An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  “But in the meantime you can do little more than watch.”

  “We cannot afford to lose sight of him. With a bit of luck we might catch him committing a crime here in London. That way, Inspector Raynes here could arrest him. If we can prove that he stole the Madame Belmonte from Calthorpe Art Gallery Raynes has a reason to put him behind bars, where he can safely stay until we’re able to extradite him.”

  “Does he know that you’re after him?” asked James.

  “Oh yes. The Pinkerton agency has been interested in Shelby for about six years now, and he has spied me here in London. In fact, one evening a few weeks’ ago I followed him into the Cafe Royal and he had a drink sent over to my table.”

  James laughed. “How brazen!”

  “And that’s not all. We have exchanged pleasantries a few times. He’ll occasionally ask me how my day is going, then I will reply with the information that it’s going well and ask the same of him.”

  “It sounds like a veritable game of cat and mouse,” I said.

  “Oh it is, though I sometimes wonder which of us is the cat and which is the mouse.”

  “Have you heard about the roll of paintings we found in Mr Gallo’s rooms?” James asked him.

  “No, I haven’t. That sounds interesting.”

  “You and Inspector Raynes might wish to visit the hotel and examine them. I’ve had a look through them myself, but I know so little about art that I couldn’t tell you much.”

  The conversation paused as the waiter served our soup course.

  “You’d probably be interested to see a photograph of Shelby,” said Mr Russell.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph of a sullen-looking man with thick, wavy hair and dark whiskers. He looked about thirty years of age.

  “This photograph was taken when he was arrested on a charge of robbery in 1878. Quite a minor offence, and unfortunately he was released without charge. Bear in mind that it was taken six years ago, and that Shelby is quite adept at changing his appearance. Sometimes he has whiskers, sometimes he doesn’t. On occasion he grows his hair longer, and at other times he has his head shaved. Sometimes he wears spectacles and sometimes he doesn’t.”

  “So he may look quite different now?” I asked.

  “I’m sure that he does, but you have a picture of him now at least. That’s better than nothing, isn’t it? If you turn it over you’ll see that I have described his height and build there. It’s commonplace for the criminals we’re pursuing to change their appearance, and that’s why we Pinkerton fellows are also adept at doing so. I always say that you can recognise a man by his eyes. There’s something about his eyes and brow,” he circled a finger around the upper part of his face, “that is always recognisable, even when he chooses to put on spectacles or to pull his hat down to shield his face. The other unmistakable trait is a man’s gait. If you watch for long enough you will get to know the way he walks. If he’s paying attention he’ll try to modify it, but the moment he’s distracted he’ll revert back to his usual way of walking. I’ve seen a few supposed limps disappear when men have realised we’re in hot pursuit!” He laughed.

  “Are you not concerned that Jack Shelby might escape to the continent?” I asked.

  “We’ve alerted the customs officials at your ports on the south coast, so if he tries to travel to France, Belgium or Holland someone will hopefully catch sight of him. If he’s well disguised, however, he will probably slip through the net. I think he’ll stay in London for a little while yet. I should think he has his eye on another gallery or two, and most likely a few jewellery stores as well. He’ll want to make the most of his stay here as much as I’d like to ruin it for him!”

  “Both Mr Gallo and Mr Shelby lived in New York. Do you think they might have become acquainted there?” I asked.

  “We’re not aware that they were. I have never known Shelby to visit the Maganza or to dine at any of the establishments Mr Gallo liked to frequent in New York.”

  “What is your opinion of Mr Gallo?” asked James.

  “I didn’t know the man well, but from what I saw that evening at the hotel I’d say he was a decent sort of gentleman. If you’re asking whether he ever got caught up in anything of a criminal nature, I never heard that he had. I can’t say, hand on heart, that he wasn’t, but no papers ever crossed my desk with his name on them.”

  “Someone clearly wanted Mr Gallo dead,” said James.

  “They did indeed. I don’t envy you, given the scale of this investigation.”

  “I can’t help but think that there must be a connection,” I said. “A friend of Mr Gallo’s ran the art gallery Mr Shelby possibly stole the painting from. Can it be a coincidence that a painting was stolen from Mr Court-Holmes’ gallery shortly before his friend was murdered?”

  Mr Russell shrugged. “It’s difficult to know at this stage, but these connections and coincidences do not provide sufficient proof that Shelby had a hand in Gallo’s murder.”

  “But they’re both from New York,” I said.

  Mr Russell smiled. “There are a lot of people in New York, Miss Green. Being from the same city doesn’t prove anything. The two gentlemen may never have laid eyes on one another.”

  He must have noticed my disconsolate face, as he acquiesced a little. “All right, we can’t rule anything out. Having a well-known hotel proprietor murdered isn’t the sort of thing Shelby would usually do, but I am ready to admit that anything is possible. We’d be foolish to ignore any possible involvement. I can imagine you’re struggling to identify possible suspects, you probably have hundreds of people to consider and still can’t uncover a motive. I certainly sympathise, as I know that feeling well. Meeting here, as we are tonight, and sharing what we know, goes some way to helping each other. I have a deep respect for the work of Scotland Yard, and thankfully the Atlantic Ocean is no obstacle to us working together. Unfortunately, it’s no longer much of an obstacle for the criminals either!”

  “What was your opinion of the other guests who stayed at the hotel on the fateful night when you became Mr Hardy?” I asked.

  “I can’t say that I took to Bolton or Wentworth. White was a bit suspicious, too. I’d like to know where he disappeared to after we’d had our cigars in the smoking room.”

  “Perhaps he was just tired and retired for the evening.”

  “Like Blackstone, you mean? He over-indulged himself, didn’t he?”

  “It was difficult not to,” I said. “Our wine glasses were never empty! What about Mr Goldman? He took quite an interest in the hotel’s artworks.”

  “The quiet ones are usually hiding something, aren’t they?” he said with a smile.

  “What did you make of Mrs Mirabeau?” I asked. “I noticed you were in conversation for a while. Did you learn anything interesting from her?”

  “I was trying to ascertain what she knew about Mr Gallo’s art purchasing, but she didn’t let on too much. Either the lady is ignorant of it all or she was holding back.”

  “Did you notice whether she seemed to hold any particular affection for Mr Gallo?” James asked.

  “She was fond of him, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s likely that it was nothing more than a healthy respect for his success. She gave the impression that she was very loyal to him.”

  “Might she have murdered him and his companion in a fit of jealous rage?” I asked.

  Mr Russell sat back in his chair as he considered this. “Goodness, do you think that could be a possibility?”

  “It’s not impossible,” I said.

  “No, I suppose not. Who were the other guests there? Mr Somers and Mrs Mortimer, I recall.”

  “I think it unlikely that either could have murdered Mr Gallo,” I said.

  “Mr Somers is a large fellow, isn’t he? I think Gallo would easily have got away from him. And from Mrs Mortimer, too. She is a lovely lady, but rather mature in years. I agree that you could probably rule both out.”

  “So th
at leaves us with Bolton, Wentworth, White, Goldman and Blackstone,” said James.

  “Blackstone was far too inebriated,” said Mr Russell.

  “That leaves us with four, then,” said James.

  “And Gallo would likely have escaped from Wentworth, too,” said Russell. “The old man uses a walking stick.”

  “White may also have been too drunk,” I said. “I suspect that’s why he disappeared, I believe it was nothing more than intoxicated tiredness. I also think the killer was unlikely to have noticeably disappeared so shortly before the crime was committed. The man who killed Mr Gallo would have acted as normally as possible until the time of the murder.”

  “When he skulked about in an overcoat and gloves with a blacked-out lantern and large knife,” added James. “So we have Bolton and Goldman to consider, and possibly Mrs Mirabeau.”

  “It’s best not to rule the others out too hastily,” said Inspector Raynes.

  “We won’t forget about them,” said James, “but with so many suspects we need to concentrate on those who are most likely to have done it.”

  “Bolton didn’t like Mr Gallo,” I said. “He made that quite clear.”

  “I noticed that as well,” agreed Mr Russell. “But perhaps the murderer wouldn’t have made his distaste so obvious.”

  “That leaves Goldman, then,” said Inspector Raynes.

  “The quiet one,” added Mr Russell with a smile. “It was either him or the delightful Mrs Mirabeau, I would say. I am reluctant to consider the notion that such a charming lady would have wished Gallo any harm, but who can be sure in a situation like this?”

  Chapter 26

  “The Pinkerton detective, Mr Russell, would like to look at the paintings in Mr Gallo’s rooms,” I informed Chief Inspector Fenton the following morning. “Inspector Blakely and I had dinner with him last night.”

  The inspector groaned and struck the table with the palm of his hand. “It’s bad enough having the Yard involved, but the Pinkertons as well? What were you doing dining with that man?”

  “I am perfectly entitled to do so. He was a fellow guest at the hotel.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, and it would have been helpful if he’d informed me of the fact that he was a Pinkerton detective sooner than he did. But this sort of conversation shouldn’t be held without me present.”

  “There has to be a connection between Mr Russell’s case and Mr Gallo’s murder,” I said.

  “I’ll decide on whether there’s a connection or not, Miss Green. I don’t need Scotland Yard or Fleet Street instructing me on these things. Or the Pinkertons, for that matter!”

  “I can’t see any use in denying it, though.”

  “You can leave now, Miss Green. I’m quite satisfied that you have reported to me as usual this morning. Though I shall make no secret of the fact that I spoke with the deputy commissioner at Scotland Yard yesterday about the nature of your relationship with Blakely.”

  “What of it?” I asked.

  “This… intimacy you appear to share does not give you licence to involve yourself in police work.”

  “I have done no such thing; I’m simply reporting on the investigation. If you don’t want me to be involved in any police work, requesting that I report to Bow Street police station every morning is hardly helping matters, is it?”

  “I would just like to say that the deputy commissioner is aware.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector Fenton,” I said, getting up from my chair. “Who is your chief suspect in this case, by the way?”

  “If I tell you, Miss Green, you’ll print it in your newspaper and jeopardise my entire investigation.”

  “Do you need me to report to you again tomorrow morning?”

  “Perhaps once a week will suffice from now on.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I walked straight to Scotland Yard, passing Covent Garden market and then Charing Cross station, where the elegant facade of the Charing Cross Hotel was almost lost in the tea-coloured fog. The November morning had taken on a strange twilight appearance.

  I found James in the smoky office he shared with several other inspectors and nodded at Inspector Raynes, who occupied a desk nearby.

  “Penny!” James greeted me with a grin. “What brings you here?”

  “I’ve come to tell you that Chief Inspector Fenton only requires me to report to him once a week from now on.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I think my daily visits annoy him too much. He won’t even tell me who his chief suspect is.”

  “He either has no idea or he’s deliberately choosing to be secretive. The deputy commissioner had a word with me this morning. Fenton’s been complaining that I’m treading on his toes in the case.”

  “And he has also complained to the deputy commissioner that I’m too closely involved in the investigation.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Chief Inspector Fenton told me so himself.”

  “Well, let’s just ignore him for now. I was all set to begin investigating Mr Goldman today, but I’ll let Fenton get on with that. I’ve decided to find out more about the poor lady who lost her life alongside Gallo instead.”

  “Good. She doesn’t seem to have been given much consideration so far. It’s almost a week since she lost her life, yet no one seems to have noticed she’s even missing. The ban on reporting about her death has hardly helped the case.”

  “Meanwhile, she lies in the mortuary, now the property of the Strand Poor Law Union. The Board of Guardians is keen to have her buried in a pauper’s grave, but its members have been urged to wait until her family can be informed. They won’t be willing to wait forever, so it’s quite urgent that we discover who she was. I’ve been given possession of her bag, which was found in the Venetian Suite.”

  He led me over to a table upon which a green canvas bag had been laid out. It was edged with red fringing and had a red braided strap. Around it lay various belongings that had presumably been stored inside it. Hard-wearing canvas was not the standard fabric for a lady’s bag, and the fringe and braid appeared to have been sewn on to make it look more attractive.

  “The only other lady I know who carries a bag as practical as this is you, Penny,” said James. “This bag is designed for durability, and would suit a lady who needed to carry a number of important items around with her. Miss Hamilton was clearly not the sort to be content with a decorative purse looped around her wrist.”

  I felt a lump in my throat as I examined the other items on the table. I thought of the mysterious, unfortunate lady who had chosen each of these things and tucked them inside her bag that fateful evening. There was a small mirror, a pot of rouge, a purse embroidered with beads, an ivory comb, a toothpick, a sizeable key and a folded-up copy of the Morning Express. I picked up the newspaper and saw that it was the edition from Saturday the eighth of November. A pencil and small notebook also lay on the table.

  “She was wearing a silk nightgown when she was found,” said James. “It was delicate enough to fold down to a size that would fit inside the bag. She had evidently planned to spend the night with Mr Gallo.”

  “Mrs Mirabeau told me that she visited him every Tuesday. Perhaps she stayed overnight on each occasion. I wonder why she had a three-day-old newspaper with her.”

  “There must have been something in there that interested her.”

  “But what?”

  James shrugged. “The decoration on the purse seems to depict two initials.”

  I picked up the purse and examined the beadwork. Among the floral motifs I was just about able to discern two letters marked out in pale blue beads.

  “A and D,” I said. “No H for Hamilton, though.”

  “And this is even more mysterious,” said James as he picked up a scrap of paper I hadn’t yet noticed. It was crumpled and appeared to have been torn from the notebook. I could see that something had been written on it in pencil. He handed it to me, and I tried to read the words
before realising that the letters were jumbled.

  “Is it a code?” I asked.

  “It must be.”

  “Why has she written something in code?”

  “Did she write it or did someone else do so?”

  “Mr Gallo, perhaps?”

  “We’ll have to compare it with other samples of his handwriting.”

  “What else have you learned about her?” I asked.

  “She arrived wearing a red and green satin evening dress, so I’d say that she had dressed to impress him. A red and green hat decorated with an ostrich feather was also found in the room. She wore an overcoat for warmth and a good-quality woollen scarf and gloves. The dress bears a label from Webb and Courtney, a ladies’ outfitters on Albemarle Street in Mayfair. Fenton tells me his men made enquiries at the outfitters, but the assistants couldn’t recall a customer matching Miss Hamilton’s description.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “She was a tall lady of slim build with long brown hair. She appears to have been about twenty-five years of age. Examination of her hands and nails suggests she wasn’t accustomed to rigorous labour. However, they were not the hands of a lady, either. Her fingers bore the customary stains of an ink pen.”

  I glanced down at the ink stains on my own hands.

  “Her hair was well kept, and she looked after her skin, so she obviously cared about her appearance,” continued James. “There were no scars or wounds, and she appeared well-nourished. There was no indication that she drank a great deal, and she seems to have been in good health, with no sign of any troubling illness or disease. She appeared to have given birth to at least one child, however.”