by Emily Organ
“Yes, and her mother as well.” He took a large gulp of his stout. “How is Mr Edwards?”
“Very well, I believe.”
“You believe? You haven’t seen him recently?”
“I’ve been rather busy.”
“I see. Well if truth be told I found our chance meeting in Hyde Park rather awkward.”
“It was quite awful, wasn’t it?”
“I always try not to mix business with pleasure.”
“I have heard that is sound advice. But which am I, James? Business or pleasure?” I sipped my East India sherry as I watched him laugh uncomfortably.
“Somehow you manage to be both, Penny!” His face reddened.
“So you do mix business and pleasure after all.”
We held each other’s gaze and I thought of all the things I would like to say to him but couldn’t. I cleared my throat and opened my carpet bag, which sat on the seat next to me.
“You’ve heard about the inventor’s suicide?” I asked as I retrieved the notes I had taken at Simon Borthwick’s inquest.
James’ face grew serious and he nodded.
“I heard the shot,” I continued. “I had just attended his illuminations at the Crystal Palace in Sydenham.”
James placed his tankard on the table. “Oh Penny, that’s awful!”
“There were a lot of people milling about at the time. And it seems as though that’s what he wanted. A letter he wrote before his death was read out at the inquest and I copied it down.”
I went on to read the letter aloud to James and shared my thoughts about what it might mean.
“If someone is driven to do such a thing,” I said, “then surely it can’t be suicide. It’s murder, don’t you think?”
“That’s an interesting point,” replied James. “Although there’s no evidence that anyone drove him to his death, is there? All you have is the chap’s word for it. Letters written by the suicidal often apportion blame to someone or something else.”
“But don’t you think Borthwick’s death requires further investigation? Don’t you think the coroner should have requested it at the inquest?”
“He’d already decided on a verdict of suicide, so in his mind the matter is closed. There’s no use in trying to find out who may or may not have been persecuting a man who is already dead.”
“But the culprit might do the same thing to someone else.”
“It’s possible, but we don’t know exactly what was done to him, do we? Consider the fact that this chap wrote the letter while in a distressed state of mind. And he doesn’t provide any facts for us to work with. If Borthwick was truly angry with the people who did this to him, why didn’t he name them? That would have been far more useful for the coroner; in fact, the coroner could have requested that those individuals were summoned to appear at the inquest. This Borthwick chap has thrown about vague accusations, but if things were as bad as he said, why didn’t he report anything to the authorities while he was alive?”
“Perhaps he was frightened.”
“Perhaps he was. But you can see now why the coroner, or the police for that matter, can’t go off and investigate something that has been written in a distressing letter of this sort.”
“I thought it best to die by my own hand rather than theirs,” I read out again. “That’s terrible!”
“I agree. It’s upsetting to read it. Have you read this sort of letter before, Penny?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s impossible to do so without feeling saddened or angered in some way. Suicide is an act with which no one can reconcile themselves. It evokes difficult emotions.”
I sighed. “So we should simply ignore his letter?”
“We?”
“You and I.”
“How am I involved? I thought this evening was merely a social meeting.”
“It’s work, remember? There’s no chaperone.”
James gave me an exasperated smile. “Penny, the Yard won’t allow me to spend any time working on this, I’m afraid. My job is to investigate crime and there is no evidence that any crime has been committed; only Borthwick’s suicide.”
“So you think I should ignore the letter,” I replied sulkily.
“I didn’t say that. If what Borthwick says in his letter is true I am concerned about the people who may have done this to him. They could do the same thing to someone else, as you have already suggested. However, in my capacity as a Scotland Yard detective I’m unable to do anything more about it. If you wish to investigate it further I would be happy to help, if required. I wouldn’t allow it to take up too much of your time, though, as it’s unlikely to lead anywhere.”
“Aren’t you the least bit interested in the people he refers to in the letter?”
“I should like to know who they are, certainly.”
“And Lillian. Who is Lillian?”
James shrugged. “Who indeed? I’m sure you could find out if you’re determined enough.”
“Perhaps I become too easily attached to things, but having seen Mr Borthwick’s wonderful illuminations it was rather a shock to see him pulled out of a cab just an hour later with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head…” My voice trailed off as the memory crept up on me.
“I understand, Penny. You have a personal connection with the whole sorry event. Much like you did when Jack Burton was murdered.”
“Exactly! You do understand don’t you, James?”
“Of course I do. I know you well enough by now. I understand your need to find out the truth. But do I think it’s a good idea? No, I’m afraid I don’t. Besides, it’s highly likely to come to nothing.”
Chapter 9
Donald Repton’s assistant showed me into a great hall filled with the thundering and hissing sound of a working steam engine. Sunlight shone through tall, narrow windows and smoke curled with steam above Mr Repton’s top hat. He wore a dark suit and stood with his back to me inspecting a row of electric lamps, which glowed intermittently.
Wires attached the electric lamps to a larger generator than the one I had seen at the Crystal Palace. A glum man I recognised as Jack Copeland was adjusting something on the front of it.
The assistant left me to wait in the corner of the room. It was too noisy for me to hear what Mr Repton was shouting to Copeland, but it didn’t sound complimentary. Copeland walked over to the engine and turned a lever, slowing the pistons a little. More shouting and gesticulating soon followed from Mr Repton, and Copeland leapt back to the generator to adjust its settings.
Then there was a sharp, deafening crack accompanied by a plume of sparks. My heart leapt into my throat as the electric lamps shattered, showering tiny shards of blackened glass across the floor. Both men ducked, shielding their heads with their arms, and the engine’s pistons ground to a halt.
The air filled with an unpleasant, acrid smell and I wiped a layer of damp grime from my spectacles. Mr Repton recovered himself and, rather than admonishing Mr Copeland, began to laugh.
Jack Copeland remained bemused as Donald Repton’s cackle echoed around the hall. I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, wondering when to announce my presence. It was Mr Copeland who saw me first. Mr Repton followed his gaze and turned to face me.
“Miss Green!” He grinned. “How good of you to come. Shall we go somewhere that isn’t strewn with broken glass?”
Mr Repton’s office was a large, untidy room stacked with books, papers and all manner of cogs, cylinders, wires and lamps. Half-constructed pieces of machinery were propped up against the walls, and the air smelled of oil and stale tobacco smoke.
He gestured for me to sit on a worn velvet chair to one side of his desk. He sat on the other side and removed his top hat to reveal a thick mop of white hair. He looked older than I remembered.
“You don’t mind if I smoke do you, Miss Green? I require something to calm my nerves after Copeland’s demonstration of ineptitude.”
“Of course not.”
He lit his pipe and lifted a glass decanter of amber liquid from his desk.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He filled a filthy glass and took a sizeable gulp of the drink before sighing with satisfaction. I used the pause to express my condolences regarding Simon Borthwick’s death.
He shook his head. “I still can’t quite believe it. I keep expecting him to saunter in through that door. In fact, only yesterday I thought I saw him at the far end of the corridor. Grief plays such terrible tricks on one’s mind.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr Repton.”
“You’d think one would become accustomed to grief, wouldn’t you?” he said. “One doesn’t reach my age without losing a fair few people along the way. However, it never gets any easier, does it? Humans are very resistant to the notion of dying. Our minds refuse to accept it.”
My eye was drawn to a small carriage in the corner of the room. It had a boiler and funnel attached to one end.
“That looks interesting,” I commented. “What is it?”
“A steam-driven road carriage,” he replied. “It’s some age now. I built it about thirty years ago.”
“There is no need for a horse?” I asked.
“No need at all. It’s entirely steam-driven, though a little difficult to manoeuvre once it gets going.”
“Will you work on it again?”
“There is no use in my doing so, Miss Green. Times have moved on. Rumour has it that a German chap, Mr Karl Benz, has produced a carriage which runs on an engine powered by petroleum. I have no idea how much petroleum is required for his vehicle; however, I suspect the fuel usage is more efficient with his invention. To travel any reasonable distance my steam car requires a significant volume of coal and water.”
“Perhaps you could invent an electric vehicle.”
“It has already been done, Miss Green. Mr Thomas Parker of Wolverhampton has built a carriage powered by electricity. His Elwell-Parker Company is also building electrical trams. It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it? Imagine a world without temperamental horses spilling their cartloads. And no more filth in the road, either!”
“So your interests lie in electrical lighting for the time being?”
“Indeed they do, Miss Green. With the widespread electrical lighting of our cities imminent, it’s important to produce the most powerful, reliable and efficient generators possible. That is no easy task. Repton, Borthwick and Company is currently contracted to supply electricity to one hundred new houses which are being built in Kensington. The generating plant will have seven steam engines driving seven generators, and that will power a two-hundred volt, three-wire DC electrical supply.”
“That sounds impressive, though I don’t quite understand what it means.”
“DC means direct current, as opposed to AC, which is alternating current. I shall be happy to explain it in more detail for you, Miss Green, as and when required.” He sighed. “But I’m forgetting myself here. I had been enormously excited about the contract to supply the new homes in Kensington Court, but without Borthwick the project will take much longer. He was the reason that our previous projects – King’s Cross station, the new law courts and the Lord Mayor’s residence, the Mansion House – were such a success.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t mention this to anyone, but we’ve been in discussion with Buckingham Palace about installing electric lights at Windsor Castle.”
“Really?”
He nodded, then shook his head sadly. “But I was relying on Borthwick and his expertise with the incandescent lamp. What will happen now?”
He took another glug of brandy and his eyes grew damp. I struggled to find any words of comfort.
“Anyway, Miss Green. I haven’t yet asked what brings you here, although I do recall seeing you with the other reporters at the inquest. I assume you’re here to ask me some questions. Did you bring any fruit jellies with you?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t, Mr Repton.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Mr Repton, can I ask what you thought of the letter Mr Borthwick left behind?”
“I thought it rather gloomy. That’s to be expected, I suppose, if one is planning to take one’s own life. I never had an inkling that he would do such a thing.”
“Do you have any idea who the persecutors he alluded to in his letter might be?” I asked.
“No idea at all.”
“He didn’t mention anyone to you?”
“No, not at all. But then I don’t imagine he would have. A chap keeps his emotions private in the workplace, doesn’t he? He was a professional gentleman and would never have bothered anyone with his troubles. I suppose that’s the nature of suicide, isn’t it? These thoughts privately ferment in one’s mind and then spill over into some terrible act of personal despair. I must say that it was a shock to hear his words. I don’t recognise the man in that letter at all.”
“Do you know who Lillian is?”
“Yes. Maynell’s wife.”
“Jeffrey Maynell? The gentleman I met at the Crystal Palace?”
“Yes.” Mr Repton sucked a lungful of air in between his teeth. “Rather awkward, isn’t it? I should add that Borthwick and Mrs Maynell had previously courted one another. Prior to her courtship with Jeffrey, of course.”
“What was the relationship between Mr Borthwick and Mr Maynell like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely there must have been some animosity between them regarding Lillian?”
“No! None at all!” He waved his hand dismissively. “Everything was quite friendly between them.”
“That’s unusual, given the circumstances.”
“Both Maynell and Borthwick are professional chaps. There was absolutely no issue between the two gentlemen regarding their shared affection for Mrs Maynell.”
“Perhaps I could speak to Mrs Maynell,” I said.
“I’m sure there is no need for that.”
“I’m interested because Mr Borthwick specifically mentions her in his letter.”
“I wouldn’t bother her, Miss Green. The last thing a lady needs to know is that a chap was thinking of her as he considered taking his own life. That would weigh rather heavily on the poor woman’s mind. I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to achieve with all this. The unfortunate chap is dead.”
“But having witnessed his death myself, I’m concerned about the people he has claimed drove him to it.”
“I must say that I was rather puzzled to hear of that in his letter. I’m inclined to think that his mind wasn’t functioning normally when he wrote it. In fact, it can’t have been given the fact that he committed self-murder.”
“Perhaps his mind wasn’t in good form at the time, but I still find his words extremely concerning,” I said.
“Have you mentioned your concerns to the police?” asked Mr Repton.
“Actually, I have. I discussed it with a good friend of mine who is a detective at Scotland Yard.”
“And what are his thoughts on the matter?”
“He doesn’t think there is anything about Borthwick’s death which requires investigating.”
“That is interesting to hear indeed. It seems the detective and I are in agreement. It’s a terribly sad incident, and we are all struggling to accept that it has happened.” He refilled his glass. “It must be particularly difficult for you, Miss Green, having witnessed the aftermath. But there isn’t a great deal any of us can do about it, is there? Simon Borthwick was my protégé, and I had great affection for the chap. His talent was precocious and I’m immensely saddened when I think of the many things he might have contributed to advancements in the use of electricity. And to think that while he was setting up the illuminations that glorious summer evening he was secretly carrying a revolver about his person and had already written a letter saying goodbye to the world!”
“Those are my thoughts exactly, Mr Repton, and that’s precisely wha
t compels me to investigate. There has to be more to his actions. His letter certainly suggests as much.”
“But what if there isn’t? Perhaps the supposed threat to Borthwick was merely in his mind. He had an extremely active brain and was prone to wild imaginations.”
“But don’t you think there may be a chance that the threat to him was real?”
“He never mentioned the threat while he was alive. But there’s a possibility, I suppose, that his letter tells the truth. And if it does I am deeply saddened for him, as he must have suffered terribly.”
“Was he close to any of his colleagues? Is there anyone else who works here in whom he may have confided?”
“You could try Jack Copeland. I suppose he might know something. It’s unlikely, though. The contents of Borthwick’s farewell letter have certainly come as a surprise to me. I had no inkling that he was under such strain. I wish now that he had spoken to me. I feel sure that I could have talked him out of it.” Mr Repton’s voice wavered. “It’s a terrible loss.”
Chapter 10
The air in the British Library reading room felt stifling. Sunshine poured in through the windows of the great dome above me and the red-whiskered man sitting opposite kept pulling at his tie. My corset and blouse felt damp with perspiration.
“Here you are, Miss Green. I found this book by Mr Donald Repton,” whispered Mr Edwards. “The Maintenance of Electric Currents.”
His keen, green eyes were fixed on me through the thick lenses of his spectacles, and his sandy hair hung limply against his forehead.
“Thank you, Mr Edwards. I’m not sure I’ll be reading it from cover to cover, but I appreciate your bringing it to my attention.”
He chuckled. “It’s one of many he has written. I can show you the location on the second gallery if you wish.”
“I hope there’s rather more air up there,” I replied, fanning myself.
I followed Mr Edwards up a narrow flight of steps to the first gallery. He was being his usual helpful self as a clerk of the reading room, but I felt increasingly uncomfortable in his company.
