by S. E. Smith
My aim had been to disconcert her; shake her confidence. It backfired.
Within the blink of an eye, I faced a three-barrelled volley gun.
“La sir! I is a goo’ girl; and knows yor sor’; you toffs and your swee’ talkin’ ways,” she mocked, then her expression and accent changed. “Not as many barrels as the one used during the assassination attempt on Louis Philippe, but just as deadly.”
I held my ground.
“Uncle gave me this when boys began to think they could get to him through me. Just because I rarely use it and prefer a knife, doesn’t mean I won’t – if the need arises.” Point made, she lowered her weapon. “But to answer your question. You’ll let me go, not because of the gun, but because you’re a gentleman. You didn’t need to do what you did in Sikkim.”
I reeled.
Staggered.
Almost collapsed.
How? Where?
She closed the distance between us once more and caressed my cheek with her right hand. “You won’t see me again; until you realise you already know where I am.” Her laugh was gently mocking as was her next comment. “Never mind, dear sir. You’ll get there eventually.”
“You insult me, darling!”
“I don’t think so.” She tilted her head gently to one side and laughed. “Playing this little game’s put Ma behind schedule, so there’s a gang of girls in from tomorrow to do the spring clean while the Carringtons are away.”
She held up her hand, and I got the feeling that like everything to do with this woman, the gesture was yet another clue as to her identity.
“Don’t bother asking them who I am – they’re under orders not to tell you. And Uncle pays too well for Misses Templeman and Graves to forget what loyalty is.”
With that, she returned the gun to its resting place inside her shirt and held out her right hand, which I dutifully took and kissed. “Your scent?”
“Is brought to me from India,” she said in a low tone. I turned the hand over to confirm the tattoo was that of a cat. “Who are you?” I whispered.
The woman smiled sadly: “I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the sons – and yet ...”
“Viola?”
She shook her head. “Ah, you don’t get me that easy, my lord. There are plenty, however, who would call me Portia.”
“But what do you call yourself?” I pushed, intrigued to learn her answer. The girl smiled, removed her hand from mine and walked the short distance to my faintly disapproving cousin. CC took the proffered hand; holding it until, registering the tattoo, he dropped it as though stung.
“Correct, Sir Charles.” The formality was back, and I realised there was more to this exchange than either party were prepared to divulge.
So, pretending it passed me by, I continued blithely. “Well, who do you say you are?”
“Don John, my lord. Don John.”
I followed her down the hall and waited until she reached the outer door before speaking again.
Perhaps I hoped to catch her off balance; perhaps I hoped she would reconsider my request and join me. CC and Violet apart, it was a long time since I enjoyed the company of someone as intelligent, if not cleverer than myself.
Certainly, this time around, she bested me. And her refusal to give me her name, told me she needed proof I was worthy of her company – baggage!
I tried again: “Tell me sweetheart – the safe, how did you open it so easily?” I stared at her, willing her to put me and my scorpions out of our misery. But again, she laughed at me, pricking my pomposity. I covered my discomfort with: “So I can make Chubb aware, obviously, dearest girl.”
I suppose I should have known what her response would be, and I suppose I deserved the set down.
“Oh, they’re already apprised of that, my lord.” Her words oozed sarcasm. “Surely, you’re not arrogant enough to assume Chubb relies solely on you.” And on that bombshell, she closed the door behind her.
How long I stood there, I don’t know. The woman gave me much to think about, and I was loath to return to CC until I had, at least, processed some of it. Eventually though, I knew I must beard the lion in the den – so to speak – and take the scold for my cavalier behaviour. So, I made my way back into the study where CC waited. I picked up the already poured drink and downed it in one.
“You know what, old fruit, I think I’m being tested. And if I’m not mistaken, I’m found wanting. How lowering!”
CC stared at me through saddened eyes. “If I thought you’d listen ...” his words mumbled into silence.
“The young lady expected me to use her name, and clearly my failure to do so offended.” I paused and, more to myself than to CC, added: “I must do my homework more thoroughly in future.”
From Reports.
When CC came down to breakfast later that morning, he heard sounds of heated conversation coming from the kitchen. Tiptoeing along the corridor he positioned himself outside the kitchen door in such a way that he could make a quick escape should the need arise.
“She knew about Sikkim, William.” The earl’s tone was urgent and laced with anger. “There were only eight of us, there that night, and all sworn to secrecy. So how the hell?”
“One of the servants?” Sampson also sounded angry though more in control of his words which clipped their way into life.
“Impossible,” CC’s cousin hissed. “You gave them the night off yourself and checked they left the house. Unless this is your way of telling me, you got that wrong?”
“Of course not, Major. Apart from the eight of us, no one stayed in the house that night.”
Silence for a few minutes. CC wanted to move away. But they were talking about the night his cousin made the biggest mistake of his life and the temptation to stay and learn something important proved too tempting.
“Well we can eliminate Major General Bracken and Sir Simon,” the earl said. “They’re both dead. And you and I of course. Which leaves the lower ranks.” Byrd paused. “William, how the hell did a slip of a girl get any of them to divulge anything? I could swear that night what happened would die with them ... especially given what it could do to the honour of the regiment.”
There was no answer following such a pronouncement. CC, once their commanding officer, felt the pain as keenly as those he spied upon.
“If memory serves, the other four made sergeant before they retired. I’ll stop by the NCO’s club; find out who’s in town.” Sampson paused. “Might take some time, if you understand me, Major.”
“Take all the time you need, William. I want to get to the bottom of this.” A pause. “I don’t like the idea of our business being in the public domain. And when I catch the culprit ...”
“What will you do in the meantime?”
The sound of chairs moving sent CC scurrying back to the breakfast room.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
“I’m afraid, dearest cousin, I’m going to have to leave you – for a few days,” I said as I entered the room.
CC did not look up from his paper.
“I’m taking Sampson with me. Something that chit said last night’s got me thinking.” CC turned the page with deliberate precision. “If you’re listening, cousin, I’m going up to the Midlands to pay Chubbs a visit. Will you be able to cope in Kensington on your own?”
“I think so.” CC closed the paper, put it down next to his cup and poured some more coffee. “With Violet out of town with the boys, I shall probably spend some time at the station. Besides, you’re right ... the girl’s given us a lot to think about ... In my case, her statement about there being more relatives than Amy and Algernon.” CC made a great show of examining my face. “Is everything alright Symington? Have you been crying?”
“Don’t be silly CC!” I snapped, “Sampson’s cutting onions.” I paused on the lie, waiting for him to see through it and comment. When he didn’t, I continued. “I’ll be back Friday. Let’s reconvene then, and you can tell me what you
discovered?”
From Reports.
Scotland Yard.
CC slammed his hand onto the desk and glared at the man in front of him. “What do you mean: dead end?”
Sergeant Lamb, a tall man with a sprinkling of black hairs in an otherwise white head, looked at the chief inspector and smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry, sir. I did as you asked. I went back and interviewed Millicent Jones’ sister-in-law, meself. Didn’t want to leave it to one of the lads – well they might bungle it; ‘specially as you said to keep it discrete like.”
Lamb paused and ruffled the pages of his notebook. “I wrote everything down, sir, just to be on the safe side. Now, where’d I put ... ahh yes: Mrs Jones was horrified when I asked about the other family. Said there weren’t none. Just her and the children. All the rest of them are dead. Most adamant about that. Repeated it until I smelled a rat and changed the subject. I asked her where her husband was – the dead girl’s brother like – and she said being Wednesday, he would be in Leeds.”
“Leeds?”
“Yes, apparently, he’s a divvy-man. Collects premiums on the penny policies.”
CC didn’t have personal knowledge of such things, but he nodded wisely. “Which insurance company?”
“Liverpool Victoria.”
“Islington?”
Lamb nodded.
“Send someone round to confirm the sister-in-law’s claim. Then get Barker to check the census records. If the rest of the family are dead – as Amy is so desperate to make us believe – we should be able to discover their last resting place. If they’re not, then go back to Algernon’s missus and find out why she’s lying.”
“Very good, Sir Charles.” Lamb turned crisply on his heels and could be heard issuing orders as he passed through the outer office.
Sighing, as though weighed down with the worries of the world, CC stood up and went to the window which overlooked the station courtyard. He had no idea why he followed up the girl’s comment; or indeed why he took her views so seriously. She was, after all, an intruder and intruders were famed for their propensity to lie. But she bested his cousin and few people did that. Grandfather was one; the Prince of Wales another; as was Her Majesty.
Though, honestly, thinking back on those incidents and the events of last night, CC was no longer sure whether Byrd had been outwitted all those years ago. He simply let the heir to the throne, and his mother, think they’d bested the cleverest man in England. Because last night he really did finish a poor second, and at the hands of ...
Refusing to countenance the way his thoughts went, CC crushed the life out of them and, blowing his nose, he followed the journey of a single raindrop as it zigzagged its way down the window pane.
There were rumours – rumours Byrd could confirm if asked – that Her Majesty’s health declined rapidly. If true, a political scandal was the last thing needed at such a delicate time, which was why the Prime Minister insisted the matter be dealt with discretely and speedily. But rather than comply with such things, the earl was off following hunches about gem couriers and girls who broke into his apartment. Lines of inquiry that were bound to have consequences; especially if that tattoo meant what CC feared it did.
Jones’ death should have been an open-and-shut case. Eliminate the House of Commons link, then hand the matter back to the Brighton constabulary. Yet, it seemed this case wasn’t going to be that simple.
The telephone rang and he snapped an answer before slamming the receiver back into its holder. Grabbing his coat, CC wrenched open the door and strode into the outer office. “If anyone is interested, Lamb, I’ve been summoned to Downing Street.”
Sampson wasn’t looking forward to his visit to the NCOs club, on Paper Street. Truth be told, he never looked forward to it, which was sad as the club had one saving grace; it was a haven from the skirted classes. However, this benefit was wiped out by the knowledge he would end up drinking more than a man of sober habits should in the pursuit of truth.
Usually, Sampson tried to get out of it; feign illness, send Watkins. This time when the earl issued the order, the older man gave in without protest. The woman mentioned Sikkim which meant he was the only man for the job.
Resigning himself to his fate, Sampson squared his shoulders and rang the bell.
A man, who on first meeting gave the impression that he’d been old when Moses was a young man, opened the door and ushered Sampson out of the rain before greeting him like a long-lost friend.
“Mr Sampson, you appear well.”
They shook hands and Sampson took time to examine his former comrade.
Banks withered in the Indian sun whilst still a relatively young man, and found solace in the club when it became clear his loving family had no desire to deal with his injuries and nightmares.
For the most part, he acted as maître d’ and was a fount of stories and gossip. On bad days, he kept to his bed in the garret of the house, reliving that fatal day when an enemy bullet didn’t quite end him.
That he didn’t die during the Battle of Tofrek was testament to the surgeon; though some argued – when the night terrors and hallucinations came upon Banks – that the surgeon should have been less diligent.
“What brings you here?” Banks asked with a slight lisp, caused by the bullet that took away part of his face and tongue.
This was the easy bit. “Major’s heard a rumour that one of his men has fallen on hard times. You know him – wants to make sure the man’s alright, family taken care of, that kind of thing.”
Banks nodded. “A good man, the major ... Come with me.” Walking down the corridor to one of the rooms at the back, the conversation continued with, “We can talk in here ... be more private than the front parlour.”
Sampson nodded and entered a comfortable room. No feminine nick-nacks, no gewgaws of any kind. Just ashtrays, newspapers, and tankards. Sighing happily, Sampson waited for Banks to arrange his lanky frame in a leather chair before taking his own seat. He accepted a small beer from a hovering attendant and when it arrived sipped carefully; realising quickly that it was deceptively stronger than the taste suggested.
“Which man would it be?” Banks asked.
“Ahh now that’s the problem.” Sampson leant forward conspiratorially. “The major doesn’t know exactly.” That was the truth, at least. “He’s living in London, somewhere – possibly the East End.” Now for the lie. “It was the topic of conversation at one of his lordship’s clubs. Not a conversation the major was involved with you understand? One he overheard.”
Banks nodded wisely.
“And as the major said to me – if he inquired further it would arouse suspicion. As you are aware Mr Banks, the major likes to keep his philanthropic work a secret.”
“Indeed. So, what’d he learn in that overheard moment?”
“Corporal by eighty-six. Sergeant sometime after eighty-nine. Which means it’s got to be either Cripps, Jethro, Parker, Lawson or Dan. A long shot, you’ll agree but the major said he wouldn’t rest easy if he did nothing.”
“Ahh in that case, I’ll get the book and we’ll narrow it down.”
Banks raised his hand and the ever–hovering attendant approached quickly, nodded his understanding, and returned a few minutes later, large leather tome in hand.
“Mind you,” Banks continued, “they might not update this with their details. If they’re in difficulties ...”
“Yes, a proud regiment, full of proud men.”
Banks finished his beer and began his quest in earnest, turning the pages quickly. Sampson continued to sip slowly, and motioned the attendant to refill the maître d’s tankard.
“Put it on my slate. I’ll settle up on quarter day.”
“Very good Mr Sampson.”
Startled that the young man knew him when he could have sworn they’d never met, Sampson subjected the attendant to a hard stare. Then as the mists of time lifted, he smiled. “Edward! Good God! How old were you when I last saw you?”
“Eight, Mr Sampson.”
“Didn’t stay with the colours then?”
“Not likely! the lad exclaimed. “When Mum married again, I took me stepdad’s offer of passage home. I came here because I remember Dad talking about the club.”
“Still proficient at shining shoes, Ed?”
Edward smiled. “Yes, Mr Sampson. You stay here some time and leave them out and I’ll make sure they shine brighter than a May morning.”
“Will do.”
Lost in mixed memories of India, Sampson was glad he didn’t have to wait too long for Banks to find answers.
“You were wrong about it being Lawson and Dan,” the maître d’ said as his finger traced its way down one of the pages. “They’re still in India.” More pages turned. “And out of the other three, Parker’s inherited a small parcel of land in Northumberland and is raising sheep: so, it’s unlikely to be him. Which leaves Cripps and Jethro. Both live in London.” He smiled before returning to the book. “We’ve nothing on Cripps. Not been seen for at least two years but, according to the book, he’s working as a porter in a top hotel in the West End, so unless the drink’s got him ...”
Banks licked his finger and turned another page and another. “And I doubt Jethro’s your man. Rumour is, he’s got a cushy number as a minder to a couple of toffers. And of course, he runs a pub in the Limehouse Basin.” Banks grinned. “Always did land on his feet, that one.”
The maître d’ put the book down and without waiting to be told, Edward brought over a piece of paper. “Suppose you’ll be wanting both addresses?”
“Please. You know how the major is about his men. Won’t rest until he’s found out. Let’s hope rumour lied for a change.”
“Aye. Sikkim made a man of him. And a good man, whatever the scandal rags say.” Banks handed the paper over, downed his second beer and leaned forward. “Now tell me Mr Sampson, is Lady Serena as beautiful as the papers make out?”