by S. E. Smith
I grinned. “I am yours to command, my love.”
A further thirty minutes and some interminable corridors later, I saw an old man with ruthlessly combed white hair step out of an office. “Lord Cardew!” I whistled my delight. “Perfect.” I changed direction so quickly that I failed to notice Emily didn’t follow.
Not that I blamed her. Cardew wasn’t the kind of man I’d normally go out of my way to talk to as he was an old sparring partner of grandfather. There was also his questionable taste in the ladies.
To my knowledge he never married, preferring the company of a string of mistresses over the years. Each younger than the last, they never lasted long and they came out of the business, sad shells of their former selves.
Still needs must when the devil drives. “My God, Cardew! Thought you were dead, old bean!”
Cardew stopped in his tracks turned and – with a speed surprising in one so old and usually infirm – reached me in seconds. “Taking your seat?” he enquired, grinning like the Cheshire cat and shaking my hand vigorously as he spoke.
“Alas no. Of course, what I mean is, I’m delighted to say my grandfather continues to be in the rudest of health. No, I’m here on business ... for His Royal Highness.”
“About bloody time Bertie took his responsibilities seriously.” Cardew laughed at his own joke before turning his attention to Emily. “And this delightful young lady?”
“My reward for such diligence on His Royal Highness’ behalf.” I left the words hanging as a double entendre before introducing Emily, yet again, as my secretary.
Instantly her hand was taken. Pawed. Kissed, and kept.
“Really? You with a female secretary ... This is a day of firsts!” Cardew laughed again, before lowering his voice - as though Emily were not there. “Talented between the sheets, is she?”
“Sadly, Lord Cardew, Sym wants to keep me to himself. I am so sorry.” On the surface, Emily was all smiles and seduction, until she glanced down at the old man’s hand to the large signet ring he habitually wore. To my surprise, her eyes took on a fleeting expression of revulsion. Then she shivered and it was gone.
I tried to steer the conversation to other things, but before I could say anything, Emily reached into her bag with her free hand and extracted a pink trade card.
“If you would like to direct your request to the address on the back; I’m sure we can reach a suitable arrangement – for one of our girls.”
The old peer’s eyes widened, first with incredulity at the boldness of her reply, then with shock and finally with a wariness, as he read the card Emily gave him.
“I’m very sorry, Byrd. I was ... err ... out of order. It won’t happen again.” The man’s customary bonhomie and fluency vanished in a sea of stutters. But ... well ... I heard … Sir Charles was not exactly discrete when he spoke about your latest cher amie at the club.”
The stuttering intensified and a red hue engulfed the old man’s sallow features, giving me the impression he could expire at any moment. Then he rallied and slapped me on the back.
“Always thought your preoccupation with justice sat badly on the shoulders of a man of pleasure like yourself! Not that you’ll hear me bad-mouthing you. Not my place ... Not my place at all ... My congratulations on your choice of companion. And your choice of allies.”
Cardew edged away from us. “Now you’ll forgive me ... business to attend to, busy time of year November. Please Miss Davies. I meant no harm. You can rely on my discretion as I can yours, I hope? Byrd your servant.”
And with that he was gone.
Unwilling to follow his retreat, I looked at Emily.
Poise gone, she seemed smaller, younger and more helpless than any woman I’ve ever met; until she wiped her hands so viciously on the sides of her dress that I was reminded of Lady Macbeth after the murder of Duncan.
“Are you alright?” I whispered, holding out my hand in a gesture of support.
Emily took my arm and smiled tremulously. “Of course. Don’t mind me, Sym. It’s not your fault that he reminds me of a man I knew as a child.” Emily’s eyes were wild and full of an emotion I was at a loss to define. “No please, don’t ask.” She stopped and made an effort to pull herself together.
And to show I understood, even though I didn’t, I kissed her hand and took a few steps backwards, restoring the distance between us.
“You don’t think I overdid it with Cardew?” she asked once distance and time gave her mastery of her emotions.
“Oh, yes. For all Cardew’s protestations of discretion, it’ll be all round London within the day – if not earlier. But come there’s more to do before we meet Fairbrass.”
We didn’t speak. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too many questions and new things to think about. Cardew knew Gold – of that I was certain. He worked in the corridors of power. He liked young girls and Millie would have been young enough once. All this made him a suspect, but did it make him a murderer?
From my past dealings with the old rogue, I doubted it.
And yet, there was his effect on Emily. An effect I didn’t like one little bit.
My good mood and enjoyment of her company shattered; I knew I couldn’t put the moment off any longer.
Halting in front of an old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, I put my arm around her making it look to all intents and purposes like we were snatching an intimate moment. “Now, see here old thing,” I whispered, “before we visit Sir Arthur, there’s something I need to understand. And I’m sorry Emily, I don’t want to be fobbed off because I think it’s relevant to the investigation. How does Cardew know your uncle?”
Thinking about it afterwards, Emily relaxed too quickly. But at the time, I suppose I was pleased to see her look of utter devastation replaced by a more positive emotion and, of course, I didn’t know her, or her world, well enough to know how capable a dissembler she was.
“You won’t like it,” she said.
“Try me.”
She leaned in closer. “Many years ago, a friend of Cardew’s was in business with Uncle.” Emily’s eyes darkened in anger. “This man thought he was immune to Impereye justice. And that Uncle would somehow forgive him for what he did to me back in the workhouse because of that.”
“He was in error?”
Emily’s smile wasn’t pleasant. “Of course. When Uncle discovered he was the former chair of the Leytonstone Workhouse, he broke the traitor’s back.”
So lost was I in the contemplation of Emily’s matter of fact description of her uncle’s violent nature, that I didn’t notice the newcomer until he cleared his throat in one of those irritating gestures some people have.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I am Victor Cobarde,” the man said. “I’m afraid Sir Arthur’s running late. He sends his apologies and asked me to convey you to one of the members’ bars; but as you are not alone, my lord, perhaps The Stranger’s Bar would be more appropriate?”
I shook the man’s well-manicured hand. “But of course. That will be most acceptable,” I replied as we walked away from the Oliver Cromwell portrait.
I did my best to ignore the way the young man supplanted Emily from my side - forcing her to walk some paces behind like some unwanted servant - and tried to answer the secretary’s stream of banal conversation civilly.
There was something of the Uriah Heap about the man. An unctuous quality that stuck in my craw. But Emily was correct to describe him as handsome. Chiselled jaw, sculptured cheeks, he would appeal to women and men alike. But being less generous, I decided if he was not careful, Cobarde would run to fat. There were already signs of a portliness to his stance, and a hint of a second chin that could so easily become three.
When we reached the bar, rather than joining us, Emily went and sat at a separate table. It was a shrewd move designed to bring her to Cobarde’s attention without making it obvious. I coughed and, having halted the younger man’s never-ending flow of conversation, turned my attention to Emily.
; “Emily... Miss Davies... please, join us. I’m sure Mr Cobarde will not mind us breaking the rules a little. After all, you are my secretary.”
“If you insist, Sym.”
At the sound of her voice, Cobarde reacted. He did a double take, stepped back and looked horrified.
“Oh my God! Em! Is that you? ... I’m a fool! What can I say? I didn’t recognise you!”
He went to hug her; cue the heavy-handed employer.
“Emily, I am sure I made it a condition of my arrangement with your uncle that there were to be no other gentleman friends.”
Cobarde jumped as though scalded. “I assure you, I’m no gentleman friend, my lord. Emily … Miss Davies and I are acquaintances from childhood.” He stared at me – the hopeful puppy, seeking forgiveness.
I gave him what he wanted. “Good lord! It’s a small world, is it not?” A few seconds passed. “How d’you know each other?” I did my best to keep the tone disinterested.
“I worked with her for a while. But the life of a shop assistant ... wasn’t for me. I changed jobs; did a bit of this and that.”
I smiled to show I understood, and Emily nodded encouragingly, her expression suggesting that she was delighted to see him. She was a gifted actress, this midnight marauder of mine; with her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open, drinking in his explanation. Obviously, someone taught her how to read people and manipulate them into doing what she wanted.
“I’ve been working for Sir Arthur for about six months,” Cobarde continued in a confident tone. “Of course, he thinks I come from Wimbledon. I gave Aunt Tess’ address.” He laughed at Emily’s raised eyebrow. “Well, you know what it’s like: tell them you lived in Whitechapel and they think you’re Jack the bloody Ripper. Sorry for the language, my lord.”
I waved a hand and, reassured, the man continued. “You won’t rat on me, will you?” The puppy smile was back, rueful and cajoling.
Emily smiled and agreed that for old times’ sake, his secret was safe with her. The young man nodded. But I couldn’t help but notice that whilst Cobarde seemed relaxed, there were times when he would glance at Emily either in a semi-resentful way, or as if there was something he wanted to ask but didn’t dare. At least not whilst I was there. So: under the pretext of spying an old friend; I excused myself.
From Reports.
Emily watched Cobarde carefully; knowing he had questions to ask; knowing he wouldn't ask them until Byrd was well out of sight. And she was correct. As soon as the the earl turned the corner Cobarde leant forward. “Em, what are you doing as Earl Byrd's secretary? Is it some scam to fleece him?”
She went for bluntness, aware he wouldn't expect anything different from her. “It's no scam. I'm his mistress.”
His eyes became huge O's of horror. “You're bamming me!” He searched her face carefully; looking for the voracity of her words; looking crestfallen as she slowly shook her head.
“I only wish I were.” Emily smoothed the glove away from her wrist and revealed the tattoo.
On seeing it, Cobarde inhaled deeply. “Oh my God! When did Gold mark you like that? Last time I saw the tattoo ... it didn’t have that line underneath it. Oh God! He didn’t ... sell you ... did he?”
She cut across anything else with a sharp: “It’s fine. I knew from the day I left the workhouse that I was a commodity to be bought and sold. Besides, the earl’s kind to me.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
As Cobarde reached out to touch her, I decided it was time to return. Not that Emily could say more, even if she wanted to, because at that moment Fairbrass arrived, bursting with importance and full of apologies.
“You heard about Algernon’s sister, I suppose?” Emily and Cobarde were walking someway behind Fairbrass and myself. It was difficult to hear all they said, but I had been cursed with the ability to hear a second conversation whilst carrying on the first, and I used that skill now.
The young man – who did his best to talk of happier times and pleasant memories – sobered immediately. His eyes dimmed and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Indeed, a dreadful business. I read it in the papers. Suicide? She always was a flighty piece. Given to emotional outbursts as I recall. But sad none the less.”
“A dreadful business indeed,” Emily echoed. “But not suicide.”
Cobarde’s eyes and mouth widened in shock. “What makes you say that?”
Fortunately, our arrival at Fairbrass' office precluded any further conversation. I was beginning to realise there was a hole in the story Emily told Cobarde; and it was something we were going to have to sort out – fast.
I might not have had the pleasure of meeting her uncle, but from everything I heard about the man, there was no way he would sell an asset like Emily on a whim. Not unless the person he sold her to, could give him something equally valuable in return.
Trouble was, what the hell did I have that a man like Gold needed?
“The fifth of last month? Fairbrass boomed as he opened the door to his office, one somehow larger than I expected.
“According to my notes, yes.” Emily moved away from Cobarde to stand between the MP and myself.
The MP’s eyes widened at her action, then gallantly – he took her hand, bowed low and deposited a kiss on it. “I was in Essex,” he told me over the top of Emily's head. “A Gala Ball. Guest of honour in fact. First event Cobarde organised. Spent the night doing the pretty with the constituency wives. Though none of them as pretty as your secretary, Lord Byrd.”
Fairbrass didn’t wait for a reply to that, which was good, for I wanted to deck him one. Rather, like an out of control steam train, he continued with his explanation.
“My sister runs a committee – over Rochford way. It was her do. Cobarde helped with the guests. Keeping me away from some of the more sycophantic – if you get my drift. We didn’t leave until three or four the following morning.”
“You are the perfect brother,” Emily simpered.
I decided I wanted to throw up – though whether it was because of Emily’s acting, Cobarde’s failed attempt to look arch and disapproving, or because of Fairbrass' puffed out chest and smug expression – I really couldn’t decide. However, as physical assault really wasn’t the done thing, I steered the conversation to a different topic.
“It’s wonderful of you to accommodate me on such short notice, especially as you are so busy.”
I moved to claim Emily, taking her arm a little more possessively than I had the right to do. Fortunately, it created the desired effect. Recognising my action as that of a jealous protector, the MP let go of Emily’s hand as if scalded, and he tottered over to a two-seater to sit and ogle Emily without appearing to do so.
“Yes, indeed. Now, what brings you here, my lord?” Fairbrass asked, shuffling with discomfort as he wedged himself into the chair.
“A pleasant errand, I assure you.” I smiled and shifted forward to make the conversation more intimate. “His Royal Highness is hosting a small gathering next month. He would hold it a signal honour if you would join him. Give the event a little – gravitas.”
As Emily later put it; Fairbrass gave an amazing impression of a cat with cream; smug and insufferably self-important. Then manners took over. “I would be delighted to attend my lord. Please convey my thanks to the Prince.” He paused. “But surely, pleasant though it is to spend time with you, Lord Byrd, such an invite did not need to be conveyed by word of mouth.”
I chuckled and signalled to Emily, who dutifully opened her bag and rummaged inside.
“Oh, but it did.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice to a confidential level. “The guest list is – how shall I put it? Sensitive. On confirmation of your acceptance, His Royal Highness requested you sign a standard confidentiality clause.” A pause which gave time for Fairbrass' expression of incredulity – that someone should question his discretion – to turn thoughtful and full of understanding.
“As you will appreciate,” I continued, “there ar
e certain things none of us want the press to discover; especially when it is likely that … within the year ...”
“Then this invitation does not include Lady Fairbrass?” his mouth became a moue of false disappointment. “She will indeed be devastated.”
I shook my head ruefully. “Unfortunately, not on this occasion. This is a gentlemen only affair. A last huzzah if you like. It would probably be best to tell your wife you’re up on business … and leave it vague. The less you lie, the less you can be caught out.”
As Emily held out the papers, I allowed my hand to linger on hers for a little longer than was necessary before taking them from her.
“Thank you, Sir Arthur. Miss Davies, or one of the Prince’s staff will be in touch in due course.”
Immediately, Emily stood and moved to the door. Cobarde followed her, ostensibly to take one of my cards, but in reality, to issue a discrete invitation to tea later in the week.
“I’d love to” I heard Emily tell him. “But as I’m not a free agent, it’s all going to depend on Symington.”
By the time we reached the exit, it was raining.
Out of politeness, I offered Emily a lift, half expecting her to decline my company especially as she was still a little out of sorts from her encounter with Lord Cardew and her byplay with Cobarde. But to my surprise, she accepted my offer with alacrity. I found out why as soon as Watkins shut the door.
“There’s something not right with Fairbrass. He was too ... oh I don’t know.” She tipped her head on one side, as if to bring the words she was struggling for to the forefront of her mind.
“Too bluff? Too charming? Too ogling?” I supplied.
“Yes. Sort of, but there was more to it than that. Like I’ve met him before.” Emily hesitated. “It’ll come to me. Give it time.” She smiled. “Does the invitation, really exist?”