by Emily Organ
We stood on the third step down from the front door in the hope that Mrs Garnett wouldn’t be able to overhear our conversation. As Mr Edwards fidgeted with the brim of his hat my mouth suddenly felt dry. The street was quiet at this time of day, with only a few carriages passing by. Streaks of cloud above the rooftops began to glow orange.
“I had a conversation with Inspector Blakely yesterday evening,” said Mr Edwards, staring at the houses opposite us.
“Oh?” My voice croaked.
“It was at quite a pleasant establishment, actually: The Marquis of Cornwallis in Bloomsbury. Have you ever been there?”
“I haven’t.”
“It was Inspector Blakely’s idea. He was waiting for me when I finished work at the library. He gave me a thorough explanation with regard to recent… events.”
“Oh?” I said again, unsure as to what else I could say.
“Yes, and I must say I respect the man’s ability to express such contriteness. First and foremost, he has been extremely concerned about the effect the incident may have had on you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. He explained that it was nothing more than a moment of weakness on his part. He was tired and had spent a long, busy day on that Borthwick case. He stated that he has no idea how the emotion overcame him, but overcome him it did. I cannot recall ever seeing a man so filled with regret.”
“I see.”
“He was most regretful about the fact that he has ruined your honour.”
“I think that he is overstating it, rather. It was a simple mistake, and I feel sure that my honour remains intact.”
“He would be pleased to hear you say that, I’m sure. I believe he has already apologised to you.”
“He has.”
“He apologised profusely to me and I should say that, after some consideration, I have accepted his apology.”
“That’s very obliging of you, Mr Edwards.”
“I can’t say that I initially felt obliging, but having spent some time in the chap’s company I can say that I respect him and his work, and I consider him to be of generally good character given that he appears willing to recognise and apologise for his mistakes.”
I smiled to myself as I realised that Mr Edwards considered me entirely blameless in this matter. The idea that I might have wanted James to kiss me did not seem to have entered his head.
“So there’s no need for me to say any more on the matter,” Mr Edwards said, turning to face me. “I haven’t seen you in the reading room recently, Miss Green.”
“Oh, I’ve been rather busy reporting on this Forster murder case. And the book about Father’s life is coming along rather better now. I’ve been devoting more time to it.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Well, I hope to see you there again soon. If there’s anything you would like me to research on your behalf you know where I am.”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards, and I appreciate the time you’ve taken to come and speak to me about the other matter this evening. I do apologise —”
“I won’t hear an apology from you, Miss Green. You were a victim of the man’s passions. Detectives such as Inspector Blakely must endure much stress and strain in their work, and lapses will naturally occur. Others lapse into drink, of course. You were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any woman who happened to find herself standing in front of Inspector Blakely that evening.”
I felt my heart sink at the thought that James would have kissed any woman he might have encountered that night, but it was clearly a thought which afforded Mr Edwards some comfort, so I remained silent.
Chapter 6
“Stay back!” came the shout.
People knocked into each other as they tried to lift their feet from the rivulets of water running off the pavement and into the gutter.
Another pail of water was emptied onto the paving slabs with a loud slosh, and brushes scrubbed the decks with great fervour.
“Move away!”
A group of constables were doing their best to keep the crowd away from the London Library in the corner of St James’s Square. Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette elbowed me as he tried to get closer. I stood on my tiptoes, hoping to see an inspector who might be in charge of the scene, but everything appeared rather chaotic.
More water trickled past my feet and my stomach churned when I saw that it was streaked with red. Additional staff emerged from the stone portico of the East India Club, each equipped with a pail of water and a broom.
“What’s ’appened?” asked a woman in a brown dress and tattered shawl who had appeared at my side.
“I’m not exactly sure yet,” I replied. “All I’ve heard is that there’s been a murder.”
“That’s what I ’eard an’ all. What they washin’ the path for?”
I chose not to answer as she pushed past me to get closer to the action.
There was an early morning chill in the air. Mrs Garnett had woken me shortly after dawn with the news, her knowledgeable friend having called at the house to give her the scoop.
I decided it was time to break through the crowd and find out what had happened.
“Press!” I shouted as I began to push my way to the corner of the square. “Press! Let me through!”
I was knocked and jostled as I battled my way through the throng. My toes were stepped on and I almost lost my notebook in the melee.
“Move back! Move back!” cried the police constables.
Behind the line they were maintaining, the paving was still being scrubbed by the staff of the East India Club. The crowd surged forward and my face was pressed up against the chest of a black-whiskered reporter from the News of the World. We avoided each other’s gaze, equally embarrassed by our close proximity.
“Who was the victim?” I asked his jacket.
“Augustus Forster.”
“Mr Forster?” I looked up at the dark whiskers. “The man whose wife was murdered during that burglary a few days ago?”
“Same one.”
“He’s also been murdered? But how? Why?”
The reporter tried to shrug but could barely move his arms. “It’s baffling,” he replied as he was lurched into me. “Oops, I am sorry.”
The man I had suspected of murdering his wife was dead himself.
As I struggled to comprehend this, a wiry inspector with a wispy moustache skipped over the wet pavement and called out to us. “Gentlemen! Can I have some calm, please? If you’re from the press, follow me. No one else has any business being here. Get back to whatever it is you ought to be doing.”
He strode off in the direction of the East India Club and everyone in the crowd turned to follow. I was able to extricate myself from the reporter’s chest, but the next moment I received a shoulder blow to my chin.
“Miss Green?”
“Edgar?”
“I thought I’d got here before you this time.”
“I’m afraid not.” I smiled. “Did you hear the inspector’s announcement? We’re to follow him into the East India Club.”
“Righty-ho,” said Edgar, shuffling into an about-turn.
The police constables tried to disperse the crowd while the rest of us made our way toward the club.
“Why here?” I asked Edgar.
“The chap was staying here, apparently,” he replied.
“Have you heard that it was Augustus Forster? The man whose wife, Olivia, was murdered in the recent burglary?”
“It’s him?” said Edgar. “Well I never!”
We reached the cream portico of the East India Club and began to climb the stone steps. I overheard the inspector ahead of us telling a reporter he had been permitted to use the smoking room for his briefing.
“I’m rather impatient to find out what has happened,” I said.
“It must have been a stabbing,” replied Edgar. “Did you see all the blood?”
“I tried not to look at it.”
“My apologies, madam, but ladies are not p
ermitted inside the East India,” said a young man in a dark suit with gold buttons. He rested his hand on my forearm to gently reinforce his words.
“Oh, it’s quite all right. I have no wish to become a member; I’m simply a reporter attending the police briefing.”
Edgar walked on into the club without me.
“Indeed, madam, but I’m afraid you’re not permitted inside.”
“I’m a reporter for the Morning Express newspaper! Here, let me find you my card.” I pulled my arm away from his hand and rummaged around in my carpet bag for it.
“That may be so, madam, but the rules of the club state that membership is for gentlemen only.”
“But I have no wish to become a member!” I hissed.
All the reporters except me were inside the building by this point.
“Madam?” He held my forearm again and glanced toward the door.
“Presumably you don’t usually allow a crowd of reporters inside your club,” I said, “so on this unusual and tragic day perhaps you could make allowances for a single woman.”
“I’m afraid not, madam. Please do accept my apologies and thank you for agreeing to my request without creating an embarrassing scene.”
I glared at him, knowing that any further protest would be useless. I turned and made my way back down the steps.
Chapter 7
“Where did you vanish to, Miss Green?” asked Edgar when he returned to the newsroom that afternoon.
“I wasn’t allowed inside the East India Club.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised. It only takes a single glance to realise you’re trouble.” He laughed.
“I didn’t find it funny at the time.”
“You truly weren’t allowed inside? I thought you were joking.”
“The East India is a gentleman’s club, Edgar,” said Frederick Potter. “Miss Green is a member of the fairer sex.”
“Yes, I realise she’s a lady. Thank you, Potter,” said Edgar. “But I didn’t realise the club would stop you going in altogether, Miss Green. That’s a bit out of sorts, isn’t it?”
“Do you ever see ladies at your club, Edgar?” asked Frederick.
“No, it’s not a place for ladies.”
“And that’s precisely why Miss Green wasn’t allowed in.”
“But surely an exception should have been made!” protested Edgar. “She’s a news reporter and works just as hard as you and I do.”
“Thank you, Edgar,” I said. “Perhaps you could have helped me explain that to the man on the door.”
“I hadn’t even realised he’d stopped you, Miss Green. I do apologise.”
“He wouldn’t have allowed her in even if you had explained it,” said Frederick. “Rules are rules.”
“Let’s forget about all that now,” I said. “Did you write down everything the police had to say, Edgar?”
“I certainly did.”
“What happened to Mr Forster?”
“The unfortunate chap was staying at the club after all that terrible business with the burglary and the murder of his wife. Yesterday evening he decided to step out into St James’s Square for some air, and that’s when the attacker struck. A knife in the back, it was.”
I winced. “Were there any witnesses to the murder?”
“Not that the police are aware of. It’s believed that Mr Forster was lying there for a while before he was discovered by a constable doing his rounds.”
“At what time was that?”
“About two o’clock this morning. The constable had previously walked the perimeter of the square shortly before midnight and all had been quiet at that point. And then at some time between midnight and two o’clock, the poor fellow was done in. The chap on the reception desk at the club said he thought Forster had left for his walk shortly after midnight. He’d had a few drinks at one of the lounges beforehand and had presumably decided to take some air before retiring for the night.”
“Has there been any sign of the murder weapon?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“But why? Why would someone wish to murder him?”
“That’s the question everyone asks, isn’t it? I can’t see why there should ever be a reason to murder anyone.”
“Oh, I can think of a few good reasons,” said Frederick.
“Perhaps someone knew that he’d had his wife murdered and then killed him in a quest for revenge,” I suggested. “Or perhaps he somehow found out the identity of the men who had killed his wife and was murdered to prevent him from telling anyone.”
Edgar nodded. “Either theory is possible.”
“Or,” I continued, “the people who killed his wife had also intended to kill him that same evening but were unable to because he was absent, so they finally caught up with him.”
“Anything’s possible, Miss Green,” said Edgar, “but it’s not for us to conjecture. We must leave the detective work to Inspector Paget of C Division.”
“I’ve just thought of another scenario!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps his death has nothing to do with his wife’s, and instead he had an argument with someone at the club. That person may have followed him out and stabbed him in the back.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Edgar. “Why are you hurling all these theories at me? Do I look like a detective?”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” I replied.
“There are many things I wish to make sense of, Miss Green, but striving to consider every possible explanation isn’t a sensible use of my time.”
“We need to find out more,” I said.
“And we will, in good time.”
“Thank you for writing everything down, Edgar. If you could pass me your notes I’ll get the article written up.”
He scowled at me. “I shall be the one writing the article, Miss Green.”
“But I was there before you!”
“Were you?”
“Yes!”
“At what time?” asked Edgar.
“I left my home at half-past five. How about you?”
“I left at six, but I live nearer to St James’s Square than you, so I was there first.”
“You were not! I managed to get further into the crowd than you, which confirms that I was there earlier.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Edgar, I have to write this article because I wrote the one about Mrs Forster’s murder.”
“Ah, but it’s not the same story.”
“It is! It involves the same family.”
“But it’s a separate incident.”
“I saw Mr Forster the morning after his wife’s murder. I’m closer to this story than you.”
“It’s an entirely different story, Miss Green.”
“If I’d been allowed inside the East India Club this story would have been mine!” I fumed.
“Maybe, but then again maybe not,” said Frederick. “You’d both still be bickering about it whether you had been allowed into the club or not, Miss Green.”
“Thank you, Potter,” said Edgar. “I’m pleased you agree that the story is mine.”
“I said nothing of the kind,” replied Frederick.
“Whose story should it be, then?”
“Miss Green’s, given that she wrote the story about the wife.”
Mr Sherman marched into the newsroom. “Good Lord!” he declared. “What’s all this noise about?”
“Miss Green and I have been arguing about who should write the story on Mr Forster’s murder,” said Edgar. “I say it should be me as I was on the scene first and was able to listen to Inspector Paget’s briefing at the East India Club. Miss Green wasn’t permitted entry because she’s a woman.”
“I see, well get on with your article then, Fish,” replied the editor. “Less talk and more writing, please.”
“Edgar gets the story?” I said. “But I covered Mrs Forster’s murder. It’s only fitting that I write this piece!”
“I cannot abide dis
cord, Miss Green,” replied Mr Sherman. “I want four hundred words from you about the funeral of Bishop Claughton, and you’ll need to typewrite it quickly as the deadline is fast approaching.”
Chapter 8
I left the newsroom that evening feeling angry that Edgar had been given the story. It made no sense to me that the two murders should be treated as separate incidents. Surely Mr Forster’s death was related to the murder of his wife?
With Edgar working on the article it would be difficult for me to find out how the investigation was progressing. I was desperate to discuss the murders with someone, and James was the only person I could think of. We usually met at the Museum Tavern by the British Museum to discuss our work, but James’ fiancée Charlotte had begun to express her disapproval of our meetings. I felt I could no longer send him a telegram and ask to meet at our usual place. He had probably left Scotland Yard for the day, so the only alternative was to visit his home.
I had never called on James at home before and I wasn’t sure how he would receive me. Besides discussing the Forster murders I also wished to hear more about his conversation with Mr Edwards.
James lived at Henstridge Place in St John’s Wood. One side of the street was lined with large stucco buildings and James lived in one of the smart terraced houses on the opposite side. An unseasonably chill wind blew along the street as I approached number twenty-five. My heart pounded heavily as I knocked at the door and waited.
I knew James would be surprised to see me, and I also knew that it wasn’t entirely ladylike for me to be here.
As I had hoped, James answered the door. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he had unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Penny! Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine, nothing to worry about. I just found myself passing by and thought I’d call in on you for a moment.”
“Passing by?”
“Yes.” I grinned.
I had expected him to invite me inside, but instead he stepped out onto the top step with an uneasy expression on his face.
“You’ve heard about poor Mr Forster, I presume?” I asked. “I was down in St James’s Square this morning, but Edgar has been given the story.”
