Curse of the Poppy (Penny Green Series Book 5)

by Emily Organ

  “Oh dear,” I said. “It seems Mr Forster chose the wrong man to borrow money from by deception.”

  “Forster was a fool,” retorted Chief Inspector Cullen.

  “He didn’t deserve to be murdered, though, did he?” I said.

  “If a man plays with fire, sooner or later he will be burned,” he replied.

  “But what about his poor wife? And their servants who were also attacked?” I said. “Surely you must have some sympathy for the family?”

  “It’s not our job to be sympathetic, Miss Green, it’s our job to catch people who break the law,” stated the chief inspector.

  “Do you know much about the murder of Alfred Holland in Limehouse, sir?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “I think his death may be connected to the murders of Mr and Mrs Forster.”

  Chief Inspector Cullen gave a hollow laugh. “You’re doing a spot of detective work again, are you? If and when the Metropolitan Police decides to admit the fairer sex to its ranks we shall have to consider you, though you’ll be required to lose some of those weak feminine traits, such as sympathy.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to quell the anger brewing in my chest.

  “The good news is that C and D Division are co-operating well with each other and with me,” said James, “and we’re certain now that the errand boy who worked for the Forsters was bribed by the gang, as five shillings were found in his possession, though he says he found the coins in the street. The officers at D Division are doing what they can to get him to talk.”

  “Doing what exactly?” I said. “He’s only a boy. Presumably he’s frightened?”

  Chief Inspector Cullen emitted another sarcastic laugh and I glared at him.

  “I’ll check with Inspector Bowles,” said James. “You’re right, Penny, the boy is only young and probably has little understanding of the position he has found himself in.”

  “Have you had an opportunity to speak to Inspector Reeves yet?” I asked.

  “Good grief, Miss Green!” exclaimed Cullen. “Fancy yourself as the Commissioner of the Yard now, do you? No, Blakely has not spoken to Reeves in Limehouse, nor is there any need for him to do so. Now stop bothering the man and let him get on with his job!”

  “Sir, I don’t think there’s any need —” James began.

  “No defending her, Blakely! I’ve had enough of the woman’s interference. She’s an ink-slinger with ideas above her station, and I’m not having her distract you from your work any longer.” He pointed a fat finger at me. “If you don’t stop this, Miss Green, I shall have a word with your editor at the Morning Express.”

  “Sir, it’s most impolite of you to speak to Miss Green in this manner,” said James.

  “I’m not a polite man; you know that, Blakely. Now this woman has charmed you for long enough. Ask her to leave immediately.”

  “There is no need to ask me. I’m already on my way out.”

  “Penny, I…” James’ eyes were full of concern, but I knew that I couldn’t stay here for a moment longer.

  “You have your work to get on with, James. Thank you for taking the time to listen.”

  I turned and left, angered by the hot tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

  Chapter 22

  As I sat at my writing desk that evening I wondered whether there was any truth to what Chief Inspector Cullen had said. Perhaps I was interfering in the police investigations too much. It had been wrong of me to call on James at his home and his place of work. I realised that my actions were borne out of frustration, and that I wanted to see James even more than I wanted to secure justice for the Forsters and Mr Holland.

  Perhaps it’s time to accept that my hands are tied, I mused. I can’t keep telling James that I just happened to be ‘passing by’. Time and time again I had tried to accept that he was marrying someone else, but I simply couldn’t. His betrothal to Charlotte should have quelled my affection for him, but it never had. If anything, it had made it stronger.

  Not only did I enjoy James’ company, but working with him had proved invaluable on many occasions. We had solved a number of cases together and I had never met anyone else I could work with so effectively.

  I tried to remind myself that I was just a news reporter: that my job was to report on events and tell people what was happening. It wasn’t my job to influence an investigation; that had to be left to the police. It was frustrating, however, when the police failed to ask the right questions and missed important witnesses or evidence.

  I looked around my small lodgings with the bed at one end and the little stove at the other. I didn’t have a large house like my sister, or a husband and children to distract me. My job consumed all my waking hours because there was little else occupying my life. It was no wonder I became so involved in each story I worked on, or that I had invested so much in James.

  I realised Chief Inspector Cullen had been right to accuse me of being overly sympathetic, and that I sometimes allowed my emotions to take precedence over logic. Was it because I was a woman? Could I persuade myself to care less?

  A knock at the door startled me, but before I could answer it swung open. Mrs Garnett marched in with my cat under her arm and a scowl on her face.

  “There she is!” I said with a smile. “I was wondering where Tiger had got to.”

  “I found her asleep by my stove again,” said Mrs Garnett, dropping Tiger onto the floor. “I’ve told you many times before that I won’t have her in my rooms. When you took her in you assured me she would be a roof cat.”

  Tiger remained where she was with her fur ruffled and wearing a scowl that almost matched Mrs Garnett’s.

  “She is! I don’t even know how she gets into your rooms. I am sorry, Mrs Garnett.”

  “Through the window is how she does it. I fling water at her but she doesn’t care!”

  “Naughty Tiger,” I scolded unconvincingly.

  “You’ll have to get rid of her if she keeps doing it.”

  “Oh, no! She only likes to sleep by your stove, Mrs Garnett. Surely that’s not so very terrible?”

  “She’s scratched my chair and she jumps up onto my shelves.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And she gives me sneezing fits.”

  “I hadn’t realised that.”

  “I’ll be sneezing all night now. I shan’t get any sleep.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, Mrs Garnett.”

  “It is true! The only thing that stops it is scrubbing my floors with carbolic soap. I can’t say I want to be doing that at ten o’clock at night. Do you want to come and scrub my floors?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then keep your cat out of my rooms!”

  “I’ll try, Mrs Garnett, I’m sorry, I…”

  A sob threatened to interrupt my words. The scolding from my landlady on top of the rebuke from Chief Inspector Cullen was proving a little too much.

  “Oh, there’s no need for tears, Miss Green,” said Mrs Garnett, passing me her handkerchief.

  I lifted up my spectacles and wiped my eyes. “I know there isn’t, I’m sorry. I’ve had quite a busy day and I’ve been thinking about things too much.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Work things.”

  Mrs Garnett sucked her lip. “You should do a different sort of job, Miss Green. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.”

  “But I like my work.”

  Mrs Garnett gave a soft laugh. “So it seems.”

  “I just need to learn to forget about it at the end of each day.” I dabbed my eyes again with the handkerchief.

  “You absolutely do. That’s what my husband Hercules did, you know. Once he was at home you couldn’t move him from his chair. He would sit there like a giant boulder not worrying about a thing. Meanwhile, I was the one fetching and carrying all over the place. The only thing that would get him to move was a tap on the knees with the carpet beater.”

  I l
aughed. “Knowing you, Mrs Garnett, it was more than a tap.” Tiger jumped up onto my lap. As I stroked between her ears she gave a little murmur and began to purr. “I think the best solution is to treat my profession as an office clerk would treat his. I just need to work the usual hours, go home at a regular time and not let each story consume me.”

  “If you say so, Miss Green. That all sounds sensible to me.”

  “It’s what my colleagues Mr Fish and Mr Potter do.”

  “I’m sure they do. Men don’t seem to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders like us women. Hercules wasn’t often the type I could learn from, but he did know how to sit down and not worry about anything.”

  “Except you and the carpet beater.”

  “Exactly. That was all he had to be concerned about.”

  Tiger remained on my lap long after Mrs Garnett had left. I thought about James and decided I would have to start avoiding him. The less I saw of him the less I would miss him.

  But how could I get by without him?

  I thought of the contentment I felt whenever I was with him. No one else had ever made me feel like that. And I knew the feeling was mutual, hence why he had kissed me at Eliza’s house. Had I known that he cared nothing for me it would have been easier to persuade myself that I should never see him again.

  Perhaps I was still harbouring a small hope that he would change his mind about the wedding. Was that what I was waiting for? It was a vain hope, but perhaps Charlotte would call it off, or maybe her mother would. It felt selfish to feel this way, but I couldn’t help myself.

  I thought of my father and how he would have felt if he could see me now. I hoped he would be proud. He had always known that I wanted to be a writer, but I wondered whether he would be proud of the manner in which I had conducted myself over the past few days. I couldn’t be sure. I knew I had inherited his relentlessly curious spirit, but I wondered whether I had gone too far.

  Taking a step back and striving not to care went against my very nature, but I knew that I would need to balance my impetuosity with what was expected of me or I would be in danger of making enemies.

  Chapter 23

  “Oh, do paddle carefully, Francis. I heard somebody drowned here last week,” said Eliza.

  I perched with my sister and Mr Edwards in a small rowing boat on the Serpentine lake in Hyde Park.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs Billington-Grieg. I was on the rowing team at university.”

  “Were you indeed? It seems there’s no end to your talents. Do please call me Eliza.”

  “What lovely weather we’re having,” I commented, unable to think of anything interesting to say.

  The sunshine had brought an unprecedented number of people to Hyde Park. Bathers splashed in the water around us while others promenaded along the edge of the lake and rode down Rotten Row.

  “Oh, watch out! We’re going to collide!” shrieked Eliza.

  A boat containing four young men drew close and we were purposefully splashed with water from their oars while they cackled at us.

  “Scoundrels!” shouted Eliza as they rowed away again.

  “Just high jinks,” said Mr Edwards, pulling on the oars and propelling us smoothly across the surface of the water. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, which was uncharacteristically informal. He wore a light grey waistcoat and trousers with a straw boater hat.

  “There’s a bather just behind you to your left, Francis,” said Eliza. “Oh dear, I do worry that these people swimming about will be hit by a boat. And there are so many swans. I can’t say that I really care for swans. They can be rather aggressive, can’t they?”

  “Only if you trouble them,” replied Mr Edwards.

  “I should say that it would be quite easy to trouble them on a busy day like today,” said Eliza. “There’s hardly any room left for them, and I can imagine them becoming rather angry about it.”

  Mr Edwards paused for a moment and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. The strains of a military band rose from a nearby bandstand.

  “Have a rest now, Francis, you look quite exhausted,” said Eliza. “We can float about here for a bit. Are you enjoying yourself, Penelope? You seem a little quiet.”

  “I’m enjoying myself immensely, Ellie,” I replied. I was struggling to shrug off the despondency which had settled over me since the previous evening. And despite the bright sunshine, music and happy chatter of people around me I kept recalling the dismal opium den where Alfred Holland had met his tragic end.

  “I took the liberty of drawing a map,” said Mr Edwards. He picked up his jacket, which was neatly folded on the seat next to him, and reached into one of the pockets.

  “Oh dear, it’s a little damp from when those oafs splashed us.”

  He carefully opened out the folded piece of paper to reveal an immaculately drawn map of the northern and central part of Colombia. He had drawn maps for me before and I had always been impressed by his drafting skills.

  “That’s a terrible shame! Some of the ink is spreading,” said Eliza.

  “We can still read it, though, can’t we?” He held up the map so we could all see it. “I drew out Mr Fox-Stirling’s proposed route to find your father. He’ll be disembarking at Savanilla up on the northern coastline here, then he’ll take a steamboat south along the Magdalena River for five hundred miles or so until he reaches Honda.”

  “Which is where the steamboat has to stop,” I said.

  “You’re right, Miss Green. Steamboats are unable to navigate the Magdalena beyond Honda. What he must then do is travel by mule for about two hundred miles in a south-easterly direction to Bogotá.”

  “So that’s seven hundred miles in total,” said Eliza.

  “Ah, but that’s not all,” said Mr Edwards. “It’s another day’s ride from Bogotá in the southwest to El Charquito on the banks of the Funza River.”

  “And the Falls of Tequendama,” I said.

  “Precisely. That’s where the falls are, and the little village of El Charquito is where Mr Fox-Stirling found the hut your father had been staying in.”

  “And this time he’ll have a Spanish translator with him,” said Eliza, “so he’ll be able to have a proper conversation with the natives rather than relying on his own poor understanding of the language.”

  “Yes, that was a serious oversight last time,” I said. “He persuaded us that his Spanish was better than it actually was.”

  “Have you found a translator for him?” asked Mr Edwards.

  “He’s found one himself; an explorer friend recommended a man he has used before, apparently.”

  “Good news indeed,” said Mr Edwards.

  I felt happy that he was to help us plan this new search for Father. Although Mr Fox-Stirling was a seasoned traveller he also struck me as the sort of man who was rather set in his own ways of doing things. Mr Edwards offered an intelligence and pragmatism which had undoubtedly been missing when the last search was carried out. I felt that he had donated his money to the search not only out of affection for me but also because he had a genuine interest in Father’s work and travels.

  “The crossing of the Atlantic will take about eleven days, and there’s usually a stop-off at Haiti or Jamaica, or sometimes both,” said Mr Edwards. “It will probably take him two weeks to reach the shores of Colombia, and then the journey inland will take between four and six weeks.”

  “So it will be between six and eight weeks before Mr Fox-Stirling arrives in El Charquito,” I said.

  “That’s if all goes well,” replied Mr Edwards.

  “And he won’t be going until next year as he has his Himalayan expedition to do first.” I sighed. “It feels like rather a long time to wait.”

  “We’ve only recently decided to carry out another search, Penelope!” said Eliza. “These things cannot just happen immediately, you know.”

  “I know. I’m afraid I’m not a terribly patient person. Once a decision has been made I like to get on with it.
”

  “Life doesn’t always fit in with our wants, Penelope, and there’s still a little more money to raise. Instead of grumbling about having to wait perhaps you could help with the fundraising efforts.”

  “Yes, I should be happy to.”

  “Thank you for drawing such a detailed map, Francis,” my sister said. “For the first time I’ve been able to properly imagine what this next search will entail. I think I was rather too grief-stricken last time to consider it in great detail. It has made me realise what a long journey Mr Fox-Stirling has ahead of him. I can’t say that I should like to ride for two hundred miles on a mule. Or travel for five hundred miles along a foreign river in a steamboat after two weeks on a steam ship!”

  “That’s why some people are explorers and others aren’t,” I said.

  “Mr Fox-Stirling is clearly the sort of chap who enjoys it,” said Mr Edwards.

  “And talks about it a lot,” I added. “I prefer him being out and about on his adventures rather than boring people at home with unnecessary details.”

  “Unlike Francis here, who always has something meaningful to say, doesn’t he, Penny?” said Eliza.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  He gave me a bashful smile.

  Was Eliza correct in her assumption that he would propose to me as soon as James married? I wondered. I had always been reluctant to consider it, but perhaps I simply didn’t know what was best for me. Having realised that I needed to be less involved with James and my work, perhaps I needed to consider the possibility that the potential for a marriage was staring me in the face.

  “Thank you, Miss Green.”

  “Please call me Penny.”

  “I’d be delighted to.” He grinned. “Penny.”

  Chapter 24

  “Miss Green! Thank goodness you’ve arrived! How do I use this darned thing?” asked Edgar. He was seated at the typewriter, closely examining its keys.

  “You’ll need to put some paper in it to start with.”

  “And how do I do that?”