by S. E. Smith
Lamb stepped in to quell another outburst: “Revenge for a sacking’s a good reason to go after the pawnbroker. But it’d be bloody difficult to achieve. The old man never leaves Whitechapel. But it would account for the shots fired at Miss Davies. And family do kill each other.”
CC shook his head in agreement and began picking up his destroyed pencils. “Indeed.”
Lamb threw another morsel of comfort into the conversation. “The Prime Minister will be pleased to know it’s looking like a local matter, not a national one.”
CC threw the pieces in the nearest bin. “You’re right, Lamb. As much as it pains me to say so: we need to pursue this line of inquiry.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll get Barker to check the hotels near the railway station. And a couple of the local Camden lads can circulate Oliver’s description near Millie’s lodgings. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“I hope so.”
Lamb’s good mood vanished with those three words. His boss rarely used them and when he did, it spelt trouble. With growing trepidation, Lamb watched CC tidy his desk – neat precise piles, the pens arranged by height order in the pen tidy; the blotter squared exactly half an inch from the edge of the desk; the ruler replaced. There would be trouble before the day was out, and pity the person that made the mistake of speaking out of turn.
“Very well. That’s that sorted.” The chair scraped across the floor; CC stood and crossed the room. Lamb braced himself for the next outburst. It didn’t come.
Instead, CC picked up his hat and coat and headed for the door. “I could be some time,” he said with overly sweet politeness. “The pawnbroker lied to me during the conference. I was going to let it go, but in light of these orders from his apprentice and the other nugget that Algernon never stopped working for Gold, means I’ll be buggered if I’m going to let it lay.”
Hand on the doorknob, CC turned. “Make sure there’s some news on my desk when I return!”
“Of course, sir. Leave it with me.”
The door slammed.
Two hours later, after one of the better artists at Scotland Yard turned the description into picture form, PC Barker found himself outside yet another shabby–gentile lodging house within spitting distance of Camden Road Station.
So far, he’d drawn a blank. No one of Oliver’s description had been seen. It was like the man dropped off the face of the earth.
Stopping to blow upon his hands, in one of those futile gestures designed to show winter who was boss, Barker hummed and hawed about entering this establishment. It would have been easy to go back to the yard, admit defeat. No one would blame him.
Only Sergeant Lamb had impressed upon him the need for thoroughness before adding for good measure: “Laddie, you’ll be explaining to Sir Charles why you failed to do one simple little task.”
Barker might not have been with the force long but he’d learned several things. One: you didn’t ignore a warning from Lamb when it was preceded with the word Laddie. Two: CC was close to exploding. And three: Barker liked working with Lamb, CC and the earl. He learned a hell of a lot during that day in Camden and wasn’t going to lose out through a lack of thoroughness and dedication.
Newbie he might be but even he could see that the future of policing lay in the earl’s methodology.
Blowing on his hands for a second time, and ignoring the gorgeous smells coming from a nearby chestnut stall, Barker trudged his way up the four dirty steps and into a lobby that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned since the jubilee before the last jubilee.
The receptionist did not look much cleaner than his surroundings. Greasy and dirty, with bitten nails. “I’m searching for a bloke,” Barker said.
“Not that kind of establishment!” Greasy-Man said without glancing up.
“Police. Here on official business Mr?”
Startled the receptionist ran a grime-encrusted hand across his face. “Lansdale,” he said, eying Barker’s uniform with distrust.
“Mr Lansdale,” Barker used his policeman’s voice – one based on a combination of CC and Lamb, “take a gander at this and tell me: has this bloke ever stayed here?” Unwilling to make contact with the receptionist, Barker pushed the piece of paper over the desk. “Take your time.”
Lansdale looked at the drawing through squinty eyes that had flecks of sleep dust in their corners. “Nah, mate. Never seen him.”
Barker smiled. “Probably wise,” he said as he pocketed the picture. “Chief tells me he’s a nasty bit of work. One of them that’d do you just for speaking to me. Even if he suspects you spoke to me, he’d probably do to you what he did to someone else earlier this week.” Barker mimed the slitting of his throat and Lansdale paled beneath his grime. “But of course, you’ve nothing to fear, especially as you tell me you ain’t never seen him before.” Barker turned towards the exit and counted his steps.
Five. Six. Seven.
“Ere can I take a look at that picture again, mate?”
Barker smiled.
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Wednesday, 28th November.
“This arrangement of ours, how long’s it been going on?” I asked as we set out for the restaurant and our rendezvous with Fairbrass and Cobarde. “I mean before the shooting, we made it clear it was a business arrangement and Cobarde accepted that. But given the papers are full of me and my mystery women, a woman whose been living with me in Mayfair, he’s going to expect me to know things about you and Uncle that I just don’t know.”
Emily tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Your uncle’s favourite food; where you were born; what growing up with the pawnbroker was like? Those kind of things!” I smiled as her nose wrinkled and she shook her head. I pressed my advantage. “You know about Sikkim; you know more about me and mine than you’re letting on. It’s only fair to give me equally private things in exchange – just in case they’re needed.”
I hailed a passing taxi and made a great show of settling us both before I gave the cabbie directions.
To be honest, I half expected her to demure, change the subject but to my surprise as the cab wove its way through the Leeds boulevards, she suddenly said: “Cake, Uncle loves cake and I was born in a little village called Gosport. Mum didn’t have a protector after my dad ended their affair. Too busy with me, or so she said. And after my stepfather died, we were both too busy surviving.”
Not wanting to push because I could see her demons massing in her eyes, I changed the subject. “And when you went to live with your uncle? Was it always just you and him?”
She smiled. “For the most part. When you’re getting to the top of the greasy pole, you don’t do anything that makes you appear weak and he always used to say I was cowardice enough.”
Emily tapped her teeth. “Now what to tell you that Cobarde would also know.” More teeth tapping. Then her eyes lit up. “Of course! The visitors!”
“Visitors?”
“Every so often we’d have people come to stay. Couriers for the most part, who taught me enough of their lingo for me to carry out jobs when Uncle didn’t want to bother himself with them. And of course Doctor Kahn would stop over sometimes, to teach me the rudiments of medicine while Nanny was away. But that’s not intimate enough.”
She paused and looked at me, tilting her head this way and that as if making up her mind what little nugget to give in return for Sikkim.
Eventually, she settled for a single word. “Freud.”
“What?”
“Not what, whom? He’s a friend of a friend of Doctor Kahn and different to everybody else. And his visit stood out.”
“In what way?”
“Like you, Uncle doesn’t have people stay for more than a few days. It causes comment.”
“And how long did this Freud stay?”
“Three months!”
“You intrigue me, tell me more.”
“He was – is – a docent at Vienna General. Just a man passing through.”<
br />
“Really?” I made a note of the name. “What’s his specialism?”
“Neuropathology.”
Another raised eyebrow. “You intrigue me!” I said unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Why did Gold want you to learn about that?”
In a rare request for affection, she held out her hand. I took it and squeezed it gently. In much the same way I did when my nieces required reassurance.
Fournier Street, 1890.
“Give me the knife and tell Emil about the nightmares, bubbeleh?”
“No Uncle, I can’t. Don’t make me.”
They were in a little room at the top of the Fournier Street house. A cosy place and safe from prying eyes. Uncle did some of his most secret business from this office and, until Emil Freud arrived Emily never saw the inside of this room. And when he went, tonight if she had her way; she’d never set foot in it again.
“Bubbeleh, give the man a chance. He’s here to help!” Gold kept a wary distance, as he weighed up the chances of wresting the knife from her. She was angry, and an angry Emily was dangerous.
“Wot, by makin’ me remember about those bastards in the workhouse? By makin’ me relive the day Mum died? How’s that going to bloody well help?” She glared at the German who smiled benignly at her, while holding an ice-filled cloth to his rapidly bruising cheek.
“Emily, that first day, when you stood in my office, what did I tell you?” the pawnbroker asked.
“That you wanted my smarts; like the strange lady said you would.”
Gold turned to Freud. “Her imaginary friend. There wasn’t anyone on the steps that day, but Emily swears blind there was.”
“We’ll deal with that later. I’m intrigued to know what you said to her, Mordy.”
“I said I bought her for my pleasure and use.”
Emil smiled. The knife lowered. Gold moved closer. Close enough to touch it, wrest it from her.
“You also told me your interests didn’t lie in that direction!” she spat. “So how comes – now I’m fifteen and Millie and the others are turning tricks – he’s here, if you ain’t got something like that in mind?” The knife point danced in the direction of their guest. “Why’s a bloody psychiatrist here? Talking about love and transference; and bloody deviance, and emotions? You know I don’t want them things. They made Mum weak! I ain’t ever going to be weak!”
Gold took one more step. Then back again as the knife danced his way. “And they won’t make you weak, bubbeleh. I promise you. Understanding emotions, it’ll make you stronger. Able to do the one thing, I need you to do more than anything else in the world.”
She eyed him warily for a few moments, sizing him up. Watching as he stood there before her. Stood. Arms wide open. No sweet in sight.
Her shoulder’s drooped. The knife went to her side, its point downwards. “Tell me why?” The fight was out of her.
Gold sighed his relief and relaxed his guard. “Because it would please me for you to cooperate with Emil.”
“Why?” Little more than a sob of a word. He came in closer, within a fingertip of the now sideways blade.
He leaned in and whispered: “Because I want you to be the mother of my heir.”
And the knife slashed upwards.
1900.
“Has Uncle told you that you only underestimate me once?” she asked as she reached the end of her tale.
Thinking the question to be rhetorical, I didn’t answer.
“Well?” she prompted, “Has he?”
“Yes, when I thought he was the door-keep.” I made a great show of organising my bits and bobs, and checking the folds of my umbrella to hide my embarrassment at that schoolboy error.
She raised an eyebrow. “Good, because If Cobarde gets suspicious, tell him you know how Uncle lost his finger.”
From Reports.
Still angry from his telephone conversation with Emily Davies, CC hammered on the door of Niall’s house and tapped his foot on the step as he waited for it to open.
“Is your Dad in?” he asked, as a small face belonging to a girl of maybe eight years old appeared at the crack.
The door opened to the full and she peered up at him, craning her neck in a way that suggested that while she was used to tall people, CC was the tallest she’d seen.
“No, guv. He’s at work.” The little girl whistled her words through a gap in her front teeth.
“Thanks.” CC turned back the way he came.
“You know where it is, guv?” The little girl saw the chance for coin and didn't intend to lose it.
CC walked back to her. Kneeling, so he could look her right in the eye, he continued his conversation with the now pouting child. “Yes. I do. But thank you for your offer. I frequently visit your father’s workplace.”
“Oh.” Her face fell, but she tried again, tugging on his trouser leg as he stood. “If you’re sure?” The pout reminded CC of his own children and he was hard pressed to refrain from reacting. But little girls, in his experience, did not find the laughter of males amusing. In his world, it tended to lead to sulks and bruises in the shape of little fists. In this world – the fists might be harder and more accurate than those of his daughters.
“Yes. But you have been most helpful.” He stood up, rummaged in his pocket and retrieved a shilling. “Here.” Her pout changed into one of the biggest grins CC ever saw. It showed all her teeth – even the gaps.
“Wow, mister!” The shilling vanished into the depths of her skirts. “If you miss him at work, you want me to give him a message?”
“No. I intend to wait until he turns up.”
“Oh.” The little girl stared at him sharply. “If you think that’s best? Mr Gold don’t like people hanging around.”
“I know and I do. Good afternoon.” He tipped his brim and she bobbed an uneven curtsy.
“Take care mister.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Leeds, mid-afternoon.
“An excellent meal and really kind of you to allow our secretaries to join us.” I finished cutting my cigar and looked on in a besotted kind of way, as Emily lit it.
Fairbrass – full of bonhomie and port – smiled indulgently. “When Cobarde told me he and Emily were childhood friends, it seemed churlish not to include them both in our little lunch party. And having had more of a chance to talk to Emily this afternoon, it’s obvious, even to a blind man, why you broke with tradition and took on a secretary of the gentler sex.”
I smiled. “Yes, she is terribly efficient, and to be honest I wouldn’t be without her.” I took Emily’s hand and kissed it.
“Same here.” Fairbrass' hand brushed Cobarde’s in what appeared to be a very innocent gesture. “Now, would you like a tour of the constituency office while you are here? It’s only a few minutes away?”
“We would be delighted.”
From Reports. London, mid-afternoon.
Despite what he told the child, CC’s next visit was not to Niall’s place of business but in the opposite direction to the NCO club on Paper Street. Looking forward to a genuinely warm welcome from Banks and his team, CC left his driver in one of the pubs and walked briskly and happily to his destination. He could have left this visit to Lamb or young Barker, but CC told himself it did him the world of good to keep his hand in when it came to detection. Besides, the matter that consumed him was a personal obsession. Gold.
Identifying the pawnbroker’s retinue – as presented at his cousin’s flat – was easy enough. Akio and Kato were indeed sumo wrestlers, retired of course but still training regularly. Doctor Khan was another legitimate member of the pawnbroker’s entourage. His practice, though small, was well regarded; possibly because Khan kept his fees low.
Jethro, having served in the same regiment as he and his cousin, needed no investigation, which left Figg – clearly a civilian – and Niall. The latter was obviously ex-army, in the way he stood and the clipped nature of his speech when angered or accepting orders.
In addition to that, Sampson treated him as a fellow campaigner. Which indicated the two men knew each other – if only by sight – long before this case commenced. And there was only one place Sampson visited with anything resembling regularity: the NCO club on Paper Street.
A young lad with barely tamed hair and eyes as wide as saucers, led CC through the lobby to the room Banks used as his inner sanctum. They passed a couple of other men, who saluted through habit before continuing their conversations in lowered tones.
On being told to enter, the young lad opened the door and ushered CC into Banks’ office. “Good afternoon, Colonel. What brings you here?” Banks was on his feet in a manner that belied his injuries. “G&T or scotch, sir?”
Banks indicated the comfortable chairs by the fire and waited until CC sat before pouring the requested scotch.
“Sergeant Sampson was here a few weeks ago.” Banks opened the conversation as befitting his position of host. “Are you following the same line of inquiry?”
“Sort of.” CC paused and reviewed his campaign strategy. Finding it wanting, he opted for the direct no-nonsense approach, rather than the amble down memory lane until scotch and male camaraderie foxed his brain. “I’m really sorry to do this, Banks, but I need to find out about a former RSM. And I need to do so quickly.”
An hour or three later, well-fortified against the cold and wiser than a man should be, CC made his way back to where the driver waited.
“Well, sir? Where to now?” the man asked.
“Brick Lane. Frying Pan end. And make it quick. I’m getting fed up of this.”
From Reports. London, just before nightfall.
Whitechapel didn’t change much. It was still a strange mix of poverty, deprivation and hope. A few, poorer Huguenot families remained, clinging on to the remnants of their home from home. But in the main those who could, moved out years ago, to be replaced by others who added their own traditions, language and religions to the melting pot.