by Emily Organ
“But what if there isn’t? Perhaps the supposed threat to Borthwick was merely in his mind. He had an extremely active brain and was prone to wild imaginations.”
“But don’t you think there may be a chance that the threat to him was real?”
“He never mentioned the threat while he was alive. But there’s a possibility, I suppose, that his letter tells the truth. And if it does I am deeply saddened for him, as he must have suffered terribly.”
“Was he close to any of his colleagues? Is there anyone else who works here in whom he may have confided?”
“You could try Jack Copeland. I suppose he might know something. It’s unlikely, though. The contents of Borthwick’s farewell letter have certainly come as a surprise to me. I had no inkling that he was under such strain. I wish now that he had spoken to me. I feel sure that I could have talked him out of it.” Mr Repton’s voice wavered. “It’s a terrible loss.”
Chapter 10
The air in the British Library reading room felt stifling. Sunshine poured in through the windows of the great dome above me and the red-whiskered man sitting opposite kept pulling at his tie. My corset and blouse felt damp with perspiration.
“Here you are, Miss Green. I found this book by Mr Donald Repton,” whispered Mr Edwards. “The Maintenance of Electric Currents.”
His keen, green eyes were fixed on me through the thick lenses of his spectacles, and his sandy hair hung limply against his forehead.
“Thank you, Mr Edwards. I’m not sure I’ll be reading it from cover to cover, but I appreciate your bringing it to my attention.”
He chuckled. “It’s one of many he has written. I can show you the location on the second gallery if you wish.”
“I hope there’s rather more air up there,” I replied, fanning myself.
I followed Mr Edwards up a narrow flight of steps to the first gallery. He was being his usual helpful self as a clerk of the reading room, but I felt increasingly uncomfortable in his company.
We had enjoyed several walks in Hyde Park together with my sister Eliza as chaperone, and I felt concerned that he hoped our friendship might develop further. Each time I saw him I felt my shoulders become tense as I wondered whether he was about to spring an awkward question or invitation on me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Mr Edwards, but more that I didn’t like him enough to consider a courtship. As each day passed I feared that we were nearing the moment when I would have to politely decline him.
We climbed the iron staircase up to the second gallery. I enjoyed the view of the reading room from up there, with the long desks radiating out from the head librarian’s dais at the centre of the room.
Mr Edwards took hold of a ladder which was leaning up against the book shelves.
“I’m afraid this will be required to reach Mr Repton’s works,” he said as he moved it along the shelving racks so that it was in line with the required section. “Would you like me to climb up and fetch them for you? It can be quite dizzying up at the top.”
“I’m happy to look myself. Thank you, Mr Edwards.”
I climbed the ladder and surveyed the leather-bound works of Donald Repton. His writings were more prolific than I had realised. The air felt even warmer up there, closer to the windows. Next to Mr Repton’s books was a slim volume written by another author.
“A book by Simon Borthwick!” I exclaimed. It was on the far right of the shelf, I leaned out to take hold of it.
“Careful, Miss Green,” warned Mr Edwards. “Please don’t fall.”
I managed to pull the book out with one hand, but it was heavier than I had thought. My hand couldn’t hold on and it slipped from my grip.
“Watch out!” I called down to Mr Edwards.
But he had already stepped forward and caught the book in his arms.
“That was a close one, Miss Green!”
“I do apologise. What a fine catch, Mr Edwards.”
“I was an excellent short leg, Miss Green.”
“Is that something to do with cricket?”
He nodded as I climbed down the ladder. Once I was standing on the narrow walkway beside him, I had the distinct impression that he was about to ask me something before handing me back the book.
“May I say how much I have enjoyed our perambulations with your sister in Hyde Park, Miss Green.”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards. I have also enjoyed them.”
I looked expectantly at the book. It was titled A Practical Treatise on Electric Illumination.
“I wondered if you would perhaps like to visit another location with me. With your sister as chaperone, of course. After all, we live in this wonderful great city with so many sights to admire!”
“We do indeed.”
“Where would you like to go?”
I paused. “Mr Edwards, would you mind terribly if I were to suggest an idea next week? It is rather too hot to consider anything much at the moment and I have quite a lot of work to occupy me at the present time.”
He quickly hid the disappointment on his face with a cheery smile.
“Of course, Miss Green! You’re right. It is terribly hot, and I understand that you have a lot of work to do. You certainly keep me busy here in the reading room with all the different areas of research required for your news articles. One week it’s Egypt and the next it’s French authors, and then there are the maps of Colombia. Did that explorer chap, Mr Fox-Stirling, have anything useful to say about his search for your father in Colombia? I forgot to ask how your meeting with him went.”
My father had been a plant-hunter but had disappeared in Colombia nine years previously. I was attempting to write a book about his life and had recently met with Mr Fox-Stirling, who had conducted an unsuccessful search for my father.
“Not anything particularly useful, but he was rather pushed for time. He has invited Eliza and me to have dinner with him and his wife.”
“That’s wonderful. He may have some interesting titbits of information about your father for the book. How’s the book writing going, by the way?”
“Slowly, Mr Edwards.”
He laughed. “You always say that, Miss Green!”
“Probably because it’s the truth.” I forced a smile but was beginning to feel rather irritable. “Thank you for helping me find this book, Mr Edwards. I must go and look through it as I need to be back at the office shortly to meet my deadline.”
“Of course, Miss Green.” He stepped aside to allow me to pass. Although he was smiling, the look of disappointment still lingered in his eyes.
Back at my desk, I leafed through the pages of Simon Borthwick’s book. The text was rather detailed and dense, so I chose to browse the illustrations of galvanometers, drum armatures and various types of generators. There were countless pictures of arc lamps and incandescent lamps; lamps which could be used for industrial purposes and others which could be used at home. Each turn of the page fanned the air under my chin slightly.
Then I came across a folded piece of paper tucked into the centre of the book. I opened out the stray sheet and saw that it was a letter. It was undated and unsigned.
Dear reader
Observe if you will that this book lacks any expertise which can be attributed to Mr Simon Borthwick. The man has been credited for his work on the incandescent bulb and successfully filed a British patent for a lamp utilising carbonised cotton thread as a filament. This idea, however, was stolen directly from the Scottish inventor Mr Hugo Bannister, who recently died in ill-deserved poverty and obscurity in New York.
For how much longer will Mr Borthwick hoodwink the scientific community, the establishment and the great British public with his supposed innovations? Sadly, only time will tell.
And so, my dear reader, consider yourself enlightened with regard to the true identity of Mr Simon Borthwick. The man is not an inventor; he’s a thief.
I read the letter through a second time just to be certain that I had read it correctly. Was there any truth to what it said? How l
ong had the anonymous letter remained hidden within the pages of this book?
I stared at the words in their sloping black ink and tried to understand the motive behind the letter. Was this the sort of thing to which Mr Borthwick had been referring when he wrote that someone had been trying to besmirch his name?
I flicked through the pages of the book looking for another letter but found nothing more.
“How are you finding the book, Miss Green?”
“Very enlightening, thank you, Mr Edwards.”
“Is there anything else I can assist with?”
“You may like to look at this.”
I showed him the letter and explained that I had found it inside the book.
“Have you noticed anyone placing pieces of paper inside any of your books, Mr Edwards?”
“Certainly not.” He scowled. “It’s an abuse of library property, and when I find out who did this I shall report them to the head librarian and ensure that their reading ticket is confiscated.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I should very much like to find out who wrote it. Have you ever heard of a Hugo Bannister?”
“No.”
“I haven’t either until now. Perhaps the person who wrote this was a friend of his. Or even a family member.”
“I will have a look through our reader records and see if I can find anyone who shares the same surname.”
“In the meantime, I will have to try to find out more about him.”
“Would you like me to do that?”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards. I should be very grateful if you could. Do you mind if I keep this letter for the time being?”
“I’m not sure about that, Miss Green. I really need to show it to the head librarian.”
“I understand, but I will keep it safe. Do you mind if I hold on to it for just a few days? I should like to see if I can have the handwriting analysed.”
“I’m not sure where you would begin with that, Miss Green, but very well. Please ensure that you hand it back to me, however, as this is evidence of a crime against an asset of the library.”
“I certainly will, Mr Edwards. We both need to find out who the culprit is.”
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my carpet bag.
Chapter 11
“Why did you decide to work with electricity?” I had asked Simon Borthwick during our first and only meeting.
“My grandfather took me to one of Michael Faraday’s Christmas lectures at the Royal Institution when I was fourteen. Faraday was a fascinating speaker and I remember his demonstration as clearly as if it were yesterday. I was amazed at the way he could generate static electricity by rubbing a glass rod with a piece of silk, shuffling his feet on the carpet and combing a lock of hair with a tortoiseshell comb. To demonstrate the electricity he was creating he used a gold-leaf electroscope. Do you know what that is?”
“I don’t.”
“I have one right here.”
He had walked over to one of the shelves and brought back a glass jar.
“Look, it has a circular brass plate on top of it. A rod descends from the plate into the jar and suspended from the rod are two pieces of gold leaf. See them there?”
I nodded.
“When a charge is applied to the plate these two gold leaves separate, rather like an upside-down letter V. When I saw what Faraday did, I knew that I wanted to become an electrochemist. My grandfather also had an interest in electricity, although his interest was more associated with magic. He often practised his own conjuring tricks, but he was no good at them.” Borthwick laughed. “He enjoyed magic shows and went to see the French magician Robert-Houdin at the St James’s Theatre in 1853. Robert-Houdin used electromagnetism in his tricks, and in those days few members of the audience had any understanding of electricity at all. They believed that what they were seeing was true magic.”
“What about your parents? Did they have an interest in electricity?”
“They may have done, but I wouldn’t know. They died within a year of each other. My father succumbed to rheumatic fever when I was eight years old and my mother never recovered from his death. My grandmother maintained that she had died of a broken heart, but I’m not sure that is strictly possible. My younger brother went to live with an aunt and uncle in Wales. I don’t see much of him. They didn’t want to take on two boys and they preferred the younger one. They felt I would be too much work for them. I’m grateful for the time my grandparents devoted to me. It’s a shame that neither of them is around to see my work.”
“I’m sure they would be extremely proud, especially of your patent for the light bulb.”
“Perhaps, but I didn’t manage it alone. The work I did merely built upon the travails of others who had gone before me: Davy, Yablochkov, de Moleyns, Sprengel and Bannister among them. Then in Canada you have Woodward and Evans, who sold their light bulb patent to Edison. And the Sawyer-Man incandescent lamps have been around for a few years now.”
“And Thomas Edison?”
“There’s no doubt that his light bulb patent in America infringes upon the work of others including mine, but I am leaving that to the lawyers. I prefer not to involve myself in legal discussions.” His amenable mood vanished and his expression swiftly darkened.
“But Mr Edison’s lightbulb must differ from yours in some way, does it not?”
“I don’t wish to discuss it, Miss Green,” snapped Borthwick. “Legal matters make me angry.”
“While you’re at the typewriter, Miss Green, I don’t suppose you fancy typewriting my article on the Belgian elections, do you?” asked Edgar Fish. “It’s only four hundred words.”
“I can’t, Edgar. I’ll miss my deadline.”
“I’m going to miss mine, too! Sherman’s told me he wants my articles typewritten now because it hastens the editing process.”
“Have you asked his secretary, Miss Welton?”
“She isn’t speaking to me at the present time.”
“Why not?” I stopped typewriting and turned to look at him over my shoulder.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s because you called her an old lady,” said Frederick Potter.
“I said it in jest!” exclaimed Edgar. “It was supposed to be humorous.”
“Miss Welton isn’t the humorous type,” I replied.
“No, she’s not,” said Edgar. “And neither am I when I have no one to do my typewriting for me.”
“You could try learning it yourself,” I said.
Edgar snorted. “I have no patience for that. It requires perseverance, which is something the fairer sex possesses in far greater measure than us men. Those little keys you press down are no match for my great fingers. I feel sure they’d snap! And besides, my fingers don’t have the dexterity.”
“You play the piano, don’t you, Fish?” asked Frederick.
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“It means your fingers must have dexterity.”
“It’s entirely different, Potter. That’s music. There’s an ebb and flow to it, which causes one’s fingers to dance. They could never plod, plod, clatter, clatter on the keys of that infernal typewriting machine. It’s as if one’s hands become machines themselves!”
“I think a chap needs to invent a typewriter which plays music when you press the letters on it,” said Frederick. “What do you think to that, Fish?”
“I think it’s a capital idea. We just need to wait for some fellow to invent it. In the meantime, Miss Green, please can you typewrite my article for me?”
“No,” I replied firmly.
Mr Sherman entered the room, the door slamming behind him once again.
“I regret to report, sir, that I am unable to have my article typewritten,” said Edgar. “Miss Welton won’t do it, and neither will Miss Green. I feel utterly abandoned.”
“Abandoned, eh?” Mr Sherman removed his pipe from his mouth. “Miss Green, please typewrite Edgar’s articl
e for him when you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing there.”
“But I don’t have enough time, sir!”
“Make some time, then. It won’t take you long. You’re quite an expert on that machine now. I refuse to edit spidery handwriting any longer. I want it all typewritten.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Edgar. “Women don’t seem to appreciate the genuine advantage they have over men in the operation of typewriter machines, do they?”
“They don’t, Fish. They’re blessed with far more patience than us.”
I felt my teeth clench.
“Exactly, sir,” said Edgar. “And, as I mentioned to Miss Green just now, perseverance.”
“A trait naturally found in women,” responded the editor.
“As well as tolerance.”
My fingers jabbed angrily at the typewriter keys.
“And an overall sanguinity,” added Frederick. “And calmness.”
“Not to mention feminine serenity and a gentle acceptance of menial tasks,” said Edgar.
“Enough!” I snarled, ripping my completed article out of the typewriter.
“Miss Green?” asked Mr Sherman. “Are you all right?”
“I apologise, sir. Perhaps I don’t possess the patience that nature was duty-bound to bestow upon me.”
“How are you getting on with the murder at the medical school?”
“Chief Inspector Stroud of the City of London police is working on it.”
“Is there a suspect yet?”
“Apparently not. I think there’s an obvious one, but the chief inspector disagrees with me.”
“They need young Blakely on the case,” said Edgar. “The schoolboy inspector. That would put a smile on your face, wouldn’t it, Miss Green?”
I glowered at him.
“There has been much speculation regarding the medical school murder down at the Turkish baths,” said Mr Sherman. “I spoke to a chap who knew Mr Geller, and he couldn’t possibly imagine why anyone would wish to harm such a pleasant young man.”
