A Cowardice of Crows

by S. E. Smith

  “No. Says it happened too fast. But he did confirm it happened just after he left the Port Club – a haunt for men who like men. I’ve Jethro and one of my men back out on to the streets to find out what they can.”

  “That’s kind of you, Mr Wachsmann.”

  “It is, isn’t it? It’ll do Jethro the world of good. He’s become soft working with the girls.”

  Sampson’s laugh was genuine. “I’ll inform the earl of that fact. Will you telephone again, when you have news, sir?”

  “Indeed.” Wachsmann terminated the conversation with a laugh of his own, leaving Sampson to stare at the telephone thoughtfully before heading for the drawing room.

  Leeds.

  LeFevre and Jethro stood at the bar of the Port Club and viewed the strippers with detached professionalism while they waited for a quiet moment to talk to the barman.

  “He showed me photos,” Saul offered after they’d explained that Watkins had a sore head and a bad temper, but was otherwise fine.

  “Of these men?” Wachsmann’s man asked as Jethro slid the two photographs across the bar. When the man nodded, Jethro took over the questioning. “Were any of them here last night?”

  “No. I told your mate that I hadn’t seen any of them for some time. Especially the bald guy.” A pause. “He’s not been around here since the end of September – might have been the early part of October. Was glad to see the back of the cauliflower-eared tosser, to be honest. And his mingin’ mate.” There was a further pause as Saul returned the photographs. “Mind you, thought I saw the snotty-nosed one in here last night. But if it was him, he left before your man got hit. As I said to Watkins, he’s not always here, but he’s the kind you don’t forget. Though now I think about it, he did say, he was going to be busy this weekend.”

  “Really?” Jethro went to pass the pictures back to Marcus when he stopped suddenly and gave a whistle. With a start, he turned one to Marcus. “If I didn’t know better, I’d ‘ave said that was Figg.”

  Marcus stared at the photo for a few seconds then pushed it back to him. “Looks nothing like ‘im.”

  The two men thanked the barman for his trouble and left the club.

  Hailing a taxi to take them back to Wachsmann’s shop, their banter continued. Jethro rummaged in his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll show you.” Finding it, he pulled out a photograph and stared at it carefully. “Got Sampson – the major’s valet – to take this with ‘is box brownie ... yeah. Thought I was right. ‘E took it the night we were all at the major’s. Kept it, bein’ it were a nice one of all of us army lads. That’s Figg in the background.”

  “Where?” Marcus stared blindly at the photograph, his eyes knotted in confusion.

  “Talking to Mr Gold. Are you blind, or summit?”

  “It’s you that’s gone blind pal. Stop dining alone and sample the on-tap refreshment of yours!”

  “They’re the same bloke.” Jethro insisted.

  “That ain’t Figg!”

  “I told you, He’s put weight since you last saw him.”

  “Jeth. I put him on the train to London. Like I put him on the train every time he goes south. Now I genuinely believe that trains do funny things to a man, for all people say they’re safe. But you can’t lose six stone just like that! And you can’t suddenly lose a head of hair.” Marcus stared at his opposite number.

  Jethro’s face was ashen. “Shit. The old man’s not going to like it.”

  “Sod Gold! What the hell’s Mr Wachsmann going to say?”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Sunday, 2nd December.

  The following morning dawned bright and sunny. The night before had been frustrating, as I told Emily as we dawdled over late breakfast. Fairbrass thwarted my attempts to search his study as he retired there once the party ended, and stayed until just before sunrise, when too many servants milled around to make it safe to snoop; the same for Lady Agatha. On leaving the ladies she’d gone to the library and buried her head in a book.

  “If this continues,” I told Emily between flirtations, “we’ll have to wangle another invite.”

  She wasn’t amused.

  Breakfast complete, we went, en masse, for a wander around the extensive and well-tended grounds.

  Cobarde followed our departure from the study window. Fairbrass protested and tried to coax his secretary out into the sunshine, but the man remained resolute in his refusal, a decision which impacted on the MP’s bonhomie for over half-hour of our amble.

  Emily directed me to the fact Agatha distanced herself from her husband’s attempts to cajole his lover, preferring to converse with the prime minister. But as it only confirmed her dislike of Cobarde, I felt we weren’t any further forward. Until Emily pointed out, Agatha’s failure to support her husband frustrated our attempts to sneak away from the main party and search the bally room.

  Finding myself walking with Lady Gwendolyn – Salisbury’s bluestocking–and–proud–of–it daughter, was as always a pleasure. Her mind was sharp, and her knowledge of current affairs second to none.

  “How have things been since your mother died, Gwennie?”

  The lady gave me a pained expression and waved airily. “Oh, you know Papa, Byrd. He’s putting on a brave face. Fortunately, his work keeps him sane.” Gwendolyn contemplated her father as he spoke to the crowd around him. “Don’t tell him I said so.” She grimaced. “Oh heck, he’s looking at me! Do something outrageous, Byrd.”

  I did. I kissed her cheek. Salisbury stroked his beard and frowned. Gwendolyn laughed and changed the subject. “Emily’s delightful. And not your usual empty-headed paramour. How d’you meet her?”

  By the time we were out of sight of the house and had taken our first break at a charming, albeit dormant rose bed, edged with privet, Gwendolyn knew all I was prepared to tell her about Emily. I sensed she was gearing up to delve further, and wondered what titbit of information I could give her, without it getting back to Serena that Emily captured my interest in a way my mistress couldn’t, when Salisbury saved me.

  “Gwennie, accompany Fairbrass for a moment, will you?” he boomed. “I wish to get to further my acquaintance with Miss Davies. You have monopolised Byrd’s attention too long. He needs new blood to flirt with, or he’ll grow cynical and useless to me.” Then turning to me he waved me away. “Go practise your voodoo on Lady Agatha, Symington!”

  From Reports.

  Fairbrass, doing his best to be a fount of knowledge about horticulture, took Lady Gwendolyn in the direction of the herb garden. Watching them go, Emily knew, whereas Sir Arthur did not, that the polite and interested expression came from years of practice. Lady Gwendolyn had no interest in the MP – or his plants – whatsoever.

  Byrd, striking up the ordered flirtation with Lady Agatha, headed in the opposite direction, where a large duck pond and some hidden nooks and crannies would let him ruffle and muss that lady – should the mood and the lady permit.

  For her part, Emily sat on the bench and tidied her skirts. While Salisbury, under the pretext of cleaning his glasses, waited for the parties go their separate ways before joining her.

  When he was sure they were alone, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed it and smiled. “Emily, my dear, you grow more beautiful by the year.” He paused and waited a few seconds before with the efficiency of one of the new Gatling guns rattled off a series of questions. “Now tell me, how close are you to solving the Jones girl’s murder? When do you go back to the Impereye? And more importantly, when do you and your uncle intend to leave my best consulting detective alone?”

  Emily's chuckle was infectious. “So, Uncle Robert, you’ve finally decided to remember who I am!”

  Salisbury’s smile widened and his beard creaked in response. “I judged it best, child. As soon as it became obvious Mordy omitted to tell Byrd who you are.” He stared deep into the young woman’s eyes and saw indecision reflected at him. “No. Don’t tell me. Your uncle has his reasons. I’ll leave it
be … for now. But he is going to have to know. One day.” Salisbury patted her hand in an absent and avuncular kind of way which did little to improve her happiness for all he tried. “What’s going on Emily?”

  “We have need of him, Uncle Robert.” Her voice caught and cracked.

  “As have I, my dear.”

  Emily turned her attention to the flower beds.

  “Byrd is vital to the smooth running of the empire.” Salisbury pressed his advantage carefully. “He may act the fool, but he has an uncanny knack of ferreting out the truth.”

  “He still doesn’t realise it was you who told me about Sikkim.” He heard the catch in her voice and knew Emily tried hard to hide her tears from him.

  Salisbury sighed. “A shame. I don’t like lying to him … any more than I have to. But Emily, dearest, are things so bad in the Impereye that you couldn’t come to me for help?”

  Emily blew her nose. “If you understand as much of Uncle’s affairs as you claim; you’ll appreciate that we need an heir so things don’t fall apart when Uncle dies.” Instead of folding her hankie neatly, Emily stuffed it into her purse, with a venom Salisbury decided had more to do with the fact he knew she cried, than distaste for the arrangement her uncle sought.

  “He’ll make a wonderful father.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Then taking off her gloves, Emily turned to face him. All trace of emotion gone – like it never existed – she was the image of her uncle at his most soulless.

  Cat tattoo to the fore, the Impereye apprentice faced the prime minister of the British Empire. Neither blinked.

  “Is a compromise acceptable?” she asked.

  Adopting his mask of office, Salisbury straightened his beard and his glasses.

  “Explain your idea– and let’s see.” He patted the bench but she refused his offer to sit.

  “Until the official period of mourning is over; we will not pursue him.”

  “You’ll walk out of his life?” The prime minister sounded surprised.

  Emily nodded.

  “But that could be at least another eighteen months, two years.”

  “We will walk out of his life.” Emily’s smile was broad like a Cheshire cat. “And for the sake of old times, Uncle Robert I’ll pretend the grandmother of Europe will live for forever.”

  “Your rudeness does you little credit, Emily.” The prime minister raised his voice at the start of that sentence only to lower it as he remembered there was a small chance they could be overheard.

  “My rudeness is the least of your worries.”

  Salisbury gave a moue of disgust and fell silent.

  Emily watched and waited and knew by the pulling of his beard the moment he made his decision.

  “Very well. You drive a hard bargain, Emily Davies. If Mordy decides he no longer needs you, I’ll be more than happy to find you a post with us!”

  Emily’s laugh carried across the gardens causing the peacocks to break into song. “I am no man’s mistress, Uncle Robert.” She said under cover of their raucous sound. “Personally, or professionally.”

  “I am glad to hear it, my dear.” Salisbury stood and held out his hand. “I don’t want you ending up like your mother … even if your father would countenance such a thing.” A thought struck him. “He’s not going to like you and Byrd becoming an item, you know.”

  “And you know my views on Daddy Dearest.”

  She walked towards the bench and glared at it for a few moments. “Can I ask why you’re here?” Emily said as she sat down next to the old man.

  The prime minister glanced around him, but the rest of the party were still a little way off, so he took her hand and made a great show of kissing it. “Fairbrass about to become chair of a prominent committee. Normally I’d leave such things to my nephew, Balfour, but I heard you and Byrd were in Leeds.”

  “And you wanted to see what I’d done with the information you gave me?”

  “And to see you.”

  Emily tilted her head. “Why don’t I quite believe you?” She lowered her voice so that the old man strained to hear. “He doesn’t know I know everything, and I hate to think what Mr Sampson will do when he finds out just how much I do know about that night.”

  Salisbury gave a tight little smile and pulled at his beard. “Leave Mr Sampson to me. Call it a favour for a favourite niece.”

  “Thank you.” She stood and offered her arm to Salisbury, who leaned heavily on her as he struggled to his feet.

  “This was much easier when you and I were younger. I could get up unassisted in those days.”

  Emily’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “Your face that day we first met. Priceless.”

  “Humiliating, more like.” He brushed at his coat, fixed his glasses once more and pointed to the far side of the garden. “The others will be back soon, Miss Davies,” he said – returning to the formality of their earlier encounters. “And I am told this is a garden worth seeing. Shall we meet them halfway?”

  “An acceptable compromise,” Emily said as she took his arm.

  Salisbury’s beard creaked as his laughter caused the peacocks to complain once more. “And while we are seeing the rest of its delights, you can tell me which one of our hosts you think killed your friend. And I can decide how best to limit the damage to my new administration.”

  Emily eyes danced with mischief. “And maybe, Uncle Robert, I can ask you to do me a second favour before I cease being your favourite niece and return to my role as your favourite detective’s floozy?”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  After our tour of the garden, we returned to the house to enjoy a light lunch. To Emily’s amusement and my frustration, Salisbury evicted Cobarde from Fairbrass' study and spent the afternoon in telephone discussions with London.

  Emily took up residence in the library with Gwendolyn, and the two women played chess, discussed politics and bemoaned the state of the empire. Lady Agatha retired with a headache and was joined a wee while later by her husband.

  Still sulking over his eviction, Cobarde went off into the village on his bicycle. Nanny, borrowing one from the stables, followed at a discrete distance; proving yet again I underestimated the old girl. In her day, she must have been … formidable.

  Sampson and I took the opportunity of this free time to pop into town; where we spent the afternoon in a small bedroom above Wachsmann’s shop with Watkins.

  On my return, I gave Emily the letter Gold palmed into my hand as we left. She read it silently, and before I could ask its content, screwed it up and threw it onto the fire. Watching the flames engulf it, Emily watched until every last bit was consumed by the conflagration. But if I had thought the burning of the paper would restore her good mood, I had another thing coming.

  Emily’s eyes were hard and unforgiving.

  “Well?”

  “Uncle’s found Oliver. He’s got a man watching him and won’t do anything until we’ve discovered which of the bastards in this house is his accomplice.”

  “Did he say how he found him?”

  Emily shook her head. “No. It was a lucky break. Serendipity”

  And before I could ask anything else, she stormed out into the garden, ostensibly to meet the returning Nanny.

  3am.

  I couldn’t sleep. Perhaps the cheeses we consumed with the port made me restless; or perhaps it was the dancing, taunting scorpions whose accusations – that there was more going on than this poor Horatio understood – stung my head and made me cranky.

  Possibly it was the fact that over dinner, Emily flirted with the prime minister, who not only changed the sitting plan in order to be next to her, but insisted on squiring her into the dining room – leaving me to escort Agatha: a breach in protocol that would have raised eyebrows in a more conventional gathering.

  And while I didn’t think there was anything serious going on – despite the fact there were times their heads were perhaps a little too close together and their laughter a lit
tle too loud – part of me worried that Gold would make something of the situation. Having a tame prime minister – like a tame detective, I realised suddenly – would be too splendid an opportunity to miss.

  Eventually, tired of tossing, and turning, and railing against the night, I went for a walk, confident that if anyone stopped me, they would assume I was off to visit my mistress. Unless of course – as my scorpions delighted in telling me – she already warmed the bed of a much older man.

  The house was in darkness. Except for the small torch-sized light coming from Fairbrass' study. Good girl!

  “Emily, do me a favour put the gun down. I’m coming in!” I whispered as I rattled the door handle.

  I heard a scuffle, and what could have been two male voices swearing, before the room went silent. For a few seconds, I wondered if I stumbled upon something else entirely. Still, I was committed to entering the room. And if it wasn’t Emily on the other side of the door, I would have to come up with some excuse for greeting my lover in such a strange way.

  But that was a bridge I would cross, should the need arise.

  The first thing I noticed as I entered the room was how cold it was. The second was the cause of that cold: French windows open, their curtains strangely trapped and folded in on themselves.

  “Emily, what the hell’s going on?” I hissed as I spied two pairs of stockinged feet, either of which were too big to be Emily’s, poking out from under the trapped curtains. Panicking for a moment, that I had barged in on a tryst between Cobarde and his employer, I decided to fall back on facetiousness.

  “Come out! Come out! Whoever you are!” I sang as I attempted to unwind the left curtain. “I promise to keep your secrets!”

  “I’m hurt by your accusation, Major.”

  “Sampson!” I exclaimed as my valet emerged from his hiding place, chemical kit in front of him like a shield. “What the hell brings you here?”

  “Ah, that would be my fault!” said the other curtain.