by Emily Organ
“I wish I’d made the same choice,” said Lillian.
“Perhaps so,” I said. “But it’s difficult to know if we’ve ever made the right decision, isn’t it? Although I enjoy my work, there are times when I find myself wishing there was someone to share certain moments with.”
“I expect those times are quite fleeting, though, aren’t they?” asked Lillian. “Oh, how I would enjoy the freedom of living by myself and doing whatever I please!”
“Miss Green can’t do whatever she pleases,” said Georgina. “She must work for a living and she’s responsible for every penny! There is no man to provide for her. Imagine what that must be like!”
“I am imagining it, George, and I quite like the idea,” replied Lillian.
“Oh, no. I don’t at all.” Georgina shuddered. “I would find it quite frightening. I’d much rather leave the work to Edgar.”
“Do you mind if I ask you about Simon Borthwick, Lillian?” I asked, keen to move the conversation on.
“Oh, yes,” replied Lillian. “I almost forgot that was why you wanted to meet.”
“I wished to speak to you from personal interest more than anything else,” I said. “I was close by when Simon Borthwick administered that fateful gunshot.”
A forlorn expression flickered across Lillian’s face, but she maintained her composure well.
“That terrible moment has remained with me,” I continued, “and I should like to understand why he did it, especially after creating such a wonderful spectacle at the Midsummer Fair. Have you heard about the letter he wrote?”
Lillian nodded. “George mentioned it to me.”
“He accused nameless people of persecuting him,” I said. “And he also…” I glanced at Georgina briefly and saw that her expression was encouraging. “He also mentioned you,” I said, turning back to Lillian.
She raised an eyebrow. “He said that I was persecuting him?”
“No, no. His meaning was quite different regarding you. I hope you won’t feel too upset if I say that he apologised to you but said that you no doubt cared little for his apology.”
I noticed that her lower lip wobbled slightly as she retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. A waiter asked if we wished to order our meals, but Georgina waved him away.
Lillian took a deep breath before speaking. “That’s an odd thing for him to write,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he didn’t particularly care for me while we were courting!”
“Perhaps that’s why he was apologising.”
“Perhaps.”
“You were the one who ended the courtship?”
“Yes, I was.”
“May I ask why?”
“I felt rather overlooked, to tell you the truth. He was always at his laboratory in Southwark, and even when he was home he was often too busy to see me. He would be working late into the evening on designs for something or other.”
Georgina Fish wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Oh, Lily,” she said. “Don’t you think it rather emotional that he apologised to you? Perhaps he loved you after all.”
“I think it is rather a shame that he left it until after his death to express it,” replied Lillian. Her jaw was clenched, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure.
“It is a shame. It’s a huge shame, isn’t it, Lily? Just think what might have been.”
“I would prefer not to,” replied Lillian, tearing a small piece of bread from the slice on her plate.
“If only he had told you how he felt, Lily!”
“He would have been an unbearable person to live with, George. He may have loved me, but on a day-to-day basis it would have been inordinately frustrating. I cannot say that I regret putting an end to our courtship. I’m not sure why he wrote something like that in his letter. It’s rather embarrassing.”
“I am more concerned about the people he believed to be persecuting him, Lillian,” I said. “Can you think of anyone who has made malicious comments about him?”
“No, I didn’t encounter anything of the kind.”
“A colleague of his said that he was prone to melodrama. Is that an accurate description?”
“I wouldn’t describe it quite like that, but he was certainly a sensitive person. He took things to heart and he took offence rather easily.”
“The wording of his letter suggests that he was driven to his death by people he refuses to name.”
Lillian laughed sadly. “He names me but refuses to name them.”
“Do you know whom he might have meant?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry. Jeffrey might know, but you’ll struggle to speak to him about Simon. Jeffrey didn’t care for him because he was once my suitor. It’s a rather delicate situation, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“I understand. Are there any other colleagues who might know more?”
“Donald Repton and Jack Copeland. You may find it useful to speak with them.”
“I have already done so, as a matter of fact.”
Lillian shrugged. “Then I don’t know of anyone else.”
“And your husband wouldn’t know who might have been persecuting Simon?”
“I daren’t ask him, and neither would anyone else. It is a cause of some embarrassment that I once courted Simon Borthwick, and it simply wouldn’t do to discuss it. My husband doesn’t know that I am meeting you to discuss him. You’ll keep this meeting secret, won’t you? I shall be in terrible trouble if he finds out.”
Lillian’s eyes grew wide and I felt sure there was fear behind them.
“You have my word that I shall be discreet.”
“You must be, because it’s dreadfully important that he doesn’t find out. He has quite a temper.”
Georgina nodded. “He does.”
“Please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say, Penny,” said Lillian, “but I don’t understand what your intention is with all this.”
“I wish to find out what, or who, drove Simon Borthwick to his death. Having met him and then witnessing his wonderful illuminations at the Crystal Palace, I cannot understand why he should shoot himself on a busy street. What did he seek to achieve in doing so?”
“We shall never know,” said Lillian. Her demeanour had changed considerably from the one I had seen when she was joking about schoolgirl pranks just minutes earlier.
“Did he strike you as someone who might take his own life?” I asked.
Lillian paused for a moment as she considered this. “No, I didn’t think he could ever do such a thing.”
“Was he impulsive?”
“No, not really. I’ve no doubt he planned it. He planned everything.”
“Jack Copeland suggested that he might have been consumed by a fit of madness.”
“Did he? I never saw Simon consumed by a fit of madness. He only ever seemed to be consumed by his work. It’s odd, because I always got the impression that he didn’t care much for what others did or said. He tended to ignore people, so this idea that he was somehow persecuted is a strange one. Still, I don’t think you will find any answers in this situation, Penny.”
“A few people have said the same to me.”
“They are probably correct. I certainly wouldn’t hold much stock by what Simon wrote in his letter. I don’t believe that he ever truly cared for me.”
“Did he even write it?” queried Georgina.
“He must have done,” I replied. “The letter was found in the case he was carrying on the night he died, and it was presumably signed and identifiable as his handwriting, otherwise the inquest wouldn’t have considered it. It’s an interesting thought though, Georgina. I have come across forged suicide notes before.”
“Do you mind if we change the subject?” asked Lillian. “I have a tendency to become rather gloomy when I talk about Simon, and I should like to cheer up a little. Tell me more about being a woman on Fleet Street, Penny. What a fascinating professio
n! I hear you have to work alongside George’s Edgar.”
“I’m afraid I do,” I replied.
“Tell Lily what you think of him, Penny!” chuckled Georgina.
“He’s the most irritating man I’ve ever met,” I said.
Georgina shrilled with laughter.
Chapter 19
Mr Sherman’s secretary, Miss Welton, approached me as I worked at my typewriter in the Morning Express newsroom. Despite the heat, she wore her usual woollen dress, which was buttoned up to her throat. A pair of pince-nez was clipped to the end of her nose, and in her hand she held an envelope.
“It’s not a very nice letter, I’m afraid, Miss Green,” she said apologetically.
“Please don’t worry, Miss Welton,” I replied, taking the envelope from her. “It isn’t the first time someone has sent me something unpleasant!”
I opened the envelope to find a newspaper cutting inside. As I took it out I saw that it was an advertisement for the Crystal Palace Midsummer Fair from the seventeenth of June.
“That’s strange,” I said.
“There’s a piece of paper inside as well,” added Miss Welton.
I reached inside the envelope again and found it. There were only four words scrawled upon it:
Stay away, Miss Green.
“Stay away?” I said to Miss Welton. “From what, exactly? I’ve already attended the fair.”
Her face paled. “How horrible of someone to write such a thing. I wouldn’t want to do your job and receive notes like that. It’s cowardly, too, isn’t it? Notice how the person doesn’t write his name.”
“It is nothing to worry about at all,” I said. “Thank you, Miss Welton. I’m sure this is someone’s idea of a prank.”
Chapter 20
“Many of the Spanish gold mines in Colombia have been abandoned or lost,” said Mr Isaac Fox-Stirling as we dined on roast guinea fowl at his home in Chelsea. Tropical plants sprouted from pots by the windows, and lithographs of African hunting scenes hung on the walls.
“The natives are doing their best to rediscover the mines,” he continued. “During one of my trips to the country I heard an amusing story about the pinnacle of gold. In fact, I refer to it in Volume Two of my book, Travels, Trials and Adventure in the Andes, don’t I, Margaret?”
His silver-haired wife responded with a proud nod.
Eliza was accompanied by her husband, George, while I was accompanied by Mr Edwards. Mr Fox-Stirling had dominated much of the conversation thus far. He was a stocky, fair-haired man of about fifty, with suntanned and freckled skin.
“There is a pinnacle in the mountains of San Lucas which was said to have been made entirely of gold,” he continued. “This great tower of gold could be seen from a great many miles around, gleaming brightly from the time the sun rose every day until it set again. For years, men had tried to reach the pinnacle, but not a single one had made it there. A legend grew that the mountain was inhabited by a race of pigmy gold-diggers, who mined the gold and had riches beyond the imagination of any man. Some even claimed to have encountered the gold-digging pigmies. It was said that they spoke a language so loud and strange that a man’s ears would be deafened for the rest of his life upon hearing them!
“I forget who it was now. I think it was a group of Germans. Anyhow, this was the first group of men to ever reach the golden pinnacle. After a long, arduous journey, they returned with disappointed faces. They reported that not only was the mountain devoid of pigmies, but that the golden pinnacle was nothing more than a large grey rock!” He slapped the table and threw his head back with laughter.
“Those poor Germans!” said George. “It is fortunate that no Englishman wasted his time trying to reach the golden pinnacle.”
“Oh, I’m sure there must have been an Englishman who set out on the fool’s errand at some point or another,” said Mr Fox-Stirling, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Some men even lost their lives trying to get to it!” He laughed some more.
“I’ve heard that two Colombian merchants are doing a good job of exploring the Spanish gold mines,” said Mr Edwards.
“Indeed,” replied Mr Fox-Stirling. “Lopez and Navarro own a number of them now. It’s a prosperous business to be getting into. Perhaps I should abandon my plant-hunting and open a few gold mines instead, Margaret.”
“But then I should see even less of you, darling!”
“Sadly, that’s the life of an explorer and plant-hunter, my dear. We are a rare breed indeed. I remember discussing the gold mines of Colombia with your father, ladies,” Mr Fox-Stirling said, glancing at me and Eliza in turn. “We were attending a gathering at Kew Gardens together when he told me that he had stayed at a gold mine for a few days while he was searching for epidendrum in the Bolivar region. The miners were very hospitable, by all accounts, and he was permitted to share their huts. However, I think he only returned home with plants, not gold!”
“I would very much enjoy the life of an explorer,” said Mr Edwards.
“And you can!” replied Fox-Stirling. “There’s nothing to stop you. One merely needs to be hardy, resourceful and think quickly on one’s feet.”
“There must be more to it than that,” replied Mr Edwards.
“You need a patron, of course; a chap who is willing to pay you to travel overseas to discover or fetch something for him. You’re a librarian, aren’t you?”
“A clerk at the British Library’s reading room, to be exact.”
“That is rather different from exploring,” said Mrs Fox-Stirling. “One is an indoor profession and the other all about the outdoors. In fact, the two couldn’t be more different!”
She laughed, but Mr Edwards seemed disappointed.
“You must have missed your father, ladies, when he travelled,” Mrs Fox-Stirling said, appearing not to notice.
“Very much so,” replied Eliza. “He was often gone so long that we forgot what he looked like, didn’t we, Penelope?”
“Yes, we did. And he always looked so different when he returned. His face would be thinner and his skin darker. I felt each time as though we had to get to know him as our father all over again.”
“And he always gave us rather odd gifts, didn’t he? What was that strange little bowl he gave you that time? He had a particular name for it. A cala something.”
“A calabash shell,” corrected Mr Fox-Stirling. “A calabash is otherwise known as the ‘bottle gourd’, and when hollowed out it serves as a useful cup. If I close my eyes now I can picture a calabash of steaming coffee sweetened with raw sugar. Very pleasant at breakfast with a roasted banana.”
Mrs Fox-Stirling spoke again. “Although you must have missed your father a great deal, there can be no doubt that he contributed enormously to the collections of tropical plants we now enjoy on these shores.”
“Absolutely,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “There are even a few cases of his work in the natural history department of the British Museum in Kensington. That’s more than they’ve ever done for me, isn’t it, Margaret?”
“Perhaps that’s because you’re not dead yet, darling.” Her comment was met with silence. She flung a hand over her mouth. “Oh, goodness! I didn’t mean to offend Mrs Billington-Grieg and Miss Green. It was only supposed to be in jest! Oh, I do apologise, I…”
“Please don’t worry, Mrs Fox-Stirling,” said Eliza. “This dinner has been entirely good-natured, and we take your comment in jest as it was intended.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs Billington-Grieg,” said Mrs Fox-Stirling with a sigh of relief.
“Margaret often talks before she thinks, don’t you, dear?” said Mr Fox-Stirling.
“A common trait of the fairer sex,” George added. “It’s as if the route from their minds to their mouths is a river in full flow. Men, on the other hand, have several sluice gates in operation, and only open them when they deem it appropriate to do so.”
“What twaddle, George!” said Eliza scornfully, pushing her lips together into a thin line.
“In response to your earlier comment, Mrs Fox-Stirling, there is no doubt that Mr Frederick Brinsley Green did a great deal of good work,” said Mr Edwards. “Particularly with orchids. I know that modesty prevents Miss Green from boasting about his achievements at the dinner table.”
“She should go ahead and boast, I say,” Mr Fox-Stirling insisted. “How’s your book about his life progressing, Miss Green?”
“Rather slowly,” I replied. “It takes a long time to write a book, doesn’t it?”
“It does, I’m afraid,” replied Mr Fox-Stirling. “I found it rather easier as everything I wrote about was already in my head. You, on the other hand, have the unenviable task of collating and reading everything before you can commit anything to paper.”
“I have been helping wherever possible,” Mr Edwards chipped in.
“Very admirable of you,” said Mr Fox-Stirling.
“I think the most pressing matter for me,” I said, “is to decide on how the book should end. The uncertainty about Father’s fate prevents me from making any decision about it. That’s where I hoped you could help us, Mr Fox-Stirling.”
“Indeed, and I’m more than happy to. When we last met I told you about my visit to that little place on the banks of the Funza. I cannot remember what it was called.”
“El Charquito,” I replied.
“That’s the one. Yes, and as I explained to you I could find no evidence of any final resting place for your father. The natives of that country may have simple ways but, to give them their dues, they do treat the death of a foreigner respectfully. There is scarcely a corner of the world these days that doesn’t contain the well-tended grave of an adventurous European.”
“True,” said George, nodding proudly in agreement.
“I think if your father had a grave I would have been directed to it,” continued Mr Fox-Stirling. “Which, my dear ladies, leads me to speculate on a possibility.”
“Which is what?” I asked.
