An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

  I walked over to where the old man stood and kneeling, took his hand; kissing the ring in a homage, that saw my cousin shake his head in disgust and caused my valet to mutter under his breath.

  Gold touched my head like the Pope granting benediction. “I will have my heir and you will be the father.” He smiled and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And trust me, I’ll be extra vigilant until you’ve brought this other murderer to ground.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  Gold turned to my valet. “I’ll see myself out, Mr Sampson.” Then after giving us a smile that was not a smile, the pawnbroker was gone: only the vestige of his Cheshire cat-like voice floating from the door as he shouted to his men to hurry up.

  “Well,” I said as I gave a shaky laugh and took a hefty belt of whisky, “that went better than it might.”

  CC ignored me his attention, now Gold was gone, back on the cup. “You know, I’ve seen one of these before.”

  I waved my hand, too weary for more shocks. “Where cousin of mine? Where?”

  “Grandmother had one. Tall thing. Looked more medieval than this – like you’d find in Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. I remember her telling me it was a damned dangerous thing. Remember Grandfather laughing and telling her she had windmills for brains.” He stopped and blew his nose, loudly. Emily, Sampson and I exchanged glances. Watkins and Imran, who contemplated the world outside from the safety of the window, tensed.

  “What happened to it?”

  CC opened his mouth, but it was Emily who answered. “Your grandfather gave it to the vicar of Llong, didn’t he?”

  Thursday 6th June.

  The following morning we made plans to travel back to Wales, before I went off to luncheon with the prime minister, and Emily disappeared to Somerset House on a hunch.

  Dismissing his nephew, Balfour, on some spurious errand, Salisbury greeted me pleasantly enough, but the wracking pains of his illness were less tolerably handled, and there was a sharp edge to his voice that took a while to get used to. “How’s Emily?”

  I savoured my port. “Her usual rude self.” I let him take that as he would.

  He smiled over the top of his own glass, but the eyes were sad, and the beard less forceful. “One day my successor will need to meet her,” he said slowly. “I can rely on you to make that introduction? Smooth the way for him?”

  “I’ll do what I can.” I didn’t add meaningless platitudes about that day being a long way off. It wasn’t. Judging by the hue of his skin, the grey tinge to the old man’s face, Death kept my friend company.

  Salisbury scratched at his beard and looked thoughtful. “Have you been to Thorpe-le-Soken yet?”

  “Thorpe-le-Soken? Why should I wish to visit that sleepy place?”

  Salisbury gave me a look I chose to interpret as inscrutable. “You’ll find the graveyard interesting. A wander at sunset will give you all you need to know about bakers and candles and boojums.”

  I wanted to question him further, but Balfour’s return meant talk turned to other things; until as I shook hands with the prime minister - on the steps of 10 Downing Street – he pressed an envelope into my hand.

  “If you decide Kerzenende should face justice for the murder of Spinnaker, Langley and Long – and Lord knows that man should face justice at some point – take this letter to Emily’s uncle.” I nodded. “He’ll demand a high price for his help; even though you’ll tell him all debts are paid, and we relieve him of his promise.” There was a smile, so weak it barely escaped Salisbury’s beard. “Pay it without hesitation. Without asking terms.”

  When I told Emily of Salisbury’s increasing infirmity, she said one thing.

  “When I was a little girl, this cat came to stay for a while. Uncle’s not comfortable with cats. I think it’s probably because they’re even more enigmatic than him. Anyway, it stayed and made itself at home. Dealt with a rat and mouse infestation, which was stopping Uncle expanding into the street behind. I remember him – the cat, that is – laying out the last rat on the hearth as an offering, before turning his tail upwards and heading out into the night.” She wiped away an escaping tear. “I’ll miss Uncle Robert.”

  I leant over, took her hand and squeezed it. “You have me,” I said facetiously.

  I expected her to bat my hand away, but she didn’t. “It ain’t the same Sym. You didn’t teach me to play hopscotch and chess.”

  I didn’t press. I sat there, with her hand in mine, comforting her until she was ready to change the subject.

  “Somerset House was interesting.” Emily flicked through the pages of her notebook as she spoke. “Deryn’s wife’s maiden name was Jones. Common enough. Though Blodwen isn’t as popular then as it is now. They married in 1880. I found the death certificate.”

  “And?” I sipped the coffee Sampson thoughtfully provided.

  “Heart attack, following a period of prolonged illness.”

  I made a noise of confirmation and returned to my coffee.

  “Problem is there’s no Blodwen Jones on the list Barker gave us, miss. Only a Lily.” Sampson said.

  “Blodau means flower and wen means white,” I reminded him between sips. “And a Welsh servant in England’s not going to draw attention to themselves more than they have to... Besides Sergeant, lilies are usually white.”

  “I’ll get Barker to check.” Sampson disappeared out to the hallway and could be heard asking the operator for Scotland Yard. I took my cup over to the sideboard and made a great show of refilling it.

  “Well Sym, aincha goin’ ta ask?” Emily said when it became clear I was not going to rise to the bait.

  “I assumed dearest girl, there was nothing to say.” As always, my pomposity failed causing Emily to chuckle her merriment to the roof.

  “Wan’ me to tell ya?” Anticipation making words impossible, I held out my hand. “Yeah, it’s betta read!”

  I grinned. “If only Uncle could hear you speak like that. He’d have a fit!” I said as I took her notebook.

  “Bah! He don’t care what I talk like as long as I do what he wants.”

  Emily was correct her notes were comprehensive. I read them twice before finishing my coffee. “So ... change of name by deed poll and notification in The Times.”

  Emily smiled. “He’s nothin’ but thorough, is he?”

  I wasn’t so sure and said so. “Any man can change his name and not be a murderer. Any man can get his hands on an antimonial cup, especially if you’re in Llong it seems.”

  “What’s the plan, Sym?” she asked as a grim-faced Sampson took his place at the table, ready to take notes.

  “Catch him red-handed, darling. Catch him red-handed. And this is how we’re going to do it ...”

  As it was our last night together under our own roof, Emily took me to a pie and mash shop, where she treated me to the delicacy that was liquor. Staring at the generous portion of green liquid glooped over my mash potato, I decided in for a penny, in for a pound and set to my food with gusto.

  If I am honest, it tasted better than it looked, and I was hard-pressed not to laugh uproariously at Emily’s horror when I asked for seconds. “I hired you as my toff, Sym, not me bit of rough.”

  I smiled wolfishly for there were people around. “For you darling, I’ll be anything. Anything your heart desires. Now tell me, what gives this gravy such a delightful taste?”

  “Eels.”

  Friday 7th June.

  I should have known nothing would come from my visit to St Michael’s in Thorpe-le-Soken. Though what did I expect? An enigmatic carving indicating the identity of Jack the Ripper somewhere on the tomb of his employer? If I did, I was out of luck. I stood up and, wishing the world to the very devil, turned from Gull’s grave.

  As I did so, a man, tall without drawing attention to it, walked confidently towards me. Clean-shaven, not even a day’s beard existed, his regard was unwavering. Ominous and menacing, without the bonhomie and amusement that characterised Gold; I found myself preternatu
rally unnerved by his approach. Noticing my regard, he stopped, bowed and indicated we should sit on a nearby bench.

  “Lord Byrd?” Although it sounded like a question, I realised later it wasn’t. “I understand you and your associates have been looking for me. Out of respect for my former employers and because I wish you to send a warning back to them, I’ll give you ten minutes.” Grey-green eyes lacking any inkling of humanity or personality met mine.

  “That’s ... generous ... of you.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He took a large napkin out of his pocket and having folded it precisely at the corners and turning it 90 degrees, he created a star-like circle on which he sat. Job completed he raised an eyebrow to indicate my interrogation could commence.

  I started carefully, knowing any error on my part would end this conversation. “You’ve been in the shadows for a long time, why change things?”

  “Spinnaker found me.”

  “We will get to Spinnaker eventually,” I said calmly.

  Kerzenende raised an eyebrow. “I see why the pawnbroker likes you.” There was an arrogant twang to his voice, a strange metallic quality I always associated with pomposity and self-aggrandisement. Taking a further napkin from a pocket, he touched it to his lips folding the used corner; turning it a perfect 90 degree angle; before repeating the gesture three times.

  I don’t know why, but I bridled at his actions. “He’s not the only reason I’m here. There are others dead at your hands.”

  “And the fact you don’t have a weapon, not even your trusty blackjack, tells me you were given permission to talk and nothing else. I’m protected by very powerful people, Byrd. Remember that.” Dabbing at the corners of his mouth, Kerzenende repeated the napkin routine.

  I tried to place his accent. It wasn’t any of the British dialects, nor European. Neither was he from the subcontinent. Puzzled by the conundrum he presented, I decided all I could say for certain was that he was foreign. It was a disappointing conclusion and made my next statement more acerbic. “Come, come, sir! Come, come. You don’t expect me to believe that Mary Kelly was the only target? A peccadillo in need of removal?”

  Kerzenende looked at me, sneered and mimicked me with unerring accuracy. “Come, come, sir! Come, Come! Everyone’s heard of you. Lapdog of kings, princesses ... and all things Gold. Surely you aren’t naïve enough to think you’re the only person whose actions are motivated by a higher cause? Next, you’ll be telling me you never covered up murder?”

  I flushed.

  “Precisely, Byrd!” His smile, like the man, was unpleasant. “Now, as you’re a busy man and I don’t like to tarry; get your questions asked and begone.”

  “I have two lines of questioning, if I may?”

  “That does not surprise me. You have two masters.”

  I ignored him. “My first is easily answered. What’s your connection to Charles Bravo?”

  “We were at school together.” It was said glibly, a little too quickly; like he expected the question and had a lie ready.

  “Plausible I suppose ... Yet I don’t think so.” I waited in an attempt to ascertain whether my words disconcerted him. They didn’t.

  He returned my regard with an arrogant air. “Then where do you think we met?”

  “Where is irrelevant. Your connection to Bravo interests me.”

  “His wife introduced us. I was a student of James Gully’s.”

  Now that, I realised, was more likely. I took it as the answer and moved on. “Your sympathies were with the wife then?”

  “I didn’t say that. Like your masters, I am incapable of sympathy.” He waved a hand at me, my own mannerism perfectly replicated. It was unnerving and led me to wonder more about this murderer sitting beside me. “Let us just say they were a very unhappy couple. Whichever did it, neither benefited.”

  Another fastidious turn of the napkin. Another wiping of his mouth and the cloth folded then turned another 90 degrees, giving him a clean area for the next time. “A penny for your thoughts, Lord Byrd.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His answering smirk wasn’t pleasant. “I told them where to buy antimony and how to make the emetic. What they did with the information ...” He shrugged his disinterest for the world to see.

  “Did you benefit from their deaths?”

  An eyebrow raised its amusement. “Me? How could I, a humble physician, benefit from the death of an ambitious man?”

  “But somebody did?”

  “Ambitious men, with too much knowledge ... There are always those who benefit.”

  “I see.” I wasn’t sure I did, but I needed time to formulate my next question. “How did you benefit from your association with William Gull?”

  “I’m the assistant. One day, someone will once again link Gull to that business in Whitechapel. They’ll see him - and only him- as the only possible solution. And ... yet again ... the real Jack goes free.” He smiled. “And that, dear Byrd is how I benefit.”

  Until today, I’d never considered ‘benefit’ an terrible word. Now listening to Kerzenende use it, I found it to be an abomination. I stared at my hands, counting the freckles on my fingers. “Who else asked about antimony?” I changed course like a cutter in high winds.

  Kerzenende stared at me. “No one important,” he said dismissively.

  “I must ... insist.”

  He snorted and stared in a way that reminded me of my scorpions. “A maid-of-all-work. As I said, no one of consequence. Why do you ask?”

  “I am a walrus,” I told him. “I talk of many things: of shoes and ships and candle ends ...” His anger intensified until I understood why Lamb likened the man before me to Dracula. However, I couldn’t back down. Holding on to the bench for support, I forced myself to continue. “The girl killed herself using precisely the same percentage solution of antimony that did for Bravo.”

  “Not my problem.” He dismissed my accusation with a wave of his hand.

  “Her brother kills those he blames for contributing to her death.” I told him, with perhaps more animation than such serious words deserved.

  That stopped him. If only for a moment. “He won’t kill me” Kerzenende insisted. “Even if you tell him about me, tonight’s the last time I’ll use this name; the last time I visit this place. You only found me because it was... arranged.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell. I watched Kerzenende dab his mouth and fold that blasted napkin.

  “But Spinnaker found you. How?” I said because I had to say something to stop my clenching fists rain blow after blow as I attempted to make his face less bland... less ordinary.

  “Coincidence. He was Gull’s driver. A useful man. Not very bright. Though like Bravo, driven by ambition. He was well paid for the time he spent with me that autumn. Not just by me but by my masters, who set him up in business once the deed was done.” Kerzenende held his up hand, a mirror of my own. “And no. Do not ask. As you would say: what’s done is done.”

  “Unless I screw my courage to the sticking place?”

  “Then you will fail.”

  I let the scorpions dance like Macbeth’s witches for a few minutes, then forced them back into the shadows.

  “Tell me why he had to die?”

  “After the business of 88 was concluded, Langley and Spinnaker were paid off, and I was vanished.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked because it was necessary.

  “Gull died and was buried in the family plot.”

  “But not in 90.”

  Kerzenende blinked. “I don’t know where you got that information from!” he said tightly.

  I smiled in return - a passable impression of Mr Gold. “I can hear it from you or from my masters.”

  “I see.” He weighed me up. Probably found me wanting. Though by this point I wanted him in hell and didn’t care whether I was lacking or not. “No not in 90. A few years later. But we digress. You only have two lines of questioning, my dear Byrd. Don’t blow them on triviality.”


  I reined in the horses of inquisitiveness and regrouped. “Did Spinnaker search you out?”

  “I knew it was a mistake to take his cab the night I killed Flo Long. I should have waved him on and taken the next one. But I reckoned he wouldn’t remember me. I have the kind of face people forget. But unlike your Lamb, he remembered and followed me to where I live in the crypt at Norwood cemetery.”

  “I see. What happened?”

  “He wrote. Told me not only had he shared my location with Langley but that he had a souvenir of our time together.”

  Processing his statement, I felt sick. Jack kept souvenirs, I recalled. A liver, a heart, an ear, a kidney. “What? What did he keep?” My voice seemed faint, at a distance.

  Kerzenende shrugged. “My orders were to rid the kingdom of Mary Kelly and her friends. What do you think I took from a pregnant whore like her?”

  That night, I sat in Grandfather’s study, a glass of finest cognac in one hand, the remaining police reports from 1888 couriered post-haste from Scotland Yard in the other. I found speech difficult. I wanted to pick the phone up. To call Uncle and ask his advice but I daren’t. He was already in too much danger from Lamb’s indiscretion all those years earlier.

  In the end, I phoned CC, who promised to send whatever he found from the search of Spinnaker’s house himself.

  But the package, that arrived a little after 3am, and the two-word note that accompanied it, told me my cousin was but a walking shadow. He’d seen the worst and best that our world had to offer. He wanted no more of it. Kerzenende deserved to be in the deepest recesses of hell.

  Grandfather, who sat with me, through those darkest of hours, stared at the jar’s contents wordlessly; and for only the second time in my life cradled me in his arms and let me cry.