An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  Francis’ telegram was also occupying my mind. Could my father really be alive and well, and living in Santiago de Cali?

  I put down my pen, rose from my seat and climbed the steps to the upper gallery, which encircled the reading room. I knew the Colombia section well, as Francis had familiarised me with the many books and maps stored there. I found one of his favourites, a heavy tome titled An Historical, Geographical and Topographical Description of the United States of Colombia, and sat down on the floor with it to look up Cali.

  The town was more than three thousand feet above sea level, a fact I knew Francis would have looked up himself at some point. It was situated on the River Cali, and I was surprised to discover that it was quite an old settlement, having been founded in 1536 by Spanish conquistador Sebastián de Belalcázar. I wondered whether Cali was filled with old, beautiful buildings. If my father happened to be there I knew that he would appreciate them. It was home to just over twenty thousand inhabitants, which gave me hope that the European orchid grower Francis had heard about would be reasonably well known.

  “Madam!” exclaimed a sharp, whispered voice.

  I looked up to see Mr Retchford, Francis’ miserable dough-faced replacement.

  “What on earth are you doing sitting on the floor like a slum-dweller?”

  “I’m conducting some research on the Colombian town of Santiago de Cali.”

  “May I ask that you conduct your research whilst seated at a desk? It is entirely improper for our visitors to sit upon the floor. I am quite astounded, in fact. I don’t believe I have ever seen such behaviour from any of our readers. What is your name?”

  “Miss Penelope Green of the Morning Express newspaper.”

  “You are learned enough to know better, in that case!”

  I clambered to my feet and handed the book to Mr Retchford for him to place back on the shelf. As I walked along the gallery to the staircase I noticed a familiar figure in a dark blue suit and bowler hat entering the reading room. I dashed down the steps to meet James.

  “Come with me,” he whispered. “Kit has some news for us!”

  I quickly gathered up my belongings from my desk and looked up to see Mr Retchford still scowling at me from the gallery as I departed.

  “What news might that be?” I asked once we had left the quiet of the reading room.

  “He visited me with an update on Mrs Mirabeau’s expeditions. She has repeatedly journeyed to Mayfair, and when I questioned him further he told me she has been frequenting an art gallery there.”

  “The Calthorpe Art Gallery?”

  “The very same.”

  We made our way down the steps of the British Museum, which were lightly carpeted in fresh snow.

  “Has she been speaking to Mr Court-Holmes?”

  “Quite regularly, it seems. It’s all so suspicious that Inspector Raynes has managed to obtain a search warrant for the gallery and is already on his way down there. I thought I’d come and find you first. Here’s my cab. I asked him to wait for us.”

  We climbed inside.

  “So what do you think Mrs Mirabeau has been discussing with Mr Court-Holmes?” I asked. “It must have something to do with paintings.”

  “I should think so. Stolen paintings, forged paintings, burnt paintings… And to think that Jack Shelby hired Cooke to investigate for him! I wish I knew what was going on, Penny. I feel as though we are running around in circles.”

  Kit was waiting outside the Calthorpe Art Gallery with a bemused expression on his face. Inside, Inspector Raynes was speaking to Mr Court-Holmes while three or four police constables conducted a search. At the far end of the room I saw a lady in a dark dress seated on a chair and smoking a cigarette.

  “You honestly think that I would steal my own painting?” Mr Court-Holmes asked scornfully, his chin jutting out at Inspector Raynes.

  “In light of what we have discovered here, I believe that anything is possible, sir.” He turned as we approached. “Oh, good afternoon, Inspector Blakely. Miss Green.”

  “What have you found?” asked James.

  “The five forged paintings Mr Gallo bought,” replied Raynes. “And two forgeries of the Madame Belmonte.”

  “What?!” James gave an incredulous laugh.

  “And they weren’t particularly well hidden, either,” continued Inspector Raynes. “I don’t suppose you imagined we would ever search your gallery, did you, Mr Court-Holmes?”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector. All I know is that the Madame Belmonte is still missing and is probably somewhere in Paris.”

  “There’s no use in trying to blame Jack Shelby,” replied Raynes. “I have a feeling that the real Madame Belmonte cannot be too far away.”

  “And Mrs Mirabeau?” asked James, nodding at the figure in the far corner.

  “We are fairly confident that she removed the paintings from Gallo’s attic room and brought them here. It seems Mr Court-Holmes was beginning to feel nervous about someone discovering their provenance while they remained at the hotel.”

  “So she didn’t burn them after all,” commented James. “Although a few people are probably wishing now that she had!”

  “Are you suggesting that Mr Court-Holmes not only sold the paintings to Mr Gallo but also forged them?” I asked.

  “That’s what we believe,” said Inspector Raynes.

  “But you have no proof!” snarled Mr Court-Holmes.

  “We will have in due course, sir.”

  “And Mrs Mirabeau knew all about this scheme?” I asked.

  “Yes, we think so,” replied Inspector Raynes. “She’s a good friend of yours, isn’t she, Court-Holmes? In fact, I believe she was the one who introduced you to Mr Gallo.”

  “You must have been very pleased to be introduced to a new and wealthy customer,” said James.

  “I’ve heard enough self-satisfied comments from you gentlemen,” retorted Mr Court-Holmes. “Please leave my gallery at once! You will be hearing from my lawyer in the morning.”

  “You forget that we have a warrant to search these premises,” replied Inspector Raynes. “My men will remain here for as long as it takes.”

  I glanced over at Mrs Mirabeau again. She returned my look with a cold, unblinking stare.

  “Thank you, Kit,” said James, handing the shoeshine boy a few more coins. “That was exceptionally good work you did for us there.”

  “I ain’t sure exac’ly what I done, sir. I jus’ followed the lady like you said.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have asked for anything more,” replied James. “I may be calling on you for help again.”

  The boy grinned and walked off into the thick swirl of snowflakes descending from the dark clouds.

  “Here’s your snow,” I said to James. “From the north.”

  “Always from the north,” he replied with a smile.

  “So it’s a surprise to discover that Mrs Mirabeau was colluding with Mr Court-Holmes.”

  “It is rather, isn’t it? We knew she was hiding something didn’t we? And it turns out that she was assisting Mr Court-Holmes with his forgeries. It seems that he was the master forger who Anna O’Riley was trying to find.”

  “And lost her life in the process,” I added.

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Jack Shelby employed Mr Cooke to find out who the forger was, then Cooke recruited Anna O’Riley. And Jack Shelby had nothing to do with the theft of Madame Belmonte after all?”

  “No it seems that was Mr Court-Holmes all along.”

  “Fancy stealing his own painting!” I scoffed. “Mr Gallo could have chosen better friends than him and Mrs Mirabeau.”

  “They both deceived him for their own gain. And even though we’ve discovered this, I don’t feel we are any closer to discovering who murdered Mrs O’Riley and Mr Gallo.”

  “Could Mr Court-Holmes have ordered their deaths?”

  “He might have done, and perhaps he asked Mr Goldman to do it for him. If s
o, our case is solved, but I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”

  “There’s still the Augie fellow to consider.”

  “Yes there is. And regarding him, I sent a man up to Islington to speak with the coroner there. Fortunately, he was happy to share the papers from Walter Campbell’s inquest, which was held in the August of 1877. The verdict was accidental death, as Mrs Radnor told us.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Yes, just one. A man named Augustus John Smith, who was a recent graduate from the University of Oxford. His address was listed as Compton Terrace in Islington.”

  “Where the Davies family lived. It has to be the same man!”

  “Smith made a deposition at the inquest, describing how Mr Campbell had drunkenly clambered onto the wall of the bridge that ran above the railway line.”

  “Why didn’t he try to stop him?”

  “He did, apparently, but Campbell was determined to walk along the wall, and according to the report there was very little Smith could have done to prevent him.”

  “And presumably the jury believed his story.”

  “They had no reason to disbelieve it. Besides, we cannot know for sure that Mr Smith pushed him off that wall. It just seems rather coincidental, considering that he harboured such strong feelings for Anna O’Riley.

  “There’s something else that will interest you to hear. Our friend Augie Smith has a violent past. One of my men had a conversation with the chaps at N Division in Islington, and it turns out that a short while after Mr Campbell’s death Mr Smith stood trial for a violent assault. He was cleared of any wrongdoing, but the jury may have been influenced by his impressive academic background.”

  “They didn’t believe a graduate from the University of Oxford would do such a thing?”

  “It seems not.”

  “Do you know any other details about the assault?”

  “Nothing more than that at the moment.”

  “He may have been innocent, of course.”

  “Possibly. But if this is the same man who has murdered three other people in cold blood, I’d say that it is highly unlikely.”

  Chapter 51

  I sat at my writing desk that evening and watched as the snow accumulated on the ledge of my window pane. Under normal circumstances I would have drawn the curtains to keep out the cold, but I was enjoying the spectacle, as was Tiger, who tapped her paw at the window when a particularly large snowflake became stuck to it.

  “It’s rather late,” I heard Mrs Garnett say. “I’ll need to accompany you.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and I reached my door just after the knock sounded.

  “Penny!” James smiled and removed his hat, which glistened with flakes of snow.

  “What brings you here at this hour?”

  “Nothing serious, don’t worry. I have something quite interesting to tell you, in fact.”

  Mrs Garnett stepped into the room behind him, her lips resolutely pursed as though to ensure nothing of an affectionate nature would pass between us.

  “Mrs Reagen visited the Yard while we were out today. You remember Mrs Reagen, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Anna O’Riley’s landlady.”

  “That’s right. She found this torn-up letter in Mrs O’Riley’s wastepaper basket.”

  Mrs Garnett peered over my shoulder as James showed me a piece of paper, onto which he had glued ripped fragments of a letter.

  “She showed excellent presence of mind to spot the letter and bring it to me. I feel rather annoyed that we forgot to check inside the wastepaper basket!”

  “The handwriting seems familiar somehow. Is it from Augustus?” I asked.

  “It is indeed.”

  31st October 1884

  Dearest Clara,

  I am disappointed to hear that you have continued with your so-called profession, which is entirely unsuitable for a lady. What sort of gentlemen do you suppose them to be if they are happy to pay for your company? Your reputation is beginning to suffer, and it won’t be long before you are deemed ‘untouchable’. As I told you earlier today, I cannot bear the thought of that happening to you.

  I apologise that my temper got the better of me when we spoke, but I must urge you once again to do the right thing. Perhaps it is difficult for you to fully comprehend the complexity of your situation, but I believe that you will thank me once you have taken heed of my warning.

  It should be a comfort to you that there is a gentleman who wishes to marry you, and I would strongly advise you to take advantage of the opportunity while it is available to you. This may be the final chance you have to save yourself.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Augie

  “Gentlemen were paying for her company?” exclaimed Mrs Garnett. “What a scandal!”

  “The situation is not quite as it seems,” I said.

  “Well, it doesn’t sound right to me. It’s no wonder people get themselves murdered sometimes.”

  I bit my tongue, and James and I exchanged a bemused glance.

  “This was sent just eleven days before Mrs O’Riley and Mr Gallo were murdered,” I said.

  “And the tone of this letter is more hostile than the earlier ones,” said James. “It appears to have been written after a confrontation between the two of them. But whether he actually carried out the attack… who knows? It’s imperative that we find him.”

  “The letter bears no address,” I said. “Do you have his other letters with you?”

  “I do.”

  “Maybe there is something in them that could give us a clue as to his whereabouts.”

  James reached beneath his overcoat and pulled the other letters out of his jacket pocket. “We have the addresses of the two boarding houses he stayed at so we could make enquiries with them.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” I re-read the two earlier letters. “He gives away very little about himself,” I added. “Why was he staying in boarding houses, anyway?”

  “Perhaps he usually lives outside London.”

  “The first letter was written shortly after his mother’s funeral. Perhaps he was staying in London for the funeral.”

  “He might well have been. But he cannot live too far from London, as we know that he visited Le Croquembouche on several occasions.”

  “Perhaps he usually lives somewhere else in London and needed to be in… Where was it again?”

  “West Norwood.”

  “Perhaps he only stayed in that locality for his mother’s funeral.”

  “He was visiting her resting place every day, wasn’t he?”

  “So presumably he was staying close to the cemetery.”

  “Probably Norwood Cemetery,” said Mrs Garnett. “That’s the big cemetery down that way.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Garnett. Do you happen to know whether there are any catacombs there?”

  “Isn’t that where the bodies just lie in a crypt without being buried?” She gave a shiver.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something very odd about that. People should be buried properly, I say.”

  “But do you know whether there are catacombs at Norwood Cemetery?” I probed.

  “How would I know?”

  “We’ll need to find out,” said James. “We’re looking for a Mrs Smith who was laid to rest there at the end of August or the beginning of September. How about we go down there tomorrow, Penny?”

  Chapter 52

  “It doesn’t appear as though many people have ventured down to the cemetery this morning,” said James, surveying the few tracks in the snow.

  Thick snowflakes fell from the low, grey cloud as we stood beside the grand stone entrance of Norwood Cemetery. Several horses and carriages were labouring along the steep high street behind us.

  A stone lodge lay just beyond the cemetery gates, and James made some initial enquiries with the cemetery warden there. The tall, sallow-cheeked man confirmed that there were catacombs beneath the chapel in the
cemetery, and that the charge to visit would be sixpence.

  The warden strode on ahead of us, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat. His long black coat billowed in the breeze as we made our way through the silent cemetery. Everything lay beneath a blanket of snow, and I could feel the damp seeping through my boots. I rubbed my hands together to warm my gloved fingers.

  “I sent a telegram to P Division asking for their assistance,” said James. “They have a station close by on Knight’s Hill. Let’s hope they can meet us down here. Once we’ve seen Mrs Smith’s resting place, we can visit the boarding houses which Augustus stayed at.”

  The snowfall lent a serene beauty to the ornate tombs and headstones. A robin observed us from a nearby cross and made a tiny disturbance in the snow as it flew away. The warden turned right and led us uphill, the snow ahead of him lying smooth and untouched. We were the only people present, and there was so little movement around us that I jumped when a tiny avalanche fell from an overburdened branch.

  “Will Mrs Mirabeau and Mr Court-Holmes appear in front of the magistrates today?” I asked James.

  “They certainly will. I should have liked to be there myself.”

  “So should I! Perhaps there will be time once we’ve finished here. I would like to find out exactly what they got up to.”

  “I’ve heard word from Bow Street that Fenton has released Mr Goldman without charge.”

  “That’s interesting,” I replied. “Presumably for lack of evidence?”

  “I should think so. And possibly lack of motive too. Hopefully our investigation into Augustus Smith this morning will yield something, I don’t like the tone of his letters to Anna O’Riley.”

  “They’re horrible,” I agreed. “And although he needs to be apprehended, I can’t say that I would like to meet him.”

  “I think it’s likely that you already have.”

  I gave a shudder. “I think you’re right.”

  The chapel finally came into view. Its arched windows stared darkly at us; its spire too steep for any snow to rest upon it.

  The warden stopped at an iron gate and fumbled for the key that was stowed on his belt to open it. Then he lit his lantern and asked us to follow him down a stone staircase.