A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

“Oh yes. But by the time I found out everything; the bastard had run to ground. It took time and money, but eventually, I tracked him to the hovel he called home. But when I found him, he was too pathetic and too broken to be a threat, so I stopped short of killing him. I left him, cowering in his own piss, screaming for mercy. And, I can assure you, he’s been nowhere near the Impereye – or any of its members in the intervening years.”

  “You’re talking about Oliver Pratt, aren’t you?”

  Gold nodded.

  “What did he do?”

  “It goes no further.” It was not a request. “You do not repeat this to anyone. Not your cousin; not my niece. Especially not Emily. She does not know I know.” Gold drew himself up to his full height, filling the room – the pure personification of evil. “You breathe one word. Ever. I will find you. And I will deal with you personally. And unlike Oliver, you will not survive my anger.”

  CC held out his hand. “You have my word.” And didn’t blink. Not even when the pawnbroker removed his pocket knife and made two small cuts – one on his all too scarred palm and one on CC’s. Then, after they had shaken hands and the blood had mixed, the pawnbroker uttered three words: “He raped her.”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd. Leeds.

  “Algernon, just one question, pet. How come you referred to his lordship as the chosen one?” Dressed in moleskin trousers, granddad shirt, a flat cap and threadbare jacket, Emily was every inch a youth in his late teens. If I’d not seen her dressed as such in our hotel room, where she warned me not to react to anything she might do; I’d have thought her to be the lad she portrayed. Even her voice dropped the necessary octave to be convincing, and she walked through the male-only domain without comment.

  Algernon, sitting quietly in a corner reading a paper, didn’t recognise Emily immediately, assuming she was part of my entourage until she greeted him. He paled and attempted to leave. But Sampson and I expected that, and with an efficiency which reminded me of our days in India, blocked the exit. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about?” Algernon blustered.

  From behind the cover of a pint pot, Emily’s hand covered his and captured his little finger. Her voice was low, barely above a whisper.

  “I was being sarcastic! Pissing in the wind to see what the reaction would be!” Algernon winced as the pressure increased. “Em. For the love of God! Let me be!”

  “Trouble is, I don’t believe you. You do everything deliberately. That’s why you’ve always stayed on good terms with Impereye. You knew that if you stayed in with Uncle and me after your brother-in-law lost his job, we’d look after you; keep your little secret. It’s why you offered to come up here. Not just because 169 miles – as the crow flies – is a good distance between families; but because you could do the odd job for us.”

  “Byrd, do something! You can’t let her do this to me!” he whimpered.

  The pressure on his finger increased. I heard the crack; watched as pain zigzagged down the divvy-man’s face. “Please ... you work for the police. What she’s doing breaks the law! Hurting an innocent member of the public.”

  “Who told you I work for the law? Same person that told you I’m the chosen one? And I’m assuming that’s a euphemism for having permission to be intimate with Emily.”

  “Didn’t think you were naive!” Algernon yelped as Emily released one finger only to capture another and begin twisting it with casual violence.

  A man in the corner raised his head from his pint; seemed like he was going to say something, then – as Algernon squealed – changed his mind.

  “You’re going off the point, Algernon. This is the last time, I ask nicely.” Emily jerked her head in the direction of Sampson. “He served with Jethro in India – taught him all he knew. Now, if you don’t tell me what I want to hear, I’ll let him at you. Who told you Sym’s the chosen one?”

  Sampson bared his teeth and Algernon shrank against his chair.

  “I’ll also tell Amy about Mary. She’ll take the news so well, being the last to find out and all. Nanny chatted with the ladies in the road. They said it was a difficult birth. You nearly lost Amy and the baby.” Emily’s head tilted she considered her next words carefully. “That would’ve buggered everything up, wouldn’t it? You couldn’t come up here so often. Or stayed so long.” A further tilt of the head. “Then what, Algie? Put the kids in the workhouse? Leave your children with Uncle and me while you cavorted up here in Leeds?”

  A final twist of the finger and Emily released him, watching impassively as Algernon rubbed his hand.

  “You broke my fingers, you bitch!” Algernon nearly said more, but with reactions quicker than I’d ever seen in another human being, Emily swooped. Before I could blink, she pushed her old friend’s face into the table. I heard his nose crack; and could only stare in amazement as Emily picked him up by the hair and, ignoring the blood, went to repeat the action.

  “Alright, alright!” he whimpered, “I tell you! It was Oliver Pratt. I met up with him in London shortly after Amy gave birth.”

  “So, is Algernon still lying, Miss Emily?” We were back in our hotel room. Room service brought up enough food for the four of us and Emily, Sampson and I sat comparing notes of the day’s activities.

  Emily’s fork paused mid-air. Like me, she had realised Sampson’s change of address indicated his attitude thawed. “No. I don’t. I think we finally got the truth out of him. And thank you for playing along with my ruse, Mr Sampson.”

  “A pleasure, miss. You were telling the truth, remember.”

  I raised an eyebrow – but received no answer to my question. “Mrs Collins identified Cobarde, as being in the area on the day of the break-ins,” I reminded them as a way of changing the subject.

  “But he’s been working in the constituency office for quite some time. You’d expect him to be with the MP during the election.” Emily took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Now both he and Algernon have a lot to protect. But Algernon’s still on the Impereye payroll – he’d lose far too much if he acted against us. And I don’t remember Cobarde being the kind to bear a grudge. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “he’d strangle Millie in a heartbeat if he was under immediate threat. But stuff a cufflink down her throat? No.”

  “Besides, that cufflink would implicate Fairbrass. You don’t implicate a lover. Bad form. Really bad form.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Major. You or Miss Emily would be clever enough to think of something like that. Maybe Cobarde is.” Swinging his knife like a pendulum Sampson stared at my companion. “Cobarde has an alibi for the night of both murders. For the first – he was in Essex with his employer. And for the second he was in Leeds. Each time, the newspaper reports confirm Fairbrass attended with his secretary. I don’t see how either of them could have done it.”

  “Which leaves us with Oliver,” Emily said and shivered.

  “But the problem is,” I said when said silence became too much, “No one fitting his description has been anywhere near Wachsmann’s, or your uncle’s place. And neither has Cobarde. Algernon said he met Oliver up Camden way, by accident. And by his admission, Oliver knew more than he did about our endeavours.” I took a deep breath. “Stands to reason, he had to get his information from someone up here.”

  Silence. Broken by:

  “Do any of your Uncle’s men have family in Leeds, miss?”

  “Not that I know. I suppose Figg might.” She thought for a moment. “No. No. He doesn’t, he’s an orphan. But if Oliver’s trying to find out stuff, he might have befriended Figg – buy him a pint or two. After all, Figg doesn’t know what Oliver looks like, only what he did.”

  We sat for a while, each lost in thoughts. Mine centred around the cauliflower-eared, scar ravaged Figg. I’d not come across many men with such pummelled flat faces. “Jake would know, if Figg visted his father,” I said suddenly, “after all he cuts a very distinctive figure.”

  Sampson headed towards the door. “D’you want
me to get Jake, Major?”

  I went to say yes but Emily raised her head from her own contemplations. “No. Let the boy get some rest. He won’t come off duty till midnight. He might think he’s the man of the house, but he’s only ten. He’ll be knackered.”

  My valet smiled in agreement, another indication of his thawing attitude. “In that case, I’ll get on to it tomorrow ... If that’s alright by you, Major,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Indeed. Pour one last round and then consider yourself off duty, William.”

  With our final drinks poured and Sampson’s feet ensconced in his favourite pair of slippers, we settled into a companionable silence. However, as the church bell struck midnight, Nanny gathered her knitting together and reminded Emily time and tide waited for no man.

  Laughing at the obvious reprimand, Emily drained the last of her brandy and stood up. “Well, in that case, until tomorrow, gentlemen. While Mr Simpson’s talking to the boy, I am going shopping.”

  “I’ll come with you!” I said clapping my hands delightedly; eager for the treat of sitting watching a lady try on new clothes.

  “Unfortunately, you’re going to be too busy!”

  Confusion writ large across my handsome face and I twitched my eyebrows at her. “I am? Why?”

  “You’re going to visit Uncle Joseph.”

  I raised a still twitching eyebrow, but instead of replying, Emily laughed and, ignoring Nanny who stared pointedly from their bedroom, she danced over to the side table. “This arrived earlier. I was waiting for you to notice it. But as you haven’t ... It’s from Lady Agatha Fairbrass!”

  She tossed the card at me and I caught it deftly.

  “Seems like she’s ‘avin a bit of a knees up an’ you an’ your tart’s been invited for the weekend!”

  “But why do I need to go to Uncle Joseph?”

  The laughter died immediately. Emily tapped her nose and stared over her shoulder at a scowling Nanny. “You’ll find out when you get there, darlin’.”

  From Reports. Friday, 30th November

  Sampson looked around the hotel kitchen and liked what he saw.

  It was busy. A well-choreographed machine and Jake, he was pleased to see, was in the middle of it. Up to his arms in soap and dishes, the boy had found his niche in life and was unaware of the stranger in the kingdom.

  “Monsieur Sampson! A pleasure!” A rotund Frenchman, who could only be described as a veritable windmill of arms and flour, rushed to greet the valet.

  “Alfonse!” A quick Gallic greeting, and Sampson was ushered into a little room with a huge wooden table piled high with copper pans and moulds. “How’s the boy doing?” Sampson asked the moment the door closed.

  The head chef beamed. “A real find, Monsieur Sampson. One of the hardest workers I ever had the pleasure of employing. Not that I would tell him.” He paused and smiled. “Please tell me you only want to talk to him? That the earl hasn’t decided to steal him from me”

  “You’re fine. His place is here. If he wants it, that is?”

  Alfonse clapped his delight and more flour went the way of the first. “I’ll send him up when he’s finished.”

  “Thank you ... but I was wondering ... could I join him at the sink? He’s not used to the earl’s world and upstairs might stun him into silence.”

  Alfonse’s arms and shoulders shrugged a why.

  Sampson returned the gesture. “He’s used to seeing me muck in.”

  Liking Sampson’s reasoning, Alfonse beamed and rushing to the door shouted into the heaving throng: “Carl!” Immediately a heavy set, ginger-haired man – came running to do Alfonse’s bidding. “Take Monsieur Sampson to the washing area. He’s here to learn for himself how our newest boy’s doing.”

  “Oui, Chef.”

  “And Carl, don’t let Monsieur Sampson stop the boy working. I’m not running a charity.”

  “Mais certainement.”

  In order to mask his amusement, Sampson stared at his hands. The man was no more French than he was. Still in a kitchen, like the army, the commanding officer’s likes, dislikes and mannerisms were king. And if a French accent was needed to survive ...

  Arriving at the sink, Sampson thanked his escort, took his coat off and rolled up his sleeves. “Hello, Jake. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad,” the boy said and, after a nervous glance at the clock, carried on with his work. Sampson took hold of a cloth.

  “When Miss Emily and I saw you last, you told us your mum took money to help you survive.”

  “That’s right.”

  “From your uncle Algernon?”

  The boy nodded. “Yep, Uncle Algernon would turn up every so often with money for her. Not much – a few pounds at a time. But we ate and the bills got paid.”

  “Did your dad get any correspondence?”

  The boy nodded. “Sometimes. Don’t know who from. Didn’t contain any money. Just empty sheets of paper. I snuck a look once.”

  “Any handwriting at all?”

  The boy cleaned a plate carefully and put it on the drainer. “Don’t think so,” he said after a few moments. “Always in a white envelope.”

  “Blank?”

  Another plate washed and positioned before he said anything. “No ... Not blank ... typed. London postmark. And I remember the ‘T’ was worn and wonky.” He stopped and stared at Sampson. “Sorry. I don’t remember anything else. Is it important?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. But if you do remember anything else, drop a note at reception.”

  “Ok, Mr Sampson.” A companionable silence fell as the pair got on with their task.

  “Where d’you think Algernon got the money from?”

  Again, Jake didn’t answer immediately and when he did, the boy spoke carefully. “Until I met Miss Emily, I used to think it came from Uncle Algernon. But it comes from her. Miss Emily’s kept Ma, the girls, and me in food and clothes.” The boy stopped mid-pot and stared at Sampson. “I’m right, Mr Sampson, aren’t I?”

  Nodding, Sampson put down the pot he was drying and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yes, but there won’t be any now, I wouldn’t think, except for birthdays and holidays. After all you’re earning now. Talking of earning, you and I had better get on with this washing up before Monsieur Alfonse has our guts for garters.”

  Jake sniggered. “He’s a rum ‘un, that’s for sure.”

  “Want some advice?”

  The boy sobered and gave Sampson an assessing look.

  “Monsieur Alfonse is a food artiste,” Sampson said solemnly. “You play your cards right, work hard and show aptitude; you won’t be washing up all your life.”

  The boy thought for a bit then he went back to work. “You’ve not seen me wrong yet, Mr Sampson. I’ll take your advice.”

  After a few more minutes of work, Sampson pulled out a photo: “You said your dad didn’t have visitors, but did he have drinking partner. Someone he met down the pub? Someone with a bald head or an accent, Irish or Scottish?”

  Jake washed a pot and put it on the side. “Nope. No one. People like that stand out, and Dad never wanted that.

  “What does your dad look like?”

  Another pot washed. “As opposite to me and me ma as you could get. The poorer we were, the fatter he got. Last time I saw him, he was a barrel of a man; the kind whose legs rub together at the calves, as well as the thighs, if you know what I mean?”

  “And his hair?”

  “Still as brown as it was when he first met Mum, so she says. Not a single grey hair, anywhere. If anything, browner and fuller.”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  This time when I walked into Wachsmann’s shop, I was the one treated like royalty; ushered into the private parlour with a speed that confirmed I was expected. A fire burned brightly in the grate and a decanter of brandy sat on the table by the fire, along with three glasses and a large walnut cake. I was impressed and a little bemused.

  From what I remembered from
the snatches of conversation at my flat, and yesterday’s repast, Joseph wasn’t into sweet things. But quite clearly a half-eaten slice of cake sat on a plate. Shown immediately to a seat that had its back to the room, I had no time to ask Joseph anything, other than to pass the usual pleasantries.

  “I take it Emily didn’t tell you why she sent you?” Wachsmann said tightly, as he ambled around the room. Tidying here, straightening there; giving me the sensation he was nervous. At our last meeting, Wachsmann gave the impression of a calm man; I found the change disconcerting to say the least, and opted for flippancy to lighten the mood.

  “Not really, I got my orders – so to speak – and abracadabra, here I am!” I paused and accepted the offered glass, sipping what turned out to be cognac rather than brandy with obvious pleasure. “I have a feeling she wanted me out of the way today.”

  “And why would that be, son? You know I don’t like her going off on her own. It’s too dangerous.”

  And just like that, Wachsmann’s nervousness made sense.

  Gold, wiping his hands on a towel, padded across the room to take the seat to the left of the fire. His hair was damp, and his cuffs were up at his elbows. On the surface, I’d never seen him so relaxed. But when you went for a closer examination of the old man’s body language, he too was tense. And that tenseness caused several scorpions to dance across my sanity.

  “What is Emily up to, son?” When there was no accompanying smile, I thought I was in trouble. But when Gold shuffled to the edge of the chair, it dawned on me, he was worried. Really worried. And desperate not to show it.

  “She’s gone shopping,” I said as an alternative to once upon a time.

  As I reached the end of my tale, I noticed Gold sat more comfortably in his chair. But his face still reflected unspoken concern.

  “She said Mr Wachsmann would be able to tell me why I’ve come here,” I concluded, feeling that, and they all lived happily ever after, would not go down well.

  “And you think she somehow had a premonition my brother would be here?” Joseph teased.