by Emily Organ
“But his patent used a carbonised cotton filament, didn’t it?” I said. “I found a letter accusing him of stealing that idea from an inventor named Hugo Bannister.”
“We are always attempting to find filaments which burn for longer,” replied Maynell. “And as soon as someone else found a more suitable material Borthwick was quick to adopt it.”
“Without giving credit where it was due?” asked James.
“Exactly,” said Maynell. “I did not consider the disagreement between us significant, but I was rather tired of his behaviour and decided that demanding financial disbursement would dissuade the man from continuing in the same vein. The chap never had an original idea of his own.”
“Do you think Borthwick might have interpreted your letters to him discussing this matter as persecution?” asked James.
Mr Maynell laughed coldly. “Probably! It wasn’t persecution, though, was it? I find it impossible to believe that a few letters mentioning the idea he had stolen could have driven him to his death.”
“You were first introduced and became attracted to your wife while she was courting Simon Borthwick, is that right?” I ventured.
Maynell’s eyes flashed angrily. If James hadn’t been sitting next to me I should have felt fearful of him.
“Is that what she told you?” he snapped.
“I deduced it,” I replied as calmly as possible.
“There was nothing dishonourable about my behaviour, if that’s what you think. I cannot deny that I was drawn to Lillian, and when I heard rumours about the man – rumours which I dare not repeat – I decided that she needed saving.”
“I’m interested in the rumours you mention, as it happens,” said James. “What were they?”
“You will hear nothing of them from me, Inspector! I suggest you continue with your own investigating if you truly wish to find out.”
“Simon Borthwick may have felt that you were persecuting him because you had contested his ideas and then married Lillian,” I suggested.
He shook his head, then fixed me with his pale gaze. “If that’s what the man thought, then God help him. If Borthwick’s mind was so disturbed as to view matters in that way it’s no wonder he took his own life, is it? What could I have done otherwise? Left Lillian to her unhappy fate? Allowed him to continue stealing other people’s work? What else could I have done with regard to this matter? The man was troubled. He wasn’t anything like the genius everyone believed him to be. Can we leave this conversation alone now? I’m tired of it, I really am, and so is Lillian. It’s beginning to affect her health. She is currently nursing a mild fever, and I can only hope that it doesn’t progress into anything worse.”
I remembered how soaked through she had been on the evening of her visit. I sincerely hoped that hadn’t been the cause of her illness.
“Of course, Mr Maynell,” said James. “Another quick question, though, if I may. A brick was thrown through a window at the Morning Express offices this morning. Do you know anything about that?”
Mr Maynell’s expression turned to one of incredulity.
“A brick, Inspector? Do you honestly think I would throw a brick through a window?” He stood to his feet. “Do I look the brick-hurling type?”
“No,” James quickly replied. “Finally, do you mind if I ask where you were on the morning of the seventeenth of June?”
I saw Mr Maynell’s fist clench involuntarily. “That was the day Borthwick died, wasn’t it? I was at the Crystal Palace, but then you already knew that.”
“You were there all morning?”
“Yes. I got there at about ten o’clock,” he replied curtly. “You can ask my wife if you have any doubt. I really don’t understand your line of questioning, Inspector. You seem extremely muddled. First you accuse me of sending you a strange letter, and next you suggest that I was somehow persecuting Borthwick. Then there are questions about a brick and my whereabouts on the day Borthwick shot himself! Where is this all leading, Inspector? What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew,” replied James. “Thank you for your time, Mr Maynell.”
“We didn’t ask him about the woman who has been following me,” I hissed to James once we had left Jeffrey Maynell’s office. “Or about Tiger!”
“You saw how his patience had run out, Penny.”
“But what if he asked that woman to follow me? And what about Tiger?”
James stopped. “You really think Maynell would steal a cat?”
He noticed my lower lip wobble slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he added hurriedly. “I didn’t intend to sound dismissive. I know how important Tiger is to you. A lot has happened over the past few weeks, and it wouldn’t do us any good to level all of it at Maynell in one go. Perhaps he is responsible, perhaps he’s not. There’s a great deal more investigating to do.”
“Do you believe him about the letter?” I asked. “Do you believe anything he said?”
“I’m not sure that I did,” replied James. “Either the man is innocent, or he is well practised at shaking off accusations.”
“Which leaves us no closer to the truth!” I hissed.
“Penny, I asked you to remain calm, didn’t I?”
“It’s rather difficult to do so!”
“I know, but you must. Will you be able to stay calm while we speak to Jack Copeland, or is it best that you occupy yourself with something else?”
“I will be calm!” I snarled.
James watched me for a moment, then his lips formed a smile. “I do find you comical at times, Penny.”
“I fail to see what could be funny about all this!”
“You are when you’re seething with anger but claiming to be calm. I asked you to keep a cool head, didn’t I?”
“If you refer to a cool head again my temper will be lost for good!”
“Can I trust you to conduct yourself with decorum when we speak to Jack Copeland?”
“Of course you can trust me,” I replied, marching off ahead of him. “Let’s get it over with.”
Chapter 43
Jack Copeland occupied himself with a tall piece of apparatus holding various vessels connected by several lengths of tubing.
“Oh, it’s you again, Inspector,” he said glumly. “I really don’t have any time for you, I’m afraid.”
“May I ask what you’re doing, Mr Copeland?” asked James.
“Creating a vacuum with a Sprengel pump.”
“How fascinating. May I ask what substance that is?” James pointed to a container filled with a thick, shiny liquid.
“Mercury. Each drop which travels down this tube here takes a pocket of air with it, gradually reducing the air pressure within the bulb I’ve attached. Eventually, a vacuum will be created in the bulb.”
“Impressive,” said James. “I think I should have quite liked to be a scientist.”
“But instead you are a police officer,” replied Copeland, his long moustache twitching. “What do you want? I’m rather busy.”
“The vacuum takes a little while to develop, does it not?” asked James. “That will allow you a short amount of time to examine a letter I have here.”
“What letter?” asked Copeland, suddenly growing more interested.
James handed the paper to him and I looked away as he read it, trying not to think about the words it contained.
“Who the devil is Mr Edwards?” asked Copeland.
“An acquaintance of Miss Green’s,” said James.
“I see. The author of this letter doesn’t think a great deal of Miss Green, does he?”
“He’s trying to stir up trouble,” said James. “Do you recognise the handwriting, Mr Copeland?”
“I’m afraid not. This letter isn’t signed. Why are you showing it to me?”
“You say that you don’t recognise the handwriting, but it bears a remarkable resemblance to your own, does it not?”
Jack Copeland peered at the letter more closely. “Now you come to mention it, I suppose it does. B
ut it is not my handwriting, I can assure you of that.”
James showed Jack Copeland the letter he had written to Borthwick. “When you compare these two letters you can see that there is barely anything to differentiate the handwriting on either of them,” said James. “The person who wrote one must have written the other. Can you see that now?”
“When you put it like that, Inspector, yes, I can see it. But surely it’s nothing more than chance. Why would I write an anonymous letter to a man I’ve never heard of about a woman with whom I have had only the briefest of acquaintances?”
“You tell me, Mr Copeland.”
“Now hold on, Inspector!” His bulbous eyes glared at James. “You cannot possibly think that I wrote this!”
“The handwriting is identical to yours, Mr Copeland.”
“It is similar, Inspector, not identical. You can’t just march in here throwing wild accusations around without any evidence. There is no proof at all that I wrote this letter. And there’s no motive, either. Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
“Because Miss Green has been trying to find out who Simon Borthwick’s persecutors were, and in doing so she has angered people who must be worried that she is getting closer to the truth.”
“You think that I persecuted Simon Borthwick?” He shoved the letter back into James’ hands.
“My mind is not yet made up on the matter, Mr Copeland.”
“But you’re considering it? What nonsense! He was a colleague of mine, and I respected him. We were friends.”
“Where were you early in the morning of the seventeenth of June?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Please answer my question.”
“Now hold on a moment. What are you trying to infer? I think I need to take the advice of a lawyer before answering any more of your questions.”
“If you require a lawyer, Mr Copeland, that suggests to me that you may have something to hide.”
“What on earth are you talking about? Every man has the right to seek a lawyer’s advice whether he’s guilty of something or not! Do you really take the suggestion of a lawyer to be an admission of guilt? How preposterous! And you call yourself a detective!”
“I only enquired as to your whereabouts on the morning of the seventeenth of June, Mr Copeland.”
“Why that day?”
“It was the day on which Mr Borthwick took his own life.”
“Why, I travelled to the Crystal Palace of course! Where else could I possibly have been, Inspector?”
“I don’t know. Hence the question.”
“Are you trying to be smart with me?”
“Not at all, Mr Copeland. I am simply looking for an explanation as to how and why a malicious letter was written in your handwriting.”
“You’re not the only one! I should also like to know the answer to that question. If someone is trying to frame me for something I wish to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible!”
“An acquaintance of Mr Borthwick’s, Richard Geller, was murdered inside the museum at St Bartholomew’s medical school on the morning of the seventeenth of June. Were you aware of that?”
“No, but I suppose I’m guilty of that too, am I? A letter which resembles my handwriting is sent to someone I have never met and that implicates me in the murder of Borthwick’s friend?”
“Not at all, Mr Copeland. You’re the one making assumptions now.”
“So why all the questions, Inspector? Are you attempting to manipulate me into divulging something?”
“No, I have finished with my questions for now. Thank you for your time, Mr Copeland.”
“You’re finished, are you? So you walk into my laboratory and rile me as if I were a bear to be poked with a stick.” Copeland jabbed his finger angrily at James as he spoke. I had never seen him so animated before. “Well, let me tell you something, Inspector. This bear can roar if he needs to. And he can do far worse than that if necessary!”
James glanced at me and I could tell he was suggesting that we quit the room.
We turned to walk towards the door.
“That’s it is it, Inspector?” Copeland called after us. “When shall I look forward to your next visit?”
James escorted me out of the laboratory without giving a reply.
“Well, that’s two men angered in one morning,” commented James as we left the works and made our way towards Blackfriars Bridge. “Who shall we rile next?”
I laughed. “What do you think? Was Copeland telling the truth?”
“He seemed to be. But the letters do appear to be in his and Maynell’s handwriting. Both men claim it’s a matter of chance or coincidence, but I need to have the letters analysed by a graphologist as soon as possible. We need to be able to prove that they wrote them.”
The wharves were busy with steamboats and barges as we began our walk across the bridge. Sails flapped in the wind and trains clattered over the railway bridge alongside us. Clouds raced across the sun, casting brief shadows over the city.
“I need to finish my article on the statue France is gifting America tomorrow,” I said. “Shall we meet at the Museum Tavern this evening to discuss Maynell’s prospective arrest? He cannot carry on like this and get away with it. And neither can Copeland.”
“I should like to, Penny, but I’m afraid I can’t this evening.”
“Do you have other plans?”
“I’m afraid so.” He avoided my gaze.
“What are they?”
“Only dull plans, I’m afraid.”
“I’m still interested to hear about them.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be.”
“You might be surprised.”
James turned to look at me, his expression weary. “You wouldn’t be interested, Penny.”
“Now I am extremely interested. We’ve been discussing your dull plans long enough for me to wonder what they could possibly be.”
“Just wedding discussions.”
“Oh, I see.”
“There you go. I knew you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Perhaps we could meet at the tavern tomorrow evening instead?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible either.”
I felt puzzled. James was usually keen to meet me at the Museum Tavern to discuss whichever case we were working on.
“You’re discussing wedding plans again tomorrow evening?” I asked.
We stopped midway across the bridge. A warm breeze brought with it the dank smell of the Thames.
James’ eyes were fixed on a steamboat, which made its way downriver towards us.
“Penny… I’m not sure it’s proper that I meet you at the Museum Tavern at all.”
“Not proper? But we meet there to discuss our work. You’ve never said anything about it being improper before. I don’t understand. Why should you no longer wish to meet me there?”
“I do!” He turned to face me again. “I do wish to meet you there, Penny. But… something has been said.”
“By whom? Who has said something?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters! Who told you that you shouldn’t meet me there?”
“The person in question hasn’t told me, as such. It has merely been implied.”
“The future Mrs Blakely?”
He said nothing, but instead held my gaze. I realised my suggestion had been correct and tried to remain impassive.
“I don’t see why she should prevent you from meeting with a colleague to discuss work. You’re not even married to her yet.”
“She views it differently.”
“How does she view it?”
“To be honest with you, Penny, I’m not entirely sure. But there is some discomfort around the fact that you and I occasionally meet at a public house.”
“Does she think I’m about to steal you away?”
James laughed awkwardly. “Of course not!”
“Then I still don�
�t understand.”
The truth was that I did understand. The future Mrs Blakely was concerned about James’ relationship with me and I knew that she had every right to be. Perhaps I wanted to hear him admit it.
“It’s just a notion she has at the present time,” said James. “I’m sure it will die away in due course, but for the time being I think it best if Charlotte feels satisfied that I am not meeting with you at a public house.”
He didn’t often refer to her by name. I stared back at him, trying to ignore the tightening sensation in my throat.
“Are you saying that we shouldn’t meet at all?”
“No, I’m not saying that. We have to meet during the course of our work, don’t we?”
“But no more meetings at the Museum Tavern?”
“Perhaps not until the notion—”
“Forget about the notion,” I said impatiently. “She doesn’t want us to meet one another, and in a few months’ time she will be your wife. She’s already beginning to tighten her grip on you. I suppose I should have expected that. She’s perfectly entitled to, of course. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.” I sighed. “But for some strange reason I am.”
“I don’t like this either, Penny,” he replied quietly.
“It’s a choice you have made, James! No one is forcing you to marry her.”
I turned away from him and continued my walk along the bridge. I half hoped that he would call out or catch up with me.
But he didn’t.
Chapter 44
Tiger’s tin bowl sat empty by the stove as I got dressed the following morning. I turned to look at my bed, hopeful that I would see her sleeping there, but her favourite place was vacant. A tear ran down my cheek, swiftly followed by another.
Footsteps on the staircase up to my room prompted me to remove my spectacles and quickly dry my tears with the sleeve of my blouse.
“Telegram for you, Miss Green!” called Mrs Garnett.
I hoped she would push the envelope under the door, but she appeared to be waiting for me to open it.
I rubbed at my eyes, hoping my landlady wouldn’t notice that I had been crying, and forced a smile onto my face.
