The Under Broker: Part Three

“So, what you’re saying is she does more than just float about, looking all pristine while handing out Hail-Mary’s and Our-Fathers like they’re going out of fashion?”

“Yes, Lady Portia,” Amos was hunched over some ledger or another, “she oversees the abandoned, destitute or otherwise ill-circumstanced children of the city.”

Portia scrunched her face up, not quite being able to picture the stuck-up Mother Tabitha, nursing infants from a bottle.

“She oversees the orphanage,” Amos clarified.

“Yes, yes, I understand, Amos. I was just,” she trailed off, gazing out the window.

“Of course, Lady Portia,” Amos finished writing and went to dip his quill. “If it pleases the lady, we do have a file on record for the orphanage.”

“We what?”

“We have the orphanages’ accounting records.”

“Why on earth would we have that? They aren’t even a business”. Portia cocked her head to the side.

Amos sometimes did digging on the bigger enterprises in the city in order to stay abreast of the current happenings, but an orphanage didn’t exactly fall into that category.

“With the tithes and charitable donations they get,” Amos looked up, meeting Portia’s gaze, “I can assure you, they are one of the more profitable businesses in the city.”

“Really,” Portia’s eyes widened, “that doesn’t exactly explain why we have their account records, does it, Amos?”

The butler looked away, seemingly stricken by something.

“Amos?”

He looked left and right, seeming to search for a way out of answering.

“Amos,” Portia repeated.

“Nothing the lady need concern herself with, I assure you.” He looked back to Portia now, seeing if his flimsy answer had been enough. The look on her face told him it hadn’t been. The butler sighed, taking off his spectacles to polish them.

“I may have done some accounting for them; they may have needed assistance around tax time.”

“May have?”

“Yes, ‘may have,’ and in return the chaplain who did the stained glass work for the cathedral, ‘may have’ commissioned a piece for me.”

There it is.

“You balanced the books for a whole year, in exchange for a goose?”

Amos looked down, “Five years, actually.” Then, as though the honor of his flock was in question, Amos straightened, an air of dignity coming into his tone, “and it wasn’t simply ‘a goose,’ the master-craftsman fashioned me Timothy.”

Portia rolled her eyes. Timothy, she knew, was one of the larger glass-goslings of Amos’ collection. She knew which one he was because, when the butler brought it back, she questioned him about how he had been able to afford such ornate glasswork, and she remembered his answer had been vague.

“Five years,” Portia was about to chide the man for the clearly lopsided exchange, but thought better of it. “Good for you,” relief washed over Amos’ face, “where’s your copy of the books?”

Several hours passed, with Portia looking through Amos’ five years’ worth of work, when the man himself knocked gently on her office door.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up from scrutinizing the accounting records of the orphanage Mother Tabitha ran.

“My lady, I shall be retiring for the evening soon. Do you require anything before I depart?”

“No, thanks though, Amos.” Sighing, Portia reclined in her chair, eyes weary from scanning checks and balances all day, “Unless you happen to know why children keep disappearing from the orphanage.”

“They’re somehow being sold, traded, or otherwise involved in the trafficking of opium, my lady. If that is all, I bid you good evening,” Amos turned to leave.

Portia hadn’t really been listening, anticipating Amos to give a noncommittal statement and then depart. Staring up at the ceiling, it took her a moment to process what he had just said. Lowering her head, watching the old codger casually stride away. Portia could feel a rage boiling up within her.

Jasper reached the door at the same time Amos did, ramming himself into the oaken frame next to the butler’s head. Her beloved stiletto, always ready for some action, even if the intent wasn’t to kill. Maiming, wounding, and, as on this occasion, intimidation were the flashy daggers’ forte.

Amos let out a small squeak, wheeling on Portia, yet he didn’t have time to reprimand her for such dangerous behavior.

“You could have—”

“The children,” Portia had ice and fire in her eyes, “you knew about them and didn’t say anything?”

“Pardon me,” Amos adjusted his spectacles, “but the lady never told her lowly servant what, precisely, she was looking for. Had I known, I would have surely pointed you in the right direction.” Amos huffed a disdainful breath, struggled for a minute to remove Jasper from the door, and trudged back towards Portia, shoulders hung looking like a scolded schoolboy.

“Don’t expect any sympathy, you can fucking polish your geese later.” Portia motioned at the ledger, “You let me look through this, this… drivel, for hours.”

Amos had been on his way to retire for the night, since the geese had, of course, already been dusted, not to mention they were always polished, but thought better of saying as much.

Amos wrapped up his overly long explanation of the orphanage, its business practices, only getting derailed briefly when he mentioned its construction some two hundred years ago, and how the stained glass was crafted by the preeminent glass artist of the area.

With the tangential information about geese out of the way, Portia’s mind began simmering about all the inconsistencies.

First, as Amos pointed out, the orphanage brought in a considerable stream of tithes, church contributions, and the per-head fee they received from His Majesty’s government. The charitable donations the books looked a touch high, Portia thought something smelled fishy about the whole operation.

Second, Mother Tabitha was from an illustrious, wealthy household. Why would someone like her join the church, Portia thought. And ‘out of the goodness of her heart,’ didn’t seem like a fitting reason when Amos had suggested it.

“There is no goodness in that vile bitches black lump of coal that keeps her on two legs.” Portia had reminded him.

“Yes, of course, m’lady,” Amos bowed his head slightly, “However, due to reasons concerned with the law firm’s finances, may I suggest the lady simply do her job, as a lawyer that is, until more business in the alternate stream can come about?”

“That’s mighty presumptuous of you, Amos,” Portia raised an eyebrow at the butler.

“Hmm, perhaps. I shall put on a pot of tea for the lady. Unfortunately, we only have the cheap one left.”

Portia slammed a hand on her desk, “What about the imported oolong from China?”

Amos turned, giving Portia a strangely condescending glare down his bent nose, “That particular tea, my lady, is rather expensive.”

Amos cleared his throat, giving the stack of unopened case files on the couch a baleful glare before backing out of the room.

“Why my father hired that man, I will never know.”

Instead of doing as her pushy butler advised, Portia began to concoct a plan to find out what was going on at the orphanage, what evil Mother Tabitha was up to, and crack it all wide open.

Rain poured down from the ever-present grey blanket that loomed high above the cobbled streets. Mrs. Doreen Moyles had an appointment at St. Nicholas’s Children’s Home, the second Monday of March at noon sharp. Mrs. Moyles was not one to tarry. She deposited a tuppence into the paper boy’s cap and hurried off to the Children’s Home, seeming to forget the paper in her hurry.

After waiting for a few minutes, a short nun with three small children running around her legs emerged from the hallway. “Oh, hello.”

“Good day, sister. I have an appointment for Mrs. Moyles.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Please right this way.” The nun bent over and whispered something to the children, which sent them giggling as they scampered off.

Mrs. Moyles followed the nun into a reception area of sorts, a tattered green corduroy couch in front of a splintered wooden table.

“Please, have a seat,” the nun motioned to the couch. “Would you like some tea?”

“Why yes, that would be lovely, sister….”

“Sister Anne, but you can just call me Anne; no need for all the formalities,” the nun went about pouring tea from a pot. Handing Mrs. Moyles a steaming cup that smelt vaguely of wet cardboard.

“Sugar?”

Mrs. Moyles looked down into the once fine china cup, and the myriad brown rings left on it from years of use or perhaps neglectful washing.

“No, thank you. This is fine.”

Anne gave Mrs. Moyles a baleful smile, “Your letter said you were looking to take in a boy, someone to apprentice under your husband,” Anne paused, seeming to try and recall something, “as a blacksmith, was it?”

“A farrier,” Mrs. Moyles corrected in her most polite tone.

“Right, you must love horses,” Anne took a seat next to Mrs. Moyles on the couch, sending a faintly tinged perfume of jasmine and diapers wafting towards Mrs. Moyles.

“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Moyles had to suppress a grimace forming on her face. “My apologies, he couldn’t come with me today, but you know how men are with their work.”

“No,” a stricken look fell across the sister’s face, and she patted Mrs. Moyles hand. “Regardless, I believe we have just the lad for you. Spry little chap, just turned twelve, I believe. If you’ll follow me, you can see if he suits your husband’s needs.”

Anne stood up, motioning Mrs. Moyles to follow.

The ladies proceeded up a flight of rickety stairs to the second-floor landing. Mrs. Moyles eyed a clock, seven minutes past twelve.

Three minutes.

Entering a dorm-style room, bunk beds lined the walls, all neatly made and orderly; each bed was empty, their occupants off doing whatever children got up to during the day.

“He’s a bit of lone lad, doesn’t get along well with the other children,” Anne said as she walked to the back of the room. Stopping, she turned to face Mrs. Moyles, a look of mild shock, “Oh, you don’t have other children, do you?”

“No, the Lord didn’t bless me with such abilities.”

Anne flushed bright red, “My apologies, I—”

“It’s fine,” Mrs. Moyles smiled and motioned for Anne to continue down the long room.

“Spoon,” Sister Anne called out, “where are you?”

Mrs. Moyles was nonchalantly strolling behind the sister when something hit her ankle.

“Oh, good heavens, you little fu—” Mrs. Moyles nearly jumped out of her skin as a small, dirty-faced boy slid out from underneath a bed, ramming his head into Mrs. Moyles’ ankle.

Anne turned, looking at Mrs. Moyles, her expression not absent of suspicion at the lady’s near-profanity.

“You little…,” Mrs. Moyles worked hard to say something nice, “Fun ball of joy.” She winced internally at her poor correction.

“Yes,” Sister Anne lowered her eyebrow. Squatting down, she looked at the boy under the bed, “Spoon, this is Mrs. Moyles. Please come out from there and introduce yourself.

The boy slid back under the bed. A clattering sound came, followed by a dull thunk.

“Ow,” Spoon rolled out from his hiding spot, rubbing his head as he stood up.

The boy and Mrs. Moyles stared at each other for a moment, then Sister Anne pushed him forward, looking expectantly at him.

“Spoon,” the boy said, sticking his hand out. His voice was flat and nasally, the sort a child who never once had trouble choosing a utensil with which to eat a meal might have.

“A pleasure… Spoon, I’m Mrs. Doreen Moyles,” she looked at Anne as though getting confirmation that this lad’s name was indeed Spoon.

Anne smiled cheerfully back at the somewhat perplexed Mrs. Moyles.

“Well, Spoon, you look like a strong lad,” she patted Spoon on the head, but he didn’t seem to much care for the gesture, shrinking away. Turning back to face Anne, Mrs. Moyles continued, “I believe he will do just splendidly.”

“Lovely,” exclaimed Anne, “If you’ll follow me, there are just a few papers, and you can both be on your way. Spoon, why don’t you collect your things? You’re going to a new home.”

“Ain’t got nuffin.”

“Right,” Anne looked at the boy, and Mrs. Moyles could have sworn she saw her eye twitch, “well, let’s go see about that paperwork then, shall we?”

Before Mrs. Moyles could reply, another child burst into the room, red-faced and panting, “Fire! Sister Anne, there’s a fire!”

“What, where?” Sister Anne was already on the move, hurrying across the room.

“Downstairs, come quick!”

Mrs. Moyles waited for a few moments, then turned to Spoon, “I best go see if she needs help. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Spoon looked up, expressionless, his eyes bordering on being unfocused.

“Right…, okay then,” Mrs. Moyles shook her head at the peculiarity of the child, then set off back into the hall.

Instead of descending back to the ground floor, the affected personality, which was Mrs. Moyles, dropped away. “Christ, that was exhausting.” Portia hated having to wear a disguise and change her personality to be more jovial, but she thought it most likely a necessary evil.

Portia went up the stairs to the topmost floor. The third floor was where all the Nuns slept, and where—if her information was correct—Portia could find Mother Tabitha’s office.

Portia tried a few doors, finally discovering the Mother’s office on the third attempt.

Inside, it was much as one would expect from a Nun. Bare, minimal furnishings, a plain desk, a cross on the wall, a portrait of Mother Mary, and then her eyes came to rest on her target.

A knee-high metal box, made of dull cast iron, sat in the back corner of the room, directly under the portrait of Mary.

The safe.

Portia hurried over to the safe, bending over to attempt to crack it. She paused for a second, looking up at the religious figure, seeming to gaze down at her in silent judgment.

“Fuck off, forgive us our trespasses and all that.”

Portia could hear the commotion she had created in full effect downstairs; the paper bag filled with horse manure she had paid the paper boy to set on fire at the Children’s Home doorway should give her enough time to extract the needed evidence.

Portia pressed her ear to the cool metal and began to turn the dial, listening for the telltale click of a correct number.

After the first failed attempt, Portia covered her other ear, “Christ, those kids are making a racket.”

By the fifth attempt, Portia was beginning to sweat, the shouting and hollering from downstairs making it exceedingly hard to listen to the inner workings of the safe. She needed to get at the contents; it was her only hope of discovering what Mother Tabitha was up to.

“Fifty—”

Portia shrieked, spinning and pulling a stiletto-dagger from her hair.

“Why do you have a knife,” Spoon looked unfazed as he stood there, mouth agape, looking for all the world bored out of his mind.

“Why do I—,” Portia looked around in bewilderment, “Why are you up here,” Portia hissed at the boy.

“Dunno. Why’s you up here?”

“That’s none of your fu—,” Portia was fuming, both at the distraction and that the boy had been able to sneak up on her. “That’s none of your business, now run along.”

Portia turned back to her task, adrenaline building up to a crescendo.

“Fifty five,” Spoon said again.

“Fifty five fucking what?” Portia snapped, raising her voice at the boy.

“The combination,” Spoon yawned, “Fifty-five, thirteen, twenty-seven.”

Portia’s eyes grew wide, “Why do you, how could you—”

Spoon shrugged, “Saw head bitchy open it.”

“You saw,” Portia scoffed, “watch your tongue.”

Eyeing the boy dubiously, Portia nonetheless entered the combination. As she spun the dial to the final number, a faint click and when she pulled on the handle, she was greeted with the door swinging open.

“Told ya,” Spoon looked over Portia’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the contents.

“Yes, thank you. Now be off,” Portia shooed the boy away.

Without waiting to see if the boy would listen, and assuming he wouldn’t, she rifled through the documents inside the vault.

Muttering furiously to herself, as she found document after document, her search was growing more and more desperate.

“You searching for stuff about the drugs?” Spoon was sitting back on Mother Tabitha’s desk, kicking his legs without a care in the world.

“What,” Portia barked at him, “what drugs?”

“Dunno,” Spoon shrugged again, then produced a small black book from his waistband, “Head bitch lady had this in there though,” he waved the book at her.

Portia could feel her face turning red in anger, “Give me that,” she said, swiping the book from his hands.

Not having time to thoroughly read through, even just skimming it, she saw it indeed contained mention of drugs, money, and missing children.

Jackpot.

“You should leave.”

Portia ignored him.

“The police are here, I think, for you,” Spoon added.

Portia turned to face Spoon, who was now on his tiptoes, looking out the window.

“Fuck,” Portia saw several members of the Birmingham Borough Police dismounting their horses outside.

“There’s a gutter out the back window, but you’re a bit heavy set, so I don’t,” Spoon was pointing to a back window.

“I’m not heavy-fucking-set,” Portia interrupted the boy. She ripped off her wig and petticoat, revealing black trousers and a white tunic beneath.

“Thank for the help, Pot, don’t tell anyone I was here, got it?”

“Spoon.”

“Right, whatever, Spoon. You never saw me, got it?”

“Oooo, spooky, I’m talking to a ghost that was never here,” the boy affected a scared-child type of sarcasm that Portia had to admire.

She smiled at the boy as she raced to the window, the thudding of footsteps coming hot up the stairs.

“Well, that most certainly could have gone better,” Portia walked casually yet briskly away from the orphanage, wiping the gaudy makeup needed for her Mrs. Moyles disguise.

The sudden appearance of the police was more than a little concerning. She hadn’t told anyone other than Amos about her appointment there, and she had used a false name, identity and a disguise. Then who exactly had sprung the trap on her, she wondered. Portia tried to heed Amos’ advice about not every sinister deed being attributable to Damien, but this one reeked of him.

She had the ledger tucked safely away and was chomping at the bit to get back to the office and uncover what sinister machinations she knew Mother Tabitha, and hopefully Damien, to be up to.

Halfway down the street, Portia froze.

Sitting in the second-story window of the building where her offices resided, sat a small yet far from insignificant red blotch.

Squinting as she felt her heart flutter, Portia tried to get a better look.

“Fuck,” she said as her eyes finally made out the shape of the blob.

A scarlet flower. Witch hazel.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Portia pretended to look at the pastries on offer from a nearby street vendor, all the while scanning the street from her periphery.

The witch hazel, a long-ago agreed-upon signal with Amos, was to act as a warning should anything or anyone with ill intent be lying in wait for her.

Was Amos okay, was it, Damien? Portia’s mind raced through the possibilities.

She saw them then.

Two men.

One seemed to be reading a paper across the street, which would be plausible behavior, save for the fact that he was leaning against a wall and facing the sun; this would make it nearly impossible to read the paper.

The second was brushing down a horse. Another ostensibly innocuous activity, but as Portia watched him, he brushed the same spot on the horse’s neck for nearly two full minutes. Anyone worth the tack they rode on would know to properly groom their animal, and brushing one spot repeatedly was most definitely not correct.

If they are at my office, Portia thought, then it’s safe to assume they’re at my home too. But why? Portia stood for a moment more, brooding at the inconvenience of this all, rather than the actual danger she was in.

Sighing and letting her shoulders droop down, she mumbled to herself, “No hope for it,” and set off to the one place she was relatively certain she could read the ledger uninterrupted.

“Hello, Emmett,” Portia greeted her husband with tired apathy. “You’re never going to believe what happened to me at work today,” she smiled, slumping down to rest her legs, which felt more weary than they ought to.

“My masterful plan went to shit—well, not the part that was supposed to go to shit, I mean, with the fire and all—but after. It’s like someone knew I would be there. Which isn’t possible because I only told Amos, and you know Amos, the only way he would spill information like that is if you tortured it out of him… or perhaps gave him a glass duck or whatever. I digress. It was the strangest thing, though. One minute, everything is going according to plan, then the next, there are police storming the bloody building.”

Portia heaved out a great breath, “I can’t help but think it’s—”

She raised a hand, forestalling the objection she knew would come from her husband, “Yes, yes, I know. Not everything bad that happens in the world is his fault, still.”

Portia looked down at the ledger, cracking open the black leather, she began to read.

There was mention of opium; the boy had been right, Portia thought, mildly impressed. Checks and balances related to drug trafficking, she thought, this was starting to look promising. Then the peculiar part of the whole ordeal presented itself.

The children who were ‘disappearing’ from the orphanage. Not a single one of their names is listed. Just their gender, age, and a district of the city on one side, with a price that Portia supposed was the amount they sold for opposite that.

“I can understand the illegal import of drugs, that’s quite common stuff after all. But what I can’t figure out is why they are selling off the children.” Portia tried to run through various possibilities, but none of them seemed to add up.

Sensing Emmet’s typical response, Portia reluctantly repeated his favorite saying, “If it looks like a sheep, sounds like a sheep, smells like a sheep, look for the wolf lying in wait.” Then, feeling a tear form, she added, “I know, my dear, I know.”

Portia stood, brushing the grass off her trousers. She kissed her hand and placed it on the tombstone that read:

Emmet De Tegeré 1783 - 1822

Steeling her will, she lingered with her hand on her husband’s grave for a moment longer. It was always hard to say goodbye to him, to leave him here next to all the other dead people. She wished he were still here; he would know what to do.

An all too familiar click echoed from behind her.

The cocking of a pistol’s hammer.

“Don’t move, Ms. Tegeré.”