by S. E. Smith
I stood back, allowing Emily to take control. “I would like to see Joseph Wachsmann,” she stated firmly.
“I’m sorry, madam, Mr Wachsmann isn’t in the shop today.” He paused and finished his sentence with an insincere and well-practised smile. “Now, perhaps Mr. Paulson can help?” He was all condescension and when she wouldn’t move in the direction he indicated, the clerk tried to take her arm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t make myself clear.” Emily interrupted taking off her gloves and holding her arm ostensibly to block his path, so he could view the cat without her drawing attention to it. “I am Emily and I do not intend to do business with anyone other than my Uncle Joseph.”
A few moments later, the clerk rapped on a half glass door which bore the inscription: J. Wachsmann, Proprietor.
“I thought I said no disturbances.” A voice not dissimilar to Gold’s broke the silence.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The clerk threw us a told you so kind of look, “A person purporting to be your niece is here.”
The irritation from behind the door vanished. “Emily!” The voice rose slightly becoming full of bonhomie and cheer. “Come in my dear, come in!” A chair scraped and the door was flung open, revealing a man who was as different to Mordecai Gold as it was possible to be. Whereas Gold always reminded me of a raven, Joseph Wachsmann was rounded and sharp of face at the same time. He was also given to smiles that twinkled in his eye and were more genuine than I’d seen Gold use.
Emily was drawn into a huge embrace that did not stop him issuing orders. “Bryan, get the girls to organise refreshments. Emily, please come in, sit down. What brings you here? Bryan, why are you still here? Have you not heard a word I said? Emily child, you have grown.”
“Given I was twelve last time we saw each other, I should think so.” Emily allowed herself to be led to a comfy chair. “You would be worried Uncle wasn’t looking after me otherwise.”
She allowed Wachsmann to take her coat and hat and we both stared in amusement as – instead of putting them on the hall stand, where their simplicity of design contrasted his own topper and many caped coat – he laid them over the back of a chair to warm by the stove.
In the bustle of activity, I was forgotten.
Afternoon tea arrived in the form of savoury scones and sandwiches and a youngster stoked the fire higher still before escaping with a scone as a reward.
Emily was treated like visiting royalty as staff were brought in to be introduced to Wachsmann’s guest. Her ability to work the room was impressive. A kind word for people she met for the first time. A recollection of the last time she had been here – pertinent to those who claimed it was wonderful to see her and she had been away too long.
It seemed I worried in vain that Emily would not be accepted in this world; that her powerbase in Whitechapel was the result of her uncle’s authority. Such naivety.
Emily was no hanger-on.
She was – as Algernon laboured and I ignored – the apprentice.
Finally, the parade ended, and calmness settled upon us. Wachsmann raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting an introduction. But it seemed Emily was not ready to humour him, for she changed the subject and drew the conversation on to Joseph’s family.
“They’re all in splendid health. My Malachi will be sorry to have missed you. He is in Amsterdam, with Carmi. Business booms in that part of the Impereye.” He grinned and Emily smiled. “And you and Mordy missed Julia’s wedding.”
“Uncle rarely leaves Whitechapel,” Emily said between sips. “He’s becoming more of a recluse every year.”
Wachsmann nodded and gave me a long hard look. A look which I returned steadily.
More tea was poured and dutifully drank then, once everything was cleared away, I watched the smile fade from our host’s eyes.
Leaning forward, Wachsmann addressed Emily directly. “But of course, my dear, pleasing though it is to discuss my family; you did not come all the way to Leeds to update me on my brother’s health. No, my dearest child, you and Lord Byrd are here because of the cufflink.”
And like all worthy players, I entered stage left: “According to the chitty you sent Uncle, you took possession of a pair of cufflinks not one.”
“And we did,” Wachsmann confirmed without reacting to the fact I referred to Gold in the same casual manner as Emily. “And they remained in Bryan’s desk drawn in the front office until a robbery eighteen months ago.”
“Robbery?” Emily's eyes shadowed with concern.
“There was a spate of them all on one night – the butcher, baker ...”
“Local wig maker?” I might have been flippant.
The answer was not.
“And us.” Wachsmann stood and paced briskly, as though movement channelled his thoughts. “Silly little items were taken: each place trashed. Drawers emptied – things thrown around. Nothing of value, with the exception of the cufflinks, was taken from us – it was mainly clothing.”
He smiled grimly before taking up position in the middle of the room a move designed to ensure he could watch us both. “We put it down to children playing silly games. But then Mordy wrote of Millie’s death and your association with the earl. And I got to thinking. A dangerous pastime I know.”
He turned to his desk and retrieved a piece of paper, which he gave to me.
If I found the action odd, I didn’t say anything, just stared at Emily whose cornflower blue eyes smiled encouragement.
“Anyways, last week I ordered Bryan to collate a more comprehensive list.”
“You no longer think the break-ins were the work of an amateur, do you?” I asked handing the sheet to Emily without reading it.
Wachsmann nodded. “No. I don’t. Especially when you put everything together in one list.”
Emily scanned the sheet and handed it back to me. “Third from the bottom,” she said sharply touching her shoulder as though it hurt.
I glanced at it and the world went slightly dark around the edges.
“I’m right, aren’t I, Sym? The bullet Mohandas removed from my shoulder came from an American Civil War rifle.”
An hour later Emily, Wachsmann, and I walked the short distance to a laundry sat at the far end of the street. Mrs Collins a woman in her fifties, with water weathered hands and a water weathered face, opened the door onto a room full of borax and laundry blue.
“Tell them about the burglary,” Wachsmann ordered after apologising for the interruption.
Her bosom heaved in indignation. “Little tykes stole my best mangle, destroyed two dollies, tore open the wash bags and scattered them all around the place; they even threw borax around the room and danced in it. Took ages to clean it up.” Gathering from her rush of description, this wanton vandalism hurt more than the theft of the gun.
“And the rifle?” Emily asked.
“Hung above the fireplace. Pride of place.” Mrs Collins pointed to the mantle.
“Bit high up for children,” Emily muttered. I nodded and invited the laundress to continue.
“Before Mam and Dad married, he went out to America to make his fortune. Didn’t of course. Got caught up in their Civil War. Fought for the South. Not that he liked what they stood for – but he didn’t like that Lincoln either. Came back with a musket ball in his leg and the rifle as souvenirs.”
“Did it have bullets with it?”
Mrs Collins nodded. “Not that he ever used them. I believe there’s a full box.” She walked over to the tallboy, extracted a small deep box from the top draw and handed it over to Wachsmann.
“There’s two missing,” Joseph said as he handed the box to Emily.
“.45 calibre. Same as ...” Emily rubbed her shoulder.
“But why only take two bullets? Wachsmann mused, “Why not take the whole box?”
“Too old to fire,” I said with all the authority of a former military man. “You don’t want the barrel blowing up in your face.”
“Nasty.” Emily understood the direction of my t
houghts.
“Indeed. And what’s the easiest way to ensure you get the right bullet for the correct weapon?” I asked as Emily returned the box to Mrs Collins.
“Go with a couple of bullets, ask the munitions maker for the same calibre ...”
“And check them against the original, just to be on the safe side. Clever.” Wachsmann completed the statement for Emily.
“Makes it look like he’s topping up, so the munitions man won’t ask questions.” Emily smiled at Mrs Collins. “And you’ve no idea who’d want the rifle?”
“Not a clue, pet. It’s been here for the last twenty years or so, anyone could steal it any time they liked.”
Emily handed over a manila envelope full of photographs. “Ever seen these people hanging around?” she asked. Mrs Collins lifted the photos carefully and examined at them through scrunched up eyes. “The woman ... yes. Used to come to Mr Wachsmann’s shop three or four times a year. The men, no.” She gave the photos back to Emily. “Sorry I couldn’t help more.”
“No, that’s fine Mrs Collins. You’re a star. Thank you for your time.” Emily turned to the door, only to be stopped as I pulled another picture out of my coat pocket.
“What about his young man?” I asked carefully. “Take a good look.” Obediently, Mrs Collins did as she was asked.
“Well?”
Her eyes screwed in on themselves until I thought for a moment her answer would be negative. “Yes. I have. He was here a couple of days before the break-ins. Not that he could have anything to do with it!” she told us confidently.
“Why’s that?” Wachsmann asked.
“Only saw him the once. Never before. Never since.”
“But you remember him?” Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the scepticism out of my voice.
She nodded. “He was with that brown tongue job who insisted on shaking everybody’s hands even though we can’t vote.”
“Fairbrass? The MP?” Wachsmann leaned over and viewed at the photograph. “Good lord! You’re correct! That young man was hanging on his every word. And there was someone else with him. One of those people whose photograph you showed me. May I?” She looked at Emily who immediately handed the envelope back to her. Leafing carefully through the pictures – skipping back and forth until she found the one she wanted – we all watching intently. Eventually, she stopped, peered at it carefully and handed it over to Wachsmann who stared at it in silence before showing Emily and I the picture.
“Algernon,” Emily whispered so quietly, I nearly missed it.
“Are you sure?” Wachsmann asked the laundress.
Mrs Collins nodded and looked hopeful. “Has what I told you been useful?”
“Very,” I confirmed as I escorted Emily into the sunshine.
Just as we left, I heard, “Thank you for your help, Mrs Collins.” And the sound of a purse full of coins being handed over.
I imagined the laundress’s calloused hands closing around the bag before I heard her say, “Any time, Mr Wachsmann, you know that.”
Constable Barker’s Report.
Fournier Street, Thursday, 29th November.
All in all, I found it odd taking evidence to the address of a well-known criminal. But one thing Sergeant Lamb taught me is: it’s best not to ask too many questions, unless you’re putting them to a witness.
When the chief inspector told me I would need to wait for a reply, I held onto my tongue and allowed myself to be a bit concerned, but only once the chief inspector was out of sight and on his way to Mr Gold’s office at the top of the stairs.
Greeted by Gold’s man, Niall, who seemed as equally concerned as me, I jigged nervously in the passageway until he suggested we played cribbage to pass the time until I was sent for.
It was a pleasant half-hour interlude and a fair match, and I returned to Scotland Yard with a shilling of winnings in my pocket; a document and letter, which I was to give directly to Sergeant Lamb.
I then returned with the first of that night’s replies.
Honestly, I never thought to see either my boss or Mr Gold so relaxed in the other’s company. At some point, they’d removed their jackets and kicked off their shoes; and while they sat on opposite sides of the room, they worked as a team.
But it wasn’t this that did me head in. It was the way they were both so solicitous for my health. There’s Mr Gold asking if this time, I could take a cab back to Scotland Yard, while Sir Charles wanted to know if I had leave coming.
Of course, when I said yes, he told me to take it. Immediately. After I returned with a few more items, that was.
Following instructions, I handed yet another missive over to Lamb and gave him an account of the evening’s activities. Then as was becoming common practice that night, I waited some more. Eventually, my reading of the newspapers was interrupted by yet another package. Which of course I had to give to Sir Charles and Sir Charles only.
Judging by the shape and length of the parcel the sergeant gave me, I am confident to say I was carrying a map.
Did I know that it was a map of the Palace of Westminster? Of course not.
Did I know the two men intended to break into Sir Arthur Fairbrass’ office? No, I did not.
Did I take the leave as ordered?
Damn right I did.
From Reports. Friday, 30th November.
At a little past ten the following evening, CC signed a business associate: one Mr M.A. Gold, Jeweller, into the pages of the visitor’s register and began showing him around the Palace of Westminster. Had anyone overheard the pair, they were discussing security arrangements. Several well-known items, including the mace, apparently being transferred to Mr Gold’s jewellery establishment for repair and cleaning.
When they were out of sight, however, all pretence of business faded, and the two men walked purposefully and silently in the direction of Fairbrass’ office. As expected, it was locked.
“But I still don’t understand,” Gold said as he made quick work of the office lock. “What makes you think the torn-out pages of Millie’s diaries are behind this door? Why not destroy them?”
“Something your niece said when she phoned.” CC smiled. “During the tour of the constituency office she talked to one of the other secretaries, and he said that Fairbrass frequently instructed him to leave papers in this office as they would be safer here than in the bank of England.”
“Arrogant sod.”
“Your niece, my cousin, or the secretaries?”
“Indeed.” Gold smiled but soon returned to his previous train of thought. “Emily’s mind works like that. Always has done. There are times I wonder if she forgets anything.”
“You make it sound like a curse?” CC replied lightly. “I for one would like never to have to write things in a notebook or diary.”
Gold shook his head. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But what if you remembered everything? Not just useful information? What if you couldn’t stop yourself remembering the ugly things? The events that scar you? Destroy you? Make you question your existence?”
CC shivered. “Putting it like that, perhaps you’re, right.” He took out his ever-ready handkerchief, blew his nose and continued. “Now are you sure you can open the safe? I mean a door’s one thing. But Chubbs safes? Symington’s clever but even he has difficulties with some of their goods.”
Gold glared at the other man. “I may not be as proficient a safe-breaker as Emily or Byrd, or the people I’d normally employ for such things, but I assure you, I’ve locked myself out of my own safe often enough to find my way around the simple ones.”
Leaving CC to contemplate the nature of his remark and turn it over and over in his head, Gold took out a stethoscope, attached it to his ears, knelt down and started twirling the dial.
It seemed CC’s concern was valid as Gold swore gently under his breath. “Good job I’m no regular breaker and enterer, isn’t it!”
As CC gasped, the pawnbroker smiled indulgently at him. “Oh, don’t worry, Sir Charles
, I’m not going to say anything indiscrete; anything you may need to arrest me for!”
“Better not. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr Gold, could I ask you to hurry? I’d rather not spend more time in your company than needed.”
Gold’s smile grew. “I promise I won’t hold this night over your head. But please, at my age, don’t stop me finding some enjoyment in life. Ahh ... that’s it.” With a flourish, he opened the safe.
There, in the centre, under a wedge of money, sat a pile of papers; some typed, some handwritten. Gold pulled out the complete pile and set it on the nearby desk, before beginning the laborious process of going through the sheets carefully.
For a while, CC viewed him through narrowed eyes, and every so often the policeman could be heard to mutter, “I would have preferred a warrant.” But other than that, he remained silent. When a pile of papers – receipts and the like – neatly stapled in the corner came into sight, CC swooped and picked them up before the pawnbroker could react. “Well? Is it pertinent to the case?” Gold asked when CC looked up.
“You tell me. It’s the receipt for a cufflink. Pawned twelve years ago.”
CC handed the papers to Gold who, after a few moment’s perusal, sucked air through his teeth. “It does more than that. The receipts in this pile, they’re written by the same person.”
“So what? Emily said you had very loyal staff; few leave. Few join.”
“True, but the person who wrote these receipts is no longer employed by me – in any capacity.”
CC stared at him. “Go on.”
Gold didn’t answer for a minute. His eyes hardened. A look of pain flittered across his face before he could control it. “The man is lucky to be alive after what he did.” Gold said so calmly that for a second CC thought he’d misread the old man’s face. “I demand utter loyalty from my employees. And I get it. If I don’t – employment is terminated. Permanently. If you get my drift.”
“And what he did should have led to termination?”