by Emily Organ
The blacksmith’s brow instantly furrowed. “Who’s goin’ abaht sayin’ stuff?”
“A witness.”
“They tryin’ ter get me inter trouble again? Just when I’ve gone an’ got meself on the straight and narrah?”
“No one’s trying to get you into trouble, Mr Brooks. I’m merely following up on what someone told me.”
“I wish I knew who’s said it. Bet it were that nosey beggar Iron’ead over the road.”
“It doesn’t matter who said it,” replied James. “I simply wish to know when Maisie Hopkins visited you.”
“I don’t remember ’er ever comin’ in ’ere.”
James leafed through his notebook and held it aloft so that he could read it by the light of the fire.
“You spent two years in Newgate for melting down stolen silver, am I right?”
“Yeah. Like I told yer, I ain’t hashamed ter say it.”
“Good. Because it would be a terrible shame if you had returned to your old ways, wouldn’t it?”
“Terrible, it’d be.”
“We have a witness who saw a young woman call at this address late on Tuesday evening. The witness was unsure as to the sort of business a young woman might be wanting at a blacksmiths at that hour of the evening, which is why it stuck in this individual’s mind.”
“That was my gal!” said Mr Brooks proudly, hitching up his trousers.
“I see. And what is her name?”
“Maggie.”
“Maggie who?”
“Maggie Smith.”
“And where does she reside?”
“Dunno ’er address. Somewhere over St James’s way, I reckon.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Why you askin’ me all these questions, Hinspector?”
“I’m simply trying to establish whether Maggie is a real person or not.”
“Course she’s real!”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Down the King’s Arms.”
“So they would know her at the King’s Arms, then?”
“I dunno.”
“Mr Brooks, you realise this moment is the perfect opportunity for you to tell us anything you know about Maisie Hopkins, don’t you? If we later discover that you melted down any stolen goods for her the punishment will be far more severe than if you were simply to admit it now, especially if your past conviction is taken into consideration. You could be looking at an extremely long stretch in prison.”
He swallowed nervously. “I ain’t done nuffink.”
“The sooner you recall what you may or may not have done the better the outcome will be for you,” said James. “In the meantime, we have a lot of people out looking for Miss Hopkins, and we’re confident that we shall find her before long. When you do remember something, perhaps you could call in to Vine Street station at your earliest opportunity.”
Chapter 21
“I’d say that Mr Brooks knows more about Maisie Hopkins than he’s letting on, wouldn’t you, Penny?”
James and I left Shepherd Market and walked toward Piccadilly.
“He did look rather guilty,” I replied.
“I feel certain that he had an arrangement with her to melt down some of the pieces, and he probably kept his share, too. It’s the sort of thing he’s done before. I’ll ask Kit the shoeshine boy to watch his premises for a few days to see whether Miss Hopkins returns. We could also obtain a warrant to search his premises if needs be.”
We turned into the wide thoroughfare of Piccadilly. A row of bare-branched trees lined the perimeter of Green Park on the opposite side.
“I’ve upset Miss Russell,” I said. “She’s the lady who reads to the patients in the Shoreditch Workhouse infirmary. Mr Hale spoke to her after he happened upon me in the men’s wing.”
“I’m not surprised she was upset.”
“Oh, don’t make me feel even worse about it, James!”
“You do tend to take liberties, Penny. I’m used to it, but many people wouldn’t understand it at all. You used Miss Russell as an excuse to get into the workhouse, and no doubt she thinks you were acting dishonestly.”
“I wish I could make it up to her. I enjoyed helping with the reading! I can’t deny that it gave me the opportunity to wander off and find out more about the tragic deaths that took place there, but it certainly wasn’t my intention to upset Miss Russell. I’m worried she might never forgive me.”
“She might not.”
“Oh, James. You’re no comfort at all!”
“Do you want me to speak to you in platitudes, Penny? To tell you not to worry about it; that she will surely forgive you in time?”
“Not exactly. You cannot be sure that she will, after all.”
“There you go, then. Perhaps she will, perhaps she won’t. But I suppose if you didn’t do these things you would never get anywhere. I know that your intentions are good, and that you have strong feelings about any form of injustice, but the pursuit of truth can lead us down a lonely path at times.”
“It does.”
“And you know that I will always support you, don’t you? I may argue the point with you on a regular basis, but I only do so because I want you to feel quite sure that you’re doing the right thing.”
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing in this case?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
“Oh, James!”
He smiled. “Yes, I do.”
James hailed a hansom cab, and as we travelled toward Whitehall I showed him the book that had been left on my desk in the reading room.
“What a strange business,” he said, leafing through it. “And are you quite sure there isn’t anything else written in here? No message of any kind? Nothing written in invisible ink?”
“How would I know it was there if it was written in invisible ink?”
“You’d simply heat it by the fire.”
“But I’d need to do so with every single page. It would take days!”
“Perhaps there was a message hidden in the book that has slipped out. Or could there be false pages concealing a folded message?”
“All the pages look normal to me.”
“They do indeed. How mysterious.”
“The title of the book must provide a clue,” I said. “A Practical Guide to Journalism. Someone surely meant something malicious by it.”
“Are they suggesting that your knowledge of journalism is deficient?”
“Yes, it’s exactly that. But what worries me most is that someone must have been watching me in the reading room when he or she left this book on my desk. And I really couldn’t tell you who it was. I’ve been able to spot the person on occasions when I was followed before, but not this time. It’s made me feel rather vulnerable.”
James rested his hand on mine. “I’m quite sure the individual doesn’t mean you any harm, Penny. The perpetrator simply wished to make you feel perturbed.”
“In that case he is succeeding!”
“He probably thinks he’s being very clever indeed, but it’s cowardly behaviour. The locks on your door and window at Mrs Garnett’s are working properly now, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, keep to busy places and don’t go out on your own after dark.”
“It’s dark by five o’clock in the evening at this time of year. I’ll still be working in the office at that time!”
“Then hail a cab to take you straight to your door.”
“What a lot of unnecessary expense.”
“I would happily pay it.”
“No James, there’s no need. I want you to use all your money to pay off that awful Miss Jenkins.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, though you said yourself that this person probably only wished to make me feel perturbed.”
“I’m sure of it.” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I never thought I’d say this, Penny, but I sometimes wish t
hat you had a different profession.”
Chapter 22
“Why did you think that I might have left this book on your desk in the reading room, Miss Green?” asked Edgar, leafing through A Practical Guide to Journalism.
“I knew it was unlikely,” I replied, “but I thought I would check that it wasn’t some sort of joke on your part.”
“It might be a joke,” said Edgar, “but I’m not responsible for it. What about you, Potter?”
“I haven’t been inside the reading room for about a fortnight.”
“I’d wager that it was Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette,” said Edgar. “Did you see him in there, Miss Green?”
“I didn’t. I saw no obvious culprit there at all.”
“It’s a very strange thing to do, but quite useful as well. I must confess that I have a copy of this book at home and haven’t yet read it. It contains some helpful tips, doesn’t it?”
“And so it should,” said Frederick. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be true to its title.”
“Do either of you recognise the handwriting on the title page?” I asked.
They both examined it.
“I can’t say that it’s familiar to me,” replied Edgar.
“Nor me,” added Frederick.
I sighed as Edgar handed the book back to me.
“You seem to have yourself a secret admirer, Miss Green,” he said.
“I don’t think admirer is quite the right word,” I retorted. “I believe the person who left this on my desk wished to intimidate me.”
“But whoever it was gave you a gift!”
“An anonymous gift,” I replied. “There’s something slightly malevolent about it, if you ask me.”
A slam of the newsroom door announced the arrival of Mr Sherman who held a copy of The Holborn Gazette in his hand.
“It seems Shoreditch Workhouse can do no wrong according to Tom Clifford,” he said, dropping the newspaper in front of me and poking his finger at an article entitled ‘Philanthropy in the Workhouse’.
I quickly read through it and saw that Tom Clifford had written the article that the board of guardians had hoped I would write. It described the honourable work of Lady Courtauld and the manner in which she had helped many workhouse girls gain employment as maids within London’s wealthiest households. It also described improvements that had been made to the workhouse conditions in recent years and mentioned the work of Miss Russell and Mrs Menzies. The article concluded as follows:
Other publications describe the workhouse as if nothing has changed since the days of Oliver Twist; sensationalist accounts that belong within the pages of a Penny Dreadful. However, our hardworking Poor Law Guardians have ensured, in these modern times, that the workhouse, although still a last resort for paupers, gives every consideration to the well-being of its inmates.
I felt my jaw clench once I had finished reading.
“Thank you, Mr Sherman. I’m sure the Shoreditch board members are overjoyed with this piece.”
“Oh, they will be. I have come to expect as much from the editor, Mr Cropper, who will publish anything he can find in a bid to sabotage our work. I hope I live to see the day when he comes up with some original ideas of his own! May I speak with you in private for a moment, Miss Green?”
I felt an uncomfortable twinge in my stomach as I followed Mr Sherman into his office. He usually only asked his staff to join him there when he had something important to say.
He took a seat behind the desk in his office, which had greasy, yellowing walls and a strong odour of pipe smoke. Piles of books and papers were stacked on the desk, and a fire burned brightly in the small grate.
As I took a seat opposite him he rested his hands on his desk, his fingers linked together.
“I was visited yesterday by Inspector Ferguson of H Division.”
I felt my heart sink. “Were you, sir?”
“Yes. He was rather concerned by what he described as the hold you have over a certain Inspector Blakely of the Yard.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I can assure you, sir, that I have no hold whatsoever over Inspector Blakely!”
“You may not consider that you do, Miss Green; however, that is not how Inspector Ferguson perceives the situation. He told me that you have not only convinced Inspector Blakely that the verdict of the inquest into the deaths at Shoreditch Workhouse was flawed, but that you had also found someone who claims to have seen the murderer. Only this witness turned out to be an idiot boy.”
“He’s not an idiot, sir. And he didn’t actually see the murderer. I merely suggested that he might turn out to be a useful witness.”
“Inspector Ferguson said he had spoken to the chap and that he was an imbecile of some sort.”
“He could perhaps be described as simple-minded, but I think he knows what he heard.”
“May I ask why you feel that you can overrule the findings of an inquest?”
“I don’t believe all the possibilities were considered at the inquest.”
“So you know better than the coroner, do you?”
“No sir, I don’t. I feel that the coroner and the jury were led by the work of Inspector Ferguson, and I don’t believe he considered all potential scenarios.”
Mr Sherman sighed. “This is not the first time I have needed to remind you that you are a news reporter, Miss Green, and not a detective.”
“I realise that, sir, but—”
“Can you imagine how embarrassing it is for me to hear this from a police inspector, and to have to defend your actions? I shouldn’t have to do it, Miss Green. And while I’m fully aware of your relationship with Inspector Blakely, I’m extremely concerned that you have been persuading the man to act against his better judgement.”
“I haven’t, sir, really I haven’t. He isn’t as convinced of my theory as I am, but he did feel that it warranted further investigation.”
“Do you think he would have considered it if you hadn’t mentioned it to him?”
“I’d like to think so, sir. I’d like to think that police officers consider all of the possibilities when investigating a suspicious death, but unfortunately that isn’t always the case. I realise I’m only a news reporter, but I do believe that part of my responsibility is to ensure that the truth is uncovered.”
“And what makes you suspect that the verdict is incorrect?”
“It’s entirely feasible that a third person may have been involved in the incident, sir.”
“And have you discovered any evidence of that?”
“Horace says that he heard shouting—”
Mr Sherman lifted his hand to stop me in my tracks. “We have already discussed him. Do you have any other evidence?”
“Not yet, sir, but if the police continue their—”
“They have plenty of other business to attend to, Miss Green. Inspector Ferguson is already angry that he was persuaded to go back to the workhouse as it is. The coroner has done his job, and there is no case to answer. No shred of evidence has been found to support your theory. It’s possible to theorise on what might have been an alternative series of events, but that doesn’t mean you should be using your newly found influence to direct the work of the police. I have no idea what the commissioner of the Yard will make of this.”
“Do you intend to tell him, sir?” I was aware that the commissioner was Mr Sherman’s cousin.
“There’s no need for me to do so. Inspector Ferguson will be making his feelings known himself.” He sat back in his chair and sighed. “I’ve known you for a number of years now, Miss Green, and I know that you approach your work with dedication and an enthusiasm that is unrivalled by your colleagues. I also realise that in the reporting of stories it is likely that one or two questions will arise in a reporter’s mind about a particular situation. I have no wish to dissuade you from doing the excellent work you do, Miss Green, but I do think you have overstepped the mark by encouraging your friend to re-examine a case just because you don’t feel p
articularly content with the outcome of an inquest.”
“Inspector Blakely would do no such thing if he didn’t believe there was cause to do so, sir.”
Mr Sherman shook his head. “It’s not for me to speculate on how a man is able to be convinced of something by a lady, but if I were his superior I would hope that my trusted detective inspector happened to be using his own judgement when carrying out his work rather than being influenced by anyone else. The long and short of it is that Inspector Ferguson felt his time had been wasted. May I also remind you, Miss Green, that you also have other reporting to be getting on with. Your work on this should have stopped as soon as you reported on the verdict of the inquest. Have I made myself clear?”
I nodded.
“I don’t want to hear anything more about the sad deaths of Mr Patten and Mr Walker at the workhouse. The matter is concluded. Is that understood?”
I nodded again.
“You have this week’s ladies’ column to finish. Miss Welton has typewritten my tips for managing a housekeeper, so please have a read of that.”
“I will sir.”
“You can assess how feminine my tone is and tweak it accordingly.” He gave me a dismissive wave to let me know that the conversation was at an end.
I worked on the book I was writing about my father that evening, pressing the keys of my typewriter slowly and carefully so that Mr Torrance wouldn’t hear me in the room below. This meant that my progress was slow, and that the letters weren’t imprinted as clearly on the paper as I would have liked, but this was preferable to not being able to work on the book at all.
Was it possible that my father was the European orchid grower in Cali? Although I liked to think so, I didn’t relish the thought that he had built a new life for himself without ever contacting his family. What sort of man was he if he had been content to allow his wife and daughters to fear the worst?
My hope was that the orchid grower was not my father but knew something of his whereabouts. It was likely that Francis had met with him by now and had news one way or the other. Would he travel to the telegraph office to let us know if he had important news? Did the fact that we hadn’t yet received a telegram mean that the orchid grower had been of no help?
