by Emily Organ
Mr. William Sherman, single, 53, newspaper editor, Bedford Row, Holborn.
He had been released on bail and had most likely returned to his home. I thought back to our conversation in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and recalled how fearful he had been of anyone discovering his private affairs. He had been so frightened of losing his profession, and I struggled to believe that Mr Conway would ever allow him back into the office to edit the Morning Express.
I sighed as I sat in the newspaper reading room at the British Library, reluctantly leafing through The Holborn Gazette. I was afraid to read what Tom Clifford had written about the case, but I couldn’t help myself.
The hitherto respected editor of the Morning Express newspaper, Mr William Sherman, was one of 13 men arrested for soliciting to commit an unnatural offence at the Hammam Turkish Baths of Jermyn Street on Monday 25th August.
I folded the newspaper, not wishing to read any more. Before I left the room I decided to find out whether there was any news regarding Francis’ steamship. I found it listed in the shipping intelligence.
TERCEIRA - arrived - Pampero [August 25th] destination Savanilla
This piece of news brought a smile to my face. I was happy to read the confirmation that he had arrived in the Azores. I wondered what life had been like for him on board the ship.
Chapter 15
I returned to Grange Walk in Bermondsey later that morning, hoping to find out more about Catherine Curran and her former husbands.
The windows at number ninety-six looked empty and there was no longer a police constable stationed at the house. The air was warm and smoky. I called at some of the little terraced houses along the street.
“I only knowed ’er married ter John. I dunno about no one else,” said a thin-faced woman with streaky grey hair at number ninety-two. A small girl clung to her shabby skirts.
“Did you know her well?” I asked.
“Never seen much of ’er. She was workin’ down the leather market.”
“Does she have any family or friends who live locally?”
The woman frowned as she considered this. “There’s Dotty over the road,” she said. “I saw ’em talkin’ sometimes.”
“Which number does Dotty live at?”
“Eighty-seven. Dunno if you’ll find ’er at this time, though. She’s a shop girl.”
I thanked the woman and crossed the road to Dotty’s house. The little girl let go of her mother’s skirts and followed me.
“I think you should go back inside,” I said.
The girl looked up at me with her wide blue eyes and said nothing.
“Don’t you want to go back to your mother?” I asked again.
I looked back at number ninety-two and saw that although the door still stood open there was no sign of the girl’s mother. I heard another door open and three children came running over to us. The blue-eyed girl clearly knew them, as her face broke out into a grin.
“What’s ’app’nin’?” asked one of the children, a boy of about eight.
“Nothing’s happening,” I replied. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“You the school inspector or summink?” a harsh voice called out from the doorway the children had just run out of. I looked over to see a hard-faced woman leaning against the doorpost, regarding me with her arms folded.
“No,” I replied. “I’m a news reporter.” The woman scowled and the children began running in circles around me. “I’m here to talk to Dotty,” I explained, trying my best to walk over to number eighty-seven without bumping into any of them.
An old lady tottered out into the road and observed me carefully, leaning on an even older-looking walking stick.
“Good morning,” I said to her cheerily, trying to continue on my way. I became aware of curtains being moved to one side and other people watching me from their doorways. Why was I such a point of interest?
I hoped Dotty would be home and invite me inside, away from the neighbours’ prying eyes. But there was no answer at number eighty-seven, and as I stepped away from the door more children joined me, two of whom began playing peek-a-boo with my skirts.
“What’s in yer bag?” asked a dirty-nosed boy.
“Nothing exciting, I’m sorry to say.”
“Ain’t you got no sweets?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Someone stepped in front of me and I saw that it was the woman with the dirty apron and unkempt hair who looked like an over-sized child. She had small, wide-set eyes and a short, upturned nose.
“Hello again,” I said, forcing a smile. “How are you?”
She gave me a lopsided smile but said nothing.
I stepped to the side of her and continued on my way as best as I could with three children still tugging at my skirts.
“I dunnit,” the woman called out.
“I’m sorry?” I turned to look at her and saw that she still had the same odd smile on her face.
“I dunnit,” she repeated.
“Done it? Done what?”
“The murder. I dunnit.”
“The murder of John Curran?”
The woman nodded and grinned.
“You’re confessing to the murder of John Curran?” I asked, incredulous that the childlike woman who stood before me might have had something to do with it.
“And them others.”
Until this moment I had thought she was joking with me, but this statement made me reconsider.
“What do you know about the others?” I asked.
“Tom. And the other one too. Don’t remember ’is name.”
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Sally.”
“Sally, are you sure about this? You’re quite certain that you had something to do with the deaths of John Curran and Thomas Burrell?”
Sally nodded again.
“But how did you do it?”
“Put it in their beer, I did.”
“Put what in their beer?”
“Poison.”
“How?”
“Got the beers from Noakes and stuck it inside ’em.”
I had heard of the brewery, which was close to Bermondsey Street.
“You gave them poisoned beer?”
Sally nodded and gave another smile. Her awkward conversation and childlike manner led me to believe that she was not of sound mind. I would have dismissed her confession as pure fantasy had she not demonstrated some unexplained knowledge of the case. Putting arsenic in a bottle of beer seemed to be a feasible method of poisoning someone.
I felt a shiver run up my spine as the children began dancing in a ring around me and Sally. Although I struggled to believe what she was telling me, I felt I couldn’t completely dismiss her claim. This woman might not have been responsible for the murders, but it was possible she knew something that might prove useful.
“Sally, I think you need to speak to the police,” I said. “Do you know where the police station is on Bermondsey Street?”
She nodded in reply.
“I can walk there with you if you like.”
Sally nodded and smiled, and I felt it best to leave Inspector Martin to decide what to do about her. He seemed an understanding man, and I felt sure that he would be kind.
“Do you need to tell anyone where you’re going?” I asked. “Your mother or father, perhaps? Or your friends?”
Sally shook her head.
“And do you have everything with you that you need to bring? Did you want to fetch your bonnet and shawl?”
“No need,” she replied.
Sally spoke little during our slow walk to Bermondsey Street. She seemed to have no interest in me, and instead stopped regularly to peer in at windows or examine pieces of rubbish which lay on the ground.
It seemed impossible that this woman could have murdered three men. So why was she claiming that she had?
Chapter 16
James was chatting with Inspector Martin and Sergeant Richards when Sally and I arrived at B
ermondsey Street police station.
“Penny!” he said with a grin. He was wearing the dark blue suit he always looked most handsome in. “You’ve arrived at an opportune time. We’re just about to meet with Dr Grant to discuss what he has found out from the autopsy on Francis Peel.”
“And I think I recognise this young lady,” said Inspector Martin. “It’s not Sally Chadwick, is it?”
Sally nodded in reply and gave an odd laugh.
“Sally has told me something which I think you all need to hear,” I said. “You may be rather surprised.”
“Is that so?” said Inspector Martin. He gave me a knowing glance, which suggested that he was well aware of her state of mind.
The four of us took a seat around a table in a spartan interview room, which smelt as though it had recently been scrubbed with soap. We listened as Sally told us in slow, stilted sentences how she had bought beer from the Noakes brewery on three occasions and put poison in it before giving it to John Curran, Thomas Burrell and another man whose name she couldn’t remember. I wondered if she meant Francis Peel.
Her story sounded quite convincing, and James listened intently, looking perplexed. Inspector Martin had a faint smile on his face, as if he didn’t believe a word she was saying.
“Well, thank you, Sally,” he said once she had finished. “May I ask which type of poison you added to the beer?”
“Arsenic.”
“Interesting. And how did you come by it?”
“Soakin’ fly papers.”
Inspector Martin raised an eyebrow. “Really? And how did you go about doing that?”
“Bought ’em from Gibsons.”
“Gibsons on Tanner Street?”
Sally nodded, prompting Inspector Martin to pull his notebook out of his pocket. He seemed to be taking her story a little more seriously now.
“I suppose that will be easy to verify with Gibsons themselves,” he said as he made a note. “How many packs did you buy?”
“A fair lot of ’em. Mebbe twelve.”
“I see. And how did you go about soaking them?”
“Put ’em in a bowl o’ water overnight, then poured it into a jug, then poured it into a bottle.”
Inspector Martin scratched his temple with the end of his pencil. “There’s no doubt that doing such a thing would enable you to extract the arsenic from the papers. How did you know to do it?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“You can read, Sally?”
“Yeah, I can read. Maggie taught me.”
“Maggie?”
“Maggie at the church.”
“Ah yes, I know who you mean. What did you do next with the bottle of water and arsenic?”
“I poured it into the beer.”
“I cannot understand how you managed that. How did they not notice?”
“I done it afore I give it to ’em.”
“You poured the poison into the bottles of beer you had bought from the Noakes brewery, as you have already explained to us?”
She nodded.
“I shouldn’t think there would be much room in a bottle of beer for arsenic-laced water to be added,” said Inspector Martin.
“I pulled out the stoppers, poured a bit out then put the poison in ’n’ put the stoppers back.”
“And you gave these poisoned bottles of beer to John Curran and Thomas Burrell?”
“Yeah. I took ’em round as a gift.”
“Why?”
Sally shrugged and a long pause followed.
“S’pose I wanted to see what would ’appen,” she eventually said.
“Those men died horrible deaths, that’s what happened!” snapped the inspector.
Sally shrank back in her chair and raised her hands defensively in front of her. If what she had told us was true it was truly a despicable act; however, I couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for this grown-up child.
“Perhaps Sally is mistaken,” I ventured.
She turned toward me, her mouth twisted. “I ain’t mistaken! I done it!”
Inspector Martin sighed as though he didn’t know what to make of it.
“Sergeant Richards, could you fetch some tea, please? I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”
The sergeant nodded and left the room.
“Very well,” continued Inspector Martin. “We’ll carry out some investigations into this. If what you tell us is correct, Sally, I assume we’ll find evidence of the soaked fly papers and empty bottles in your home?”
“Yes.”
I was surprised by her conviction. Surely there couldn’t be any truth in what she was saying?
James seemed equally puzzled. “Evidence, or the lack of it, will quickly clarify the matter,” he said. “You should send some men to Miss Chadwick’s home straight away, Martin.”
“Better still, I’ll go myself,” replied the inspector. “And I’ll take Sally with me so she can show us around her alleged arsenic manufactory. Before we do that, Miss Chadwick, I need to ask you to write down your confession. You’ve told us you’re able to read, so does that mean you’re able to write as well?”
Sally nodded.
Inspector Martin passed her a piece of paper and a pen, and she began to write in a slow, laborious hand.
Sergeant Richards returned a short while later.
“The sister of Thomas Burrell has just arrived,” he said. “She says she sent a telegram to inform us that she would be paying us a visit.”
“Yes, I recall it. It’s all happening at once, isn’t it?” said Inspector Martin. “Ask her to sit in the waiting room for a moment, please.”
Sergeant Richards nodded and left the room.
“Would you like me to speak to Miss Burrell while you finish your conversation with Miss Chadwick?” asked James.
Inspector Martin wiped his brow. “Yes, that would be useful. Thank you, Blakely.”
Chapter 17
James and I left Inspector Martin’s office together and made our way toward the waiting room. In the corridor we met the police surgeon with the long ginger beard and half-moon spectacles, whom I recognised from John Curran’s inquest.
“Ah, Dr Grant,” said James. “What did the results of the autopsy on Francis Peel reveal?”
“Looks like it’s the same old story, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Undeniable signs of poisoning in a body which is unusually well-preserved considering that it was buried four years ago.”
“And it is definitely arsenic that has caused the effects you’ve seen?” I asked. “It couldn’t be any other poison?”
“Not that I know of,” said Dr Grant. “I’ve removed some tissue from the intestine, liver, kidney and spleen for the analytical chemist to examine. He’ll attempt to extract some arsenic from the viscera, just as he did with Mr Curran, and that will confirm it for sure. If for any reason he is unable to do so I’m sure he will test for other possible poisons. But I would place my bet on the outcome being arsenic.”
“We’re still waiting for the results of the tests on Thomas Burrell’s remains, aren’t we?” I said.
“Yes. We should hear any day now,” said Dr Grant. “I think we can safely work on the assumption that these three men were deliberately poisoned.”
“And we now have a lady who has confessed,” said James. “Inspector Martin is with her at the moment.”
“That’s news indeed,” said Dr Grant. “It wasn’t the wife after all, then?”
“We cannot exonerate her yet,” said James. “For all we know the two women have worked together on this. It seems one of them has run off and the conscience of the other has got the better of her. I’m beginning to think that’s the most likely explanation, but I suppose we may be surprised again.”
We continued on our way toward the waiting room and saw Sergeant Richards leaving the parade room with a lady carrying a travel bag.
“I’m sorry.” There was a tone of distress in her voice. “I’m afraid I got lost. I don’t ofte
n come to places like this.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Burrell,” said Sergeant Richards. “The waiting room is this way. Inspector Blakely will have a conversation with you now. He’s from Scotland Yard.”
Sergeant Richards introduced us to Florence Burrell, the sister of Catherine Curran’s deceased second husband, Thomas. She wore a dark shawl over a plain blouse and skirt, thick-lensed spectacles and a headscarf with a faded floral design over her dark hair. Most striking of all was the puckered skin which stretched from just beneath her left eye down to her chin. It was an angry red.
“Scotland Yard?” She spoke with a slight West Country burr. “I’ve never met anyone from there before.”
“Please come and join us in the waiting room, Miss Burrell,” said James. “You must be in need of some refreshment after your long journey.”
“Thank you, but I’m all right. I got something from a stall on my way.”
We sat down in the waiting room.
“We heard you’ve dug him up,” she said.
“Your brother Thomas?” replied James. “Yes, sadly we had to exhume his body because there is a growing suspicion that his wife may have poisoned him.”
“She can’t have! We were told he died from natural causes. They said it was his heart.”
“That was the initial conclusion, yes. But some further analysis has revealed that the cause of death was poison.”
“You looked at him yourself?” Her eyes were wide and sad behind her spectacle lenses.
“Not personally, no. The police surgeon carries out that sort of work.”
“You should’ve asked us,” she said. “You should’ve asked permission.”
“I apologise, Miss Burrell, this must all be rather upsetting for you,” said James. “The police did attempt to contact the family, but upon discovering that there was no one local, and with time being rather pressing, the decision was made to exhume your brother. The only official permission required is that of the coroner, but of course efforts are always made to speak to the family where possible. I apologise that we were unable to do that. Please rest assured that your brother was quickly returned to his resting place.”
