by Emily Organ
“We’ll have to keep searching,” said James. “Let’s try the other side of the railway lines.”
We walked through the dark tunnel beneath the railway and were greeted on the other side by a large public house with a curved facade.
“The Royal Vauxhall Tavern,” said James. “Let’s try this place.”
It was gloomy inside, with just a few gaslights burning. A smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke lingered in the air. A man polishing tankards behind the bar gave us a suspicious look.
“Yer the police, ain’t yer?” he said to James. “I can always tell a police hofficer. But who are you?” he asked, addressing me directly.
He put down his tankard and cloth, and planted his two enormous hands on the bar.
“I’m Penny Green,” I said. “A friend of Elizabeth Wiggins; the woman who was murdered in Battersea about five weeks ago. Do you know her husband? He works at Lombard’s.”
“Why d’yer wanna know?”
“I’m Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard,” said James. “Miss Green and I are trying to understand a bit more about what happened on the evening of Elizabeth’s death. We’re trying to find out if Mr Wiggins was drinking with an acquaintance that evening. Are you the landlord of this place?”
“Yeah, Smith’s me name. I seen Wiggins come in ’ere. ’E weren’t a regular.”
“You knew him?”
“I knew of ’im. Heveryone knows of ’im since ’e murdered ’is wife.”
“Did he drink in here on the night of the murder?” asked James.
“Yeah. I only realised it afterwards. Thought nothin’ of it at the time,” replied Smith.
I finally began to feel hopeful.
“Did you speak to him that night?” I asked.
“Don’t recall as I did.”
“We believe he was drinking with someone else that night,” said James. “Did you notice him with anyone?”
“Man? Woman?”
“A man. Do you know of anyone who spoke to Wiggins and this friend that night?”
“Someone must of.”
“You can’t remember if he had an acquaintance?”
“Nope.”
I began to feel frustrated again. “Would any of your regular patrons recall with whom Mr Wiggins might have been drinking?” I asked.
“That’s a posh word to call ’em! Patrons, ha! Yeah, I can ask ’em.”
“Would any of them be popping in today, do you think?”
“The regulars is always in.”
“Fortunately, we’ve timed it right,” said James, looking at his pocket watch. “They’ll just be clocking off now at the factories.”
As if on cue, the door swung open and the workers began to noisily fill the bar, their boots clattering on the floor.
“Whom should we speak to?” James called to the landlord.
“I’ll find—” His voice was drowned out by the noise, and the tavern owner occupied himself with filling tankards of porter and beer.
We patiently waited, and I tried my best to ignore the leers from some of the factory workers. A man with wide-set eyes and a smattering of brown teeth sidled up next to me.
“I ain’t see you in ’ere afore.”
“I’m a news reporter.”
He cackled. “What, writin’ for the papers? No yer ain’t.”
“Do you know Mr Wiggins?” I asked.
“The wife killer? Yeah, I knows of ’im.”
“Did you see him in here on the night of his wife’s murder?”
“I ’eard ’e was in ’ere, but I didn’t see ’im. Why yer askin’?”
“I’m a news reporter. I ask a lot of questions.”
“Will yer put me in the papers if I tell yer I seen ’im?”
James noticed the man talking to me and joined us.
“I can put you in the papers,” I said to the man, “if you’re able to tell us something which will help the police investigation.”
The man eyed James warily. “The police?” he sneered. “I ain’t talkin’ to no police.”
He drifted away into the crowd. The room was noisy, and I began to feel hot in my woollen dress and jacket.
The landlord caught our attention with a loud shout. “Whippet’s seen ’im!” he called out, pointing a large forefinger at a wiry man with sallow skin and yellowing whiskers.
“Whippet?” I said.
The wiry man pushed his way over to us. I hoped he had some useful information.
“Mr Whippet?” asked James.
He cackled in reply. “Mr Whippet! I likes that, I does.”
He looked me up and down, then gave an appreciative nod. “We don’t often see your sort in ’ere.”
I felt an unpleasant taste in my mouth.
“Did you see Mr Wiggins on the night his wife was murdered?” asked James.
I held little hope that Mr Whippet could be of help to us.
“Yeah. I seen ’im. What of it? Who are yer?”
“Inspector Blakely from Scotland Yard, and this is Miss Green, a news reporter with the Morning Express.
Whippet’s face split into a grin as he looked at me. “You ain’t married, then?”
“Did you see who Wiggins was with?” asked James, ignoring the question and stepping between myself and Mr Whippet, as if to protect me from him.
“Yeah, some josser.”
“Did you recognise the man he was with?”
“Can’t say as I did.”
Whippet’s eyes rested on me again. He took a large gulp of beer, which trickled down his chin and into his whiskers.
“Can you remember what the man looked like?” asked James.
I was ready to suggest that James give up on the conversation. How could we even trust that this man was telling the truth?
Whippet paused for a moment and stared up into a distant corner of the room.
“’E were large; larger than Wiggins. I didn’t know ’is face, and I didn’t like ’is face, truth be told. ’E ’ad a look.”
“What sort of look?” asked James.
“’E looked around a lot, like ’e were sizin’ us all up. And ’e ’ad these funny eyes, what didn’t look nice. I reckon ’e could of been trouble.”
“Can you remember how he was dressed? Do you think he was one of the factory workers, or was he dressed differently?”
“’E ’ad a coat on. A long coat, yer know?”
“A frock coat?”
“Just a longer coat, and there was no ’oles in it or nothin’. It were nice. Proberly cost ’im a bit, I’d say. ’E ’ad money ’cause ’e were buyin’ a lotta people a lotta drinks. That’s ’ow comes I noticed ’im! He bought a lotta drinks.”
“Was he older or younger than Wiggins?”
“Older.” He shrugged, then peered over at me again.
“Did he seem friendly with Wiggins?” James probed.
“I s’pose so. They talked a lot.”
“Did you think it was unusual to see him in here?”
“Not really.”
“Did you hear any of their conversation?”
“No, I were too far away.”
“Did you speak to Mr Wiggins that evening?”
“Can’t say as I did. I’m bored o’ them questions now. I can’t remember nothin’ else.”
He stepped past James and lunged at me. “’Ow d’yer fancy a walk out in the fresh air, Miss Green?”
“No thank you, Whippet,” I replied.
“Ah, come on.”
I could smell beer on his breath.
“That’s enough, Whippet,” warned James, giving him a sharp shove with his elbow.
“Ow!” complained the man with a whine.
“Let’s get out of here,” said James, taking my arm and guiding me through the crowd.
Chapter 43
“I shall need to speak to Mr Wiggins next so we can find out the identity of the man he was with that night,” said James as the cab took us back over Vauxhall Bridge. “I’m
not sure if we’ve uncovered something useful here, or whether we’re being taken on a wild goose chase.”
“We must have. It seems that L Division didn’t carry out a thorough investigation into Elizabeth’s death.”
“But how does it help us regarding Sophia Glenville? And Maisie?”
“Mr Wiggins worked for Mr Lombard,” I said. “That has to be more than a coincidence, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Lombard employs so many in Vauxhall and Battersea, and Wiggins’ wife worked for Glenville, so perhaps he heard about an employment there from her?”
“I thought we were on to something, but my mind feels as though it’s spinning in circles. Hopefully Mr Wiggins will be able to give us some clarity.”
“Possibly, but it seems he was so insensibly drunk that night that he cannot remember what happened. I hope L Division will allow me to speak to him. His trial has just begun and they won’t welcome this new development.”
“Perhaps they should have done their job properly the first time. It seemed very easy for them to decide that Elizabeth’s death was a domestic incident.”
“And perhaps it was. Perhaps the chap Wiggins supposedly had a drink with is a red herring.”
“I hope not. If the work we’ve done today comes to nothing, what can we do next? We will likely have to rely on Cullen.”
“No, there’s more we can do yet. I want to return to the Glenville house somehow to look at the portrait of those ghost twins again.”
“Why?”
“That bit of paper you found has to mean something.”
“And how do you intend to get back into the Glenville house? Mr Glenville won’t allow you inside.”
“I’ll find a way to win him over,” James replied with a grin.
“Good luck. I don’t think I could ever face Mr and Mrs Glenville again. I feel as though I betrayed them terribly.”
“What do you mean? You never had any loyalty toward them, Penny. You went there for your undercover assignment.”
“I lied to them about who I was.”
“And you don’t think Glenville lies to people?”
“To whom exactly does he lie to? Whenever he spoke to me, he sounded frank and honest.”
James laughed. “I think you were charmed by him, Penny!”
“I was not!”
“There’s no shame in admitting it. There’s no doubt that he is a charming man. People like him are masters of manipulation. How else has a one-armed boy from an impoverished family risen to his position?”
“Through hard work and endeavour,” I replied.
“You really believe that, do you?”
James laughed even louder this time, and I felt my jaw clench with anger. I flung open the hatch in the roof and ordered the cabbie to stop.
“Oh, don’t take it heart, Penny. There’s no need to get out,” said James.
I ignored him and opened the door in front of us. I twisted my ankle as I jumped down from the cab.
“We’re right by Millbank Prison, Penny! It’s not a nice place for a lady to be walking on her own!”
I continued to ignore him and hobbled on with my head bent low and tears stinging my eyes.
I didn’t realise James had run after me until I heard his voice close to my shoulder.
“Penny!”
I stopped, but was too ashamed of my tears to look at him.
“I have no wish to argue with you,” he continued. “Especially not about Glenville. I apologise for laughing as I did.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, and I stared down at a crack in the pavement.
“Do you accept my apology?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, turning my gaze to the bleak wall of the prison.
“I’m not sure that you do,” he said softly. “What’s the matter, Penny?”
I dug the tip of my tongue into my teeth, feeling too upset to speak.
“Penny?”
“Nothing’s the matter.”
“Funnily enough, I don’t believe you.”
“I’m just tired. A lot has happened. I suppose I’m upset about Maisie and Sophia.”
I finally found the courage to meet James’ gaze. His blue eyes were filled with concern, and I thought back to the moment we had shared inside Glenville’s library in the flickering candlelight. Every encounter we had was heavy with unspoken words.
“Are you sure that you’re making the right decision?” I asked.
“About what? Glenville?”
“No! Forget about him. Your marriage. Is it what you want?”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised by the directness of my question.
“It has been planned for a long time, Penny.”
“Does that mean you know what you want?”
His brow crumpled. “I suppose so. I can’t see that there’s any question of it not happening. It’s all been arranged. If I changed my mind now I could be tried for breach of promise.”
“Would the future Mrs Blakely insist upon that?”
“I don’t know. I have never considered it. Why are you asking the question, Penny?”
I felt angry all of a sudden. “Forget that I ever mentioned it, James.”
I turned to continue on my way, but he caught my arm.
“No, I can’t forget it now,” he said. “You mentioned it for a reason, and I will be honest with you. I find myself in a complicated situation. I cannot deny that I have feelings for you. I have tried to deny it, but it’s no good. I tell myself that perhaps once I’m married I will be devoted to my wife.”
“And you wish to be devoted to her, do you?”
“I wish to be devoted to someone. Whether it is her or you I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m sorry. I do know, but I can’t see how it could ever happen. You’ve made it quite clear that you have no wish to be married, and I’m engaged to be married to someone else. Although I find the situation frustrating, perhaps this is the way it is supposed to be. I enjoy working with you, Penny, and I always look forward to seeing you. I adore being in your company. Sometimes I feel that, should there ever be an attachment between us, it would ruin what we have.”
“Perhaps it would.”
I realised with sadness that James was keen to justify the choice he was making.
“I don’t suppose there is much else to be said on the topic,” I added tersely. “I’m tired, and everything seems worse when I’m tired.”
James leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss on my left cheek. I felt the skin tingle as he moved away and regarded me.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Penny.”
I smiled. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes, it is.”
Chapter 44
“Are you all right, Penelope?” asked Eliza as we stood on the doorstep of Mr Fox-Stirling’s home.
“I’m fine, thank you, Ellie!”
I forced a smile and tried to push any thought of James from my mind. He had made it clear that his wedding was to go ahead as planned. My hopes that he would change his mind had been dashed. I reached up to feel for the ring which still hung on its chain beneath my blouse.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” my sister probed.
“Yes. Now let’s see what Mr Fox-Stirling has to say,” I replied, pulling the bell pull rather harder than was necessary.
The housekeeper escorted us into a large room, where tropical plants basked in the light flowing through the three tall sash windows. There were bookshelves and lithographs of African hunting scenes on the wall. Eliza and I were instructed to sit in two comfortable chairs by the fireplace.
Mr Fox-Stirling joined us a few moments later. He was a stocky, fair-haired man of around fifty with suntanned, freckled skin. He wore a pale linen suit, and a small clay pipe was stuck to his lower lip.
“Mrs Billington-Grieg!” he said, spreading his arms wide in welcome. “And Miss Green! Remind me which one
is the news reporter.”
“That’s me,” I said.
“Marvellous! Your father would be so very proud,” he said as he sat in one of the chairs opposite us and crossed one leg over the other.
“And I’m chairwoman of the West London Women’s Society,” said Eliza.
“Good, good. I understand you have some questions about your father’s travels.”
“Yes. I’m writing a book about them,” I said.
“Writing a book! That really is marvellous. I’ve written several books about my travels, and I’m currently compiling a directory of Nepenthes. Carnivorous plants! You must visit the Nepenthes House at Wilde Nurseries. I’ll get you in there. Many of the species are from samples I collected in the Straits Settlements.”
I retrieved some papers from my carpet bag, then said: “It was while I was working on the book that I realised I couldn’t complete it until I fully understood the last few months leading up to Father’s disappearance.”
“That’s a very nicely drawn map,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “Let me see it.”
I handed him the map.
“It’s rather useful,” I said. “An acquaintance of mine who works at the British Library sketched it for me.”
“Your acquaintance is quite a draughtsman,” he said, giving the map back to me. “The British Library you say? I wonder if your acquaintance has come across my own books in there.”
“He may well have done. He has been helping me with my research.”
“I think you would also enjoy reading them, Miss Green. In fact, there are some rather fine bookshops in the vicinity of the British Museum where you will find copies of my books. I hope it’s not rude of me to ask whether you have purchased any of them?”
“Not rude at all. Mr Smith. I haven’t yet, I’m afraid, but I shall seek them out.”
“Please do, please do. I’m sure my books will answer any questions I don’t have time to cover today. You’ll find the account of my first journey to the Himalayas rather entertaining. The number of useful plant specimens I found within the first three months? Two. The number of tigers shot? Twenty-six! It should have been an animal hunting expedition rather than a plant-hunting trip. The darned animals are easier to find than the plants!” He slapped his knee with laughter and I began to doubt whether this meeting would live up to my expectations.
