The Under Broker: Part Seven

Portia knew she had made a mistake, everything was a blur. She attempted to look around; the room seemed hazy, and it was difficult to focus on anything. She heard Amos yelling something. She tried to sit up, to focus her eyes on her butler, but his face was a shapeless blob and she wasn’t able to lift her head.

Portia watched on in horror as the blur that was Amos's face shifted to that of her late husband, Emmet.

The last thing she felt was her head hitting something hard as she collapsed into unconsciousness.

1822

It was a cool spring day. Freshly budding greenery was popping up across the Tegeré estate. Portia was doing some case work for a prominent merchant, nothing too strenuous, so she had decided to relocate to the outside and enjoy the weather.

The garden had beautiful flowers in early bloom, a few bubbling fountains, and views across most of the acreage behind the manor. Portia loved to sit out here; she didn’t often get the chance, English weather being what it was and all.

Portia sipped a hot cup of her favorite tea, watching as a small brown shape appeared shooting out of the forest on the far side of the field.

The man rode atop a beautiful chestnut mare. Portia didn’t much care for horses; she had never liked them growing up, couldn’t be trusted, she thought. Yet this particular mare was an outlier.

The horse had the kindest demeanor one could ask of an animal; its gentle way only outshone by how easy it was to ride—at least from what Portia had heard, she was still unwilling to get on any horse by choice.

“Whoa, easy there, Helly,” Emmet pulled up just shy of the hedgerow bordering the garden. He wiped sweat off his brow and over at Portia.

“I heard there is a damsel in distress that needs rescuing.”

Portia laughed, “The only distress you’ll find here is if you let that beast of yours shit on the flagstones again.”

Emmet gave a mock expression of shock, reaching down to cover the horse's ears, “Don’t listen to her, girl. You would never do such a foul thing.” He patted Helly’s neck, whispering into her ear, “You’re as fine and noble a maiden as I’ve ever seen.”

Portia rolled her eyes.

Emmet hopped off Helly, and the stableboy who had been waiting nearby came to fetch her reins up. Emmet flipped a copper to the boy, who smiled and thanked him profusely.

“You know,” Portia said, not looking back up from the paperwork was working on, “we pay all the staff here more than livable wages.”

“Yes, believe me, I’ve seen the books,” Emmet sat down at the wrought iron table across from his wife.

“Then why the generosity?”

“I caught him sneaking Helly extra carrots once.”

“How scandalous, shall I call the papers?”

Emmet chuckled, “No, but he’s a good lad. Treats the horses well.”

“Fair enough,” Portia put down the boring legal papers she had been poring over, “how goes it with the mystery minter?”

Emmet’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t know if I’m at liberty to say.” he looked around like he was checking if anyone was listening in. Emmet leaned closer. “But if you promise to keep a secret, just between us, I might be able to tell you.”

Portia was on the edge of her seat; she had been out of law school for a few years, but at her father’s behest, she had been diligently working at the family law firm. Her father had told Portia she needed to keep up appearances, make herself visible among the city’s population, and, in her mind, generally have no fun. He had said it would be strange after all, if she had gone to law school for all those years, but no one ever saw her actually practicing law.

Portia had begrudgingly accepted this, leaving the family’s true business to her husband and father until she was ready to take over the reins.

“I have a beautiful trap set, and I plan to spring it tonight,” Emmet continued.

Portia dropped her pen. “Can I join you?”

“No, my dear, this job is for Emmet alone.” Her father came from around the corner of the house, silent as a feather falling on snow.

“Father,” Portia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Morning, Nigel,” Emmet greeted his father-in-law.

Nigel nodded in return, narrowing his eyes. He added, “I thought I told you not to discuss business with Portia; she’s meant to focus on her outward appearances.”

Emmet put both hands up, “I’m sorry, sir. She extracted the information from me. I think—” Emmet looked down at his teacup, “I think,” he made a gasping sound, clutching his throat, and he flopped himself out of his chair.

“Oh, stop,” Portia rolled her eyes, “if I was going to kill you, I certainly wouldn’t do so in such a droll way.”

Emmet stopped his fake-seizing, cracking an eye open, “Strangulation? An arrow in the night? A blade in the back?”

“I think hemlock in your whiskey,” Portia smiled slyly.

“You wouldn’t,” Emmet clutched his chest, “not the whiskey!”

Nigel cleared his throat, breaking the two out of their disfigured form of flirting, “Emmet, a word?”

“Right away,” he sprang to his feet, kissing Portia gently, “I love you.”

“I love you too, most of the time.” Portia held his face for a time.

“Emmet,” Nigel hollered.

“I won’t see you tonight; I’ll most likely be back quite late.” Emmet kissed her forehead, then raced off to heed Nigel’s call.

Portia felt a touch disgruntled that she wasn’t allowed to tag along on tonight's festivities. From the way Emmet spoke of it, the trap was a sure thing; there was little to no danger involved. Figuring that lawyers could hardly be expected to work in the dead of night, Portia made her mind up to tag along, invitation or not.

She wandered past her father’s study, where he and Emmet were in conversation. Portia didn’t look in, didn’t slow, but in the periphery of her vision, she spotted something in Emmet’s hand.

A letter.

This in and of itself wasn’t significant. What was, however, was the sigil on the seal. Midnight blue wax, depicting two outstretched hands pointed upward, as if release a dove, or in prayer to the heavens.

Portia knew that sign anywhere; it was the seal of for a renowned notary office: Cresswell and Mercer. A place she had been many times, as they knew her and witnessed a lot of the documents she handled for the courts.

Got you, Portia thought.

She waited out the rest of the day, breezing through the remainder of her caseload, and excused herself early from supper.

Emmet and her father had left. Now was the perfect time to sneak out, save for just one problem.

Portia hadn’t called for a carriage, and her father and Emmet had taken the sole one they kept at the estate on retainer.

This left her with two options.

First, she could run the entire way from the manor, into Birmingham proper, and then to the notary’s office. This would take her upwards of two hours, she estimated. Likely not a feasible choice since cardiovascular activities had never been much her forte.

Option two, however, was less pleasant in Portia’s mind, but the only one that was viable.

She stood at the barn door, second-guessing how badly she wanted to be a part what was about to go down tonight, with her father, Emmet and the notary office.

Why did she care so badly? she asked herself. Was it that she just wanted to see what that was? Idle curiosity? No. She started to suspect the reason she wanted to go so badly was that her father and Emmet had been acting more squirrelly of late, and to her, nothing could incite her to extreme curiosity like having a secret kept from her.

Portia drew in a great breath. She steeled her will and exhaled as she approached Helly’s stall.

“Pardon me, back to the right, please!” Portia hollered as she nearly fell off the mare. With a white knuckle grip on the reins, she overcorrected after they had nearly collided with another rider.

“Not that far right.” Portia was desperately trying to control the mare, who, for the horse's credit, was doing exactly as she ought to, with Portia pulling wildly left, then right, then left again in rapid succession.

Carving a serpentine path down the dirt road, the fact that it was a new moon with little to no light, or perhaps due to Portia’s less-than-ideal skill with horsewomanship, she didn’t see the branch until it was too late.

Thud.

Portia groaned, rolling on the ground and cursing at herself. It wasn’t the horse’s fault, after all. Also, like the perfect horse she was, Helly immediately stopped her canter and stood, waiting for Portia.

Stars danced across Portia’s vision, then she stopped writhing in pain and realized she may have been acting a touch dramatic.

It was night after all, and the stars stopped moving as Portia stopped writhing.

“Right, just the sky.”

Portia heaved herself up, brushing the dirt from her clothes. She tossed a brown lock of hair out of her eye and approached the mare, who whinnied at her.

“I know, girl. I’m helpless. However, I hope that you will continue to work with me on this endeavor as we seek to find what manner of delicious business Father and Emmet are up to. Agreed?”

Portia accepted the horse's silence as consent, and they continued their wobbly way into the city.

Portia hitched Helly up a few blocks away from the notary office. She didn’t want Emmet walking out and seeing that she had ignored both him and her father to spy on them.

Portia walked casually as she approached the notary. Surveying the street, building, rooftops, and even a suspicious stray cat, Portia could feel her heart thumping with excitement. She eyed a drain pipe running at the edge of an alleyway about two doors down from the target building.

Perfect, she thought as she began her ascent.

Portia knew how these types of deals worked, hidden, all hush hush, loose lips sink ships and all that, thus it stood to reason they would be conducting the meeting on the top floor, or the second story of the building.

Portia heaved herself somewhat ungracefully over the edge of the roof and landed with a dull thunking sound. Pausing for a moment to make sure no one had been alerted of her presence, she stood and crept closer, careful not to bump into anything that might make additional noise.

Portia crossed over the small ledge that marked one building from the next. She got into place on the roof of the notary and, putting an ear to the ground, waited.

“Thank Christ for good ol’ Birmingham, city of shit carpenters,” Portia quietly thanked the terrible construction of most of the city's buildings, which allowed her to listen in nearly with only a small bit of difficulty.

There were three speakers, as far as Portia could tell.

She heard Emmet say something about purchasing the counterfeit currency.

Then her father spoke, saying something about how he had hopes for a good price and their continued relationship.

Portia smiled; this was a tactic he had taught her quite young.

If you ever need to convince someone that you are earnestly interested in a deal, and especially if you are impersonating someone or have false pretenses, then bartering is an excellent way to make the other party feel more at ease. At the time, Portia had thought this sounded silly, as most people didn’t enjoy haggling, but when dealing with criminals, her father had told her, they would suspect you less of having ulterior motives if you showed an interest in getting a better price.

Who doesn’t like a good deal, Portia thought as she continued to listen in.

The third man spoke with an elegant voice, his manner calm and composed.

“I don’t believe I will be discounting the goods. After all, you two gentlemen have no intention of bartering in good faith.”

A pause, then Portia heard Emmet speak again, a slight hesitation in his words.

“I don’t suppose I know what you mean, good sir. We have the funds, like you asked for. Your man told us that we could pay thirty percent the value of the bills.”

Portia’s father spoke, “Yes, quite right. I inspected the product myself, and though it’s not perfect, it’s damned near good enough to fool anyone save the most savvy businessman. We’re not lying, you can see that, can’t you? It’s clear as day man.” Portia heard a slight nervous tremor in her father’s voice.

“Ha,” the third man chuckled, “When the fog sets over Birmingham—that’s the only time this city is honest.”

There was a brief silence from below, and Portia felt the gravel on the roof dig into her cheek as she pressed her head harder against the ground. Something felt off, and Portia’s stomach clenched in anxiety.

The explosion sent Portia flying off the roof. Tumbling down onto the one-story building on the other side from which she had ascended. Had she any time to think, a thousand questions would have raced through her mind that night. The only thing she would remember hearing as she lost all consciousness was the screams of those caught in the blast.

Portia wouldn’t wake for some time, and when she did, the sight she beheld would be one so grave as to haunt her mind in both waking and sleep for the remainder of her days.

Her eyes fluttered, dust fell heavy into them as she tried to rub them clear.

Her father was carrying her. Her ears still ringing.

Portia blinked, trying to force her eyes to focus. It was her father, wasn’t it, she thought, yet something seemed off.

His face.

Half her father’s face was missing.

Portia screamed in horror as she watched tears fall from the black, charred hole where her father’s right eye used to be.

“Emmet!” She yelled, “Where’s Emmet?”

Portia gripped her father’s lapel, sobbing and yelling. Her father looked down, and she would never forget; it was the saddest she had ever seen him look.

“I’m sorry, he—Emmet,” Portia tried to listen as her father made a choking sound.

“No, no, it—he,” Portia’s entire body wracked with gut-tearing sobs. Emmet, who had been everything to her, who was all the kindness in her world. Emmet, who had helped save that poor stray dog, the one Portia had outwardly pretended to hate, but secretly loved. Emmet, whom she had disdained at first, she didn’t want to be in an arranged marriage, but who, after never once being ungentlemanly, had grown on her.

Portia heaved against her father’s arms, and weak as he was, he dropped her. She fell to the ground, scraping her legs. She tried to stand, tried to turn, tried to run back and save Emmet.

Her father’s hand on her shoulder then.

“He’s gone, my sweet child. Emmet’s gone.”

Portia clenched fistfuls of dirt, “No, no, I refuse—”

Her body felt twice as heavy as normal; she could barely see, partly due to the blast—the blast that had taken Emmet from her—partly from the sheer agony it felt like her soul was in.

Portia and her father went back to the estate. Her father was in dire condition, but the doctors managed to staunch the bleeding, and it looked like he was going to make it. Portia’s wounds were treated, and the events of the night were discussed.

“I don’t know,” her father had said after recovering enough to speak again.

“That’s not fucking good enough,” Portia stamped her foot like an irate child, “how can you not fucking know? None of your other deals went wrong! Why! Why this one!” Portia’s anger lapped like a wave on the shore; at one moment it was striking out, cresting the sand; the next moment it was receding back into a great, vast, unknowable emptiness, into sadness. “How can you not know?”

Nigel took all of Portia’s screaming; he knew he had failed her. Failed her as a father by not protecting her, failed her as a mentor by not seeing the deceit before it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her as she left his study.

It was the next day when Portia found out her father had succumbed to his injuries. He had died in his sleep, the maid had said, “He didn’t go in any pain, Mrs. Tegeré. Don’t you fret over that.”

“How can you not know?” Portia mouthed the words as she sank to the floor. The two most important men in her life, both gone, both in the same night.

Over the next few years, hell knew no wrath like the woman scorned that was Portia de Tegeré. She leveled criminal empires, tortured people, bribed, and coerced information out of others. She did anything and everything in her God-given power to uncover what had happened that night.

Her father’s own notes had been of little use and Emmet hadn’t kept records of any kind, something Portia had always poked fun at him over.

It wasn’t until Christmas Eve two years after the death of her husband and father that Portia would discover anything of use.

Portia was drinking herself to sleep, sitting in her father’s study, which she had taken over when Amos had brought her the paper.

Scanning it through hazy eyes, Portia didn’t much care for the news; alas, it unfortunately was part of her job to be in the know.

Portia read the paper, stopping only briefly on an article about crime.

She didn’t realize at the time what importance that paper would have and went off to bed, stumbling with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a glass in the other.

Portia awoke in the dead of night, a cold sweat over her whole body. She was gasping, panting for air.

“The paper.”

She flung off the sheets, raced back down through the pitch-black house and to her father’s study.

Portia sparked a small lantern to life. She rummaged through the trash bin until she found it. She stayed right there on the floor, flipping through the pages until she came back to the article on crime.

“When the fog sets over Birmingham—that’s the only time this city is honest.”

The quote came from Damien M.

Portia read the words over and over.

Was she mistaken? She thought. No, she couldn’t be.

Portia ignored the possibility that someone else would utter such a peculiar phrase.

She had heard it that night.

Portia had heard those exact words on the night she lost both her husband and father.

“Who had said them?” Portia looked into her mind’s eye, but it was useless, she had never seen the man; all she remembered was his calm, confident voice.

“Damien M.” The name came like snake venom on her tongue. Portia could never have known that a chance encounter with a newspaper would change the next few years of her life into a blood soaked witch hunt.

Portia searched after the man for a long while. She thought she got close a few times, but he always managed to slip out of her clutches.

As the years wore on, the pain of loss lessened, if not in intensity, then just in presence of mind. Portia’s hell-bent fury got smoothed down a touch, if not entirely washed away.

She moved out of their family estate, devoid as it was of family she couldn’t stand to be there any more. She moved into the upstairs of the law offices she had inherited, her sister wanting no part of the stuffy business.

After a long time Portia grew to no longer chase the ghost that was Damien, though she often thought she caught a glimmer of his spectral outline in various cases and crossroads her work brought her across.