by S. E. Smith
Of course, being Whitechapel, the shadow of Jack loomed large, and while the girls went about their business as they always did, strangers were eyed with suspicion: especially well-dressed strangers like CC.
“You want me to take you closer to Fournier Street? I could stop outside the market?” his driver asked as CC told him to go down Brick Lane and stop outside the pub known to be the last place visited by Polly Nichols.
CC shook his head. “No. Thank you, Renard. I’ll go the last bit on foot.”
“It can be rough here.”
“I am aware of that. Lamb used to patrol these streets and is fond of telling me stories.” CC rummaged in his pocket and gave him a shilling. Against regulations; but it was cold, and the man had been patient. “Don’t worry, I suspect people have been told to leave me alone.”
Renard’s eyes widened as he pocketed the coin and considered CC’s words. “You must have friends in high places, sir.”
CC shrugged and gave a humourless laugh. “Or enemies who insist on keeping me close!”
With a nod of understanding, Renard grinned. “Cheers, sir. If I’m not in the car when you get back, I’ll be in there.” He indicted the pub. “Going to have a little nip against the cold, if you don’t mind.”
CC nodded, and with a brisk and determined stride, put The Frying Pan behind him and set off for Fournier Street.
A few people glared at him. A couple of girls asked him if he was looking for a good time. And he thanked them and declined, without breaking stride before turning left and making the long way to his destination.
As the clock struck the hour, CC stopped at the nondescript front door of the pawnbroker’s shop, counted to ten and knocked briskly.
“Evening, Niall,” he said with false bonhomie as the door opened almost immediately. “Anyone would think you were expecting me.” Pushing at the door, CC forced his way through and into the well-appointed, very neat office space that lay behind.
“Mr Gold ain’t here, Sir Charles.” Niall shut the door quickly and, arms flapping his agitation, followed CC. “You really shouldn’t be here. The boss won’t like it.”
The office was warm. Two fires – one each end of the room blazed brightly. In the middle of the room, in a cluster, stood four highly polished tables; and in the middle of the tables sat a pile of books, open at various pages. Elsewhere pens, rulers, and blotters showed that despite the lack of staff, this was a working office.
CC wandered over to the books. Laid out in columns – a load of numbers and words written in Yiddish? Or perhaps Arabic? But before he could identify the language, there was an oath as Niall rushed to close them and he was ushered away.
“I’m not interested in Gold’s double accounting, Niall.” CC moved over to the fire and, mind racing, made a great show of warming his hands.
Niall didn’t strike him as a linguist. But the way he’d rushed to close the books indicated a couple of things. Either they contained information Gold did not want the long arm of the law to discover, or Niall had been examining at things he shouldn’t. Strange, Niall didn’t strike CC as the reading type. But he learned early on that appearances could be deceiving.
“Mind you, I doubt your boss’ll mind ... what with my cousin and his niece being very close these days. Makes us family – almost.”
Niall had the decency to flush.
Without stopping for breath, CC continued, “And besides, you’re the person I want to see.”
“I am?” Niall’s gaze darted to the door, as if working out whether he’d be able to make a successful dash for it.
“Your eye. Tell me what happened?”
Niall’s colour deepened. “I walked into a door,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
CC gave a snort of derision.
“Honest, Sir Charles. Would I lie to you? What with you being Jethro’s commanding officer and all that.” He held out his hands in a gesture of innocence.
“You work for Gold. Lying is second nature, and while I’ll accept that being Jethro’s former CO might mean he’s got a vague loyalty to me, it doesn’t mean you do. We are not even from the same regiment. So, please, don’t insult me.” CC closed the gap until they were toe to toe, and lowered his voice until it was little more than a growl. “I stopped by the NCO club, sergeant.”
Niall tried to step out of the way, but CC’s arm slammed into his throat and pinned him against a wall.
“Very interesting conversation with Banks. Very interesting indeed. Now there’s a man who does understand loyalty: to Queen and country.” He paused and held the silence until the tension could be cut with a knife. “Niall? Did you tell Mr Gold you were dishonourably discharged?”
Niall shook his head furiously. “I took the wrap, so my best friend’s widow got her passage home and his pension.”
“Really, Sergeant? You don’t strike me as a philanthropist.” CC dropped his hand and walking away put as much distance between them as possible
“I swear, Sir Charles, it’s true. Her husband died – left her in a pickle. I just did what I could. Besides, there was a job waiting here when I got home.”
“And no doubt she was grateful – as only a widow can be?” The accompanying salacious grin made it obvious that CC understood exactly what form the woman’s gratitude took.
Niall reddened still further. “Very grateful, sir. But don’t tell the wife. It was a long time ago.”
Silence fell and CC was happy to let the sergeant feel he’d got off the hook. “You have an eye for the ladies, do you?”
“I’m as red-blooded as the next,” Niall replied warily. “No law against that, is there?”
“Depends ...”
“I’m no lothario, if that’s what you’re getting at. I only go where I’m wanted. And since my girl was born, I don’t do as much of it as some do.”
CC was all fake concern. “I would like to believe you, I really would ... But ... I can’t. How did you get the black eye, Niall? Did Gold give it you?”
Niall shook his head. “Told you, walked into a door! ‘sides, why would he? I followed the boss’s orders to the letter. Even when Figg asked if I’d swap as he’d never been to the Houses of Parliament, I said no. Boss asked me specific like. And I swear ... I didn’t let her or the earl out of my sight until they went inside. I sat outside the building the whole time. My cab was right behind theirs both there and back.”
CC changed his tactics. “Liar!” The gap was closed within seconds and before Niall could escape, a hand grasped his throat, choking the life out of him.
“Let me go, sir! Please, see sense! I might only have just returned to London – having been working in Europe for the family; but I’ve known Miss Emily since she was ten years old. I wouldn’t harm a hair on her head! None of the boys would! And I told you when I’m on duty, I don’t chase skirt.”
Niall tried to push the policeman’s hand away from his throat, but CC was having none of it. “As I said earlier, I went to see Banks. I wanted to learn about you.” He pushed Niall against the wall once more for good measure.
“Then you’ll know, I make a beer last all afternoon, I don’t get into fights or play cards. Indeed, apart from the ladies, the only vice I have these days is reading.”
“That’s what Banks said too. But, guess what, Niall? He said something else about you.”
“And what’s that, sir?” If Niall hoped the grip around his neck would lessen as the interrogation continued, he had another thing coming.
“That you’re a bloody good shot. Banks showed me your army record; and the letter Lord Lovett sent a year or so ago asking for your whereabouts, and authorising Banks to negotiate terms should you wish to join Lovett’s Scouts on their tour of South Africa.”
“What of it? Lovett got in touch with a lot of us.” Niall shrugged. “He probably sent similar letters to half the lads at the NCO club.”
“Which is what you would think ... But no ... Out of all the men registered with the club, you’re t
he only one he wanted.” CC paused to let that snippet of information sink in. “I asked Banks why that was. And can you guess what else he told me?”
Niall shook his head furiously.
“Lovett only wanted the best.” The smile grew nasty. The grip around Niall’s throat tightened until the veins throbbed and minder’s face went puce.
“Which begs a question, Niall.” And the tone changed; the false bonhomie was gone. “Given you’re such a proficient shot, and you claim you weren’t derelict in your duty; how come you got the black eye?” The words were spat through closed teeth. “Were you punished because the shot was supposed to go wide and just frighten the earl into going all chivalrous and protective and you nearly ruined Gold’s carefully worked out plan by half-killing the tart?”
“Sir! Please! I’m tellin’ ya. It’s not like that. The shot wasn’t planned. Well not by the boss, that is. And don’t ask me who did plan it. I don’t know!”
CC swore back. “You would say anything to protect him and that whore of his. They pay your bloody wages.”
Niall was beyond puce. His skin was mottling, his eyes bulging. Breath came in laboured gasps. “Sir Charles, please. I’m telling the truth! I would never harm Miss Em!”
“No. You ... are ... not telling the truth! You got it wrong and nearly killed her!”
“Oh, but he is telling the truth.” Gold’s voice – devoid of its usual laughter – came out of the darkness of the building.
CC’s hand dropped from Niall’s throat. He froze.
Niall backed over to the other side of the room; nursing his neck and coughing.
Both men ignored him.
“That bullet came as much as a shock to Niall as it did to you and me. And believe me, I interrogated him far longer and far harder than you,” the old man continued, “only to find he was telling the truth. Which is why I only broke his nose, blackened his eye and bruised a few ribs.” He counted Niall’s injuries off on his good hand as he stood in the doorway.
“Because, if he hadn’t been telling the truth, your men would have found his body in an alley. And that delightful little girl of his would be maidin’ for Jethro’s girls until she turned old enough to turn tricks herself.”
Slowly, stealthily, CC’s hand slid towards the gun hidden in his pocket, pulling it out and priming it before spinning round and squaring up to the old man.
“Liar!” he spat, “this shooting has your hallmark all over it.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Gold was calm; too calm. “But you have my word of honour. Neither Niall or I had anything to do with it.”
Gun at the ready CC advanced on the pawnbroker until the barrel of his was inches away from the man’s shirt. “A lone assassin. A single shot ... that misses all vital organs. Sends my cousin into such a panic that he brings a girl home and installs her in his own bedroom. Something he’s never done before! Oh, give me some credit, Gold. This is something you would plan.”
“Agreed. It was planned.” For the second time in their dealings with each other, there was no guile, bravado, or smug amusement in the old man’s body language or voice. Even his eyes were sober, sad even. “Carefully and meticulously and by somebody who knows me and how my organisation works. But. Not. By. Me.” Gold moved in even closer to the gun, until it butted up against his chest. “Now, are you going to kill me? Or are you going to put your weapon away and listen to reason?”
CC’s shoulders rose then sagged. He lowered the gun. “Talk.”
“My office, it’s through here; more comfortable.”
Without waiting to see if CC followed, Gold led the way through a door at the back of the room, then down a small corridor, which twisted this way and that before opening out onto a very male room indeed. It smelled of tobacco, whisky and old books. Childish drawings lined one wall – starting as stick people and developing over time into drawings of maturity and skill.
Gold saw the direction of his gaze and smiled. “Emily’s. Drink?”
“I only drink with friends,” CC snapped, his eyes narrowing as Gold poured him one nonetheless.
“I’m going to be truthful with you, Sir Charles and I am going to trust you to make the correct decision regarding the information I am about to impart. Will you hear me out?”
CC made a great show of consulting his watch. “I have no place better to be. Go on.” He snapped the case shut and glared.
Gold smiled grimly, took a sip of his drink and said: “Throughout Europe, forces are at work. Forces that threaten to undermine everything you and I stand for.”
“We don’t stand for the same thing.”
Gold laughed. “I disagree. Our methods of achieving that end are different, but you and I are more alike than you and that so-called cousin of yours.” Gold let the words sink in before confirming CC’s worst fears. “Oh yes, Sir Charles I make it my business to discover everything there is to know about my associates and my friends.”
“And what will you do with what you think you know?” CC’s hand went to his pocket. He fished out his handkerchief and put it to his nose.
“Nothing. It is not relevant. It will not bring empires to their knees.” He smiled as if at some private joke then sobered as CC blew his nose for a second time.
“The forces you and I fear, however, will do. Within twenty years, there will be a war in Europe – the like of which no one’s ever seen. Winners and losers will see their economies, their beliefs and values destroyed – overnight and forever.” His eyes took on a distant, almost prophet like quality. “And, in some cases, rulers will die – violently. The oncoming storm will make the French Revolution and its aftermath look like the temper tantrum of children. No one will be safe; whatever side of the criminal divide they call home.”
The old man took a further sip of whisky and continued. “However, in my world, the threat manifests itself early.”
“Explain.”
“Your reports on me are well-written and eloquent and you describe me well. I am indeed a spider at the centre of a very large web. A web that makes your British Empire small.”
He waited for CC to put his handkerchief away.
“Five years ago, my elder brother died in his sleep. His first two wives died in childbirth. His third marriage was luckier. Until they found my five-year-old nephew at the bottom of a flight of stairs, his neck broken. My sister-in-law never recovered from the shock of losing her child. And more importantly, never carried another child – male or female – to full-term.”
“Old men die, children are careless.”
“I agree. But my brother was the head of the Impereye. I merely ran the London branch. With my brother’s death, the Impereye became mine.” Gold took another sip and motioned CC to do the same.
Out of politeness, CC picked up the glass.
“And now my Emily is threatened,” Gold continued. “I investigated the matter thoroughly. Employed a man so used to subterfuge that no one suspected the questions came from me. My brother was poisoned.”
“Good God!”
“You can guess the rest. The fall didn’t kill my nephew. It was a fabrication to keep the Impereye safe.”
CC held the glass to his lips.
“When my brother died, Sir Charles, I inherited papers. Papers that proved his son was garrotted with a rumal.”
“Just like Millie and the landlord.”
Gold nodded. “Exactly. So now you know why I am certain that bullet was meant for Emily.” Gold paused and took another sip of whisky. “And I will tell you this, Sir Charles. If we do not find the man determined to destroy my empire, the war I talk about will come far sooner than it should.”
Neither spoke until the flames had died to a pleasing glow. With a sigh, CC emptied his glass, blew his nose and reached his decision.
“This is not easy, Mr Gold. And to be honest, it sticks in my craw to ask. But I need your help.”
Gold sat forward and smiled. “You intrigue me. Continue.”
C
losing his eyes, so he didn’t see triumph dance across the pawnbroker’s face, CC took a deep breath. “Symington wants me to break into the office of Sir Arthur Fairbrass’.”
“Surely it’s easier to get a warrant?”
Eyes still closed CC shook his head. “I’ll never get one. Symington reckons Millie’s killer’s hidden something there. He doesn’t know what, just that it’s there. Probably put there by Cobarde as a favour for a friend. After all, who’d look for evidence of murder in a politician’s office?”
“I still don’t understand why you need my help.”
CC contemplated his fingers before turning his attention to the old man whose bland face revealed nothing of interest. “I need your help Mr Gold because the office we need to break into is in the Palace of Westminster.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
Thursday, 29th November.
Compared to Gold’s place on Fournier Street, Wachsmann’s pawnshop was a flash affair. From the outside, the double-fronted bay displayed a variety of items from jewellery, to clothing and household items. Inside, booths gave clients privacy whilst they conducted their business and there was a steady toing and froing of people through the doors. Men, women, children; age and gender were no barrier to those who frequented this particular pawnbroker’s. However, while the men and children were confident, female customers tended to hide their identities behind veils.
Emily, of course, had no need for such modesty. From time to time she tutted as she surveyed the shop with a professional air, but otherwise, she remained silent, waiting until for a man with a sharply receding hairline to finish with his customer. He ignored Emily and I found myself wincing as arms slightly outstretched, the clerk approached and shook my hand.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked in a manner designed to show, he understood my rank and intended to be the soul of discretion.