A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  “I. Don’t. Believe. You.”

  Emily stood, crossed the distance between them and put her chest directly against the barrel of the gun. “I understand. This man only told me what I needed to know. No more. No less.”

  Tension mounted. The gun remained in situ. Neither side faltered. Neither seemed prepared to move first.

  “I’m not afraid of your uncle or the retribution of his Impereye.” Sampson informed her. “My concern is the earl.” Still training the gun on her, Sampson stepped back.

  “I understand.” Emily did the same. “I swear from this moment on, you have my honesty.”

  “See that you do. If I ever catch you in another lie, I will kill you.” Sampson pivoted sharply and left the room.

  The sound of knitting resumed. “Are you alright, child?” Nanny asked from her habitual corner. Emily smiled at her companion.

  “I like it when they forget I’m here. It makes them careless.” The old lady shifted her knitting to reveal a rather nice pearl-handled derringer and laughed.

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Walking into the Grand Theatre Leeds, Emily, resplendent in a pink and grey Callot Soeurs evening gown, was impressed. “How many does it sit?” she asked as she spun round to take in the splendour.

  “About two and a half thousand. They replaced the stage a couple of years ago. And, if the hype’s to be believed, it’s one of the safest theatres in the country; if not Europe.”

  “Impressive.” She lowered her voice and played with her hair in such a way that drew attention to her décolletage. “Have you spotted Fairbrass?”

  “Yes, my dear.” I leant closer. “He’s over on the far side, chatting to a man with a superb walrus moustache and a vile puce waistcoat. Shall we visit?”

  Emily’s eyes darted over to the opposite side of the bar and she shook her head. “The man he’s with ... I’ve seen him before.” Her head tilted in an effort to access the memory. “He went into Cardew’s office, shortly after the old goat left us. And as for going over? Are you dicked in the noggin, Sym?” she hissed in her appalling false–cockney. “If Fairbrass or Cobarde discover we’re here, we’ll lose the opportunity to catch them off guard.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. Not thinking.”

  “Yeah bosoms do that to you blokes!”

  Protesting my innocence, I stopped one of the ushers –a lad of some sixteen years with a still spotty complexion and a mop of curly hair.

  “Can I help you, sir?” He gave all his attention to Emily as he spoke. And the minx played her part to perfection, flashing the usher a slow, seductive smile that had him blushing to the roots of his hair and beyond.

  “Yes. Could you show us the way to our box, please?”

  Dragging his attention back to me, I gained the impression the lad envied me my good fortune. I wanted to tell him that if I was out of my depth, he stood no chance.

  “Of course, Mr ...?”

  “Byrd.” I handed over my card.

  He looked at it then back at an unrepentant Emily. “Oh, I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to be rude!”

  I took pity on him. “It’s alright, my companion has this effect on everyone!”

  I flashed a guinea and at the sight of it, his eyes widened.

  “But we could do with your discretion.” I tapped the side of my nose.

  The young lad nodded vigorously. “Of course. Come this way,” he said, taking us to a rather ostentatious and very private box.

  Left to our own devices for a few minutes, before returning with champagne and two glasses, we made a great show of settling into seats that may not have had the best view of the stage, but afforded us a phenomenal view of the audience. And while I kept up a nonsensical stream of patter for the benefit of the lurking theatre staff, Emily extracted a pair of silver opera glasses with an insect and floral design from her bag and began scanning the crowd.

  “Champagne, darling?”

  She took a sip; set the glass down carefully and resumed her perusal of the steadily filling auditorium. “Third box, our row opposite. Walrus moustache is on Fairbrass’s left. A lady, maybe fifteen-twenty years younger is on the right of the MP. I think – given she’s wearing a more respectable outfit than mine – she’s his wife. Cobarde’s just to the left of Fairbrass, doing his best to vanish into the background.”

  Accepting the opera glasses, I followed her directions, finding the box before sweeping my gaze across the whole auditorium. “The woman doesn’t seem very happy, does she?” I said when I finished my perusal.

  “Maybe because her husband isn’t paying her any attention.”

  I put the binoculars down and recharged our glasses. “Really? What makes you say that?” I asked carefully. “He’s taken great pains to make her comfortable. And it’s very obvious he’s hanging on her every word.”

  “Watch what happens when Fairbrass thinks no one is watching.”

  “You intrigue me.” I went for the opera glasses, but Emily stopped me. “No, he won’t do it again, well not yet anyway. The auditorium’s filling up and being a local person of note, he’ll expect to be the focus of attention.”

  “As always, you’re correct, my dear.” I kissed her hand, trailing kisses up her arm and onto her shoulder and neck. “I’ll wait until the play is underway.” I pulled away. “Now, do you think we’ve caused enough of a stir?”

  Emily leant in and brushed an imaginary hair from my face. “I should think so. And it’ll all be Lord Byrd and his mysterious companion in tomorrow’s papers” She giggled, , settled into her chair, and picking up the programme fanned herself with it until the auditorium lights flickered and the last few people took their seats.

  Fortunately for my sanity, Emily was so enthralled with the doings on stage that she didn’t realise I regarded her and not the play. My scorpions kept returning to Algernon’s conversation and that phrase chosen one. They didn’t like its implications. And for once we were in agreement. I didn’t like them either.

  Performance over, we waited for Fairbrass and his party to be long gone from the auditorium before we made our way to where Watkins waited with the Mercedes. A few enterprising paper chaps lurked outside but while they vied for a picture of Emily, none of them got anything more than a shaded side profile for their dedication. Once inside and en route to the hotel, Emily ceased enthusing about the performance. “Well? Did you see?” she asked.

  “Indeed. I understand your uncle’s amusement with CC’s assertion that the MP lives a blameless life. Now to find out whether Millie knew about the MP and his secretary.” I paused and for once listened to the lone scorpion that warned me not to look at Emily, lest she see I realised the pair of them led me by the nose to this piece of deduction.

  Another scorpion came forward with another of Gold’s misdirections from that night, so I leant forward and tapped Watkins on the shoulder. “I need you to go out and cruise the brothels. Fairbrass might visit them with Cobarde ... to hide in plain sight as the saying goes.”

  “Why me?” Watkins warmed to his theme. “Bleedin’ Imperialist dog! Getting others to do your dirty work.” He paused before adding dramatically: “Can’t you go?”

  I pretended to be outraged by the suggestion. “What! When I have Emily? Are you mad, Watkins?”

  “Must be, guv. I work for you.”

  Having exchanged our evening wear for more comfortable nightcap rail, I found myself watching my companion with a cynicism more fitting to my cousin than myself. Wearing a rather fetching peignoir of rose-coloured satin, edged with brown lace, Emily read her book, as though she’d always been a part of my life.

  It was a scene of domestic bliss. Nanny in the corner – knitting as usual. Sampson pottering around, tidying up; making himself useful. Only, since my conversation with Algernon, I now thoroughly empathised with CC and his suspicions. Despite his warnings to the contrary, Gold clearly wanted me to behave like the playboy of the popular press; seduce his niece and in so
doing give him the heir he blatantly told us his organisation needed.

  Yet instead of confronting Emily with that truth, I concerned myself with the matter that brought us to Leeds.

  “What do you mean blackmailing him too?” Emily asked as she sipped her previously forgotten brandy. “Was Millie blackmailing her brother?” she persisted.

  “He wouldn’t say,” I said counting to ten in an attempt to control my wayward scorpions.

  Emily put down her book. “It’d help if you told me everything.”

  “I did.” I refused to meet her eye.

  “No, you didn’t. You said, and I’m quoting word for word, that the two of you went down the pub and talked about the debt and the fact he didn’t like his sister. And then he told you something else; something you don’t want to share with me. And after that, you asked him if Millie was blackmailing him.”

  I put my glass down and pondered where to begin. “Emily, when someone dies does the Impereye wipe their debt?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yes. For small amounts, but not large loans.”

  “And how’d you expect people to pay you?”

  Her eyebrows folded over themselves and her shoulder showed her confusion. “What I mean is, would it be in the usual way? A bit each week with interest added?” I took a deep breath and ploughed on. “Or could it be worked off in kind?”

  She crushed the hem of the peignoir. “You mean does Uncle insist someone pay the debt off flat on their backs?”

  I nodded.

  Nanny’s knitting stopped.

  “No, he doesn’t,” she snapped. “And neither do I. It ain’t the way to do business.” She released her grip on the peignoir and made a great show of smoothing it out. “Where the hell d’you get that idea from.”

  “Algernon.”

  Her eyes became circles of astonishment. “Is he barking mad?”

  “Algernon saw the agreement Millie made with your uncle to pay off the family debt. Did you know their dad owed the Impereye one hundred pounds?”

  “What, you got rocks for brains, Sym? We wouldn’t let a debt grow that large. Not with anyone and not certainly not with Millie’s dad. He was appalling with money. More often than not we had to send the boys round to make sure he remembered to make his weekly payments. And we never leant him any more until he was clear of the previous debt.”

  Nanny’s knitting resumed. “Look, I don’t know what you saw, but even Oliver wouldn’t have let him borrow that much.” To my surprise, she looked at Sampson even though she addressed her words to me. “Ask me any questions about the business and I’ll answer truthfully. Remember I need you to find Millie’s killer.”

  “A top-up, Miss Davies?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I need a clear head for this.”

  To my surprise, however, Sampson ignored her and brought the bottle to where she sat. He bent in low: “Remember what I said earlier,” he told her as he poured.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck midnight. A solitary scorpion wondered at the exchange between Emily and Sampson. But I shooed it away; more concerned with the implications from sending the boys round. Emily made it sound so normal and mundane, but I doubted it was as gentle an activity as my companion made out.

  “Let us say – for the moment – we accept Millie told Algernon the truth about the debt and that you’ve told me the truth about the amount Uncle would lend a man like their father. That means someone was falsifying the accounts. But who? And more importantly why?”

  Nanny yawned and stretched.

  Sampson stopped pottering, picked up his notebook and went to sit in the other wing back chair.

  Emily stared at the old lady. “Bed, Nanny. I’ll follow later,” she said as the old lady yawned again. “I have business to discuss with the earl.”

  Nanny glared at me. “Mr Sampson will chaperone,” she said quietly. It was not a request. Smiling beatifically at my suddenly horrified valet, Nanny tapped her wool bag as she gathered together her knitting and other belongings. “Don’t be long. Mordy’s telephoning in the morning for a report on your doings.”

  At the door to their room, the old lady stopped and turned. Gone was the impression of feathers and fluff. Nanny was pure steel. “And I don’t want to tell him I had to come and get you. At your age that would be ... humiliating.”

  Emily – her face lined with an irritation I didn’t want to understand - kissed the old lady’s cheek and shooed her out of the room.

  “What happens when people come to you for a loan?” I asked once Emily returned to her seat.

  “We’re a pawnbroker, they bring us something with more value than they want to borrow and that guarantees our money. It’s then registered in the books, and the item stays in the pledging safe until the loan’s repaid and the person collects. If they default, we sell the pledge and get our money and interest back.”

  “Could their father have pledged something of that value?”

  “It’s possible,” Emily agreed. “But I doubt it. As I said we never let him borrow more than he, or more importantly his wife Gwen, could pay back.”

  Do you have a high turnover of staff?”

  She shook her head. “Why’d you ask?”

  I waved a hand. “Algernon said your predecessor wasn’t as scrupulous as you and your uncle and that he lost his job because of it. What did he do, Emily?”

  “He cheated Uncle and I caught him at it.”

  “What kind of cheating?”

  “Double accounting, pocketing the difference.”

  “And you sacked him.”

  “Yes.”

  At some point during our conversation, Sampson had rung for cocoa. When it arrived, he poured us each a cup and rather than retiring to his usual chair, sat on the one nearest to me.

  “Major, something’s been bugging me about your adventure with the bigamist brother,”

  “It has, Sergeant? I don’t see what.” I didn’t want this line of questioning and tried to make that clear through my bored tone and clipped sentences. But to be doubly sure, I closed my eyes.

  I didn’t get what I wanted.

  Sampson warmed to his theme. “I take it you went up to the house, knocked on the door and introduced yourself. Bit like we did with the sister?”

  “No. I was outside, leaning on a wall, watching the world go by. Having a smoke. Algernon came up and introduced himself to me.”

  “And did he tell you how he knew it was you?” Sampson asked. “I mean that disguise of yours was up to its usual standard. You do a passable Leeds accent, and your tobacco’s genuine gasper.”

  He stopped and subjected Emily to a hard stare. “Could Algernon have seen the earl before? In Whitechapel maybe?”

  “No. He doesn’t come into Whitechapel. And the type of insurance he sells isn’t going to be needed in Mayfair.” Emily’s reply was everything that was truthful.

  “Which begs the question: how’d he recognise you, Major?”

  And there we were, at the Rubicon waiting to cross. Knowing my cue, I took my part upon the stage: “There’s more to it than simple recognition, Sampson,” I said with heavy emphasis. “Algernon didn’t just recognise me. He acted like he knew more about my involvement in Emily’s organisation than I did.”

  Sampson picked up his pen, though he did nothing with it. Like me, he was too busy watching Emily.

  She stared out of the window, unwilling or unable to face me. Hardening my voice, I ploughed on with what was now an interrogation. “Emily, he greeted me with the title: The Chosen One!”

  “Oh.”

  A little word. Dropped like a pebble into an ocean for the consequences to ripple out.

  Sampson opened his mouth to ask what the phrase meant but I shut him out quickly with questions of my own. “Why was that? Was it because you knew exactly where Algernon was?” And is that because, unlike the rest of the family, he’s never stopped working for you?”

  “Correct. But not in the w
ay you think, Sym.”

  Wednesday, 28th November, 8:30am.

  The slammed telephone and the roar that followed could be heard from one side of Scotland Yard to the other. CID went silent. Men who already worked efficiently redoubled their efforts; others tiptoed past the closed office door, pretending not to notice the way the glass continued to rattle well after the explosion. Even those ‘helping with inquiries’ went silent – in case such anger came their way.

  Lamb didn’t bother to knock. “You called, Sir Charles?” Seeing the red mist in his boss’s eyes the older man shut the door, protecting the outside world from the oncoming storm.

  “I have just had that woman on the telephone,” CC growled. “She described someone she and my dear cousin want traced.” A pencil met its end – snapped into two equal pieces. “Millie’s brother-in-law – Oliver – wasn’t with his wife.” Another pencil went the way of the first. “I wrote the description down. Here, catch!” Said piece of paper flew across the desk.

  Lamb caught it before it skidded to the floor but knew better than to look at it. Not when his boss was mid-rant.

  “I am a chief inspector in Her Majesty’s police force. In a previous life, a colonel in the Indian Army. I may not be as shrewd as my cousin – after all, who is? But I command men, lead successful investigations; bring criminals to justice; keep our streets safe. It’s been a long time since I was anybody’s bagman. Especially bagman to the pawnbroker’s apprentice.”

  Lamb counted to twenty then: “I’ll give it to Barker to do. Where d’you want him to start?”

  CC swore.

  “Not sure that’s legal, sir.” Lamb muttered dryly, watching the beginnings of a smile curl the corners of his superior’s mouth. “When did the suspect leave Leeds, sir?”

  “September. Don’t have an exact date.”

  “Which puts him in the frame for both murders.” Lamb reminded his superior officer. “I wonder if he knew about the book and if he was in the book?”

  CC nodded. “My thoughts exactly. But if that woman’s to be believed the reason for his sacking was an open secret.” CC paused and stared at his thumb. “I asked her to tell me this open secret but she gave me some nonsense about double accounting!”