by S. E. Smith
“Victor tells me you have a tattoo.”
Lady Agatha’s eyes widened as Emily held out her wrist.
“Oh! What a pretty cat!”
Emily turned her head, in order to pretend she’d not see the way her hostess’ eyes tightened as she registered the two marks under the “cat’s” body. But her mind raced. There was something about Agatha Fairbrass that went beyond the frivolous adornment.
“You’re holding your shoulder strangely, Emily,” Agatha said as she looked up from the tattoo. “Have you been injured?”
A trilling laugh broke the awful silence that opened in front of Emily like a chasm during an earthquake. Out of habit, her hand slid towards the knife, always strapped to her thigh. But she stopped herself. Uncle refused to countenance such things whilst residing under a host’s roof. He took his xenia seriously, and made the Greek rule of hospitality the first lesson Emily learned.
“Did Victor get it wrong when he told me your scratches were rent marks?” Agatha’s hands covered her mouth as if to stifle ...
Excitement!
Emily relaxed.
This wasn’t a woman about to denounce her and Byrd as frauds and charlatans, this was a woman who delighted in trapping Corbarde in a lie. Interesting.
“He did. Didn’t he?” Agatha clapped her hands in delight. “Are they lifelines? Your tattoo’s a cat. Have you lost two lives, Emily?”
Deciding the woman was getting too close to the truth, Emily went on the offensive. “At least I’m honest, Agatha. I’m not living a lie. I’m a commodity – sold on the open market. That makes me better than you, don’t it?”
Open-mouthed and lost for words, her hostess allowed a whole gamete of emotions to cross her face. Anger, hurt, dismay.
Emily expected to be manhandled by the patrician-nosed butler – who was no doubt hovering outside the door, ready and willing to evict the tart at the ring of a bell.
Then suddenly, as though someone pressed a switch, those emotions vanished. Agatha relaxed. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “You’re correct, Emily! But an MP must have a wife – otherwise, tongues wag.”
“But surely you don’t like sharing your husband with ... Victor?”
“Au contraire, Emily,” Agatha trilled not even attempting to tell Emily her suppositions were wrong. “I would far rather my husband was with Victor, than put himself in danger by visiting telegraph boys on the streets of Leeds where anyone might learn his secret and ruin us with their tittle-tattle.”
When Emily didn’t answer, her hostess continued. “You’re so lucky. Lord Byrd’s wife resides abroad. But even if she didn’t, what you two do isn’t illegal. But if anyone outs my husband... his career’s over. Possibly worse. Look what happened to Mr Wilde.”
“But aren’t you lonely?” Emily stressed the last word in what she hoped was a knowing kind of way. It worked.
“Not in the slightest! I run the constituency office. I have my committees. People come to me with their problems while Arthur’s in London; and, for once in my life, I’m useful. Needed. I have no other skill.” There was a catch in her voice. Agatha smiled tremulously “Intimacy with a man has never been high on my priorities. I’m valued. Arthur’s my friend.”
At the time, Emily was so concerned with turning the conversation to the case, that she didn’t realise that her hostess did not include Cobarde in that statement of friendship. “Did Victor tell you an old school friend of ours was killed last month?”
Agatha shook her head, “No he didn’t. But I’m used to that. He’s tight-lipped about his past.” She paused. “It was the most Arthur and I could do to get him to talk about you.” Agatha’s hand went back to her mouth and her eyes took on a haunted expression.
“Your secret’s safe with me. For all his popularity, Victor’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” Emily confided lightly.
As lies went, it did its job. Agatha relaxed and continued with her tale. “Actually, it was Arthur who mentioned it. Brought it up that night after your lunch. Victor got angry with Arthur, It’s the nearest they’ve ever been to blows.”
“Yes. He always did have a bit of a temper.” Embellishing her lie still further, Emily said “Especially when protecting those he loves.”
Agatha nodded “Perhaps. It’s a great comfort to know Victor looks after my husband so well ...” her voice sounded doubtful despite her praise.
Emily sensed an opening and went for it. “You don’t seem convinced that he’s always got Sir Arthur’s back?”
Agatha hesitated. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked as she went to the door to check against prying eyes.
Emily crossed her heart and hoped to die.
“There was a row, tail end of September. Victor had only been with us a couple of months, four at the most and I suppose they were finding their feet.”
“What about?”
“Your friend. The one who died.” Agatha spoke in a rush, like the floodgates had opened and she couldn’t stop herself. “Millie wasn’t it? She turned up at the door, wouldn’t be turned away until she’d spoken. Threatened to cause a scandal if we didn’t pay up.”
“And how did your husband take that ultimatum?”
“Much to Victor’s disgust, he paid her to keep quiet.”
“How much?”
Agatha named a sum that staggered belief.
“To keep her quiet about Cobarde and him?!”
Agatha shook her head. “That’s what I thought at first but no she kept saying she was going to ruin Victor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. But apparently, she found out about a friendship my husband had when younger, with someone who lived in Leytonstone.”
“But how would that ruin Victor?” Emily tried to keep her voice light. The word Leytonstone brought forth dangerous memories and nightmares.
“I don’t know. But this Millie woman said it would and Arthur believed her.”
“Did ... did your husband say who the friend was?”
“Eventually, and only after Victor threatened to leave him.” Agatha paused. “Then after he told him ... I’ve never seen such a reaction. Up until then, I didn’t think men could faint. But Victor did. Clean away. When he came to and was himself again, he did leave. Took all of Arthur’s persuasive skills to get him to return.”
Emily tilted her head. It might have been a gesture of encouragement, or it might have been one that allowed her to watch the way Agatha’s fingers tore at her hankie, leaving it in shreds.
“When he came back, he was different.” Agatha said.
“How different? He seems exactly the same as I remember him.”
Agatha sighed. “Oh, not in terms of personality. No, it was the way he started controlling Arthur’s diary; insisting on accompanying him everywhere. Going down to London with him, that kind of thing. Like he didn’t want him out of his sight.”
“People in love do that,” Emily offered the platitude because Agatha seemed to need it.
“Perhaps.”
And for a while Emily allowed the conversation to return to this, and that. The weather, the guest list, the first course and so on. But sensing it was time to leave Agatha get ready for the rest of the festivities, she asked her last question.
“Agatha, do you remember the name of the friend?”
She smiled sunnily. “Mattherson.”
Emily understood why Victor Cobarde fainted. She was close to doing the same.
“Arthur and he were at school together,” Agatha said, blithely unaware of the effect of her statement on her guest. “Broke his back in a tragic accident.”
From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.
“Well done, my dear. Our first real piece of evidence!” I stared at my companions. Sampson permitted himself a small smile as he put down his pencil and closed his book.
I tried not to grin like a loon. “Did you say anything to Agatha?”
“You take me for a bleedin’ fool, guv�
�ner?” Emily snapped and I recoiled more at the violence of her response rather than the words used.
She seemed drained, not just from the euphoria of discovery but from the inside out. “Of course, I didn’t. But I thought, after everyone’s turned in for the night, we could have a bit of a butchers in the ole geezer’s study. See what else ‘e migh’ be ‘idin.”
She was doing it deliberately now. That awful cockney accent of hers. She wanted me to rib her, make light of the situation. Become her motley fool. I would rather have kissed her. But a man takes what he can.
“Emily Davies! There are times you are so common.”
“Aren’t I just!” she trilled and some of her normal urbanity returned.
“And what excuse are we going to have for this butcher of yours?”
The rest of her came back to me in the form of an arched eyebrow and that famous tilt to her head. “Oh la sir! Everyone’s going to be expecting us to be sneaking around for a rendezvous. Especially after they see the way you’re having trouble keeping your mitts off me tonight.”
“I am? Why is that my dearest love?”
“You ain’t seen the dress yet!”
Aperitifs in the drawing room; bubbles of conversation. Small talk for the main part as we anticipated the dinner gong. Emily held her own with the other ladies present, proving yet again she was at home in any environment.
Her earlier comments, about the scandalous nature of the dress, proved unfounded; my companion, contrary to her uncle’s prediction, wore a beautiful gold lace affair which, although low enough to show off the ancient silver-lined scars on her back, was not low enough to be the type normally associated with the scandalous residents of the demi-monde.
I was so wrapped up in watching Emily's natural charm as she worked the room that I completely failed to ensure an early introduction to the guest of honour. Such oversight wouldn't do. The prime minister was my boss after all, however much I pretended I was my own man. So, I girded my loins and directed my feet towards her court: a gaggle of women of varying ages, sizes and demeanours.
“Emily, darling girl, I’m sorry to drag you away, but there’s someone I need you to meet!” The ladies at my companion’s side gave way graciously enough, though I felt them watching us carefully; waiting for any sign of rudeness or scandal to liven up their staid and boring lives.
Stopping behind the now seventy-year-old man with piercing eyes, straight back and formidable beard, I waited until silence fell over his companions before making my move.
“My lord, may I present Emily Davies, the young lady who has taken pity on my lonely state and made me the happiest of men?”
Ever polite, Salisbury turned away from his host and extended his hand. “Miss Davies,” he said stiffly.
Emily returned the pressure of the handshake. “Mr Prime Minister, a pleasure.”
“It is usual to address a marquess by his title, Emily,” I told her in a gentle correcting tone.
Emily responding glare reduced me to the schoolroom. “Lord Salisbury’s earned the title I have used, Sym. Have you not?”
Instead of being insulted, Salisbury snorted his amusement. “Indeed, I have Miss Davies. I hope I’m not insulting you, but are you one of these Communists, the new century has been told to fear so much?”
“I believe I could be!” She smiled, “I’ve been told it is bad form to talk politics in mixed company – even though my uncle lacks such scruples. He believes there shouldn’t be any barriers to learning.”
“Intriguing.”
“Which is why I have degrees from the University of London in Philosophy and English.” She continued as if imparting this information was important.
Salisbury smiled indulgently. “Your uncle sounds the kind of man I should like to meet, Miss Davies.”
I nearly choked on my gin and tonic.
“I think you and he would have much to discuss,” she said brightly.
“Indeed.” Eyes brimming with amusement, Salisbury contemplated me over the top of Emily’s head for a few moments before reaching a momentous decision. “Byrd, go introduce your delightful companion to my bluestocking daughter; and let us hope they do not corrupt each other by discussing their education and their – no doubt – dim-witted tutors.”
“Sir.” I bowed
“Then you can come back and talk to me about your grandfather. I have not seen him in an age.”
And like that, dinner was ruined.
From Reports. Bell Street, Leeds.
Jethro was about to throw the towel in and go home. A stranger to the area, he knew few would give him the time of day, let alone help him find Watkins. But as Mr Gold asked it of him, as a personal favour, it was important he made the best of a bad job.
He’d been at his task long enough to realise that life in the backstreets of Leeds was no different to the rookeries of London. A few girls caught his eye. Pretty young things who – when cleaned up – could make a tidy living flat on their backs rather than up against a wall in a dark alley. He gave them his card; told them if they wanted fare to London to come to Wachsmann’s before the end of the week.
Some eyed him with distrust. But Wachsmann’s name was as powerful here as Gold’s in the East End and gave protection against casual violence. Which meant a few, if not more, would take him up on his offer.
Jethro stopped to talk to a couple of telegraph boys standing outside one of the clubs. Pretty faced lads with hard eyes, who soon realised all he wanted was information for his coin. They told him there was a hard-nosed southerner with soft hands – who’d been asking questions. But when he showed them the photograph, they’d been vague; unable to say for sure whether it was Watkins. Still, he paid them enough to make sure there was food in their bellies and a room in one of the dosshouses, for their troubles.
When footsteps approached from behind, Jethro tensed.
“Yo! Jethro, Mr Wachsmann said you might want some help.”
Out of the darkness, a hulk of a man appeared.
“Marcus! Marcus LeFevre! You old Walloon you! I thought you were in Ameri–kay.” Jethro exclaimed in delight as he recognised the stocky Belgian with the walrus moustache and bulbous nose. The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back, in the way old friends do.
“I was, but I couldn’t get on with those New Yorkers Emanuel Gold employs! Too Italian for my liking! So, I asked for a transfer. Returned beginning of the summer. And what with Figg off down South and seeming like a permanent fixture, Mr Wachsmann was pleased to have me back at his side, doing his leg work for him.” They started walking. “Didn’t expect to find you this far north. Didn’t think old man Gold liked leaving London, these days.” A pause and a smile.
“He doesn’t,” Jethro admitted. “But needs must when Miss Emily drives.”
LeFevre's eyes took on a hard edge and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Ah yes. Even in America, we danced to the apprentice’s tune. Rumour has it, she's formidable.” Realising he may have been indiscrete, the newcomer shoved a battle-scarred hand in front of his mouth and changed the subject. “Did you see the ring?”
“I did,” Jethro stated carefully. “And she is. Formidable. Oliver never had half her ability. He'd have only have run the London branch of the Impereye. Overall control would have gone somewhere else.”
LeFevre stopped mid-stride and glanced sideways at the Irishman, eyes wide and looking for gossip. “Does it mean what I think it does?” he asked his accent more Belgian than before.
Jethro shrugged his well-muscled shoulders. “Out the loop. You’d best ask the boss.”
“Which is why I thought Gold would’ve brought Figg with him. Lad knows this place reet well. It’s been years since you’ve been this way.”
“Old Figgy? Yer joshin’ me, surely?” Jethro laughed crudely. He’s got a sweet tooth and a tart up Camden way. ‘Sides, it’s nearly Christmas and he’ll get cold – even with the new meat on his bones.”
LeFevre’s eyebrows rose
at the statement. But before he could say anything, a fight spilt out of the nearby pub and onto the street, stopping the conversation dead while they waded into the fight, pulling the kicking and screaming women apart and holding on to them till the publican arrived to deliver a set down and a ban.
“Seeing that’s reminded me,” Le Fevre said as they watched the women stomp drunkenly down the street, “was a bit of a reet barny outside the Port Club last night. Furriner got bashed. Sally Army do-gooders found him. Took him to the General. Shall we see if he’s the jessie you’re looking for?”
Woodlands.
An hour into dinner, when talk upstairs turned to the Boxer Rebellion, the telephone in the hallway rang. Sampson, happily conversing with Fairbrass' valet, tried not to show any emotion when told a Mr Joseph Wachsmann wished to speak with him on a matter of some urgency. Yet, as he accompanied the footman to where the phone sat on a highly polished table, Sampson’s mind was full of damage limitation.
If Miss Emily and the major were correct, one or more of the Fairbrass household was involved in Millicent Jones’ death. If it were Fairbrass himself, they would need to be careful; if it was Lady Agatha, then Sampson knew any attempt to bring her to justice would meet with serious opposition from the staff. From what he could gather from the upper servants, they held Lady Agatha in high esteem, for she was a kind and generous mistress. Her husband, they tolerated even though he owned the place; while they feared Cobarde. Aware the footman listened intently, Sampson thanked the man for his patience in bringing him to the telephone and immediately switched from English to Hindi, arguing that if Emily and her uncle spoke the language; Wachsmann would too.
He was correct.
“Slow down, Mr Sampson,” Wachsmann’s telephone altered voice hummed with amusement. “It’s been years since I last spoke Hindi. Little call for it up here.”
Complying with the request, Sampson slowed down. “Has Watkins said who coshed him?”