An Unkindness of Ravens

by S. E. Smith

Saturday 8th June.

  That morning at breakfast, Clifford begged a moment of my time when he stopped to bring a refilled pot of coffee, so I agreed to meet him when he came off duty.

  “How’s Danny’s mum?” I asked as he shut the door of the Red Room and advanced to where I sat, book in hand, in front of a gentle fire.

  “Fine sir. Miss Emily graciously allowed me to continue calling on her, and I’m going to talk to the duke about relocating to one of the London properties. If that’s alright with you and Miss Emily that is?”

  Still perturbed from last night’s discovery, I gave a regal – if distracted – wave. “Certainly. Certainly. Go to the drinks cabinet old thing. I’ve developed a taste for Deryn’s port. I asked him to send me over a bottle to top me up so to speak. I hid it behind the decanters. Top up my flask there’s a good chap!”

  “If you think so, my lord,” he said in pained tones as he complied with my request. “The duke takes his own to the pub; says Deryn’s brew is bitter.”

  “Really? Must have changed supplier. This one’s really sweet.” I waited for Clifford to complete his task and return my flask to me. Then, after considering his information, I undid the top. “Can’t smell any difference ...” I sniffed again. “Nothing for it. Pour me one of Grandfather’s best, Clifford old chap, and I’ll do a bit of a taste test.”

  Thus, later than intended, I met Emily.

  Side by side, we walked the short distance to Blodwen Deryn’s grave and stared at the simple headstone. “Beloved Wife and Mother.” We wished her well, hoping she found forgiveness, then moved on to Lilian’s grave where Emily laid a stone.

  Her reverence over, I took her hand. “Ready?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” She patted her pocket. “Mohandas made ‘em special.”

  I gulped theatrically, and we both laughed. Me with the gladness only a new day and several glasses of port can bring. Her because it amused her to do so.

  “Will it work?” She meant the plan, not the tablets.

  I thought about the agony to come. “We’ll find out. Let’s hope lunch is worth it.”

  The Reverend Carillon looked out of place in the private parlour. His black and white vicar’s garb at odds with the bright yellows and reds of the colour scheme. But he greeted us cheerfully enough and thanked me for my kind invitation before turning to my companion.

  “Miss Davies, my apologies for my previous behaviour and words. They were intemperate. Unchristian. Unworthy.”

  Emily smiled and said something Carillon took to be forgiving, and we settled down for a convivial meal.

  As behoved a vicar, Carillon ate heartily, of wild game pie, and drank sparingly until Deryn joined us at the table. An action which caused the respectable rector to drink far more than necessary, in order to counteract the barbs of the other man.

  Realising we were getting nowhere and struggling to find a way to break the tension, I was blindsided by genius. “To Lilian!” Emily declared raising her glass, and perforce, both men renewed their truce.

  Then wine flowed like water as the vicar magicked glass after glass of wine from a bottomless reserve. Deryn accepted a glass of heavy red, from a bottle liberated from his cellar, and I assume, like me, he and Carillon drank heavily. Certainly, Deryn was unsteady on his feet when he rose to attend to his duties in the jug room, and equally unsteady on his return. But being on edge, I couldn’t say for sure who out of the company was drunk and who was sober.

  By the time we were on to the dessert course, I feared we’d never get the information we needed. Conversation meandered frustratingly at the edges of understanding. Tantalising us like a burlesque stripper yet never fully exposing its secrets.

  “Your wife was in service in London, wasn’t she, Mr Deryn?” Emily said between imaginary mouthfuls. “But I suppose the city being such a big place, she wouldn’t have known Lilian?”

  “Nope. She didn’t!” Deryn stared at us an air of belligerence dancing through his eyes as he continued, “And my Blodwen was dead by the time Lilian moved here.”

  “So how d’you know they never met?” I persisted with all the bonhomie of a drunk. “You asked her?”

  Still out of sorts, Deryn clipped an answer. “No. Was never curious. But I once heard the reverend ask Lilian where she worked. It was a different part of London.”

  My cue to turn my proverbial microscope on Carillon. “A strange question to ask considering you came straight here from the seminary in Bala?”

  Carillon looked at us both and gave a vicarial smile. “Ahh now you see, I was curious!” He blushed slightly, and I decided it gave us more insight into the man. I raised an intelligent eyebrow, and the good reverend continued. “And not because I wanted to know about Bravo. My sister worked in Streatham for a while, before she...we... lost touch and I sailed to Africa. I suppose I hoped to learn something about the kind of life my sister endured in service. But Lilian remained cagey about her past.”

  He paused and lifted the glass to his mouth, where it stayed while he added, “Like I said last time you visited, I only found out about her sister and her relationship with the... Emily’s uncle, the night we rowed.” The glass returned to the table only to rise again moments later.

  I took another sip of wine. This time it tasted bitter - different to the others. I pressed Emily’s hand. But instead of sending me a reassuring glance, she looked concerned.

  I drank again, and unable to help myself, grimaced. Emily shot me a warning look and realising I drew unwanted attention, fell back on buffoonery. “Bah, my palate is shot. Too much coffee and port this morning.”

  Carillon swirled his glass in a controlled manner. “Luckily, I have no such problems.”

  “Me neither, my glass is fine.” Deryn added.

  Needing to lighten my mood, I told a semi-bawdy joke that caused Carillon to forget his calling and made the rest of the afternoon a pleasant and convivial one. I also took the first of my tablets.

  Carillon and Deryn departed shortly before 4pm, leaving Emily – miraculously sober – to pour me into her room to sleep it off.

  The first real pains struck an hour later. By 7pm I was in such agony Emily wanted me to take the rest of Khan’s gold tablets. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t. Not till it was over.

  “You’re a bloody fool, Sym,” she declared before returning to the snug, ready to play the part of the worried lady friend. “Just don’t die on me will ya? I like CC, but not in that way!”

  In my head, I laughed.

  From the Testimony of Peter Watkins, Driver to Earl Byrd.

  There are times the guv does too much for the cause, and this was one of them. Seeing him in agony; fitful on that bed, made me want to use the gun I carried ... on him. However, not sure how much was pain and how much was acting, I decided to wait. Though if he was still like this in the morning, whatever Miss Emily said to the contrary, I’d put him out of his misery.

  At about midnight, old Sober-sides put His Grace to bed. Or rather he left the old codger with Gregory and Clifford – co-opted for any heavy lifting – and took up position where he too could watch the boss toss, and turn, and die.

  Miss Emily was conspicuous in her absence.

  Danny told me she brought men’s clothes with her, so I worked out she was out in the village. Her being alone didn’t worry me much. She had her knives.

  From Reports.

  At about 2am, not long after an owl hooted, someone walked up the stairs to where Byrd lay dying. Closing the door softly behind them, so they stayed in shadow, this midnight thief crept stealthily towards the bed and stared down at its occupant.

  Shaking their head in what could only be taken as anger at an incomplete job, this stranger – garbed in black – rummaged in their pocket and took out a phial of red liquid.

  Waiting for the next snore to open the earl’s mouth, they acted quickly; tipping its contents with a swift, clinical movement.

  Byrd woke as the liquid trickled down his throat but although
his eyes widened in recognition, the earl said nothing. Just closed his mouth and thrashed his head. Helpless. Another step closer to death.

  “You’ll feel better in the morning,” a low voice whispered as, taking a small chalice out of one pocket he placed it on the nearby table. “Well you won’t,” Mary’s brother amended, “but I will. And of course, you have nothing to link me to the deaths. “

  He took another, smaller phial out of a second pocket and poured its contents into the cup. “Not with you unable to talk, and your lady clueless and implicated!”

  The door opened, and there was a flash of silver. “Hello, Deryn,” Emily quipped, “bit late for room service ain’t it?”

  At the same time as Emily lunged, Deryn grabbed the chalice and downed the contents in one. Twenty minutes later, he was dead.

  From the Testimony of Peter Watkins, Driver to Earl Byrd.

  It were touch-and-go for a bit. Not that the earl was a bad patient. Far from it, he took his medicines without a fuss. And while Miss Em told me his acceptance was probably a result of the poison; me and old Sober-sides thought it had more to do with her presence at his side than anything else.

  Not that Miss Emily cosseted his bedside like some fancy pieces I could mention. No, she took long walks with the duke; played chess with the old codger, and generally kept him out of the guv’s hair.

  And good thing she did. Nanny hadn’t taken too kindly to being called a quack by the duke and retiring to her room, loudly declared - to anyone that would listen- that the guv could die for all she cared. It had taken Miss Emily an inordinate amount of time and effort to calm the old lady. Indeed, she needed to telephone Uncle to hurry things along.

  I’m glad I don’t know what Miss Emily’s uncle said in his short conversation to the old lady. All I know was that - having pursed her lips to the point her cheeks became hollowed shells- Nanny slammed down the receiver, gathered her shawls around her like armour, and stormed back into the sick room.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Saturday 15th June.

  On the seventh day, Nanny pronounced me fit enough to receive visitors. A stony-faced CC completed the procession of worthies. Sampson, Watkins and Clifford stood by the window; Carillon and Grandfather sat on the sofa facing the bed. Between them, still mutinous, sat a ferociously knitting Nanny. Either side of my bed were chairs brought specially for the occasion. Emily sat in one. My cousin reluctantly took the other. The room was crowded and, consequently, more than a little uncomfortable.

  I cleared my throat and sipped some water before I started my explanation. “This case has never been about the why. We knew from the beginning that the motive has always been revenge. Why else use antimony?”

  Emily smiled at me before adding, “And we also knew we were dealing with a clever killer who was unfortunate.”

  Grandfather scowled. “Unfortunate?”

  “Deryn had no idea that Doctor Gull was so determined to solve the Bravo poisoning that he kept tabs on all the staff associated with the case,” I told him. “Mary was a maid-of-all-work; a member of the uncared for classes, like Lilian, Langley and the others. Let’s face it, very few people care whether the huddled masses live or die. Deryn counted on this to enable him to execute the perfect revenge for his sister’s suicide.”

  Grandfather nodded. “I don’t like your Marxism, but I accept your argument.” He cast a fulminating glare in Emily’s direction believing she was the cause of my views. She caught it, clasped it to her chest, and winked at Grandfather. CC blew his nose to hide his amusement. Sampson’s gaze went to heaven, and Watkins suppressed a snort.

  “But how? How did he do it? He always had an alibi.” Carillon’s question prevented Grandfather from responding to Emily’s flippancy.

  “Indeed. I think these murders have been years in the planning, Reverend,” Emily replied. “Antimony was Deryn’s way of letting his victims know why he killed them. And we know from his comments at Sym’s bedside that he knew the poison induced silence. Even if his victims wanted to tell the authorities about him, they couldn’t.”

  I took over before Grandfather could interrupt. “The main thing we have to remember is that Deryn – or Bell as he was then – never met Mary’s friends and work colleagues. Knowing his vile temper, she kept them apart. But to keep him happy, she wrote about her life; told him about the good times... and the bad.” I paused long enough for my meaning to register. “I can only begin to imagine his grief when he got her last letter; knowing he was thousands of miles away, unable to do anything to help his beloved baby sister.”

  “He worked his passage home,” Emily told the assembled throng. “I believe it took him five years to achieve and during that time, he went after his first victim - his wife. Pretending to be a friend of a friend of Langley, he wooed Blodwen by letter, and they married not long after he docked in London. He said himself it was a whirlwind affair.”

  Carillon gasped slightly. “But he was away in Liverpool when Blodwen died!” he exclaimed. “Geraint and I sat with her that last night.”

  “A very clever move on his part,” Emily assured him. “If anyone suspected murder, Deryn was in the clear. Suspicion would fall on the son and the vicar. After all, you gave her the Eucharist and absolution; and the wine came out of the late duchess’ chalice.”

  “But the wine wouldn’t have been in the cup long enough to leach the antimony.” CC had clearly done his homework.

  I smiled my agreement. “Indeed. But antimony’s such an unusual poison. Unless you do your research, you’ll assume the curse of the Bravos’ has struck again. And while everyone suspects the reverend, no one can prove it.”

  “But what about Lilian and the rest?” Grandfather asked.

  I raised a well-trained eyebrow. “Emily?”

  She tilted her head in the bird-like gesture of hers, that caused Grandfather’s eyes to darken with some unknown emotion, and began. “At first, we both thought it was what Sym would call serendipity. But there was nothing accidental to this at all.” Emily leant down and picked up Lilian’s diary to use as a prop.” It was obvious when I read this that it was a work of two halves. In the first half you’ve got Nanny’s friend. Rough and ready; a bit shady around the edges. A girl who overheard Uncle tell Flo there was more money to be made in pimping a whore than in being one.”

  Emily gave the room and Carillon an apologetic shrug, before continuing.

  “Lil took Uncle’s advice to heart and started small with the aim of working up to bigger and better things. Arranging dates between her friends and some local gents. Not prostitution as we might understand it. No money changed hands, but it meant she never paid for meals and nights out. Uncle knew about her activities. Flo told him. But as long as Lilian didn’t tread on his toes, he saw no harm in it.”

  “But there was,” CC growled, “a girl was killed because of Lilian Poulter’s greed.”

  Emily’s answering shrug was dismissive. She and my cousin might have parlayed a truce, but it was no treaty, and she said as much by all but ignoring CC’s outburst. “The second half of the diary was that of a woman, who knew she’d done wrong and sought to make amends. A woman redeemed by the love of a good man.”

  Instead of preening, Carillon shifted uncomfortably. “And I let her down.”

  “You weren’t to know,” Emily said with more gentleness than the vicar deserved, given his past treatment of her. “You were jealous. You rowed on and off before she went to London. You didn’t want her to go. Thought Langley was an old flame and took it badly when said she had to go.”

  “I’m ashamed to say you’re right. I told her she was a jezebel and her sister... forgive me... a Jew’s whore.” Carillon’s face crumpled. “All the things my treacherous first love was. All the things my Lilian wasn’t. I was so angry, I hit her. Oh ... God!” his head went into his hands. Huge sobs racked his body.

  Nanny put down her forgotten knitting and wrapped her arms around the sobbing vicar
as I delivered the coup de grâce.

  “Your jealousy sent her to the arms of her killer. Mrs Price saw her leave your house. Saw her enter the pub. Heard her tell Deryn you were as big a bastard as Langley. Mrs Price heard her say that he hit women too. Mrs Price didn’t stay to hear the rest, she was too shocked. Vicars are supposed to be good men. Not human.”

  “If I’d listened, Lillian would still be alive.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “The moment she mentioned Langley’s name to Deryn, her fate was sealed,” I added before Emily could. “Lil and Lilian are common names and we know from his sister’s letters that he never knew her surname. Langley’s not a common name.”

  “Then all solicitous, he was,” Emily said, taking over as I took a sip of water. “Put her to bed, exactly as he said he did. Brought her case ‘round from her house which is how he knew Langley’s address. Well, she couldn’t go back to her house, could she? You were an animal who might be lurking to deliver more of the same. Walked her to the station for the same reason – having persuaded her to go to her sister’s early – made her a packed lunch. Added a bottle of Madeira; knowing even after a couple of hours in the chalice, it was enough to make her ill. “

  Tears flowed unchecked down Carillon’s cheek.

  “And of course, still the good friend, he gave her a couple of bottles of heartburn medicine and said he’d drop some around her place while she was away. Well us Londoners eat funny stuff, don’t we?”

  I recalled the pie and mash and grimaced as I concluded our tale: “If she died in London, he’d remove the bottles from her home under pretence of arranging the funeral. If she died here, well it would’ve been easy to put it down to a bug she caught. And again, he’d remove the bottles so no one would be the wiser.”

  “What I don’t get, Symington, is how Deryn poisoned Langley,” my cousin stated bluntly.