by Emily Organ
“Benjamin Taylor asked her to leave and she moved to Bermondsey, where presumably no one would know her. Once there she changed her name from Jane Taylor to Catherine Vincent and no one was any the wiser,” I said. “She must have been disappointed that her plan to murder Benjamin Taylor had failed.”
“If that was her plan,” said James. “We still can’t be certain that Catherine, or Jane Taylor as she was then, is the person responsible.”
“It had to have been her!” I said. “Or do you think Sally Chadwick was somehow involved from the start? Mr Taylor claimed that Sally’s name was unfamiliar.”
“He and Catherine, I mean Jane, were married more than six years ago,” said James. “Perhaps he has forgotten Sally Chadwick’s name. It may turn out that he knows her after all.”
“I am convinced that Catherine poisoned him,” I said. “And the fact that he escaped with his life suggests she wasn’t using such a large dose back then. I suppose there is bound to be at least one person she practised her technique upon, and it explains how she went on to poison three other men so effectively. At the moment it’s hard to believe that Sally had a hand in Mr Taylor’s poisoning.”
“Perhaps Catherine enlisted Sally’s help after failing to poison her first husband,” suggested James.
“It’s possible,” I said. “But how I desperately wish that Sally would tell us the truth.”
Chapter 23
I left James and Sergeant Richards at the police station and made my way down Bermondsey Street toward St Mary Magdalen’s church. I had remembered something from Sally Chadwick’s confession which I hoped might lead me to someone who could help her.
The church’s tranquil interior offered respite from the heat and noise of the street outside. My eye was drawn to the stained-glass window at the far end of the aisle, and once I had become accustomed to the gloom I saw rows of pews either side of me and an elegant arched ceiling supported by two rows of columns.
My footsteps echoed along the aisle and I noticed a few people sitting quietly in the pews. Not wishing to disturb them, I looked around for anyone else who might be able to help me.
An old man rose from a pew at the front of the church and began to walk toward me.
“I’m looking for a lady named Maggie,” I whispered. “Do you know who she is?”
He seemed not to hear me properly, giving me a fierce scowl as he continued on his way.
I went out into the churchyard, hopeful that I might find someone more obliging there. I blinked in the bright sunshine, looking for anyone I could ask about the woman Sally had mentioned.
As I walked through the churchyard I passed a recently dug mound of earth. I paused to look at the tombstone and shuddered when I saw the inscription.
Francis Peel
1849 - 1880
Further along the path I came across a man sawing a low-hanging branch from a yew tree.
“She’ll be around somewhere,” he replied when I asked him about Maggie.
“Do you know exactly where?” I asked.
He stared at me as if I had asked a foolish question.
“Just keep lookin’,” he responded.
I took this to mean that she couldn’t be too far away. I began to walk slowly back toward the church, and as I did so I noticed a small door beneath an arched window. Unsure whether I was permitted to use this door I decided to give it a try.
It creaked open, and once again my eyes had to adjust to the gloom.
“Hullo!”
I jumped as a wizened face loomed into view. I saw that it belonged to a lady who was exceptionally small in stature.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “I’m looking for Maggie.”
“You just found ’er,” she replied. “What d’yer want?”
I stepped inside and found myself inside a narrow, high-ceilinged room with a red velvet curtain draped along one wall.
“I should like to speak to you about Miss Sally Chadwick,” I said.
“Oh, ’er.” Maggie pursed her lips. She wore a long, dark dress which was buttoned up to her throat. A dark shawl hung around her shoulders and her grey hair was pinned up in curls on top of her head as if she were trying to gain a little extra height.
“Do you know her?”
“Who are you?”
I apologised for not having introduced myself and explained who I was.
“Sally confessed to me that she had poisoned three men,” I said.
“I ’eard about that.”
“She’s being held in a cell down at the police station and she doesn’t seem to understand the severity of her situation. She appears to have no family or friends, either; no one has visited her there. During a conversation I had with her she mentioned that Maggie from the church had taught her to read and write. Might that have been you?”
“Yes, I done that.”
“Have you known one another for a long time?”
“She was one o’ the horphans down the horphanage. I used ter go there and teach ’em their letters an’ numbers.”
“Does that mean she has no family?”
“She was a horphan.”
“Have you spoken to her recently?”
“Not too recent, no.”
“She seems like a nice girl.”
“Yes, girl. That’s the word. She’ll always stay a girl, she will. Simple-minded, like. I thought she were nice till all this murderin’ business come up.”
“I cannot believe that she did it.”
“Me neither, but if she said she done it she must of done it.”
“Did you ever see her with Catherine Curran?”
“She knows ’er, I can say that fer sure. Ev’ryone knows Sally.”
“But no one has visited her since she was arrested.”
“That’s ’cause she murdered John Curran! An’ Tom Burrell an’ Francis Peel. No one wants ter be ’sociated with ’er.”
“But if she’s simple-minded, as you described her, could it be possible that she didn’t fully understand what she was doing?”
Maggie gave this some thought. “I s’pose so. If she’s got a child’s mind she wouldn’t ’ave thought it through proper.”
“Especially if someone had told her to do it.”
“Like who?”
“Catherine Curran, perhaps.”
Maggie shook her head. “I can’t see that ’appenin’.”
“Why not?”
“Catherine wouldn’t do nothin’ like that.”
“She has three dead husbands whose lives she had taken life insurance policies out on, and she is now evading the police.”
“So’d you be if they was after you.”
“Not if I were innocent.”
“Police don’t always care if yer hinnocent or not. They goes harrestin’ yer just so they got someone ter blame for it all.”
I realised that Sally Chadwick’s arrest must have been the subject of much local gossip. Maggie’s mind was probably as convinced as everyone else’s that Sally was guilty of all three murders.
“I’m worried about Sally,” I said. “If she is not of sound mind and carried out these poisonings without really realising what she was doing, is it fair for her to be punished in the same way as if she were an evil, calculating killer?”
“Murder’s murder in the eyes o’ God.”
“I can understand that sentiment, but wouldn’t God show some small mercy toward an unfortunate young lady with the mind of a child?”
Maggie pondered this. “What yer sayin’?”
“I think Sally needs some help. She’s to appear in front of the magistrates this Wednesday and she’ll have little idea of what is happening to her. She says she doesn’t want a solicitor, but I think it’s because she doesn’t know what a solicitor is. I realise that she appears to have done something terrible, but she has the right to defend herself and I don’t think she can manage it alone.”
“Yer want me ter ’elp ’er, do yer?”
; “It doesn’t have to be you. I came to speak to you because you’re the only person I have been able to find so far who knows her reasonably well. Perhaps you know of someone who could persuade her that she needs a solicitor. I suppose I’m just looking for someone who can show her a little compassion. I’m worried about her.”
“About a murd’ress?”
“So she claims. But I think we are agreed that her mind is unsound. Perhaps she just says things she thinks people wish to hear. Perhaps she has been told to say them.”
“I’ll think on it,” said Maggie, “but I’ve got a lot ter do ’ere. I ’elps the churchwarden, and between you and me ’e needs a lot of ’elp.”
“Thank you for giving me your time,” I said. I rummaged about in my bag and found one of my cards to give her. “This is where you can find me if you wish to discuss the matter further. I’m spending quite a bit of time in Bermondsey at the moment as I am reporting on the case.”
“Yer a news reporter and yer frettin’ about some girl down the police station?”
“I can’t help it, I’m afraid. I know it’s not really my job to get involved, but I have to worry about her because no one else seems to be.”
Chapter 24
“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little down in the mouth, Miss Green,” said Edgar when I arrived at the newsroom the following morning. “And I can’t say that I’m surprised with all this poisoning business taking place. I think you need a jollier story to be getting on with. Can you think of a jolly story for Miss Green, Frederick?”
“Not offhand, but I’m sure there must be one.” Frederick scratched his curly-haired head with the end of a pencil. “There must be some amusing anecdotes from a society beanfeast that would be worth a mention.”
“Lord Routledge often holds such parties, doesn’t he?” said Edgar. “I’m sure Lord Routledge has some amusing antics for us to report on.”
“I couldn’t give a fig for Lord Routledge’s antics,” I commented.
Edgar gasped. “Miss Green! I fear you will never be invited to one of his parties after saying such a thing.”
The door of the newsroom opened and pale-faced Mr Childers entered.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Green. How nice it is to finally see you here first thing in the morning. It’s usually quite difficult to keep track of your movements.”
“I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in Bermondsey, Mr Childers. It has been confirmed that three of Catherine Curran’s husbands have died from arsenic poisoning, and now a fourth husband has come forward to say that she also attempted to poison him.”
“Goodness! Have the police caught her yet?”
“No, and as you know the case has been complicated further by a woman coming forward who claims to have poisoned the men herself. I shall write an update on the story now.”
“Only a brief update is required, thank you. The case appears to have been solved.”
“It’s far from being solved, Mr Childers! Sally Chadwick has confessed to the three murders, but her motive remains unclear. Catherine Curran must have been involved in some way, and she is still on the run.”
“Surely it is solved in the eyes of the law. Three men have died and a woman has confessed. Is there sufficient evidence to back up her confession?”
“Bottles of poison were found at her home.”
“There you are, then. The case is complete and there is no longer any danger to anyone. We can publish a story about the trial when it takes place, but I shouldn’t think there will be much to report given that this woman has confessed. Your time would be better spent on other stories from now on, Miss Green.”
“I’ve already told her she needs to get writing about a jolly beanfeast, sir,” Edgar chipped in.
Mr Childers gave him a blank stare. “Beanfeasts are not news, Mr Fish.”
“Their inclusion in a newspaper lightens the mood a little, sir. Reading about nothing other than parliament, stocks and shares, and coroner’s inquests can become a rather dreary affair.”
“Perhaps you would be better suited to working for a publication which features irreverent stories,” Mr Childers said. “My uncle gave me the impression that his staff at the Morning Express took their jobs seriously. I think there must have been a misunderstanding.”
“Allow me to reassure you that we are all thoroughly professional, sir,” retorted Edgar. “However, the Morning Express newspaper has always included news stories of a lighter nature.”
“I shall consult my uncle on the matter. In the meantime, Mr Fish, I am awaiting your article on the smallpox epidemic. Mr Potter, I need your parliamentary report. Miss Green, I would like a story from you on the Belgian elections.”
We remained silent as Mr Childers left the room.
“Blimpy’s been out of sorts ever since Fish left that tack on his chair,” grumbled Frederick.
“Did he sit on it?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Edgar with a chuckle. “You should have heard the screech from the editor’s office!”
“Does he realise that you put it there?”
“I hope not. I shouldn’t think he has any idea. He’s the sort of chap who would never comprehend that another person might wish to cause him any mischief.”
“It must have been quite painful,” I said with a wince.
Edgar gave another quiet laugh. “I’ll say! That’ll teach him, won’t it?”
“Not really,” said Frederick, “because he doesn’t realise we did it, and all it’s served to do is put him in an even fouler temper than he was in before.”
“It’s funny though, isn’t it, Potter?”
“I’d say that it was rather counterproductive.”
“Why are you so serious all of a sudden?”
“We need to stop Blimpy making our lives such a misery.”
“Be pleasant to him, you mean?”
“Yes, I think we will have to be.”
Edgar snorted. “I won’t hear of it! The day I’m pleasant to Blimpy is the day I rest in my grave!”
“What a sombre thought,” I said, sitting down at the typewriter.
“I know what I’m going to do,” said Edgar. “I’m going to include the word beanfeast in my article about smallpox and see if Blimpy notices.”
“Of course he’ll notice,” said Potter.
“Ah, but I don’t think he will. Have you noticed how rigid the man’s neck is? That’s a clear indication of panic. He struggles so much to maintain a calm demeanour that he can barely move his head. Behind that icy stare is a man who is frantic with worry that he’s not up to the job. His eyes are likely to be darting all over the place as he edits, completely uncontrolled and filled with angst. He’s so busy worrying about how to impress Uncle Conway that he won’t even be concentrating on the words in front of him. I’m right, you know. Just wait and see. The word beanfeast will appear in my article tomorrow, and if it doesn’t I shall eat my pencil.”
“If only Mr Sherman were still here,” I said sadly.
“I attempted to visit him yesterday,” said Edgar.
“You attempted to?” I asked.
“Yes. He stood at the door and told me he didn’t want any visitors.”
“Oh dear. It doesn’t sound as though he’s coping very well.”
“He’s getting by. He says he can’t stand anyone visiting and feeling sorry for him. Sympathetic faces cause him to fly into a rage.”
“Perhaps he just didn’t want you visiting him, Fish,” said Frederick.
“Understandable that you might say that, Potter,” replied Edgar, “but I’m afraid the same rebuff applies to everyone.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” I said.
We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and moments later James stepped in. His expression was sombre and he held his bowler hat in his hands.
“Inspector Blakely!” said Edgar. “It’s been a while since we last saw you here. How are you? Goodness, is everything all right
? You look as miserable as Miss Green did when she arrived this morning. The pair of you haven’t fallen out, have you?”
“Not at all,” replied James, giving me a weak smile. “Penny, I bring some sad news.”
“What is it?”
I rose to my feet, but he gestured for me to return to my seat.
“Inspector Charles Martin has died.”
I felt my mouth open then close again.
“Oh goodness, James, I’m so sorry to hear it,” I said. “He had been unwell, hadn’t he? I didn’t realise his condition was so serious.”
“Neither did I. He died yesterday evening.”
“How awful,” said Edgar quietly.
A heavy, sinking sensation lurched in my stomach.
“What was his illness?” I asked. “He seemed perfectly well when we saw him last week. Thursday, wasn’t it? That was only a few days ago.”
“Apparently, he was taken violently ill on Thursday evening. We think his death may be suspicious.”
“Not poison?”
“His death was considered so irregular that an autopsy was conducted late last night. The police surgeon says there are clear indications that Charles had consumed a toxic substance.”
“It is poison, then,” I said, staring at the floorboards beneath my boots. I felt as though someone had just knocked me over. I pictured Inspector Martin’s young, pleasant face. How could he be dead?
“Did Sally poison him?” I asked.
“She must have done somehow. She must have been carrying the poison on her person. No one thought to determine whether she might have been in possession of anything hazardous on the day she was arrested. It is an extremely unfortunate situation.”
“He visited her home, didn’t he?”
“Later that same day, yes.”
“Perhaps he was poisoned while he was there. He may have handled the bottles or the fly papers.”
“He may well have done, but none of the other constables were affected and I think they had more contact with the paraphernalia than he did. Besides, Dr Grant believes that Charles ingested a large dose of the poison. We know that he drank some tea while interviewing Miss Chadwick. Somehow, by sleight of hand, she must have been able to tip the poison into his cup without him noticing.”
