by Emily Organ
“Your secret’s safe with us, Mr Mawson,” said James. “Can you shed any further light on why someone might wish Alfred Holland dead?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You have finally admitted to us that you knew him, but how well did you know him?”
“Not well at all.”
“Are you being truthful?”
“Yes!” said Mawson earnestly. “He and I were quite different. He was a pleasant enough chap, but he was a good twenty years younger than me. We didn’t have much in common.”
“Were you aware that he was an opium addict?”
“I knew that he smoked it, but I didn’t know him well enough to see that he was addicted to the substance.”
“Was his work impaired by this opium use?”
“Clearly not, seeing as he was keen-eyed enough to spot the changes on the forms!”
“You must have felt some animosity toward him when he reported you.”
“I did, yes, but I suppose someone was bound to spot the discrepancy before long. If it hadn’t been Holland it would have been someone else. He was only doing his job.”
“But his actions led to you being sent back to Britain in disgrace,” I said. “That must have angered you.”
“It did a little, but there was no use in me harbouring any resentment. I got off very lightly, all things considered.”
“Did you see Alfred Holland after he returned to London?” I asked.
“No, the last time I saw him was in Ghazipur. I didn’t realise he had returned until I heard about the death at the opium den. Even then I wasn’t certain it was the same Alfred Holland.”
“And you have no idea why someone would wish to murder him?” asked James.
“No, none at all.”
“Did he report anyone else?”
“Not as far as I know. I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with it! I was briefly angered by his actions, but I would never have considered taking revenge of any sort. I was embarrassed by what happened and wished to have it all forgotten about. Raising the matter with him would only have reminded me of my shameful actions. I’m not a vengeful man, Inspector!”
“Thank you, Mr Mawson,” said James.
The man before us was trembling and pale.
The door to the council chamber swung open and a man in a top hat, monocle and dark suit stepped in.
“My apologies, gentlemen – and lady – this room is required.”
“We were just finishing up, sir,” said James, standing to his feet.
Mr Mawson and I followed suit.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Mawson,” continued James, “and for your honesty.”
Mr Mawson gave us an uneasy look as we left the room.
Chapter 40
“And now on to Euston, Miss Holland and her brother’s diaries,” said James as he hailed a cab on Whitehall.
“What did you make of Mr Mawson?” I asked once we were sitting side by side in the cab.
“I can’t work out whether he was still being evasive,” replied James. “He was honest with us eventually, wasn’t he? But I think it likely that he’s hiding something else.”
“Such as the murder of Alfred Holland?” I suggested.
“I can’t imagine him shooting anyone,” said James, “but I suppose you could say the same thing of anyone who commits murder.”
“He may also have murdered the Forsters.”
“Yes, I suppose he might have.”
“He’s the only person we’ve discovered so far who knew both them and Alfred Holland.”
“This is true.”
“He could have hired the gang that robbed the Forsters. It’s rather interesting, don’t you think, that he was outside the house so soon afterward?” I said.
“It is. Perhaps if he had ordered the crime to be committed he was checking that everything had been carried out as it should have been.”
“Which it hadn’t, because Mr Forster wasn’t at home when the gang struck. Perhaps Mr Mawson was keen to establish Mr Forster’s whereabouts that morning because he wanted to finish the job.”
“That’s a good point.”
“And he found him, of course! He spent an evening with him, and shortly after that Mr Forster was killed.”
“But what could Mawson’s motive for murdering the Forsters have been?” asked James.
“Money?”
“Money is a recurrent theme in this case, isn’t it? Forster was short of it and Mawson was lured into committing fraud by the promise of it.”
“Perhaps Mr Forster owed Mr Mawson money.”
“He may have done. I think it’s worth finding out a little more about their relationship.”
“And the motive he had for murdering Alfred Holland had to be revenge,” I said.
“He didn’t seem particularly vengeful toward Holland though, did he?”
“No, but he wouldn’t appear to be, would he? Otherwise we’d have been suspicious of him.”
“We’re suspicious of him anyway. Though I think if he felt any animosity toward Holland we’d have seen a little more of it,” said James.
“Perhaps the anger has faded now that Mr Holland is dead.”
“Maybe. I think there is a possibility that Mawson may have been behind Holland’s death, but I’m still struggling to believe that he would actually go through with it, or even order someone else to do it. There’s something rather insipid about him, don’t you think?”
“Insipid or not I think there’s a good chance he’s behind the deaths,” I said. “The circumstances all point to him. He knew all three victims, he was quickly at the scene of Mrs Forster’s death and he was with Mr Forster shortly before he died. Also, he has a motive for Alfred Holland’s murder. We haven’t found anyone else who comes close to that.”
“He’s one to keep an eye on, Penny, there’s no doubt about it. We’ll need to be careful that he doesn’t realise we suspect him in case he decides to bolt. Meanwhile, Inspector Bowles in D Division is certain that he’s holding the gang members who broke into the Forsters’ home.”
“That’s excellent news!”
“When I last spoke to Bowles they were arranging identity parades for the household staff to attend.”
“Have you met any of those arrested yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ll go straight to Marylebone Lane station after we’ve seen Miss Holland and offer Bowles my assistance. Unsurprisingly, most of those arrested are already known to the police.”
“Mr Mawson might have hired them to carry out the attacks on the Forsters and Mr Holland.”
“It’s a possibility, but we’re a long way off proving anything. I suspect the gang’s motive was money; they were probably paid to carry out the murders. It’s unlikely they had any personal connection to the victims.”
“Which reinforces the idea that Mawson hired them.”
“Either him or someone else.”
The cab pulled up opposite the large Euston arch.
“Drummond Street!” called the cabman.
James paid him and we climbed out.
“Emma Holland lives at number seven. It’s this one here,” I said as we approached the terraced house.
The maid I recognised from my previous visit answered the door.
“Miss ‘Olland ain’t home,” she said, “but if yer leave yer card and a message I’ll pass ’em on, Inspector.”
“That’s a shame,” said James. “What time are you expecting her home?”
“She’s stayin’ away overnight. She’ll be back tomorrah.”
“Thank you. We’ll call back tomorrow,” said James.
The maid closed the door.
“How disappointing,” he said, “but it can’t be helped. And waiting another day isn’t the end of the world. Thank you, Penny, for all the work you’ve done so far. It has been invaluable. Would you mind accompanying me on my visit to Miss Holland tomorrow? You seem to be well acquainted with her, and I think your prese
nce will be a great help.”
“Of course.”
“Good, then I shall send you a telegram in the morning. In the meantime I’ll go to Marylebone Lane and meet these gang members.”
“Be careful, James, they don’t sound at all pleasant. They could be the ones who sent you that…” I trailed off, feeling nauseous at the thought of the severed finger.
“It may well have been them,” he replied. “It’s the sort of thing the ruthless men who join these gangs do. Thankfully, they’re behind bars at the present time, so the worst of it is likely to be over.”
“I do hope so, James.”
We held each other’s gaze and he smiled. “Likewise. See you tomorrow, Penny.”
Chapter 41
“What are your thoughts on the rather disastrous events of yesterday evening, Penelope?”
Eliza was seated on my bed in her tweed cycling outfit while Tiger hid beneath it. My sister was too loud and overbearing for the cat to feel comfortable in her presence.
“I think Mr Fox-Stirling was extremely rude to Francis.”
“He was, wasn’t he? It seems he doesn’t like anyone else to have an opinion as to how the search for Father should be conducted.”
“Francis didn’t even express much of an opinion; the map alone seemed to cause the man offence.”
“It did indeed. I hope the disagreement won’t scupper our plans for the search effort.”
“Francis has every right to withdraw his funding. Mr Fox-Stirling was horribly rude to him.”
“Do you think he will?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. We discussed the possibility of finding someone to replace Mr Fox-Stirling, but I don’t think Francis will withdraw his money altogether. He remains very keen for the search to go ahead.”
“We have you to thank for that, Penelope.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because of his deep affection for you.”
I groaned in reply.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t deserve his affection, and I’ve told him so.”
“You said that to him? Well now the search for Father may truly hang in the balance. You can’t say such things to an admirer, Penelope! What on earth made you say that?”
“I simply spoke the truth. Francis is an honourable man and I told him that. I respect him too much to deceive him.”
“What could you possibly wish to deceive him about?”
“I don’t love him, Ellie.”
“That’s not so terrible. True love can take time to develop.”
“So you’ve told me before, but I’m not sure that I believe it.”
“It happened to me. Besides, it really doesn’t matter that you don’t consider yourself to be in love with him, as he hasn’t asked you to marry him. Or has he?”
“No, he hasn’t. I told him I have no wish to marry.”
“Oh Penelope, you didn’t!” Eliza slapped her thigh in indignation. “How could you? I wish I had given you some instruction on how to conduct yourself in conversations like these. You have said all the wrong things.”
“Wrong according to whom?”
“It’s just not the done thing. A lady cannot speak her mind in such a fashion. She must show that she’s flattered by his attentions and at least give the chap some hope.”
“Hope for what?”
“Marriage.”
“But I have no wish to marry him, Ellie!”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t love him.”
“Do you really know what love feels like, Penelope? I sincerely hope you’re not expecting the sort of love you read about in poems and novels, because it’s not like that in real life.”
“I realise that.”
“So perhaps you love him after all, you just don’t realise it yet. That’s how I felt with George. In fact, it wasn’t until after Fenella was born that I discovered how I truly felt about him.”
The thought depressed me. “I’m not as naive as you think, Ellie, I’m thirty-five. I’m three years older than you, remember?”
“And a spinster.”
“That doesn’t mean I know nothing of love!”
Eliza gave an exasperated laugh. “I hope you do marry one day, Penelope, because you will look back on this time and realise how little you knew about affairs of the heart.”
I felt a sudden wrath burning in my chest.
“Don’t patronise me, Ellie. It’s possible that I know more about it than you and your passionless husband!”
“Penelope! How dare you —?”
I ignored my sister’s shocked expression, allowing my words to flow out in anger.
“I know what it is to love someone with an intensity that cannot be quenched by reason or instruction; a passion beyond my power to control. It’s the type of love I wish did not exist; a passion that can never be requited. Do you know what that feels like? Or do you only know the comfortable acceptance of a rather dull man with whom you’ve been ordained to spend the rest of your days?”
Eliza rose to her feet. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that —”
“Why not? You think it perfectly acceptable to discuss my marital status at any time of your choosing. Year in, year out I have had to listen to your views on possible suitors and my incapacity for knowing my own mind. It’s high time I asked you to listen to something similar. Have you ever considered that you didn’t know your own mind when you married George?’
Eliza’s mouth hung open.
“Of course you haven’t,” I continued, “because to consider such a thing might lead to an acknowledgement that you made a mistake, and that would be too dreadful for words, wouldn’t it? I pity you being married to a man who yearns to live in a bygone era and refuses to allow his wife to pursue an employment of her own. Have you ever considered the irony of being married to a man who opposes women’s suffrage when it’s one of the biggest causes you champion? Is there anything you and your husband agree on?”
I stopped when I saw a tear rolling down my sister’s cheek.
“Ellie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Here.” I dashed over to a drawer, grabbed a clean handkerchief and held it out to her.
“I’m quite all right, thank you, Penelope. I have my own.” She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, her voice cool. “Have you finished what you wanted to say?”
“Yes, but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was angry and… yesterday evening was difficult, not only because of the dinner but also because Francis hinted at the question of marriage in the hansom cab and I’m really rather tired of discussing it. I didn’t mean those things I said about George. It wasn’t kind of me.”
“This intense, unrequited love you speak of,” said Eliza. “It’s the inspector, isn’t it?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“I knew it,” she said, folding up her handkerchief. “We all knew it. I suspect poor Francis does too.”
“Which is why I told him he deserves someone better than me.”
“And you’re right, he does.”
“I’m not sure why he persists.”
“Because he loves you, Penelope. And next month Inspector Blakely is to marry someone else. You need to prepare yourself and decide what you’re going to do about it.”
Chapter 42
“There really is no use in me working on the Forster story any more, sir,” said Edgar as we sat side by side in Mr Sherman’s cluttered office. “Miss Green has journeyed off with it like a speeding express train —”
“That’s not quite true, Edgar,” I protested. “I was working on the Alfred Holland story when I happened across a connection between him and the Forsters.”
“And now Blakely’s firmly on the case I have no chance whatsoever, do I? Everyone knows what a close acquaintance the two have.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall of Mr Sherman’s office. It was almost eleven o’clock and I hadn’t yet heard from
James about his proposed meeting at Emma Holland’s home. It was unlike him to be tardy.
“If I understand you correctly, Fish,” said Mr Sherman, “you’re telling me that you no longer wish to work on the Forster story.”
“Sir, I don’t want you to consider me an idle fellow. I would gladly keep hold of the Forster story but I’m feeling the effect of Miss Green’s elbows, metaphorically speaking.”
“You don’t half mince your words, Fish,” said the editor. “What’s your point?”
“As the Forsters and Holland may now be considered part of the same case it makes sense for me to have the Holland story as well, or for the whole lot to be handed over to her.”
“By her, you mean Miss Green, I presume.”
“Yes, sir. Otherwise there will be too much jostling of the elbows between us.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned elbows, Fish. I get the picture.”
“Mr Sherman,” I said, “can I please have the story? I have done considerable work on it so far and I’ve also struck up a friendship with Emma Holland, Alfred’s sister. In addition to that I’m on good terms with Mr Mawson, who has become central to this case and have already met with him twice —”
“I’ve heard enough, Miss Green, you can have the story,” said Mr Sherman brusquely, looking through some papers on his desk as though keen to focus on something else.
“Really, sir? Oh, thank you!” I felt my heart skip.
“But sir!” protested Edgar. “What about all the hard work I’ve done on the story?”
“What hard work, Fish?”
“I’ve been out and about, as you asked.”
“That’s the problem, Fish, I had to ask you to do so. You should be able to undertake your work independently. I can’t deny that Miss Green has trodden on your toes on this story, but I can’t fault the woman for going out there and getting the work done.”
Edgar glared at me and I occupied myself with rubbing at an ink stain on my finger.
“Go and get on with it, the both of you,” said Mr Sherman.
I stood to my feet.
“But what am I to work on instead?” whined Edgar.
