The Under Broker: Part Two

“A perfect specimen, truly outstanding craftsmanship. The pinnacle of refined taste meeting artisan efforts.” Amos gently dusted the palm-sized glass goose statuette he had been admiring and placed it back on the shelf. He stood in the peace and quiet for a time, reveling in the beauty and size of his collection.

The geese had originally belonged to his late wife; now they were his. His flock, as he called them, was the sole thing that brought him joy nowadays. Amos smiled gently, then turned to face the room.

The law office of Tegeré & Sons, clean as a whistle. Not a speck of dust, not a half-full bin, and neither pen nor parchment out of place. He cleaned it all and was rightfully proud of his work.

The door slammed open with such force that Amos jumped, his spectacles nearly falling off his crooked nose.

“Amos,” An angry, all too familiar voice came.

“Lady Portia, how pleasant to see you.” his mouth fell wide open upon seeing the state of the lady.

Portia, still drenched in blood, with more cuts and bruises than when she had left, stomped across the small law office, making her way towards her personal office at the back.

Amos watched with growing horror as she dragged both mud and blood across the pristine wooden floors.

“The—the, polish, I just…,” Amos began, staring as his handiwork got ruined in the blink of an eye.

“Huh,” Portia stopped, following his gaze. Seeing the mess and realizing what Amos was so upset about, she added meekly, “Oh, sorry, Amos.”

Amos opened and closed his mouth several times, “Not—not a problem, m’lady, not a problem at all.” He cast his eyes downward, fighting off a tremble in his hands.

Portia continued stalking towards her office, then paused, turning back to face her butler, “Look what I found.” Portia produced a small bauble from her pocket and tossed it towards Amos. “Saw it in the midst of a scuffle, managed to nick it before I jumped out the window.”

Amos caught the bauble, barely, “What,” he examined the bauble, holding it up to the light, “is this?”

“A goose, I think it’s glass, hard to tell when they’re painted all over,” Portia seemed rather pleased with herself.

“A goose,” Amos muttered, turning the figurine over in his hands.

“No need for thanks, just a little token of my appreciation for my number one butler.”

Amos locked eyes with Portia, “This is not a goose, this Moorhen.”

“A what?”

“Moorhen, it’s not even in the same genus as geese. What am I to do with this? Don a driving cap and go sell it on Ninth Street, the only place likely to buy such an off-putting waterfowl?”

“It’s not a goose?”

“No, Lady Portia, it is most certainly not a goose,” Amos cleared his throat, regaining a bit of his butlerly composure, “though I appreciate the gesture, and although the gift may represent a most foul bird, you have my thanks.”

“Foul,” chuckled Portia, “that’s a good one, Amos.”

Amos had to bite his tongue as Portia disappeared into her office. He hated wordplay for it allowed the presence of ambiguity, another thing he loathed.

“May the universe give me strength,” he muttered to himself, seemingly to contemplate something. “Oh, fuck it.”

He strode over to Portia’s door and knocked gently, yet firmly, three times.

“Lady Portia, I must insist you fill out the receipts. I was doing the books earlier, and you left the row for payment empty, in regard to this latest client, that is.”

There was no answer from behind the door.

“Lady Portia?” Amos knocked again.

The door opened a crack, revealing a still-annoyed but somewhat cowed Portia, scotch already in hand.

She let out a great sigh, knowing it was better to get this over with. “The client didn’t pay upfront.”

“But m’lady, we discussed this, and you agreed to take payment from all future clients upfront.”

“Yes, and I was going to,” she let a sheepish smile crack her visage, “but I forgot.”

“So no payment today then, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“But we can expect payment in the future, yes? As I trust you peacefully resolved the situation.” Amos’s tone grew a bit harsher, and given the fact that Portia was literally soaked in blood, he was grilling her more out of spite than actual expectation that they would receive the funds.

“Most likely, not.” Portia looked grim, “I believe, well, that is to say,” she looked around the room with a touch of hesitation, then firmed her jawline, “I may have let our client get impaled.”

“Impaled,” came Amos’s sour yet refined words.

“Yes, by a sword, to be exact.”

“I see. Well, I suppose the scales will find a way to balance out, hopefully.”

“Amos, I’m sure you can work some accounting magic, yes?”

“My lady, I should remind you that I am first and foremost a butler. The need to learn accounting arose from your previous three bookkeepers not willing to work under such… ludicrous conditions.”

“Right, well, as I always say, you’re my favorite butler.”

“Only butler,” Amos said under his breath, giving Portia a curt bow before turning to exit the room.

“Oh, and Amos,” Portia called after him.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Damian was there.”

Amos froze in place, hand on the doorknob, the name sending a pang of nervous anticipation through his body.

“Pardon me, my lady, did you say,” he began.

“Yes, Damian was there.”

“You’re sure, I know my lady has fanciful visions of revenge and disembowling,” Amos was searching for any hope that Portia hadn’t truly seen Damian, “why, there was that one time you mistook a paper boy for the man.”

“He was a shifty little fuck, Amos. I still think it was Damian, there was… something fishy about that paper boy.” Portia turned in her chair, gazing out at the cobbled streets of Birmingham, “No, sadly, I don’t believe I was mistaken. It was Damian. Though he was going by a different name, as usual. Called himself ‘Mr. Everton,’ like some hoity-toity dolt.”

“Mr. Everton,” Amos whispered the words, still facing the door.

“Chin up, old boy, we’ll see him caught soon enough,” Portia sounded full of optimism.

“That’s my fear,” Amos thought, before exiting Lady Portia’s office.

A few weeks passed by with naught but uneventful drivel to occupy Portia’s time. The only somewhat bemusing highlighting came in the form of an old crone, seeking Portia’s services to aid her in the amicable resolution of an affair. The entertaining part was the quarry of the affair; it was neither the old crone nor her late husband but rather the lady’s cat.

“A fiery tabby, proud as could be, had been snuggling up to some skanky stray,” Portia had to fight to keep from spitting out her tea.

‘Skanky stray,’ such vulgarities I have never heard, especially not directed to a street cat.

“My poor Esmerelda,” The crone brushed the somewhat disgruntled cat in her arms, “is simply bereft at the cheating scoundrel, and I wish to put an end to his adultery. I have it on good word you’ve dealt with this type of thing before, and you come highly recommended.”

Portia cleared her throat, “Yes, I have dealt with affairs before,” she paused, still trying to figure out if this was Amos yanking her chain, or if this woman truly expected her to resolve the affair of her feline house pet. “You’re particular situation, I’m afraid, is a bit out of my depth,” Portia placed her teacup on her desk, unwilling to accidentally spill any more, should this woman ask for assistance with anything more ludicrous. “Too,” she couldn’t resist it, “hairy of a situation for me, to be fair.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, seemingly in lack of appreciation for a well-thought-of pun, “You’re one of ‘em though, ain’t ya?” the crone asked.

“One of what, exactly?” Though Portia already knew what the woman was referring to.

“An Under Broker,” the lady covered the cat’s ears, as if the mention of the somewhat secretive occupation was too scandalous for its furry little ears.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.” Portia tried to keep her true work hidden, but her family had served in this role for generations. So with rumors being rumors, and townsfolk being quite chatty people, word occasionally got out. “I’m sorry to hear about the emotional distress of your cat, but you will have to seek a solution elsewhere. Good day.”

The woman huffed, then stormed out of the office with as much contempt as a cat-wielding widow can muster.

“I take it I need not prepare backgrounds for Mr. Mittens and his tryst?” Came Amos’s voice from the main room.

“Mr. Mittens,” Portia rolled her eyes, then raising her voice so Amos could hear, “How do you know the bloody cat's name anyway?”

“She sent us a seven-page letter of inquiry.”

“Christ,” Portia couldn’t believe Amos had read the whole thing, but of course, he had.

She rotated her chair to face outside again, placing one brown-leather-clad boot up on the sill, mind occupied with more sinister thoughts.

“Oh, Jasper, what are we going to do about this?” Hand fiddling with her hairpin, Portia decided that if interesting work wasn’t going to come through her door, she best go out and find it for herself.

After a bit more time deliberating, she made up her mind, “I’m going out,” Portia hollered.

Amos was polishing his goose collection, face that of a loving mother’s, his grey hair and somewhat cool temperament often made Portia think he would have been better suited to be a nanny.

“We haven’t a client at the moment, my lady.” Amos half turned, not putting down a fabulously ostentatious gosling painted to look like a baker with a small loaf of bread attached to its wing.

“I’m going to find one.”

Though he didn’t drop the gosling, the faint tremor in Amos’s hand was noticeable. Portia quirked a smile his way.

“May, I inquire as to where?”

Portia’s smile turned into a wicked grin.

“Oh dear,” Amos shakily put the glass figurine back on the shelf, “I hope this doesn’t go like last time.”

“I told you last time, you aren’t welcome here, you just want to snoop around the case files,” the gangly young boy, barely old enough to be considered an adult, sat behind the counter looking for all the world like he was chastising a demon. He was making a good effort, Portia would give him that, but he was no match for her charm.

“Neville, come now,” Portia playfully drew circles on the counter with her finger, trying to elicit a reaction from the youngest constable, possibly ever to be employed in her majesty's service. “Just a lull with clients is all. It’s simply that nothing,” she waved a hand around, pretending to look for the word, “juicy, has come across my desk recently.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Tegeré, but I—”

“Please, call me Portia.”

The youth lowered his voice and softened his tone a bit. Portia smiled, knowing he was about to crack.

“Portia,” he looked uncomfortable even at this base level of familiarity, “I can’t let you see this week’s reports. Last time I did, almost cost me my job, didn’t it? Besides, I can’t help that no work comes across your desk, maybe it’s just slow for crime-lords and kidnappers.” He gave a sympathetic shrug, “Could be the weather, no one likes rain, do they?”

“I can show you, if you’d like, Neville,” Portia batted her eyelashes.

“Show,” the gulp from Neville’s throat was audible, “show me what?”

“How lonely it is in my office, it gets so cold, you know,” Portia leaned across the counter toward him, revealing not a small amount of bosom.

Flushed and fluttered, Neville tried to ward off Portia’s advance, “I don’t need to see your offices, Miss Tegeré.”

“Think of all the things I could show you,” Portia was laying it on, thick as honey, “such a young, strapping man, still so new to the world.”

Something changed in Neville’s eyes. Portia had him; she was just about to snap her jaws around him.

“Mother,” Neville looked attentive, if not quite seduced.

Portia was caught off guard; it wasn’t like she was actually going to go through with this nearly cradling-robbing seduction of the young man. But to have him utter such a lewd suggestion right to her face, well, it just wasn’t in proper form.

Fuck, I don’t need to entertain this deviant's highly questionable desires. Nope. I don’t need interesting work that badly.

Portia had been about to open her mouth when she realized that Neville had actually been looking behind her.

“Mother Tabitha,” Portia’s eyebrows threatened to connect with her hairline, shocked as she was to see the head of the church come strolling through the doors of the constabulary. Remembering herself, she added a slight bow of her head, showing respect to the church, if not the woman.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Mother Tabitha raised one eyebrow, waving sun-kissed auburn locks as they fell from her coiffed hair as she looked between Neville and Portia. Mother Tabitha had brightly tanned skin, an immaculate complexion, sweet chestnut eyes and an air of dignity about her that all those who did “God’s work” had.

Portia fucking hated her.

She thought that a woman of the cloth had no right to such beautiful skin. Don’t get the wrong impression, she wasn’t that vein, though she was still plenty vein. Portia simply didn’t trust the woman. Though if asked, she would be hard-pressed to articulate a reason why for the distrust beyond a vague, “something being off” sense.

“No, no, not at all, in fact, I was just leaving,” Portia threw a contemptuous look at the young constable, “Neville.”

He spluttered something intelligible, as Portia swiftly moved to the door, wanting to extricate herself from the Mother’s presence as swiftly as possible.

Portia froze, one hand on the door handle, something about their conversation piquing her interest. She only caught bits and pieces, but it was enough.

“… child’s gone missing.”

“That’s the second…”

“devils at work...”

“Best tell the Captain, he’ll want to hear about this.”

A lull came in the conversation Portia had been trying to listen in on.

“Lady Tegeré,” The Mother’s voice was louder now, “did you forget something, by chance?”

Portia half-turned, “No,” she gave the pair a weak smile, “just lost in thought.”

The door closing behind her made a dull thudding sound, which Portia didn’t hear, having the rumination of something much louder in her mind.