by Emily Organ
“Such a ridiculous notion!” said Eliza. “George and I never agree on anything!”
“Ah, but in the eyes of God you are as one,” said the curly-haired woman with a smile.
“If only we were,” replied Eliza. “George is still concerned about the case of Mrs Cynthia Leonard, an American lady he read about in the newspaper.”
“Who is she?” asked Mrs Lennox.
“It’s reported that she went to a women’s suffrage conference in New York and then refused to return to her husband. Apparently, she wishes to be ‘untrammelled in her life’s work’.”
“Hurrah for Mrs Leonard!” I piped up, instantly wishing I hadn’t as all the faces immediately turned toward me again.
Eliza scowled in response to the interruption. “A judge in New York has now granted her the divorce,” she added.
“While I cannot deny that women’s suffrage is a noble cause, it seems a step too far to be divorcing one’s husband over the matter,” said the silver-haired lady.
“It does indeed, Mrs Knatchbull,” said Eliza, “and I now find myself having to reassure George that I’m not about to do the same thing! Poor chap.”
“I always refer prophets of doom to the queen,” said Mrs Lennox. “When they complain about women’s suffrage I ask them whether they’re aware that a woman has governed the destinies of this country for forty-seven years! And I might add that she has done so with more diplomatic skill and grace than any man could ever have achieved.”
This statement was met with many nods of approval.
“Agreed,” said a red-haired lady in a tightly laced dress. “Our great queen is often overlooked in this debate.”
“I do so enjoy it when the West London Women are here,” said Eliza as she plumped up a cushion once the ladies had left. “Did you enjoy the debate?”
“Indeed I did, Ellie.” In all honesty the time had seemed to drag. Some interesting points had been made, but there had been a good deal of superfluous chatter, which always bored me.
“This is the first opportunity I’ve had to ask you, Penelope,” said Eliza, “but did something irregular pass between you and Mr Edwards at the dinner party we had for Mr Fox-Stirling last week? I couldn’t help but notice that the man was rather sullen following Inspector Blakely’s brief visit.”
“Not that I’m aware of, Ellie.” I willed my face not to redden as I told the lie.
“James called in to update you on the case you had been working on together, and then, to my knowledge, you spoke for a while in the hallway. I asked Mr Edwards to fetch you for pudding, but when the pair of you returned I swear that not a single word passed between you for the remainder of the evening.”
“Really? That’s not how I remember it.”
“Were any cross words exchanged between Mr Edwards and Inspector Blakely? I suppose there must be a little resentment on both sides.”
“Resentment? What nonsense!” My voice sounded less than convincing. “If Mr Edwards became sullen I cannot imagine why. Perhaps he was tired, or maybe he’s prone to changeable moods.”
“It was certainly changeable that evening,” said Eliza. “Which is a shame, as he had been enjoying Mr Fox-Stirling’s tales of adventure, hadn’t he?”
“He had. And I was pleased that Mr Fox-Stirling agreed over dinner that he would start the search for Father in Colombia again.”
Our father had vanished in Amazonia nine years previously while undertaking one of his famous plant-hunting expeditions.
“Yes, isn’t that wonderful news? And it’s encouraging that he has agreed to take a Spanish interpreter along with him this time. I’m still in a state of wonderment that Mr Edwards should have donated such a large sum to aid the search effort. It’s incredibly generous of him, and certainly demonstrates the size of the torch he holds for you, Penelope. Don’t ever upset him, will you?”
I smiled meekly.
“Now we have only the remainder of the money to raise,” continued Eliza. “I shall organise some fundraisers, but I shall need your help with those.”
“Of course.”
She watched my face for longer than felt comfortable.
“I still think there’s something you’re not telling me, Penelope.”
“Regarding what?”
“Oh, never mind. I can see that you’re not in the mood to admit anything to me at the present time, but the truth will out sooner or later.”
Chapter 5
I had begun to make progress on the book I was writing about my father’s life. By committing time to it each evening I had managed to write between five hundred and a thousand words each day. Some comprised transcriptions of his letters and diaries, so I had found it quite difficult to add my own narrative. However, with perseverance and much crossing out, I was finally beginning to achieve something.
The ending of the book would depend on the result of Mr Fox-Stirling’s search for my father, which had been planned for the following year.
I worked at my writing desk in my garret room in front of a little window which looked out over the rooftops. My cat Tiger was usually close by as I worked, either sitting out on the roof watching the birds on the chimneys or resting on my desk. Sometimes she was determined to sit on the piece of paper upon which I was trying to write.
It was usually when I was most absorbed in my work that my landlady would come knocking at my door with a message.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Miss Green!”
Could it be James? I wondered. My heart skipped hopefully, but then I reminded myself of our conversation beside All Saints church. His wedding was going ahead and I would have to do my very best to suppress any affection I held for him.
I smoothed down my cotton skirts and adjusted the pins in my hair.
“Miss Green!” my landlady called impatiently.
I opened the door. “Yes, Mrs Garnett?”
Her steel-grey curls sprung out from beneath her bonnet. A widow of about fifty, she had come to London from British West Africa as a child. The whites of her eyes contrasted with her dark skin as she gave me an excitable look. She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“It’s that lovesick gentleman from the library!”
It was Mr Edwards.
“I see. Thank you, Mrs Garnett.”
“Well come on, then. Don’t keep him waiting!”
I reluctantly descended the narrow wooden stairs behind my landlady. Why was Mr Edwards here? What had he come to say to me? And what could I say to him in return?
I could feel the heat rising in my face as I thought about the kiss with James, which Mr Edwards had undoubtedly witnessed.
I followed Mrs Garnett down the wide, carpeted staircase which led to the hallway as a prickly ball of shame rolled in my stomach. I wished I could be anywhere but here.
Mr Edwards stood by the hallway table holding his bowler hat in one hand. He wore a pale grey summer suit and the fringe of his sandy hair partly obscured his spectacles.
“Mr Edwards,” I said as cheerfully as possible. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Miss Green.”
His greeting was polite but solemn, and I steeled myself for a difficult conversation. Having once agreed we’d refer to each other by first name, we appeared to be on surname terms again. Mrs Garnett remained in the hallway with us, looking from one to the other as if waiting to see who would speak next.
“Mrs Garnett, I hope it isn’t untoward of me to request this, but please may I speak to Miss Green alone for a few minutes?”
My landlady sucked her lip disapprovingly.
“What about a chaperone?” she asked.
Mr Edwards nodded. “I understand your concern, Mrs Garnett, but please rest assured that I only wish to have a quick conversation with Miss Green. My intentions are entirely honourable, and I can assure you that I would never take advantage of a lady.” He spoke these last few words with emphasis, as if referring to my kiss with James.
“I should hope n
ot!” retorted Mrs Garnett. “However, it would not be appropriate for me to allow the two of you to use my parlour. I have known all matter of mishaps occur in parlours.”
“I’m sure it will be quite suitable for us to speak here in the hallway,” I suggested.
Mrs Garnett nodded but showed no sign of moving.
“The evening air is quite pleasant,” said Mr Edwards. “Shall we talk outside on the steps?”
“What an excellent idea, Mr Edwards,” I replied.
We stood on the third step down from the front door in the hope that Mrs Garnett wouldn’t be able to overhear our conversation. As Mr Edwards fidgeted with the brim of his hat my mouth suddenly felt dry. The street was quiet at this time of day, with only a few carriages passing by. Streaks of cloud above the rooftops began to glow orange.
“I had a conversation with Inspector Blakely yesterday evening,” said Mr Edwards, staring at the houses opposite us.
“Oh?” My voice croaked.
“It was at quite a pleasant establishment, actually: The Marquis of Cornwallis in Bloomsbury. Have you ever been there?”
“I haven’t.”
“It was Inspector Blakely’s idea. He was waiting for me when I finished work at the library. He gave me a thorough explanation with regard to recent… events.”
“Oh?” I said again, unsure as to what else I could say.
“Yes, and I must say I respect the man’s ability to express such contriteness. First and foremost, he has been extremely concerned about the effect the incident may have had on you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. He explained that it was nothing more than a moment of weakness on his part. He was tired and had spent a long, busy day on that Borthwick case. He stated that he has no idea how the emotion overcame him, but overcome him it did. I cannot recall ever seeing a man so filled with regret.”
“I see.”
“He was most regretful about the fact that he has ruined your honour.”
“I think that he is overstating it, rather. It was a simple mistake, and I feel sure that my honour remains intact.”
“He would be pleased to hear you say that, I’m sure. I believe he has already apologised to you.”
“He has.”
“He apologised profusely to me and I should say that, after some consideration, I have accepted his apology.”
“That’s very obliging of you, Mr Edwards.”
“I can’t say that I initially felt obliging, but having spent some time in the chap’s company I can say that I respect him and his work, and I consider him to be of generally good character given that he appears willing to recognise and apologise for his mistakes.”
I smiled to myself as I realised that Mr Edwards considered me entirely blameless in this matter. The idea that I might have wanted James to kiss me did not seem to have entered his head.
“So there’s no need for me to say any more on the matter,” Mr Edwards said, turning to face me. “I haven’t seen you in the reading room recently, Miss Green.”
“Oh, I’ve been rather busy reporting on this Forster murder case. And the book about Father’s life is coming along rather better now. I’ve been devoting more time to it.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Well, I hope to see you there again soon. If there’s anything you would like me to research on your behalf you know where I am.”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards, and I appreciate the time you’ve taken to come and speak to me about the other matter this evening. I do apologise —”
“I won’t hear an apology from you, Miss Green. You were a victim of the man’s passions. Detectives such as Inspector Blakely must endure much stress and strain in their work, and lapses will naturally occur. Others lapse into drink, of course. You were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any woman who happened to find herself standing in front of Inspector Blakely that evening.”
I felt my heart sink at the thought that James would have kissed any woman he might have encountered that night, but it was clearly a thought which afforded Mr Edwards some comfort, so I remained silent.
Chapter 6
“Stay back!” came the shout.
People knocked into each other as they tried to lift their feet from the rivulets of water running off the pavement and into the gutter.
Another pail of water was emptied onto the paving slabs with a loud slosh, and brushes scrubbed the decks with great fervour.
“Move away!”
A group of constables were doing their best to keep the crowd away from the London Library in the corner of St James’s Square. Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette elbowed me as he tried to get closer. I stood on my tiptoes, hoping to see an inspector who might be in charge of the scene, but everything appeared rather chaotic.
More water trickled past my feet and my stomach churned when I saw that it was streaked with red. Additional staff emerged from the stone portico of the East India Club, each equipped with a pail of water and a broom.
“What’s ’appened?” asked a woman in a brown dress and tattered shawl who had appeared at my side.
“I’m not exactly sure yet,” I replied. “All I’ve heard is that there’s been a murder.”
“That’s what I ’eard an’ all. What they washin’ the path for?”
I chose not to answer as she pushed past me to get closer to the action.
There was an early morning chill in the air. Mrs Garnett had woken me shortly after dawn with the news, her knowledgeable friend having called at the house to give her the scoop.
I decided it was time to break through the crowd and find out what had happened.
“Press!” I shouted as I began to push my way to the corner of the square. “Press! Let me through!”
I was knocked and jostled as I battled my way through the throng. My toes were stepped on and I almost lost my notebook in the melee.
“Move back! Move back!” cried the police constables.
Behind the line they were maintaining, the paving was still being scrubbed by the staff of the East India Club. The crowd surged forward and my face was pressed up against the chest of a black-whiskered reporter from the News of the World. We avoided each other’s gaze, equally embarrassed by our close proximity.
“Who was the victim?” I asked his jacket.
“Augustus Forster.”
“Mr Forster?” I looked up at the dark whiskers. “The man whose wife was murdered during that burglary a few days ago?”
“Same one.”
“He’s also been murdered? But how? Why?”
The reporter tried to shrug but could barely move his arms. “It’s baffling,” he replied as he was lurched into me. “Oops, I am sorry.”
The man I had suspected of murdering his wife was dead himself.
As I struggled to comprehend this, a wiry inspector with a wispy moustache skipped over the wet pavement and called out to us. “Gentlemen! Can I have some calm, please? If you’re from the press, follow me. No one else has any business being here. Get back to whatever it is you ought to be doing.”
He strode off in the direction of the East India Club and everyone in the crowd turned to follow. I was able to extricate myself from the reporter’s chest, but the next moment I received a shoulder blow to my chin.
“Miss Green?”
“Edgar?”
“I thought I’d got here before you this time.”
“I’m afraid not.” I smiled. “Did you hear the inspector’s announcement? We’re to follow him into the East India Club.”
“Righty-ho,” said Edgar, shuffling into an about-turn.
The police constables tried to disperse the crowd while the rest of us made our way toward the club.
“Why here?” I asked Edgar.
“The chap was staying here, apparently,” he replied.
“Have you heard that it was Augustus Forster? The man whose wife, Olivia, was murdered in the recent burglary?”
“It’s him?”
said Edgar. “Well I never!”
We reached the cream portico of the East India Club and began to climb the stone steps. I overheard the inspector ahead of us telling a reporter he had been permitted to use the smoking room for his briefing.
“I’m rather impatient to find out what has happened,” I said.
“It must have been a stabbing,” replied Edgar. “Did you see all the blood?”
“I tried not to look at it.”
“My apologies, madam, but ladies are not permitted inside the East India,” said a young man in a dark suit with gold buttons. He rested his hand on my forearm to gently reinforce his words.
“Oh, it’s quite all right. I have no wish to become a member; I’m simply a reporter attending the police briefing.”
Edgar walked on into the club without me.
“Indeed, madam, but I’m afraid you’re not permitted inside.”
“I’m a reporter for the Morning Express newspaper! Here, let me find you my card.” I pulled my arm away from his hand and rummaged around in my carpet bag for it.
“That may be so, madam, but the rules of the club state that membership is for gentlemen only.”
“But I have no wish to become a member!” I hissed.
All the reporters except me were inside the building by this point.
“Madam?” He held my forearm again and glanced toward the door.
“Presumably you don’t usually allow a crowd of reporters inside your club,” I said, “so on this unusual and tragic day perhaps you could make allowances for a single woman.”
“I’m afraid not, madam. Please do accept my apologies and thank you for agreeing to my request without creating an embarrassing scene.”
I glared at him, knowing that any further protest would be useless. I turned and made my way back down the steps.
Chapter 7
