A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  Determined to prove himself my equal in the field of deduction, CC stood, grabbed a piece of toast and moved over to the window.

  For a few minutes, he surveyed the scene: the flower sellers and hawkers; the nannies with their charges. Then he returned, sat down, drank deeply, clearly waiting for me to finish reading Miss Clarke’s letter.

  “Well?” I returned the letter carefully to its envelope, “Go on.”

  “Apart from the fact she’s a bit younger than Ma’s usual harridans and much prettier. What else is there to say?”

  I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ahh, the best Scotland Yard has to offer. No wonder crime is rampant.”

  Slamming his cup on the table, CC stormed back to the window, and viewed the world outside. Every so often he would blow his nose before returning to his task. Knowing another interruption would lead to a massive loss of temper, I counted to fifty.

  “Well?”

  CC shook his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “How long’s she been there, CC?”

  “Today? Couple of hours, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly. What’s she doing?”

  “Beating a carpet.”

  “For a couple of hours?” I exclaimed.

  “It might be dirty?”

  “Perhaps.” I conceded, hoping he would notice my sarcasm. He didn’t. “It’s a proficient backhand action, if you notice,” I said joining him at the window to continue my musings. “Different class and the girl could give Blanche Bingley Hillyard a run for her money. They’re both right-handed. Oh yes, the girl has all the makings of a Wimbledon champion. Pity her husband if he ever annoys her.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic Symington.”

  Finally. “I wasn’t.”

  CC shot me a disbelieving look and continued. “The carpet’s been laid over the railings.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The windows at the top of the house have been opened.” By now CC warmed to his theme. Sampson stopped his chores and gave the appearance of a man enjoying the byplay.

  “Downstairs the drapes are down, and you can see right into what I assume is the dining room.” CC turned around. From the air of superiority on his face, my cousin clearly expected me to be impressed.

  I wasn’t and said so.

  My cousin threw his arms to the skies and swore. He pivoted and gave the street scene another scathing glare. “As you’re so bloody clever, Symington: You. Tell. Me. What the hell am I missing?”

  I smiled but refused to let him off the hook. “What’s she doin’ cuz?”

  “Beating a carpet!”

  Sampson raised an eyebrow and looked at me. I’d not seen that expression in a long time. It was the one he used when I first joined up and overplayed the clown. I sobered immediately.

  “CC, even with Mrs B. gone and Mr Bamber in a tizzy, you do have servants to do the menial work, don’t you?”

  “Of course!”

  “And do your servants beat a carpet in the rain?”

  “No of course they damn well ...” The penny dropped. “Oh my God! She’s watching someone. Who? Who’ve you hired her to watch?” Scenting scandal, CC leant in. “Who on earth along here has earned enough of your wrath? Dear god’s! How much is it costing you?”

  “As usual, dearest, dearest cousin, you’re wide of the mark.”

  “You mean?” CC was scandalised.

  “Yes, old bean: the girl’s watching me.”

  Sampson told me later the only way to describe CC’s reaction was a brilliant fish impersonation, with floundering arms completing the image.

  “What? Why?” My cousin stuttered eventually before in true bulldog fashion he moved over to the telephone: ready for action. “You want me to arrest her? Bring her over here?”

  “No. I’m curious to learn how this little game plays out.”

  CC regarded me as though I had suddenly sprouted two heads; then he looked at Sampson, who stared a stoic reply.

  “Explain,” he snapped.

  “Possibly something to do with the tunnel murder,” I told him. “And, if I am not mistaken, she’ll do nothing until we go to the Savoy. At my insistence, Sampson’s told all and sundry he has the night off. A rare and unusual occurrence – two nights in one week. The flat being empty, I’m certain she’ll take the chance to do a bit of breaking and entering.”

  “The uncut gems?” CC stared at the earpiece before putting it back on its rest. “But why let her go through with it?”

  “Because if I don’t, I’ll be making a huge mistake.”

  “You’re talking in riddles again. And I don’t like it when you talk in riddles. It usually ends up with me involved in some stupidity.”

  I grinned. He glowered.

  His eyes narrowed into suspicious little lines. “Symington, what are you going to do?”

  He glowered. I grinned.

  “Something you and I haven’t done since the masquerade ball last year. But first, I need to telephone Serena.”

  Monday 5th November.

  Leaving our return from the Savoy until gone midnight was risky. The bird could be in and flown, so to speak, before we got back – especially if this was a robbery, pure and simple. But as I boasted to my friends Winston and Captain Birch over dinner, I counted on the safe to hold her up.

  A couple of years earlier, Chubb asked me to evaluate it and I remember spending a good few days trying to crack it. Consequently, I was arrogant enough to assume that if a peer of the realm took four days to open the damn thing, then a slip of a girl would not be able to do it any faster.

  But pride – as Grandfather keeps telling me – often comes before a fall.

  Thus: when CC opened the door to the study shortly after 1am, we found the safe open; the diamonds still in situ; and a girl sitting at my desk, socked feet on the table and her matching kid boots down warming in front of the remains of the fire.

  “Evenin’ gents.” She didn’t glance up; “I’ll be wiv ya in a mo’. I’m jus’ readin’ the las’ page.”

  Her crude accent disappointed me. I expected something more refined.

  I toyed with the idea she was an agent paid to break-in but discounted it quickly. After all, why stay if that was the case? A lone scorpion of doubt emerged from the fringes of my subconscious and offered a solution, but I ignored it and got into character.

  “Want me to arrest her Symington?” I asked gruffly, dropping my voice to my cousin’s bass-baritone.

  “Oh, I think so,” CC replied in his best me impersonation – although he pitched my voice higher than it was.

  Quite clearly, despite his earlier reservations to swap identities, my cousin enjoyed the chance to be centre stage. “Breaking and entering; stealing; to name but three!” He waved like a Roman emperor. “Take her away, CC. Lock her up!” Me at my most fatuous. As always, I couldn’t help thinking that the stage lost a great actor when CC first joined the army and then the force.

  I stepped out from behind my cousin, and advanced on the girl.

  A raised eyebrow was the only sign she heard us.

  “Come along, miss,” I said gruffly. “You heard the earl.”

  With a sigh, my intruder put the paper down and stared at us both. I could swear I saw amusement in her stunning cornflower blue eyes. But I had no time to process the thought because I was struck by a bizarre sense of déjà vu. I had seen those eyes before – not from my vantage point as she worked the other side of the road, but close up – in the flesh, so to speak.

  Unable to resist their pull, I continued to move toward her; realising only later, that CC and I stood next to each other.

  “I ain’t sure you’ve enuff ev’dence,” she said calmly. “But ‘ey, goes for i’. If one of youse fine gents wan’s a take a gander a’ the lock you’ll soon spot it ain’t been pickt.” The smile broadened. “An’ do, please, use tha’ fin’er print stuff, you coppers are so pleas’ wiv. But you won’t find my dabs on the door – or the ‘andle. An’ no,
I ain’t wiped them off, nor did I wear gloves; I got the porter to let me in. Youse jus’ asks Clive and ‘e’ll confirm it.”

  She stared at us both, a long hard assessing look. “I ain’t stolen noffin. The dia-monds you left to tempt me are still in the safe. Sa ya see, you ain’t got noffin on me. ‘Sides, I came to read – not steal.” She tapped the document with her hand and I realised with a start, she held McGregor’s report on that unfortunate girl in the Surrey tunnel. A thief pure and simple wouldn’t have lingered to read such a thing.

  I threw out my previous assessment of the woman and began again.

  Cornflower blue eyes aside, the girl was in her early to mid-twenties. Medium height, with a build that, while not wispy or willowy as fashion dictated, showed signs that food hadn’t come easy in her early years. Her hair scraped off her face in a bun, only served to accentuate those eyes. Eyes a man could drown in, and make promises to, eyes that would cause problems later down the line.

  I tore myself away from those beautiful blue orbs and fell in love again: with her heart-shaped lips and her amazing cheekbones. She wore no make-up. Her boyish clothing – trousers and a granddad shirt; were eminently practical for the burglar around town.

  I glanced around the room. No coat. No hat. So, either the girl didn’t possess one ... or she left it elsewhere. If Clive let her in as she said, it stood to reason he might be minding her outdoor items. But why would he let a girl, dressed as a boy, into my apartment? Either she paid him, in which case there were questions to answer; or she gained entry through deception ...

  “Of course, ‘aving finished readin’, I returns it so even that don’ give ya reason ta cart me off to th’ nick.” She got up, walked over to the safe and with a careful, almost ostentatious gesture, put the document back inside – with the diamonds on top.

  “Now, me lud, I knows I’m in your home wivout permission but back at Ma’s offices there’s a contract for the cleaning of all apartments in this section of Mayfair. So technically I ain’t ‘ere illegally. But please, my lord, do arrest me. Put the cuffs on. I’ll come quiet like a good girl should.”

  She stopped as near to the pair of us as possible: close enough to brush my shirt front. Close enough to smell her jasmine perfume.

  “Of course, a citizen’s arrest will need corroboration by a serving police officer: preferably not one who’s about to be thrown off the force for collusion.” And with that, the girl turned on her heel, stalked over to the sofa, and sat down with a flourish.

  I was missing something, and she and my now marauding scorpions knew it.

  On the verge of giving her a jolly good shake, realisation struck. The awful cockney accent had gone. In its place was a refined, middle-class voice. I fell in love again – this time with her intelligence.

  “Remind me, Sir Charles,” she addressed CC directly, “It is an offence to impersonate a police officer, isn’t it? And it is an offence for a policeman to turn a blind eye when a crime’s being committed?”

  To give my cousin his due, he didn’t blink. He stared at the girl, who returned his gaze with a steady, unswerving, almost piteous look.

  “I take it, feminine intuition told you we swapped?” CC declared pompously.

  The look of pity became biting. CC recoiled, realising too late that his tactic to put her at a disadvantage backfired superbly.

  “Of course, I should know you’d say that!” She was formidable. More regal than the Queen herself, she leant back in the chair and continued her assault. “Does my use of logic frighten you so much you’d try to humiliate me?”

  Wounded and wide-mouthed, CC shook his head vigorously.

  “My cousin used to be into theatricals,” I told her. “Always took the leading role in our Christmas entertainments. Me, being the prettier of the two, donned the skirts! So, while I have imagination, he uses previous knowledge and experience to guide current thinking not observation. Please enlighten him, and me: how’d you know we swapped identities?”

  Head tilted, she considered her answer carefully. “Point one. As you’re aware, I’ve been watching this apartment for the last week. You’re both of a similar height, hair colouring and build. But positioned as I was, I wasn’t able to view either of you close up. Even today, when Sir Charles stopped to watch me beat the carpet, the distance between us was too great to identify any specific facial differences. If one of you turned up tonight, I was pretty sure it would be you my lord, not Sir Charles.”

  I made to interrupt, but my midnight marauder held up her hand to stop me.

  “Let me pre-empt you, CC – I may call you CC, mayn’t I?” She ignored his spluttered outrage. “It’s a reasonable guess considering this is the earl’s flat ... and you’d be right. But I also worked out given the papers were full of your exchange of identities at the Prince of Wales’ ball last year, you might do it again, to put me off guard.”

  So, the girl had undertaken some serious study of me and mine.

  My mind raced over various possibilities. A burglar might case the joint; ascertain comings and goings; but this level of digging suggested a deeper motive than robbery. Curiouser and curiouser.

  I gave her an assessing stare. She smiled at me.

  “While I am many things, I’m no thief, well not tonight. I promised Uncle, you see. So, as I was going to have to read the report in situ, it was vital to tell you apart. Once I established the location of the safe, I detoured to your bedroom and checked your wardrobe.”

  This girl was impressive – worthy of admiration. I glanced at CC, judging by the wide-eyed expression, he too re-evaluated her intelligence.

  “And what did you discover?” I asked before CC could.

  “Earl Byrd wears silk shirts and suits made on the Commercial Road.”

  My turn to laugh. “So that’s why you touched my shirt and checked CC’s lapel.” My respect grew. “Poor me, thinking you were in love with me so soon.”

  I sighed. CC snorted. She ignored us both.

  “I took a risk; you both might wear East End suits and silk shirts. But CC’s suits are definitely Saville Row and that shirt is Egyptian cotton.”

  Running a finger across her lips as if to silence further rudeness, she smiled. “Don’t get me wrong CC, your tailor is clearly worth his money. But the overlock stitching on your lapels, my lord is unique. Only one tailor uses it: Leaders. I checked your suits – they all have it.”

  Her brow furrowed as she considered another possibility. “I suppose there’s a faint chance – given you’re of a same height and build – you could switch clothes. But your friends at the Savoy would comment; and I notice you control what Fleet Street prints about you. A change of clothes would lead to comment. Therefore, as much as the earl here, may have wanted to; the fallout would’ve been too great. You didn’t swap clothes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Perhaps some villain in the future could remember it, and use it to avoid capture.”

  I raised an eyebrow and focussed on her and not the scorpions who danced their frustrations at my recklessness.

  “Besides, Symington Byrd, you’re not that much of a risk-taker.”

  “Intriguing. I didn’t think of that.” I shooed my scorpions into the sidelines and sat down. CC moved over to the window and took up residence in its alcove; arms folded, his face inscrutable.

  “How old are you?”

  “Younger than Millie, if that’s why you’re asking.”

  “Then you weren’t at school together?” CC asked.

  The girl shrugged and made to rise. “Well my lord. CC. It’s been a most instructive evening, but I’m at work at five. So, you’ll forgive me if I take my leave.”

  “Couple of last questions, if I may, Miss ...?”

  She ignored the invite to tell me her name. “Go on.”

  “What will you do, now you have all this glorious information?”

  “Same as you, investigate her death. Millie was my friend.” She subjected us both to a defiant
glare, as if she expected me to put a stop to her activities. “I’ll go back to her family – ask them about Parliament.”

  “Her sister-in-law knows nothing about it. I already asked,” CC snapped from the corner.

  “Amy and Algernon ain’t her only family.” She slipped back into that semi-cockney accent of hers.

  Judging by the surprised look upon my cousin’s face, this was news to him. He opened his mouth, but again the girl forestalled him with: “Thank you for not arresting me, CC. We owe you.” She made to rise, but I put my hand up to stop her and she sank back into the seat, with a sigh.

  “Having read the report, what thinkest thou of the motive?”

  She glared at me, in a way that reminded me of Cook’s cat: a vicious, knowing creature, able to kill a bird with a single swipe of the paw.

  “Not robbery, that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t be silly, woman,” CC snapped before I could get a word in edgeways. “Miss Jones withdrew five pounds from the bank the day she travelled. That’s a lot of money for a girl of any class to spend all at once. The medic who did the post-mortem didn’t find it in her purse; the local police didn’t find it in her flat. Obviously: whoever killed her, did so for her money.”

  The glower our nocturnal visitor gave CC would fell a lesser man. And given the way her mouth spasmed, she struggled to find a response polite enough to put my cousin in his place. Eventually she settled for an overly sweet tone and a calmness I last heard Violet use on my godson after a particularly frightful tantrum.

  “Indeed, you’re correct about the five pounds, CC. But Millie’s murderer wanted her dead for a different reason. And when I know the why, I’ll know who done her in.”

  “Who killed her you mean?” I clarified.

  She nodded, and for the first time that evening, I sensed the girl truly relaxed. Oh, not enough to give anything away. She was too clever for that.

  “I shall look forward to seeing you again,” she said as she got up.

  “What makes you think I’m going to let you leave?” I replied in my best villain of the piece tone. “A girl as pretty as you? My servant is out; my reputation well known.”