by Emily Organ
“Exactly. That was all he had to be concerned about.”
Tiger remained on my lap long after Mrs Garnett had left. I thought about James and decided I would have to start avoiding him. The less I saw of him the less I would miss him.
But how could I get by without him?
I thought of the contentment I felt whenever I was with him. No one else had ever made me feel like that. And I knew the feeling was mutual, hence why he had kissed me at Eliza’s house. Had I known that he cared nothing for me it would have been easier to persuade myself that I should never see him again.
Perhaps I was still harbouring a small hope that he would change his mind about the wedding. Was that what I was waiting for? It was a vain hope, but perhaps Charlotte would call it off, or maybe her mother would. It felt selfish to feel this way, but I couldn’t help myself.
I thought of my father and how he would have felt if he could see me now. I hoped he would be proud. He had always known that I wanted to be a writer, but I wondered whether he would be proud of the manner in which I had conducted myself over the past few days. I couldn’t be sure. I knew I had inherited his relentlessly curious spirit, but I wondered whether I had gone too far.
Taking a step back and striving not to care went against my very nature, but I knew that I would need to balance my impetuosity with what was expected of me or I would be in danger of making enemies.
Chapter 23
“Oh, do paddle carefully, Francis. I heard somebody drowned here last week,” said Eliza.
I perched with my sister and Mr Edwards in a small rowing boat on the Serpentine lake in Hyde Park.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Billington-Grieg. I was on the rowing team at university.”
“Were you indeed? It seems there’s no end to your talents. Do please call me Eliza.”
“What lovely weather we’re having,” I commented, unable to think of anything interesting to say.
The sunshine had brought an unprecedented number of people to Hyde Park. Bathers splashed in the water around us while others promenaded along the edge of the lake and rode down Rotten Row.
“Oh, watch out! We’re going to collide!” shrieked Eliza.
A boat containing four young men drew close and we were purposefully splashed with water from their oars while they cackled at us.
“Scoundrels!” shouted Eliza as they rowed away again.
“Just high jinks,” said Mr Edwards, pulling on the oars and propelling us smoothly across the surface of the water. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, which was uncharacteristically informal. He wore a light grey waistcoat and trousers with a straw boater hat.
“There’s a bather just behind you to your left, Francis,” said Eliza. “Oh dear, I do worry that these people swimming about will be hit by a boat. And there are so many swans. I can’t say that I really care for swans. They can be rather aggressive, can’t they?”
“Only if you trouble them,” replied Mr Edwards.
“I should say that it would be quite easy to trouble them on a busy day like today,” said Eliza. “There’s hardly any room left for them, and I can imagine them becoming rather angry about it.”
Mr Edwards paused for a moment and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. The strains of a military band rose from a nearby bandstand.
“Have a rest now, Francis, you look quite exhausted,” said Eliza. “We can float about here for a bit. Are you enjoying yourself, Penelope? You seem a little quiet.”
“I’m enjoying myself immensely, Ellie,” I replied. I was struggling to shrug off the despondency which had settled over me since the previous evening. And despite the bright sunshine, music and happy chatter of people around me I kept recalling the dismal opium den where Alfred Holland had met his tragic end.
“I took the liberty of drawing a map,” said Mr Edwards. He picked up his jacket, which was neatly folded on the seat next to him, and reached into one of the pockets.
“Oh dear, it’s a little damp from when those oafs splashed us.”
He carefully opened out the folded piece of paper to reveal an immaculately drawn map of the northern and central part of Colombia. He had drawn maps for me before and I had always been impressed by his drafting skills.
“That’s a terrible shame! Some of the ink is spreading,” said Eliza.
“We can still read it, though, can’t we?” He held up the map so we could all see it. “I drew out Mr Fox-Stirling’s proposed route to find your father. He’ll be disembarking at Savanilla up on the northern coastline here, then he’ll take a steamboat south along the Magdalena River for five hundred miles or so until he reaches Honda.”
“Which is where the steamboat has to stop,” I said.
“You’re right, Miss Green. Steamboats are unable to navigate the Magdalena beyond Honda. What he must then do is travel by mule for about two hundred miles in a south-easterly direction to Bogotá.”
“So that’s seven hundred miles in total,” said Eliza.
“Ah, but that’s not all,” said Mr Edwards. “It’s another day’s ride from Bogotá in the southwest to El Charquito on the banks of the Funza River.”
“And the Falls of Tequendama,” I said.
“Precisely. That’s where the falls are, and the little village of El Charquito is where Mr Fox-Stirling found the hut your father had been staying in.”
“And this time he’ll have a Spanish translator with him,” said Eliza, “so he’ll be able to have a proper conversation with the natives rather than relying on his own poor understanding of the language.”
“Yes, that was a serious oversight last time,” I said. “He persuaded us that his Spanish was better than it actually was.”
“Have you found a translator for him?” asked Mr Edwards.
“He’s found one himself; an explorer friend recommended a man he has used before, apparently.”
“Good news indeed,” said Mr Edwards.
I felt happy that he was to help us plan this new search for Father. Although Mr Fox-Stirling was a seasoned traveller he also struck me as the sort of man who was rather set in his own ways of doing things. Mr Edwards offered an intelligence and pragmatism which had undoubtedly been missing when the last search was carried out. I felt that he had donated his money to the search not only out of affection for me but also because he had a genuine interest in Father’s work and travels.
“The crossing of the Atlantic will take about eleven days, and there’s usually a stop-off at Haiti or Jamaica, or sometimes both,” said Mr Edwards. “It will probably take him two weeks to reach the shores of Colombia, and then the journey inland will take between four and six weeks.”
“So it will be between six and eight weeks before Mr Fox-Stirling arrives in El Charquito,” I said.
“That’s if all goes well,” replied Mr Edwards.
“And he won’t be going until next year as he has his Himalayan expedition to do first.” I sighed. “It feels like rather a long time to wait.”
“We’ve only recently decided to carry out another search, Penelope!” said Eliza. “These things cannot just happen immediately, you know.”
“I know. I’m afraid I’m not a terribly patient person. Once a decision has been made I like to get on with it.”
“Life doesn’t always fit in with our wants, Penelope, and there’s still a little more money to raise. Instead of grumbling about having to wait perhaps you could help with the fundraising efforts.”
“Yes, I should be happy to.”
“Thank you for drawing such a detailed map, Francis,” my sister said. “For the first time I’ve been able to properly imagine what this next search will entail. I think I was rather too grief-stricken last time to consider it in great detail. It has made me realise what a long journey Mr Fox-Stirling has ahead of him. I can’t say that I should like to ride for two hundred miles on a mule. Or travel for five hundred miles along a foreign river in a steamboat after two weeks on a steam ship!”
&n
bsp; “That’s why some people are explorers and others aren’t,” I said.
“Mr Fox-Stirling is clearly the sort of chap who enjoys it,” said Mr Edwards.
“And talks about it a lot,” I added. “I prefer him being out and about on his adventures rather than boring people at home with unnecessary details.”
“Unlike Francis here, who always has something meaningful to say, doesn’t he, Penny?” said Eliza.
“Absolutely,” I said.
He gave me a bashful smile.
Was Eliza correct in her assumption that he would propose to me as soon as James married? I wondered. I had always been reluctant to consider it, but perhaps I simply didn’t know what was best for me. Having realised that I needed to be less involved with James and my work, perhaps I needed to consider the possibility that the potential for a marriage was staring me in the face.
“Thank you, Miss Green.”
“Please call me Penny.”
“I’d be delighted to.” He grinned. “Penny.”
Chapter 24
“Miss Green! Thank goodness you’ve arrived! How do I use this darned thing?” asked Edgar. He was seated at the typewriter, closely examining its keys.
“You’ll need to put some paper in it to start with.”
“And how do I do that?”
I placed my carpet bag on my desk, walked over to the typewriter and showed him how it was done.
“Did you see that, Potter? It’s rolled onto a cylinder!” said Edgar. “Now, where do I find the letter ‘A’? Why aren’t these keys in alphabetical order?”
“We’ve discussed this before, Edgar,” I said. “There’s the ‘A’ on the far left.”
“Actually, I don’t require an ‘A’. I require an ‘M’ for the name Mr Godfrey White.”
“‘M’ is on the bottom row, over on the right.”
Edgar pressed it. “And that has put something on the paper, has it?”
“Yes, you can just about see it behind the ink ribbon.”
“I can typewrite, Potter!” said Edgar cheerily. “Now where’s ‘R’?”
I pointed it out to him.
“And now I press this long rectangular key for a space, don’t I? And now for ‘G’… Don’t tell me, Miss Green, I want to find it for myself. There it is! How’s it looking?” He peered closely at the paper. “Oh, darn it. It’s all in lower case!”
“Sorry, Edgar, I forgot to explain about the shift key.”
“What, this one here?”
“Yes. For an uppercase letter you need to hold the shift key down at the same time.”
Edgar sat back in the chair looking deflated. “Now I’ve lost all my enthusiasm for the project.”
“It’s quite easy, Edgar. Just put in another piece of paper and start again.”
“No, no, I haven’t the time for that sort of fussing about. I’ll find out if Miss Welton is in an amenable enough temper to typewrite it for me. Thank you for your help, Miss Green.”
I sat back at my desk and leafed through the morning’s edition. I was reading about a new elephant at the Zoological Society’s Gardens when an announcement caught my eye:
Sir Archibald Duffield will preside over a dinner for gentlemen interested in Indian affairs at the Burlington Hotel on Thursday the 21st of August. The guest of honour will be the merchant Mr. Lewis Sheridan, whose Calcutta company has contributed greatly to the commercial and material interests of India. Among those present will be Lord Wallace, Sir Edmund Nicholl, Sir Thomas Horsman, Colonel Worthing, Mr. Cornelius Redington and Mr. Rajah Rogay.
I showed the announcement to Edgar.
“Do you think you might be able to secure yourself an invitation?” I asked.
“I doubt it. Besides, it would be exceedingly dull.”
“But you know who Lewis Sheridan is, don’t you?”
“No, who is he?”
“Oh, Edgar, I thought you were covering the story of the Forsters’ murders!”
“I am! What of it?”
“Then you must know who Lewis Sheridan is.”
“Oh, wait a minute.” Edgar clicked his thumb and forefinger together as he thought it over. “Yes… it sounds familiar. Yes! It’s that merchant Forster worked for in Bombay, isn’t it?”
“Calcutta.”
“That’s it, Calcutta.”
“It would be interesting to speak to him, don’t you think?”
“Why?”
“To find out what he makes of his former employee’s death.”
“I suppose so. I can’t imagine he’d have much to say other than to express his sympathies.”
“Can you attempt to get an invitation to the dinner? Your father has plenty of good connections, doesn’t he?”
“He does, but I don’t see what use there could be in me attending. Mr Sheridan will hardly want to discuss Forster’s death with me, will he? It’s rather a gloomy topic.”
“It needn’t be an in-depth discussion; it could merely be a few words to express your condolences and ask for his thoughts on the tragedy.”
“To what end?”
“He might have some useful information about who may be behind it.”
“If so he’s probably already told the police.”
“Not necessarily. People don’t always think to tell the police seemingly trivial pieces of information. Often they think what they know is rather small and of no importance, but when it’s pieced together as part of a bigger puzzle it can be extremely significant. And it’s difficult to find out these pieces of information without asking people. Conversation is often the best way; especially accompanied by a glass of something to loosen the tongue.”
“I see what you’re getting at, but I don’t think I have any chance of securing a place at that dinner. Why not attend yourself if you’re so interested?”
“You’re forgetting something, Edgar. I’m a woman.”
“Oh yes, so you are.”
“I wasn’t allowed into the East India Club for Inspector Paget’s briefing, so it’s unlikely that I would be invited to this dinner. And it’s not really my story, is it? It’s yours. I’ve already been scolded by Chief Inspector Cullen at Scotland Yard for getting too involved in it all.”
“Oh dear. I suppose I’ll have to go instead if I can.”
“You’ll enjoy it. You like dinners, don’t you?”
“I do like a good dinner, but it’s much more fun when I’m not there for work purposes.”
“So you intend to request an invitation?”
“I’ll try, but I don’t know what good it will do.”
“Edgar, I have just explained it all!” I began to feel exasperated by his lack of interest. “Can’t you see how useful it would be to find out Mr Sheridan’s opinion on the matter?”
“I can’t say that I do. Forster wasn’t even working for him when he was killed. He left the company last year, did he not?”
“Yes, he did, but I’m surprised by your laxity, Edgar. You’re a news reporter. Surely you feel compelled to get to that dinner and speak to Mr Sheridan?”
“It’s simply not in my nature, Miss Green. I can’t say that I care too much for investigative work. That time I went undercover in St Giles’ Rookery represented the worst few weeks of my life. I like the stories to come to me.”
“But they don’t always do so. Most often you have to go looking for the information.”
“Only I let the police do that. They have detectives for that sort of thing.”
“But the police aren’t always looking in the right places.”
“You’re not criticising your friend Blakely with that comment, are you?”
“No, not at all. But Inspector James Blakely’s work is constrained by what his superior tells him to do. And having recently spoken with Chief Inspector Cullen about this case I can see that he has no imaginative ideas on how to approach it.”
“My work is constrained by what my editor, Mr Sherman, tells me to do,” replied Edgar. “There’s r
eally no point in creating extra work for myself.”
I sighed. “I see that you prefer to take the path of least resistance.”
“Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone? Everyone apart from you, that is.”
We were interrupted by the editor’s secretary, Miss Welton, entering the room. She wore a woollen dress, which was buttoned up to her throat, and a pair of pince-nez. She was accompanied by a young woman in mourning dress, whom I recognised as Emma Holland.
“You have a visitor, Miss Green,” said Miss Welton.
“Miss Holland!” I rose to my feet. “This is a surprise indeed.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you at your place of work,” she said, glancing around the room nervously. “I hope you don’t mind me visiting you here.”
“Not at all. Would you like to take a seat? I’m afraid there isn’t a lot of space.” I pushed all my papers into a pile and removed another stack from a chair so that she could sit down.
“Take the young lady to a refreshment room, Miss Green,” said Edgar. “This inky den is no place for women’s conversation.”
“That’s quite a good idea, Edgar. Shall we do that, Miss Holland?”
She nodded.
Chapter 25
Emma Holland and I sat at a table in the oak-panelled tea room of Anderton’s Hotel on Fleet Street. The gas lamps were lit, as the only natural light came from a window overlooking a dingy courtyard. The darkness of the room made Miss Holland’s face seem even paler, and I tried to imagine what she must have looked like before grief had held her in its grip.
“I read your article about the opium den, Miss Green,” she said. “I didn’t realise you had visited the place. What was it like?”
“Much as I described it, I’m afraid. Extremely dismal.”
“Oh dear. Why ever did Alfred choose to spend time in such an awful place?”
“I don’t think it was a free choice he made; he was dependent on the drug, Miss Holland.”
“Please call me Emma.”
“And you may call me Penny.” I smiled. “He wasn’t of sound mind when he went to that place, I feel sure of it. Opium has that effect on people.”
