by Bettie Jane
Her eyes rested on the blood-soaked notebook. What she’d give to get her hands on that notebook. Maybe she’d be able to convince Jacob to let her look at it once the dust settled.
A bustle of reporters stood around the body, asking questions of the police and scratching notes into their small black leather books. Most reporters used that same style of notebook. Interesting that the police were letting the reporters have this much access to a fresh crime scene. She noticed Mr. Thompson standing among the other reporters. He must be devastated to have his star reporter murdered when he was so close to solving the Dock Murders.
She reached into her bag for her own notebook as they walked into the wine bar but couldn’t find it. Where was it? Luckily, she carried a second notebook in her messenger bag for just such a difficulty. She’d taken no short amount of grief from Opal at her insistence on carrying the style of bag that school children used, but the handbags that were in fashion these days were simply too small to hold the tools she needed to do her work.
Together, they approached the bar, and Jacob flagged the attention of the bartender, who wiped his hands on a dishtowel.
He looked at Julia, tipped his head in a friendly gesture, then turned back to address Jacob.
“There are no women allowed at the bar, sir.” Then spoke to Julia. “Miss, there is a backroom, just through there, where you may wait for table service.”
Julia stood there, unwilling to be dismissed out of hand.
The inspector took his identification out.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Inspector Gibbs. This is Julia Barlow. She’s here on police business. I’m here to inquire about Harry Jones. I understand you found him?”
Julia’s current distaste for Jacob relented at his defense for her presence. The thought of being relegated to the backroom like a servant or a child left her fuming.
The bartender looked frustrated at Julia’s presence, but given the Inspector’s declaration, he said no more of it.
“Inspector. It’s good to meet you. I’m Scotty Gibbons. I wasn’t actually the first person that found him. I heard a scream and ran outside. There was a woman, about your height, Miss, and blonde. When I approached her, she looked stunned. I saw immediately that the nature of injuries were such that it was quite impossible for Mr. Jones to still be alive. I asked her if she’d seen what had happened. She said she happened upon him and then begged her leave. She was quite distressed to have stumbled upon such a grotesque sight. I regret that I didn’t get her name.”
Julia took notes as he spoke, impressed and maybe a bit surprised at his thoroughness, and the Inspector continued his questioning.
“You are acquainted with Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, he’s a regular here. We get a lot of newspaper men in here. He was in here only a few minutes before he was killed. We were talking about what he was working on for the paper.”
“What time did he leave your establishment, Mr. Gibbons?”
“I suppose it was near half-past nine.”
“Do you recall what time you heard the scream and went outside?”
“It was nearly ten, I believe. Give or take five minutes. I remember looking at the clock to see how much time was left on my shift.”
“It’s quite interesting that nearly thirty minutes passed between when he took his leave and was found out there.”
Scotty nodded. “Yes, sir, I suppose it is. Although, at this time of night, there isn’t a lot of foot traffic. He could have been killed immediately after he left and it took that long for a passerby to come along.”
“Harry was shot. Did you hear any gunshots?”
“No, sir. None. Which is strange, I suppose, given that I heard the woman scream. Not sure how I could have heard the scream but not a gunshot. I served in the war, on the front line, and I know the sound of a gunshot. Perplexing, that is. Quite shocking to be reminded of the war in my own back alley.”
“Very good, Mr. Gibbons. You mentioned that you were discussing his work at the paper?” Jacob prompted.
“He said he was investigating the Dock Murders and that he thought he was onto something.” Mr. Gibbons sighed. “I should have made him stay in here. He was different than usual. He was paranoid, worried that someone was following him. He was tired and his thoughts were erratic. When he wasn’t staring into his pint, he was going on like a madman, saying that he found a connection between the women who’d been murdered, something in addition to their shared profession. According to Harry, all the women grew up in the same orphanage run by the Catholics. He said the church was not cooperating with providing information and so he was suspicious.”
“I see. A Catholic orphanage. Did Mr. Jones mention the name of the orphanage by chance?”
“Yes. He said if it were only a coincidence that they all came from St. Vincent’s, there’d be no reason for the church to hide information. He wasn’t overly fond of Catholics, if I’m honest. He seemed determined to discover what they were hiding and was going to drive over to the orphanage when he left here, all the way to Hampstead. I was surprised he was going to go so far at that late hour.”
Julia jotted down all the information, thinking that was the last of it, but Mr. Gibbons continued.
“He was still warm. How long does a person stay warm after they’ve died? I hoped for a minute that perhaps he could be saved, but his eyes—they were open and unseeing…he wasn’t breathing and the blood…there was so much blood. So much blood.”
Julia noticed that his words started to come out in a jumble.
“I’m sure you did all you could, Mr. Gibbons. Did Mr. Jones come in regularly?”
“He came in most days but at different times.”
“You said that he was acting nervous, that someone was possibly following him. Did he mention any details about the person following him?”
“He didn’t. He didn’t look as though he wanted to talk about it.”
“Have you seen anyone new frequenting your establishment?”
“There was no one in here tonight that wasn’t a regular. I know my customers and I’d already looked around for something that might be out of order when I saw how out of sorts Harry was about it. He was scared and a little frantic. He didn’t have all of his wits about him when I spoke to him. I’d say this story was distressing to him.”
Julia scribbled more notes, and Inspector Gibbs asked more questions.
“Did Harry say anything else about the orphanage or what he thought the church might be hiding?”
“No, not that I can remember. I think I’ve told you everything.”
“Did anyone leave the bar after Harry but before you heard the scream?”
“No, not that I recall. I was here for that entire time, behind the bar, and as you can see I have a clear view of the door.”
“Thank you. If you think of anything else, no matter how insignificant, please let me know. I may come around again in the next few days.”
“Certainly, Inspector. You don’t think the person who killed those girls killed Harry, do you? It makes my skin crawl knowing there might have been someone like that so close to my establishment.”
“It’s too soon to venture a guess at this point, but rest easy that we’ll follow every possible lead.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Drinks are on me anytime you frequent my pub.”
Jacob nodded and turned to Julia. “Do you have any additional questions, Miss Barlow?”
“I do. Did you notice anything lying near Mr. Jones besides his black notebook?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry to say I didn’t see a black notebook. Between the frightened woman and all the blood and Harry’s unseeing eyes, I didn’t notice much else.”
“One more question for you, Mr. Gibbons. Who did Harry spend time talking to when he frequented here? Did he have a regular crowd?”
“Oh, sure. Most of the reporters are friendly with each other, even if they are competitive. None of his normal crew were here tonight
, though. I could give you a list of their names if that would help?”
“Thank you. That would be helpful. Would you also write down the names of anyone you remember coming in this evening after, say, seven?”
“Certainly. We weren’t very busy this evening. With the Dock Murderer out and about, not many feel safe roaming about the streets of London very late.”
She set her notebook on the counter and turned to a clean page, then handed the bartender her pen. He started writing the names of those people who had been in the bar that evening.
She heard a voice behind her that startled her.
“Julia, I’m surprised to see you here. You’ve heard the terrible news about Harry then?”
Julia turned to see Mr. Thompson approaching the bar. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since he’d offered her a job alongside Harry, but it had been only a mere number of hours ago.
She shook his hand. “Mr. Thompson. I’m so sorry for your loss. What a terrible tragedy.”
Mr. Thompson’s eyes darted around the room, his sharp gaze taking in details with each glance.
“Yes, yes. Devastating to be sure. He was a star at our paper. He’ll be greatly missed.”
“Mr. Thompson, did Harry tell you about his suspicion that there was a link between the Dock Girls. They may have resided in the same orphanage, north of London.”
Mr. Thompson shook his head. “No, I’m not aware of that. He didn’t mention it the last time he gave me an update. Where did you hear this information?”
“From me.” Mr. Gibbons answered the editor’s question and handed Julia’s notebook back to her.
The editor nodded and then stared off in the distance, as if lost in thought. He turned back to Julia.
“Miss Barlow, I know that you wanted time to consider the offer of employment we discussed, but will you take over where Harry left off? On a temporary basis, of course. We’ll consider this a working interview for the both of us. If, at the end of this investigation, you don’t wish to work for The Daily Telegraph, you can submit the article to your current paper. Since it can’t be Harry investigating this, it should be you.”
Julia thought for a brief moment, then nodded. “Under the circumstances, yes, I’d be happy to oblige. We can discuss terms should we reach a permanent agreement, but for now, I’ll use whatever I have at my disposal to discover what happened to Harry Jones and the so-called Dock Girls. If there is a connection, I’ll find it.”
Jacob stiffened at her acceptance, but luckily for him, he didn’t verbalize his protest. She’d hate to kill him in front of all these witnesses.
She supposed her rage—if that was even what she was feeling—was still boiling under the surface.
“Come by my office in the morning, and I’ll issue you an expense account to aid in your search.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. May I also have access to Harry’s files? I’d like to learn everything I can about what he knew. I can’t begin to inquire at St. Vincent’s until I have more information.”
The editor nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, Julia.”
After Mr. Thompson made his exit, Julia faced Jacob. “Any information you might be able to provide about the Dock Murders would be extremely helpful, Inspector. Especially regarding any suspects you might have.”
He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but it was still a nod.
Good, she thought. Hopefully he was at least as uncomfortable as she was with the arrangement they found themselves in.
How unlike him to not bat an eye at her request for access to confidential police files. It was no consolation for losing what she thought they’d had together, but may as well make lemonade out these bitter, platonic lemons that life had dealt her.
4
Tuesday, February 12th, 1921
Daily Telegraph Office Headquarters
Fleet Street
London
“Julia, welcome to The Daily Telegraph. The circumstances are less than desirable, but you are most welcome here at this difficult time.” Mr. Thompson met her when she entered the offices. He didn’t give her any chance to do more than thank him before he continued. “Harry was a central figure here. I’m afraid we aren’t going to know what to do without him. Follow me to his desk. You have full access to everything he left here.”
Mr. Thompson led her to a corner office with wide windows. From this vantage point, she could see a good bit of Fleet Street and the infamous St. Bride’s Church.
“This is an incredible view, Mr. Thompson.”
“Stunning, isn’t it? You can see a glimpse of St. Paul’s where the first printing press was housed down from St. Bride’s, the so-called Cathedral of Fleet Street.” She looked in the direction he was pointing and saw St. Paul’s in the near distance.
“I’ve passed by St. Paul’s many times, but it looks different from here. Smaller and yet somehow even more magnificent. The new gates they installed for St. Bride’s churchyard turned out beautifully, didn’t they? The spire atop the church is one of my favorite sites in London. I have a peculiar fondness for architecture as well as history, and Fleet Street has a wonderful combination of both. I could spend hours exploring all the nooks and crannies of this area.”
She knew she was rambling, the way she would feel if she were actually interviewing for a position, and willed herself to take a deep breath and be more intentional in her speech.
Don’t be a chattering ninny, Julia.
“The gates did turn out wonderfully,” Mr. Thompson agreed. “Harry insisted on placing his desk here. He said he found inspiration looking down on the historical accomplishments of those whose shoulders we can stand on. He had something of an obsession with St. Bride’s Church. One that has rubbed off on myself and some of the other staff here as well.”
“I can see that it would be inspiring. I wish I would have had the opportunity to get to know him. It seems everyone who knew him was quite fond of him.”
“I’m in full agreement. Which is why you must uncover the truth about what happened to him. The rest of us, we are too emotionally involved to be able to lead an inquiry. I’ve been watching you from a distance since your rise to fame with the Lady Withers’ article,” he told her. “I vowed I would get you to work at my paper, but it truly is unfortunate the way this came about. Harry was so looking forward to meeting and working with you.”
“Such an unfortunate end for an up and coming journalism icon.”
Mr. Thompson stared out the window and the two newspaper professionals shared an unofficial moment of silence for the felled reporter. Julia waited for him to speak, feeling as if she was intruding on Mr. Thompson’s grief. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and thick, as if swallowing back tears.
“Did you know that the London Press Club is down the street off Wine Office Court? I believe your Piccadilly Ladies’ Club was modeled after theirs a few years back, was it not?”
“Ah, yes,” Julia said, relieved for the break in silence. “The founder of Piccadilly Ladies Club decided to start her own when the good old boys wouldn’t let her join the London Press Club. They even used the same initials but in a different order. Fleet Street truly does have such wonderful history steeped in journalism.”
“It truly does. I suppose there is some comfort that can be found for Harry. He died doing what he loved, journalism, and in Fleet Street no less. I suppose if he would have had to pick a place to die, he would have chosen right here in this historic neighborhood.”
“I’ll do my very best to pick up where he left off in his investigations, Mr. Thompson. Anything to make certain his killer is caught.”
She poked around the files on his desk. Loose papers with notes scribbled on them and newspaper articles about the women’s murders also notated were strewn over the worn surface. His little black notebook sat on the corner of his desk. There was some order to the chaos of his papers. This must have been an older one since she’d seen his current notebook next to his body.
“I’ll dig into this right away, and I’ll compare it to whatever information I can garner from Inspector Gibbs this afternoon when I go by Scotland Yard headquarters.”
“Very well.” He pointed to a blonde woman down the row who was smoking a cigarette. “That’s Suzette. If you need anything at all, simply ask her for it.”
His gaze seemed to linger on the blonde secretary for a moment—an affectionate gaze that was more than professional camaraderie if she was betting on it—then he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Julia.
“Oh, yes, before I forget.”
He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Julia.
“Your expense account, Julia. If you use this and need more, reach out to me or Suzette. We’ll spare no expense to find out what monster did this to Harry.”
Julia watched Mr. Thompson walk away and wondered if a good deal of Mr. Thompson’s emotion stemmed from losing his star reporter rather than the specific loss of Mr. Jones himself.
She sat down in Harry’s chair, feeling self-conscious. Was this disrespectful? She couldn’t very well spend hours standing up while she searched through his things. She paused, thinking. Finally, she made a decision about how to proceed.
“Sorry, Harry,” she muttered to herself and to the dead man, on the off chance he could hear. “I mean no disrespect. Your desk is lovely. I’ll be borrowing your chair. It’s only temporary. The view is quite lovely, Mr. Jones.”
Having acknowledged that only yesterday someone so full of life sat in this chair, she felt a bit better and began to sort through the stacks of papers, journals, and newspaper articles. She looked through his notebook, where she found interesting notes about the Dock Murderer investigations. In his desk drawers she found a separate file for each of the girls that had gone missing and were subsequently killed, plus files on other women of similar age and profile, and other persons he’d interviewed during his investigation. There was an abundance of information here, and it would take her hours to sift through it with the attention to detail that it would need.
