A Cowardice of Crows Read online

  From Reports. Downing Street, Sunday, December 23rd.

  Sir Arthur and Lady Fairbrass were shown into the prime minister’s study by a po-faced secretary, who didn't bother to introduce them; just ushered them through the door and shut it quietly behind him.

  “Wait there, Fairbrass. I want to talk to your wife.”

  Startled by the prime minister's unaccustomed fierceness, the MP stopped in his tracks; forcing Agatha to continue unescorted, until she was rescued by CC, who took her arm and led her to the leather settee, where Salisbury waited stone-faced, his back to the fire.

  “Thank you for coming,” CC said.

  “Arthur’s my husband,” she told him in a low tone.

  “I understand.”

  And Agatha realised, CC probably did realise the inescapable nature of marriage vows.

  When she was seated, Lord Salisbury spoke quietly, his voice not carrying to where Fairbrass waited. “I’ve asked CC to be here, in his capacity as adviser to Sir Charles Ritchie.”

  Agatha gasped though whether it was at the mention of the home secretary or at the fact Salisbury had taken her hand and was patting it gently, CC was never sure.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about this matter,” the prime minister continued. “I considered demanding your husband’s resignation.”

  Agatha inhaled sharply.

  “However, having spoken to leading people in his constituency and to the whips, I don’t think this would be wise.” Fairbrass twisted on his feet and looked like he was about to say something.

  Salisbury stared at him. “Your private life is none of my concern – however illegal your preferences may be.” He stared at the MP and releasing Agatha's hand, pulled at his beard as he contemplated his next words and their impact. “None of us are positively pure. But normally what happens behind closed doors stays there. It’s not paraded across the pages of the tattle-sheets, and it certainly will not be hauled through the courts. We had enough of that with that writer chappie – Wilde.”

  “I say!”

  The prime minister silenced Fairbrass with a sharp look “This isn’t about you. It’s about the future of the Party and the stability of the empire. Trust me, if I had my way, you’d be dead in a gutter.”

  Struggling for breath and sound, like a fish out of water, Fairbrass subsided.

  “Console yourself with the fact Cobarde will not stand trial for his part in Millie Jones' death. However, he will not return to Leeds. His employment terminates immediately.” Salisbury tapped a document that sat beside him. “Not only that, but your relationship ends. You’ll not travel to London, or anywhere, to visit him. You will become a celibate and doting husband. If you don’t, I’ll pass what I’ve learned to Gold.”

  “What's that?”

  “The fact your lover pulled the trigger on his niece.”

  “I say! That’s not fair. I did not ...”

  “Silence,” the prime minister growled. “This isn’t for your benefit, it's for your wife’s. She is a considerable asset to this country.” Salisbury turned towards Agatha and smiled softly. “If you were to divorce you would lose everything, my dear. The world will blame you. Unfair. But ...”

  “I know!” she stated bitterly. “A woman’s lot...” Agatha glared at her husband and forced her breathing to steady.

  Salisbury nodded and waited a few moments before holding out his olive branch. “Give it time for the dust to settle, and a damehood will be yours. With it will come a small income from the Crown. Enough to give you independence and security.”

  Agatha gasped, once more, but Salisbury held up his hand to silence her thanks.

  “It’s a shame you were born too soon,” the prime minister continued. “If the century were older, I would have given you the chair of the select committee.”

  He held up his hand as Fairbrass attempted to interrupt. “Enough. All documentation will go to Agatha. You will be her mouthpiece. She will report to me ... or my successor.” Salisbury smiled. “At the next election, you will stand down, and you, Lady Agatha, will go into local politics in your own right. I see you ending your days as a mayoress at the very least.”

  “Here I say!” Fairbrass could hold his temper no longer at the perceived injustice of replacing him with the slip of a wife he'd married to save face. He took a step forward, only to find his way barred.

  “Prison is cold this time of year,” CC snapped. “You covered up, gave your lover an alibi. Not once but twice.”

  “Calm yourself, CC,” the prime minister stated mildly. “Sir Arthur’s a fool but like all politicians, he has a remarkable ability to preserve his own skin. He wants Gold to forget he ever existed.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Ignoring CC, Salisbury turned his attention to the woman beside him. “Does this solution seem reasonable?”

  She returned his regard steadily: “It does. Thank you.” She stood, and without looking at her husband walked to the office door. “Come, Arthur,” she said as she opened it, “we've taken up enough of the prime minister’s time.”

  When the last of their footsteps faded into the distance, CC turned to the prime minister. “Melville of MO3 won’t like this. He didn’t hand over what his men discovered about Cobarde’s involvement in the girl's shooting for you to let him go.”

  If he expected contrition, CC didn't get it. Instead, the prime minister pulled at his beard and became belligerent. “And more fool the secret service to expect me to do their dirty work.” Suddenly his eyes lost their anger. They sparkled with the same level of amusement CC saw in Gold's eyes.

  To protect his nerves, CC took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  Ignoring CC's actions, Salisbury clapped in delight. “Is Emily still with your cousin?”

  “Until the outcome of today, at least.”

  “Excellent. You will of course, inform them of my decision. Tell her uncle two favours are enough. And if you can let slip that Oliver escaped from Pentonville last night …?”

  The penny dropped. “Gold will hunt them down and murder them himself.” CC snorted.

  Salisbury shouted his laughter to the ceiling. “I do hope so, CC. I do hope so.”

  From the Casebook of Symington, Earl Byrd.

  Mayfair, Sunday, 23rd December, a little after lunch.

  “He’s not doing anything about Cobarde. Something about two favours being enough,” CC extemporised as he poured himself a drink, moments after letting himself into my apartment. “Oh, and I think they let the other one escape. Bloody difficult to get out of Pentonville without help!”

  “Why?” The question escaped before I could call it back.

  “With Her Majesty’s health failing, and the war so unpopular, another sex scandal involving a key figure could cause the empire even greater instability. I’ve just come from a meeting with the prime minister. He’s told Sir Arthur never to see the man again, or lose his committee.”

  I chanced a glance at Emily. Her eyes flashed fire, and I got the distinct impression from the way she tightened her lips and tilted her head that she was about to lose her temper.

  “I understand.” Gold rose to face us all. Solomon-like, the soulless man of Whitechapel very much in evidence – a reminder of his power and status. “We will take up no more of your time, son. CC. Thank you for everything you have done.” He walked over to CC and offered his hand. After a second's hesitation, my cousin took it. “Tell Robert he may leave it with us.” CC nodded and stepped back, wiping his hand on his ever-present handkerchief as he did so. Gold's lips twitched but rather than commenting, he turned to his niece. “Emily say your goodbyes.”

  Until that moment, it had not dawned on me that Emily would ever leave. But as she took the ring from her finger, realisation set in.

  “You don’t have to go,” I told her.

  She smiled sadly and did what came naturally to her, lied about her reason for leaving. “Oh, but I do. We’re from different worlds you and me. It’s been a l
ovely interlude but unlike fairy tales, there's no happily ever after for you and me.”

  “I could organise a key for this flat if you like. We could –” And in my desperation, I gave her all she needed to make her departure final and my fault.

  “I am no man’s mistress, especially not yours!” she growled.

  I tried to speak again; tell her she had misunderstood. But the moment had passed. “I’m sorry. I intended no insult.”

  “None taken.” She stepped into my embrace and I held her close for one last time.

  “I will miss you,” I said. I kissed her cheek and refused to take the ring she held out for me. “Joseph made it for you – not me.” I placed it back on her finger.

  “Thank you.” Giving me one last, look Emily picked up her bag and, shouting her thanks and goodbyes into the kitchen, left the flat.

  The old man shook my hand, before pulling me into one of his famous bear hugs. “If you ever need us.” Then just as quickly he shoved me away, as if embarrassed by the unexpected emotional outburst. “Goodbye, son.”

  “Goodbye, Uncle.” I waited for the door to shut quietly before joining Sampson and my cousin at the window of my apartment to watch Emily; her uncle, and their entourage walk to the end of the road and turn left.

  It was over and I should feel elated at the successful end to the case. Instead, like Lear, realising all too late I lost more than I won, I found myself bereft of mirth.

  Wordlessly, I accepted the drink CC placed in my hand and allowed my scorpions to dance.

  From Reports. Sunday, 3rd February, 1901.

  It was dark. The alley stank of stale ale and urine. Why Arthur asked to meet him here was a mystery. Discretion was all well and good. But this alley ... it was the back end of nowhere.

  At the end of the alley, by the wall, he found the unassuming black door and knocked briskly.

  “In the back room, sir.” Corbarde didn’t recognise the lad who opened the door, but the Leed’s accent reassured him and he entered the place quickly and confidently.

  “You new?” Cobarde asked conversationally.

  “Aye.” The boy led the way down the narrow, dimly lit, corridor. At another black door he stopped, knocked once and ushered Cobarde into an equally dark room, where he could make out three figures; one sitting, two standing.

  “Thank you, Jake. Your help has been invaluable.” Gold said.

  Colour leached. The world darkened around the edges. He sank to his heels.

  Ignoring the pitiful heap that was Victor Cobarde, Gold smiled at the youngster. “Now remember, Nanny is not as young as she pretends to be, nor as daft as she looks. Do not stay out late as your train is at eleven tomorrow morning”

  “Of course, Mr Gold. I won’t take advantage.” The lad bowed slightly and made good his escape, a five-bob note lining his pocket.

  “Lock the door, Jethro, I do not want any interruptions. And light the lamps while you’re about it. The time for melodramatics is over.” There was a hiss of gas, and the room brightened.

  “Mr Gold,” Cobarde rose to his feet and held out his hand. “How … pleasant.”

  “Be. Quiet. You are here because you have brought the Impereye into disrepute. Your actions and those of your accomplice brought my affairs out into the open. To the attention of the police. And that displeases me.”

  “She blackmailed me!” Cobarde whined.

  “I said be quiet.” Gold hissed. “Do not make Jethro force your silence.” He paused. “Your partner killed one of his girls. He’s not happy.”

  At the sound of cracking knuckles, Cobarde fell silent.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out that you lied about the shot?” Gold’s voice was calm and measured, though anger simmered below the surface. Menacing, and crow-like, Gold stood and walked towards Cobarde, stopping inches from his face. “Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

  Cobarde shook his head.

  “Very wise. I might have left things, had you only acted against the landlord and Millie. Dealing with liars and blackmailers does not interest me. But you tried to kill Emily.” Gold jabbed the crow’s head ring into Cobarde’s right eye, blinding him immediately. “That is unforgivable.” He pulled the beak out and stabbed it into the other eye. Screaming his pain for the world to hear, Cobarde fell to the floor.

  “An aoyg far an aoyg.” Gold muttered as he walked back to his chair.

  Turning back to look at the carnage, he ignored the pitiful moans of the fallen man. “Jethro, Niall ... Take this .... thing ... away. Ensure it suffers the same fate as Millie.”

  The initial murder is based on that of Mary Sophia Money, who was thrown from a moving train on the 22nd September 1905 as it travelled through the Merstham tunnel in Surrey. Like Millicent Jones something, in her case, a scarf was shoved down her throat. Her brother was eventually suspected but never arrested or convicted of her murder. His motive? It is possible she was blackmailing him over his bigamic marriages.