by Emily Organ
“Probably,” I replied brusquely.
Tom and I had experienced a number of disagreements in the past.
“That Forster bloke, weren’t it? Stabbed in the back, I ’ear.”
“Nasty business,” said Tom’s immediate neighbour, a reporter with a sandy moustache.
“Wife bludgeoned an’ all,” continued Tom. “Unlucky, ain’t it?”
We stood to our feet as the coroner entered the room, placed his top hat on the windowsill behind him and sat on the raised stand at the end of the reporters’ table. He had a bald head, thick grey whiskers and gold spectacles.
I made notes as the inquest into the death of twenty-six-year-old Alfred Holland was officially opened. Moments later the jury filed out of the room to view the body.
Tom folded his arms and gave a quiet whistle. “I wouldn’t want ter be looking at a bloke who’s been shot in the ’ead.”
“I thought he drowned,” I said.
“Drowned?” Tom said with a laugh. “How could he ’ave drowned? He was shot in the ’ead!”
“By whom?”
“No one knows as yet.”
“The chief engineer on the steamship was truly shot in the head?” I asked incredulously. “The accident was not the result of a collision, then?”
Tom laughed louder. “Do you even know what inquest you’re attendin’, Miss Green?”
“Is it for someone else?”
Tom nodded with great mirth and I felt my teeth clench.
“Alfred Holland was shot dead inside an opium den,” explained the reporter with the sandy moustache. “I believe the inquest into the chief engineer’s death will be held after this.”
“Thank you for the explanation,” I replied. “This afternoon’s inquests are not in the order I had expected.”
“That’s the Morning Express for yer,” replied Tom. “You don’t know yer ’ead from yer tail!”
I wondered why I hadn’t heard about Mr Holland’s death before now. I decided to remain where I was and find out anything I could about what had happened.
Once the jury had returned from viewing the body, the coroner summoned his first witness and asked him to introduce himself. I had to turn around in my seat to look at him in the witness stand. A man of about thirty, he had lank, black hair and a bulbous nose.
“John Spratling. Mr ’Olland was lodgin’ in my ’ouse at twenny-four George Street.”
“How long did he lodge at your house?” asked the coroner.
“Since last autumn.”
“And when did you first become concerned with regard to his welfare?”
“He never come ’ome that evening.”
“Had you been expecting him home at a certain time?”
“No, sir. He come ’ome whenever ‘e wanted, it’s just that I never ’eard ’is boots on the stairs that night, and I always ’eard ’is boots on the stairs when ’e come ’ome. Always woke me an’ the missus up, it did.”
“And what did you do when you realised he hadn’t returned to your home?”
“I thought nuffink much of it. But then I ’eard a commotion outside and folks was sayin’ there’d been a murder.”
“At what time was that?”
“About eleven o’clock. I stepped out the front to see where the murder’d ’appened, and some bloke told me it were in one o’ the opium dens, so when I went down there I saw a big crowd o’ folk.”
“And you ventured inside the opium den?”
“Yeah, I went in ’cause I ’adn’t seen Mr ’Olland and I wondered if it were ’im what ’ad been murdered.”
“You were aware that Mr Holland was a regular opium smoker, were you not?” the coroner asked.
“Yeah.”
“And that he frequented the opium dens in the Limehouse area?”
“Course. So I went in and I told ’em ’e were missin’ and could I just see who ’e was, and they showed me.” Mr Spratling’s voice grew tremulous.
“You were in the same room as the deceased?”
“I were, but not fer long.”
“Long enough for you to recognise the deceased gentleman as your tenant?”
“Aye. It were the clothes what looked familiar. I didn’t see much of his ’ead. Well, I couldn’t… There wasn’t…”
His face grew pale and the coroner thanked him for his deposition.
The coroner summoned his next witness; a dishevelled-looking Chinese man called Ming Tan, who was the owner of the opium den. His hair was greased back from his face and he wore a scruffy, collarless shirt. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“At what time did Mr Holland visit you on the evening of his death?” asked the coroner.
“He visit about eight thirty.”
“And he was a regular visitor?”
“Regular. Yes, sir.”
“How regular? Weekly? Daily?”
“Normal daily.”
“And during his visits did he impart much information about himself?”
“Not much information.”
“He wasn’t particularly talkative?”
“Not talkative, sir.”
“So he visited your establishment purely to smoke an opium pipe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the weeks leading up to Mr Holland’s death, was there any indication either from what he said or did that suggested someone might wish to attack him?”
“No, sir.”
“So the attack came as a complete surprise to you?”
“Complete surprise. Yes, sir.”
“At what time did the man with the gun appear?”
“I don’t know exact time. I think must be ten o’clock or after.”
“So by that time Mr Holland had been with you for about an hour and a half?”
“Hour and a half. Yes, sir.”
“And, considering the effect of opium upon the mind, in what state of alertness was Mr Holland when the man with the gun visited?”
“He could be asleep. He did look asleep.”
“This is a common state for a man who has recently smoked opium, am I right?”
“Common. Yes, sir.”
“Can you describe the man with the gun?”
“Dark suit. Dark hat.”
“Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“The colour of his hair?”
“Look dark.”
“Had you smoked opium yourself before the gunman entered, Mr Tan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So it’s possible that your recollection of the assailant may be a little hazy?”
Mr Tan shrugged.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
“Hazy. Yes, sir.”
“How many other gentlemen were in the room when the attack took place?”
“Three.”
“So there were three gentlemen in addition to Mr Holland and yourself in the room when the gunman arrived?”
“Yes, sir. Three.”
“Do you believe the gunman deliberately targeted Mr Holland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So he took a good look at everyone in the room before firing the weapon?”
“Yes, but I did not know he have a gun. He walk in and look at us, then he look at Mr Holland and shoot with the gun.”
“He kept the gun concealed until he identified the man he wished to shoot. Is that what you believe?”
“I believe it. Yes, sir.”
“And what happened once the gunman had fired his shot?”
“We all panic. We don’t know what is happening. We try to wake him up.”
“Mr Holland, that is?”
“Yes, but I see…” Mr Tan pointed at his head. “I see he will not wake up.”
“And the gunman?”
“He’s gone.”
“As soon as he shot Mr Holland?”
“Yes, sir. Gone.”
The three other customers from the opium den were summoned as witnesses: two Indian sa
ilors who spoke little English and a Norwegian sailor with a wide grin. Their recollection of the murder and the potential culprit was hazier than Mr Tan’s.
Following this, a quite different witness came to the stand: a young woman in a black bonnet and mourning dress. She had soft features, but her lips were pushed into a harsh, thin line.
“I’m Miss Emma Holland, the sister of Alfred Holland,” she said in response to the coroner’s request to introduce herself. “I live at number seven Drummond Street, Euston.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” asked the coroner.
“Christmas time.”
“And whereabouts?”
“At my parents’ house in Hillingdon.”
“Did your brother have regular employment when you saw him last?”
She shook her head sadly. “No.”
“Had he ever had regular employment?”
“Yes, he worked for the Indian government in Ghazipur.”
The mention of India aroused my interest.
“What did he do there?”
“He was an opium agent.”
“And when did he return to England?”
“It was in the summer of last year.”
“And he found no regular employment on his return?”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you know why that was?”
“It’s because he was unreliable. He took up a few jobs, but no employment after that first one lasted for long.”
“Was the cause of this unreliability his regular opium habit?”
“I fear that it was, yes.”
“How long was your brother in India?”
“Five years.”
“And what did he do before he found work there?”
“He studied at Cambridge.”
“He was an intelligent and capable young gentleman, no doubt,” commented the coroner, slowly shaking his head as if saddened by the disappointing demise of someone who had shown such early promise.
“He was,” said Miss Holland. “He was clever and kind, and I adored him. I wish that my brother had never encountered opium. It was the ruin of him.”
“Have you any idea who might wish to harm your brother?” asked the coroner.
“No, none.” Miss Holland dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Did he mention that he had been in any trouble with anyone? Perhaps there had been an argument. Or perhaps he owed someone money.”
“If he did I never knew of it,” she said sadly.
Inspector Henry Reeves of K Division described the bloody scene as he had found it, and then the police surgeon described Mr Holland’s injuries in detail. Miss Holland stepped out of the room during his deposition.
The inquest eventually reached its conclusion. The coroner stated that Mr Holland had been barbarously murdered in cold blood and the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.
Chapter 13
After the inquest I found Inspector Reeves outside the mortuary smoking a pipe. He was a slight man with wide-set green eyes and a black moustache. He acknowledged me with a nod as I introduced myself.
“You have a puzzling murder case to solve,” I said. “How is the investigation progressing?”
He removed the pipe from his mouth. “There’s no doubt the killing was the result of some feud. Mr Holland was deliberately set upon, as we heard in there.”
“But your witnesses are not very reliable.”
“They’re not; however, we do have a few witnesses who saw the gunman before and after the attack, so we’ve put together a reasonably good description of the man.”
“Which is what?”
“A young man in dark clothing with no obvious distinguishing features. Made no attempt to speak to anyone either before or after the event. Remarkably calm and unflustered. I’d say he was a hired assassin.”
“That could make him rather difficult to track down.”
“We have our methods.” Inspector Reeves gave a conspiratorial smile and popped his pipe back in his mouth.
“Tom Clifford, Holborn Gazette!” came a voice from behind me. I sighed. “You caught the killer yet, Reeves?”
Inspector Reeves gave Tom a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”
“I’m guessing no, or you’d ’ave said otherwise at the inquest.”
“Your guess is correct.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not yet.”
“Any idea why they went after Mr Holland?”
“None so far, though as I’ve just explained to your colleague here we believe the gunman was a hired assassin.”
“Oh, she ain’t my colleague.”
“That’s not a particularly polite way to speak about the young lady.”
“I’m used to it, Inspector Reeves,” I said.
“That makes it even worse! No lady should have to become accustomed to rudeness. You must apologise, Mr Clifford.”
Tom stared at the inspector and then at me.
“But she’s used to it,” he said.
“If you desire my co-operation, Mr Clifford, you will apologise,” said the inspector.
I felt a smile appear on my face.
“Apologies, Miss Green,” said Tom, “it’s just that we’ve ’ad our differences over the years.”
“Of course you have,” replied the inspector. “That’s what happens when you work for rival newspapers. Now, how about I give you both a story your editors will thank you for?”
Tom nodded eagerly.
The inspector lowered his voice. “How would you like to visit an opium den? Every reporter worth his or her salt visits an opium den in the course of their career. Charles Dickens did just that.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” I asked.
The inspector gave a hollow laugh. “Not with me it isn’t. You’ll be in safe hands, and they know me well down there. I have to do the rounds every so often, and now and again I take a few reporters with me. If you’re interested there would be a moderate fee to cover my time and expenses.”
“How much?” asked Tom.
“Three shillings.”
“All right. When then?”
“How about Thursday?”
“I’ll come too,” I said. I couldn’t bear the thought of The Holborn Gazette carrying a story about an opium den and the Morning Express missing out.
“Good,” replied Inspector Reeves. “Both of you it is, then. I shall meet you by the Chinese laundry just a little further up the road on Thursday at nine o’clock.” He pointed to his right.
“What’s the name of this road?” asked Tom.
“Commercial Road. The laundry’s opposite the soda factory, you can’t miss it. Bring payment with you.”
Inspector Reeves bid us a good day and walked away.
“Do you think he’s a bit shifty?” I asked Tom.
“Enterprising’s what I’d call ’im.”
There seemed little use in reading through the notes Mr Edwards had made for me about the Forsters and Mr Mawson. With Edgar working on the story there was no need for me to devote any attention to them, but as Mr Edwards had spent so much time on the research I felt obliged to read what he had written. And having initially worked on the piece I still had a keen interest in the case.
I sat at my writing desk that evening and read through Mr Edwards’ notes. Tiger spent a few minutes on my lap before jumping out of the window to stalk a pigeon on the rooftops. The sun began to set and a train hooted as it pulled out of nearby Moorgate station.
Mr Edwards was always thorough in his work and had been able to find the Forsters and Mr Mawson on the departing passenger lists. He had also written down every mention of Sheridan and Company, the merchant Mr Forster had worked for.
A record for Mr Mawson in late August 1883 caught my eye:
INDIA OFFICE. ARRIVALS REPORTED IN LONDON: Mr C. G. D. Mawson.
I smiled as I read this. Surely the India Office was where I
would find the mysterious Mr Mawson.
Chapter 14
The India Office formed part of the imposing government buildings in Charles Street, Whitehall, and was only one street away from the prime minister’s residence in Downing Street.
I walked through an archway beneath the grand stone facade and entered a quadrangle bordered by arched windows and columns. I turned left and made my way across the gravelled courtyard until I reached the door marked ‘India Office’. I had worn my smartest jacket, skirt and hat, adopting an air of self-importance as I entered the building.
“I have an appointment with Mr Charles Mawson,” I announced to the uniformed man in the hallway. I pretended to be unmoved by the splendour of my surroundings: the marble columns, the elaborately carved stone, the intricately tiled floor and the shimmering highlights of gold wherever my eyes cared to rest.
I gave the man my card as I introduced myself. It was swiftly handed to another man in livery, who placed it on a salver and carried it away.
Then I waited and prayed that Mr Mawson would play along with my ruse.
It seemed that he had, as a few minutes later the liveried man returned with Mr Mawson in tow. He was as I remembered, with bushy brown whiskers and watery grey eyes. A smile spread across his face as he approached me.
“Miss Green, the reporter! What brings you here?”
“We arranged an appointment, did we not?”
“Did we?”
“Yes,” I replied through a clenched grin.
“Oh yes, I remember now,” he replied unconvincingly. I felt relieved that he appeared happy to keep up the pretence.
“Is there a convenient place we could talk?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “Just follow me.”
We left the entrance hall and stepped into a long corridor with oak wainscoting and ornate arches at regular intervals for as far as the eye could see.
“How did you find me here?” he asked.
“Through a listing in The Homeward Mail.”
“Clever,” he replied with a smile. “I don’t think a lady has ever gone to so much trouble to seek me out before.”
“After our conversation outside the Forsters’ home I wished to find you and express my condolences for the sad death of your friend, Mr Forster,” I said.
