by Emily Organ
“It may be above board, George, but it’s still immoral,” said Eliza.
George laughed. “Trust a woman to consider morality above revenue! Do you know how much the opium trade is predicted to make for us this year? In excess of eight-and-a-half million. Abolish the trade and where on earth could we raise eight million pounds from instead? Do you think the British taxpayer would be willing to cover the deficit? I should think not. And we’re not just talking about money here; we’re also talking about trade. How else would we get our hands on fine silk and porcelain? You’re rather fond of the Canton vases, Eliza. In order to display such fine Chinese porcelain in our homes we must trade something in return. The British have nothing that is of interest to the Chinese save for opium, so opium it is.”
“If that’s how we came by the Canton vases I think they should be sent back,” said Eliza sulkily.
George laughed again. “All the way back to Canton? I knew it would be hopeless trying to explain such matters to a woman! It’s easy to throw one’s hands up in the air at the plight of poor little Chinese babies, but far more difficult to understand the economics of the modern globe. This is how empire operates, Eliza, and it’s what my clients have to continually explain to the empty-headed chaps at the Society for the Abolition of the Opium Trade.”
“I think that sounds like a very worthwhile society,” said Eliza. “I should like to join it.”
“I think you belong to quite enough societies for the time being,” said George. “And many of these so-called societies are founded on passions of the heart rather than on anything factual, or indeed any knowledge of how the world really works.”
“I’m not sure I always agree with the way the world works,” I said.
“Neither do I, Penelope,” said George, “but this is what we are up against.”
“But isn’t it admirable to demand change?” I asked.
“Yes, when it makes sense to do so,” he replied.
“But perhaps it doesn’t always appear to make sense at the time,” I said. “When it was first suggested that women should have the vote many people said it made little sense.”
“And many still say it,” said Eliza.
George groaned. “Oh, not that topic again. If you think I’m about to ruin my dinner discussing women’s suffrage with the pair of you, you’re sorely mistaken. I happen to have a lot of work to do for a client who is just about to land a lucrative contract with the India Office. Do excuse me while I get on with that.” He stood and dropped his serviette onto his plate. “I shall take pudding in my study,” he said to the butler on his way out.
“I do apologise on behalf of my husband, Penelope,” said Eliza once he had left the room. “He’s so terribly stubborn and old-fashioned.”
She was trying to smile, but I noticed that her eyes were damp.
“There’s no need to apologise. I’ve known George long enough to recognise his views on most things.”
“But don’t you find it all rather frustrating?” she asked. “You and I can see the things that are wrong, and we want to do something about them. We want to change them. But as long as men like George remain in charge we have no hope, do we?”
“There is always hope, Ellie. We just have to keep speaking up and making ourselves unpopular.”
Eliza laughed. “It seems to be the only way. Do you know who I should like to see again, Penelope? Mr Edwards. He’s a good conversationalist. How is he?”
“He’s well. In fact, he has been assisting me in my research today.”
“Oh good. I think an excursion with him is long overdue, don’t you? And besides, we need to speak to him about Mr Fox-Stirling’s search for Father. As a generous benefactor Mr Edwards needs to be closely involved, don’t you think? Some time spent with him will take your mind off that troublesome inspector’s forthcoming wedding.”
Chapter 11
“Here you are, Miss Green,” whispered Mr Edwards, placing some papers on my desk. “I spent a bit of time perusing The Homeward Mail and made some notes for you.”
“There was no need to do that!” I whispered in surprise. “It must have taken you ages.”
“It didn’t take that long, and I had some spare time anyway,” he replied. “I began at January 1882 and worked through to December 1883. I found a few mentions of the Forsters and Mr Mawson in the listings.”
“That’s extremely helpful of you, Mr Edwards, thank you. You must have put an enormous amount of your time into this. I really don’t deserve it.”
“You don’t deserve it, Miss Green? What nonsense!”
James had done such a convincing job of persuading Mr Edwards of my virtue that he seemed content to spend as much time helping me as he had done before, but I felt rather guilty about the whole affair. I knew I had been partly to blame for the kiss, yet Mr Edwards considered me entirely innocent.
“Thank you again, but there really is no need to go to such great lengths on my behalf.”
“But why ever not, Miss Green? I’ve helped you with your research in the past and I’m simply continuing in the same vein. Has anything changed?”
“No, I suppose not.”
He softened his whisper further. “That business with Inspector Blakely is all forgotten about. There is no need to feel ashamed about the matter.”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards. I would prefer not to be reminded of it.”
“I shan’t mention it again, Miss Green. Perhaps we could enjoy another walk out together in one of the parks again soon. You could invite your delightful sister to accompany us.”
“Perhaps we could.”
“I should very much like to discuss the search Mr Fox-Stirling is to conduct into your father’s whereabouts.”
“Oddly enough, Eliza said the same thing at dinner time yesterday. You have made an extremely generous donation to the search, and it is only right that you should have some say in how it is undertaken.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to have any say, Miss Green! I merely wish to take a keen interest. Mr Fox-Stirling will be in charge of it all.”
“Yes, I daresay he will.”
“Perhaps you could ask your sister when might be a convenient time for her.”
“I will do, Mr Edwards.”
“Good.” He smiled. “I shall leave you alone with your work now. I know how busy you are.”
“How is Inspector Paget getting on with the investigation into Mr Forster’s death?” I asked Edgar in the newsroom that afternoon.
“I’ve visited him several times at Vine Street police station, but he’s rather fed up with me questioning him,” replied Edgar.
“Inspector Bowles is the same with me,” I said. “Between us we’re duplicating quite a bit of the effort, aren’t we? It makes sense for just one of us to be working on the story.”
“Yes, but there’s little we can do about that now. It was the editor’s decision.”
“What was the editor’s decision?” asked Mr Sherman as he marched into the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him in his customary manner.
“The decision to have me working on Mrs Forster’s murder and Edgar working on Mr Forster’s,” I said. “It means that we’re both putting a lot of time into what might have been treated as one story.”
“Ah, I see.” Mr Sherman puffed on his pipe as he gave this some thought. “I suppose we could consider it one story given that they were husband and wife.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I think it would be better for one of us to work on the murders, Mr Sherman, as they must surely be linked.”
“They might well be,” he replied. “The chances of both Mr and Mrs Forster being killed in unrelated attacks within a matter of days must be fairly slim.” He paused a moment longer. “Fish!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will take both the Forster stories.”
“But sir!” I protested. “I’ve already done a lot of work on the Forsters!”
“Work I asked you to do? Or work which
you have undertaken because you fancy yourself the detective, Miss Green?”
“Work I felt necessary in order to understand the case,” I replied, feeling aggrieved.
“Well, no need to worry about it any longer as Fish has the story now. I want you at Limehouse Mortuary tomorrow afternoon to report on the inquest into the death of a chap who was pulled out of the river. They think he was the chief engineer on the steamship Gaia, which collided with the SS Hoxton. I believe they have recovered all the bodies, but an update from you would clarify that nicely. In the meantime, you have Mr Gladstone’s fruit farming speech to be getting on with.”
“Mr Sherman, I beseech you to let me work on the Forster case.”
“You will work on the stories I give you, Miss Green. Now get on with it, and no more of your perpetual detective work.”
Chapter 12
I sat at a table with several other reporters in the dreary, high-ceilinged courtroom of Limehouse Mortuary. Opposite me was Tom Clifford of The Holborn Gazette. He grinned at me, his slack jaw chewing on a piece of tobacco. On raised benches behind him sat the jury, and behind me was the witness stand. Members of the public occupied the benches to my right.
“Didn’t I see yer in St James’s Square?” Tom Clifford asked me.
“Probably,” I replied brusquely.
Tom and I had experienced a number of disagreements in the past.
“That Forster bloke, weren’t it? Stabbed in the back, I ’ear.”
“Nasty business,” said Tom’s immediate neighbour, a reporter with a sandy moustache.
“Wife bludgeoned an’ all,” continued Tom. “Unlucky, ain’t it?”
We stood to our feet as the coroner entered the room, placed his top hat on the windowsill behind him and sat on the raised stand at the end of the reporters’ table. He had a bald head, thick grey whiskers and gold spectacles.
I made notes as the inquest into the death of twenty-six-year-old Alfred Holland was officially opened. Moments later the jury filed out of the room to view the body.
Tom folded his arms and gave a quiet whistle. “I wouldn’t want ter be looking at a bloke who’s been shot in the ’ead.”
“I thought he drowned,” I said.
“Drowned?” Tom said with a laugh. “How could he ’ave drowned? He was shot in the ’ead!”
“By whom?”
“No one knows as yet.”
“The chief engineer on the steamship was truly shot in the head?” I asked incredulously. “The accident was not the result of a collision, then?”
Tom laughed louder. “Do you even know what inquest you’re attendin’, Miss Green?”
“Is it for someone else?”
Tom nodded with great mirth and I felt my teeth clench.
“Alfred Holland was shot dead inside an opium den,” explained the reporter with the sandy moustache. “I believe the inquest into the chief engineer’s death will be held after this.”
“Thank you for the explanation,” I replied. “This afternoon’s inquests are not in the order I had expected.”
“That’s the Morning Express for yer,” replied Tom. “You don’t know yer ’ead from yer tail!”
I wondered why I hadn’t heard about Mr Holland’s death before now. I decided to remain where I was and find out anything I could about what had happened.
Once the jury had returned from viewing the body, the coroner summoned his first witness and asked him to introduce himself. I had to turn around in my seat to look at him in the witness stand. A man of about thirty, he had lank, black hair and a bulbous nose.
“John Spratling. Mr ’Olland was lodgin’ in my ’ouse at twenny-four George Street.”
“How long did he lodge at your house?” asked the coroner.
“Since last autumn.”
“And when did you first become concerned with regard to his welfare?”
“He never come ’ome that evening.”
“Had you been expecting him home at a certain time?”
“No, sir. He come ’ome whenever ‘e wanted, it’s just that I never ’eard ’is boots on the stairs that night, and I always ’eard ’is boots on the stairs when ’e come ’ome. Always woke me an’ the missus up, it did.”
“And what did you do when you realised he hadn’t returned to your home?”
“I thought nuffink much of it. But then I ’eard a commotion outside and folks was sayin’ there’d been a murder.”
“At what time was that?”
“About eleven o’clock. I stepped out the front to see where the murder’d ’appened, and some bloke told me it were in one o’ the opium dens, so when I went down there I saw a big crowd o’ folk.”
“And you ventured inside the opium den?”
“Yeah, I went in ’cause I ’adn’t seen Mr ’Olland and I wondered if it were ’im what ’ad been murdered.”
“You were aware that Mr Holland was a regular opium smoker, were you not?” the coroner asked.
“Yeah.”
“And that he frequented the opium dens in the Limehouse area?”
“Course. So I went in and I told ’em ’e were missin’ and could I just see who ’e was, and they showed me.” Mr Spratling’s voice grew tremulous.
“You were in the same room as the deceased?”
“I were, but not fer long.”
“Long enough for you to recognise the deceased gentleman as your tenant?”
“Aye. It were the clothes what looked familiar. I didn’t see much of his ’ead. Well, I couldn’t… There wasn’t…”
His face grew pale and the coroner thanked him for his deposition.
The coroner summoned his next witness; a dishevelled-looking Chinese man called Ming Tan, who was the owner of the opium den. His hair was greased back from his face and he wore a scruffy, collarless shirt. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
“At what time did Mr Holland visit you on the evening of his death?” asked the coroner.
“He visit about eight thirty.”
“And he was a regular visitor?”
“Regular. Yes, sir.”
“How regular? Weekly? Daily?”
“Normal daily.”
“And during his visits did he impart much information about himself?”
“Not much information.”
“He wasn’t particularly talkative?”
“Not talkative, sir.”
“So he visited your establishment purely to smoke an opium pipe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the weeks leading up to Mr Holland’s death, was there any indication either from what he said or did that suggested someone might wish to attack him?”
“No, sir.”
“So the attack came as a complete surprise to you?”
“Complete surprise. Yes, sir.”
“At what time did the man with the gun appear?”
“I don’t know exact time. I think must be ten o’clock or after.”
“So by that time Mr Holland had been with you for about an hour and a half?”
“Hour and a half. Yes, sir.”
“And, considering the effect of opium upon the mind, in what state of alertness was Mr Holland when the man with the gun visited?”
“He could be asleep. He did look asleep.”
“This is a common state for a man who has recently smoked opium, am I right?”
“Common. Yes, sir.”
“Can you describe the man with the gun?”
“Dark suit. Dark hat.”
“Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“The colour of his hair?”
“Look dark.”
“Had you smoked opium yourself before the gunman entered, Mr Tan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So it’s possible that your recollection of the assailant may be a little hazy?”
Mr Tan shrugged.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
“Hazy. Yes, sir.”
&nb
sp; “How many other gentlemen were in the room when the attack took place?”
“Three.”
“So there were three gentlemen in addition to Mr Holland and yourself in the room when the gunman arrived?”
“Yes, sir. Three.”
“Do you believe the gunman deliberately targeted Mr Holland?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So he took a good look at everyone in the room before firing the weapon?”
“Yes, but I did not know he have a gun. He walk in and look at us, then he look at Mr Holland and shoot with the gun.”
“He kept the gun concealed until he identified the man he wished to shoot. Is that what you believe?”
“I believe it. Yes, sir.”
“And what happened once the gunman had fired his shot?”
“We all panic. We don’t know what is happening. We try to wake him up.”
“Mr Holland, that is?”
“Yes, but I see…” Mr Tan pointed at his head. “I see he will not wake up.”
“And the gunman?”
“He’s gone.”
“As soon as he shot Mr Holland?”
“Yes, sir. Gone.”
The three other customers from the opium den were summoned as witnesses: two Indian sailors who spoke little English and a Norwegian sailor with a wide grin. Their recollection of the murder and the potential culprit was hazier than Mr Tan’s.
Following this, a quite different witness came to the stand: a young woman in a black bonnet and mourning dress. She had soft features, but her lips were pushed into a harsh, thin line.
“I’m Miss Emma Holland, the sister of Alfred Holland,” she said in response to the coroner’s request to introduce herself. “I live at number seven Drummond Street, Euston.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” asked the coroner.
“Christmas time.”
“And whereabouts?”
“At my parents’ house in Hillingdon.”
“Did your brother have regular employment when you saw him last?”
She shook her head sadly. “No.”
“Had he ever had regular employment?”
