Uriah Spinnaker. And yet she had not realised that. Or the significance of his omission.
Tiring of her preternatural stupidity, I upped the ante, growing ever louder with my singing until I found myself all but shouting: “Tra la la la la! Tra la la la la! Nothing to do with the case ...”
Emily stopped; seemed caught out of time. Finally paying me the attention I deserved. “Do that again,” she said, adopting the distant tone of one about to make a significant discovery.
Keeping a straight face, I raised a quizzical brow and complied in my best Gilbert and Sullivan tenor.
This time I didn’t get to the end of the trill. Her pen landed on the paper. She rose like Aphrodite from her shell. “My God Sym! My God! That’s it!”
My eyebrow disappeared into my hair. “What my sweet nymph?”
She threw me a look of utter despair. I grinned. She shut me down with her best Nanny face. “I’ve been trying to link everything back to this photograph and I can’t because this photograph is just another coincidence.” I nodded slowly, not wanting to show her I was leading her to an obvious conclusion.
“Sym, we’re not dealing with one convoluted case. We’re dealing with three separate ones.”
“Three my darling girl! So many?” I kept my tone light. “Pray tell, how’d you reach such a conclusion?” My acting must have been of a reasonable quality. Either that or my sarcasm was muted.
She told me her conclusions, using her fingers as a prop. “The people who worked in Tooting are one case.” Emily was all that was serious. “The murders of Spinnaker, Gordon Langley and Flo are the second.”
“But Spinnaker’s not in the photograph.” I hoped I kept the smugness out of my voice, as she worked her way through the cards I laid before her. Game to me.
“He doesn’t have to be in the photograph to be killed by the same murderer.” She grinned. I smiled. Set to me.
“So, what’s the third?” I focused on making my voice devoid of all understanding. “You’re not going to tell me we’re going to try and solve Bravo’s death?”
“Idiot!” Emily’s hands swatted at me as though I were an unwanted fly or an irritating child. “Uncle’s the third case. If we take his poisoning out of things, we have two unrelated sets of murders – especially as Spinnaker’s not in the photo – and a whole heap of coincidences.” She tilted her head. “Yes, he’s being poisoned with antimony, but no one’s out to kill him.” Emily paused. “Getting us together is his motive; especially as, you, me, Nanny and Mohandas are the only ones who know he’s really ill.” Stopping again, she scratched her scrunched up nose. “Only I can’t for the life of me see how he’s doing it ...”
The rubber was mine, for the taking. Yet I kept my face clean of emotion. “He’s taking a little wine for his stomach’s sake.”
Aphrodite was replaced by a gorgon. “I ain’t got time for your theatrics, Sym. ‘Ow’s
‘e doin’ it?” the appalling accent was back. Grinning profusely, I padded to the washbasin and the trunk residing next to it. Intrigued she followed me, watching intently as I lifted the lid.
Peering inside, Emily made a moue of disgust at the sight of folded jim-jams, unmentionables, and the like. “I don’t see anything?” she complained.
I raised an eyebrow, removed a jumper and revealed my winning card: a leather box about four inches square and eight inches high. Lifting it out reverently, I asked Emily to close the trunk.
“What is it?” she asked, as I opened the box and pulled out a half pint chalice made out of tin.
“This is an antimonial cup,” I explained. “Made out of antimony alloy. Add wine to it, and the antimony leaches out. Takes about twenty-four hours to make a reasonable emetic. Use a wine with too much tannin ... and too much antimony leeches out, making the effect ... lethal.”
“Whose is it?”
But I prevaricated; wanting her to work the steps out herself. “It was something you said a couple of nights ago.”
She looked at me. The fog of confusion lifting, she saw what I was hinting at. “You mean, how Uncle always gets better when Mohandas visits, and worse after Nanny calls?”
I nodded.
“It’s in the wine tonic, isn’t it?” she added after a few minutes. “The cunning bastard and Mohandas and Nanny are in on it with him. But why the hell is it still going on? You’re here! As far as he’s concerned we’re sleeping together! Surely that’s enough?”
I smiled wolfishly. “I have a suspicion he wants us to get even friendlier - if you get my drift, and when we are ... he’ll make a miraculous recovery.”
“But how? How can we be even friendlier?” My Emily bristled, as I gave her one of my infuriatingly, winning smiles. The kind that usually brought ladies of my acquaintance around to my way of thinking. Emily regarded my seduction with a renewed cynicism and an angled chin.
“You know I’d love to discover what your Uncle’s giddy as a schoolboy expression looks like.”
Her head tilted as she examined my soul; finding – as always – that I was a wanting specimen. “What are you suggesting Symington Byrd?”
I grinned wickedly and ignored my scorpion’s dance of warning. “As much as I love living with your uncle, darling, I think it’s time we took possession of our own place ... Cripplegate, wasn’t it?”
Anger made infernos of her eyes. I tensed. Then just as suddenly as the fire appeared, laughter dowsed its flames. “Ooh la sir! And there was me finkin’ you is a gentleman.”
“How long will it take to move out?”
Emily tilted her head and gave the matter some consideration. “Knowing Uncle, he’s already picked our house. In which case, about a week.”
I turned inward and thoughtful. “A month then to bring everything together and unmask our killers ... and ... unfortunately, we’re going to need CC to darken our door and stay until we’ve worked out how to do it.” I told her gloomily.
“That ain’t going to happen for all he’s thawed enough to have dinner with you and meet us at the café.”
I ignored her retort, carrying on as though she’d never spoken. “And to ensure we get it we’re going to have to come clean to Salisbury. Tell him why I’m really here.”
Unable to help herself, Emily leant forward, intrigued and appalled. “What on earth for?”
I took her hand in mine, turned it over and kissed the palm. “Because the only way my illustrious cousin will cross the threshold of our love nest, Emily dearest, is at the direct behest of the prime minister.”
From Reports. Saturday 18th May.
Returning to her house, a few days after the man came to feed her cats, Nanny was only interested in her bed. It had been a difficult delivery: breech with the mother not expected to live. Touch-and-go afterwards, it meant she couldn’t come home until the mother was safe, and the father over the shock of having two more mouths to feed
Consequently, Nanny noticed nothing amiss until the following morning when she discovered that her chamber pot was empty; and her sheets lay folded in the middle of the table, covered by a blanket to prevent furring from her feline friends. Immediately suspicious, Nanny conducted a thorough search of her rooms before heading the short distance to Fournier Street.
Having let herself in, Nanny made her way up the increasingly narrow staircase to the pawnbroker’s private apartments. As always, Gold sat in his customary chair by the fire; eyes closed, stockinged feet toasting gently.
“I’ve been broken into,” Nanny stated with an absence of fluffy shawls and vague gestures. “And judging by what was taken, your niece and that man of hers know what we’re up to.”
From Reports. Saturday 1st June.
CC was never one to waste time on niceties or be cowed by his surroundings, even if said surrounding was 10 Downing Street. Screwing the note from Emily and his cousin into a tight little ball, he threw it into the gently glowing fire with all the force he could muster.
“An understandable reaction, CC.” The prime minister pulled at his beard. “But nevertheless, you will comply with the request.”
CC spluttered and paced, and blew his nose. “This is outrageous; I shall do no such thing. I may have agreed to help him out in the last few weeks, but I have no intention of going anywhere near that house in Cripplegate.”
“Oh, but you will.” Salisbury didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The words were enough to remind CC that the prime minister was his commanding officer. “This case has tarried too long. It’s time to end it.”
CC wanted to argue. But the other-wordly quality in the other man’s eyes caused further complaint to die unspoken. CC rose, bowed and managed a dignified silence until he was well out of earshot.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Monday 3rd June.
Entering our little Cripplegate home, CC’s body language exuded anger, duress and a general sense of unease. His gamut of emotions mirrored my own. I too was nervous, scared that the best laid plans would fall at the first hurdle. So, I stood, back to the hearth; my calves twitching and my feet dancing in shoes that were suddenly too tight and watched my cousin take in his surroundings, so different to the opulence of Mayfair.
At the door to the lounge, he stopped and, like a fish gasping for water, stared at Emily’s modest burnt orange evening dress. “Miss Davies ... you look ... well.” Words failed him.
Smoothing her silks, Emily grinned. “Yeah, not the tarty outfit you were expecting, is it?”
He flushed, took out his ever-present handkerchief, blew his nose and allowed himself to be escorted to the chesterfield sofa, I’d insisted on bringing with me from my apartment.
Automatically taking the drink Sampson offered, it took a few moments for CC to register my valet’s presence in this den of iniquity. “You too?” he decried in mournful tones.
Samson inclined his head. “Indeed, Colonel, the prime minister was most insistent.”
My cousin expressed himself by a decent gulp of merlot before taking out his watch. “Well?” he growled.
Knowing by this gesture that my cousin’s ability to cope with further shocks was waning, we didn’t waste any time with social niceties.
“We need your help,” Emily said.
CC blew his nose and glared. “You’ve already inveigled one member of my family into your web, you’re not inveigling me as well.”
“This isn’t for the Impereye.”
Another nose blow told me CC refused to accept that possibility. He made to rise. “I did what the prime minister asked. I came. I saw; now I leave.”
“Spinnaker’s death is the key to understanding the mystery,” Emily interrupted his departure. “The odd one out.”
My cousin sighed and sank back into the chair and looked at me. “Symington, tell me something new. Head bashed in. Throat slit of course he’s the odd one out. The others were poisoned or shot... or both.”
&nbs
p; He stared at me clearly expecting answers, but my scorpions were too busy dancing their shock that he hadn’t left.
Emily took pity on us both. “Spinnaker’s not in the photograph. That’s what tells us there are two different crimes, masquerading as one.” She took my cousin through the explanation of coincidence but instead of it eliciting smiles of understanding, CC threw Emily a fulminating look. “You’re going to need to do better than that.”
I stepped up to bat. “According to the man’s wife, Spinnaker worked for Gull and drove his assistant around when the boss didn’t need his carriage. Man’s name was Baker.”
“I know,” CC retorted waspishly. “I told you that.”
“But did you know that when Spinnaker returned to work after the Christmas of 88; Baker wasn’t part of the staff?” I asked.
My cousin shrugged.
“That every time anyone asked about Baker, Gull got very angry. Frighteningly angry.”
“Perhaps he left under a cloud? A light-fingered servant’s not unusual.” CC spoke from bitter experience.
“Perhaps.” I agreed and delivered my coup de grâce. “But Kerzenende means candle ends, and that’s one of the nicknames the Bellman’s passengers gave the Baker.”
Sampson rolled his eyes to heaven at yet another mention of Lewis Carrol’s nonsense verse. But I wasn’t interested in my valet’s views. I was too busy watching CC. Judging by my cousin’s arrested expression and slightly open mouth, it seemed we were getting through to him.
“A long shot I know,” I continued, “but Spinnaker said the gun he discovered in the back of his cab belonged to a Kerzenende. What if he recognised this Kerzenende as Gull’s Baker?”
“Then why not say so?” Emily demanded.
Sampson smiled grimly. “If I may be so bold, miss ... maybe people are more scared of this Kerzenende than they are of your uncle?”
Emily laughed at the stupidity of such things and, as the harshness went out of CC’s posture, he relaxed into the cushions.