by Emily Organ
“Let’s go!” I said, guiding them towards the station’s exit. I realised my spectacles were covered in a layer of grime. I tried to wipe them with a gloved hand, but succeeded only in adding more dirt to the lenses.
A large crowd had gathered on the street outside the station and several police officers were jostling people about and trying to take control of the situation.
“Tabitha!”
The woman I was with suddenly received a warm embrace from an equally dishevelled-looking woman, who I guessed was a travelling companion from whom she had become separated. Suddenly, the woman and the boy were whisked away into the crowd and I lost sight of them.
I wiped my spectacles again and realised for the first time that my handbag was missing. It was somewhere in the bombed-out carriage in the tunnel. I looked at the hordes of bedraggled people stumbling out of the station entrance and knew that I stood no chance of getting back in there to retrieve my bag or Lizzie’s diaries.
Were they even still in one piece?
It was too dangerous to return.
The diaries were gone.
By nine o’clock that evening, I was sitting at my desk in the Morning Express news room. My hands shook as I peeled off my filthy gloves and my ears were still ringing from the explosion. Mr Sherman and the other staff gathered around me as I told them what I had seen.
“Shouldn’t you be in hospital?” asked Edgar with a rare look of concern on his face.
“I am fine.” Remarkably, I had only suffered minor cuts and bruises. I should have gone home and rested, but I had experienced a serious incident first hand and I was a news reporter. It was my duty to report on what had happened.
“Another bomb was thrown from a train this evening between Charing Cross and Westminster Bridge,” said Mr Sherman. “Fortunately, there doesn’t appear to have been as much devastation as at Praed Street and Edgware Road. We shall get a second edition out as soon as possible tomorrow morning. Miss Green, do you think you could write down as much detail as you have before then?”
“Of course, but I must fetch myself a drink first.”
I could still feel grit in my mouth and taste the smoke. “I hope the little boy will be all right.”
“I am sure that he will,” said Edgar. “It is fortunate that St Mary’s Hospital is so close to the incident.”
“Potter,” barked Mr Sherman. “Get yourself to St Mary’s Hospital and find out the latest news on numbers killed and injured.”
“I cannot get the screams out of my ears,” I said.
“Those poor people,” Edgar said sympathetically.
“It was the passengers in third-class who were blown up.” Mr Sherman placed a glass of sherry in front of me. “Thank you,” I said.
I took a warming sip and wiped the grit from my teeth with my tongue.
“I always keep a few spare bottles of sherry in my office for late nights,” said Mr Sherman with a rare smile. “This attack must be the work of the Fenians,” he continued. “There hasn’t been a dynamite attack in London since March, so we were probably due another. Would anyone else like a sherry?”
There were nods from the colleagues standing around me.
“Good, well I shall sort the drinks. Let’s get to work on the second edition.”
Chapter 19
Perhaps it was due to the lack of sleep, but I could still feel myself shaking a little as I stood on the stepladder and retrieved a hefty, green, leather-bound volume from a shelf in the upper gallery of the reading room. I should have stayed at home to recover from the explosion, but I knew that if I took time off work Mr Sherman would give the railway bombing story to someone else.
“Here, let me help you,” came a voice from nearby. I looked down in surprise.
“Inspector Blakely!”
He held up his hands to take the large book, so I passed it down to him.
“The Short History of Ireland,” he read from the book’s cover. “I dread to think how heavy the long history of Ireland must be.”
I climbed down from the stepladder. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Inspector. Do you have a reading card?”
“I’m a detective; I can get into most places without the requisite cards and tickets.” His blue eyes sparkled and I thought he looked cheerier than during our previous two meetings at the cemeteries. He was wearing a navy, tweed suit under his overcoat and his usual bowler hat. “Terrible news about the explosion, and to think you were in the midst of it. How are you?”
“I am well, thank you. A few aches and I still cannot hear properly, but that is all.”
“It must have been extremely distressing.”
“It was odd; I wasn’t really sure what was happening. I heard a terrible noise and then there was so much smoke and dust. I can’t say I saw a lot really, and I didn’t realise it was a bomb until I heard someone saying that it was. I am fine, thank you, Inspector.”
“I am relieved to hear it, Miss Green. I visited the offices of the Morning Express and was told I would find you here.”
“Do please call me Penny. My proper name is Penelope, but only my mother and sister call me that.”
“And there is no need to address me as Inspector. James will suffice.”
We both smiled, and I felt warmth in my face as I accustomed myself to the new familiarity between us.
Thankfully, James broke the silence. “There are three hundred constables guarding the underground railway today, and I hear that the Home Secretary is to introduce an Explosive Substances Act, which will give us powers to arrest anyone planning an attack such as this. The finger is pointed at the Fenians, of course.”
“Yes, I’m working on the story, which is why you are carrying that enormous book about Ireland under your arm.”
“It is a miracle that no one was killed.”
“It is indeed. More than thirty people were treated at St Mary’s Hospital, and only four remain there. I hope they make a good and swift recovery.”
“Let’s hope that they do.”
James leant against the brass railing of the gallery and I followed his gaze down to the people below, their heads bent over the long rows of desks, which radiated out from the circular clerks’ desk at the centre of the room.
“Lizzie’s brothers,” I said. “They joined the Fenians, didn’t they? I wonder if they had any involvement in this.”
James shrugged his shoulders. “It is difficult to tell yet, isn’t it?”
“But there could be a Fenian link to Lizzie’s murder, I suppose?”
“It requires investigating, that’s for sure. Hopefully my colleagues will identify who is behind the most recent bombing, and I will enquire as to whether any of the suspects have the name Mahoney.”
“I had dinner with Sebastian Colehill two days ago and he gave me some of Lizzie’s diaries. He told me they would help explain her disappearance five years ago. I began to read them but didn’t get far before I lost them in the explosion.”
“Oh dear, that is a shame. I must speak to Mr Colehill as a matter of urgency. He has read the diaries, you say?”
“Yes, although he did say he would be going away for a few days. I should have asked where, but you will need to make enquiries. Perhaps his wife will be able to tell you how you can contact him.”
“He’s gone away? That is an interesting development.”
I watched James consider this and began to wonder whether Sebastian had planned his absence to avoid being questioned.
“I will look into it,” he added.
“I can’t believe the diaries are gone. Without them, we have little hope of finding out exactly what was happening in Lizzie’s life shortly before she supposedly drowned. I feel so foolish for losing them.”
“You were in a bomb explosion! You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I should have kept them at home.”
“Please don’t worry about the diaries any more. I will speak to Mr Colehill about them as soon as possible. In the
meantime, I shall be visiting Joseph and Annie Taylor tomorrow. Would you still like to accompany me? I suppose you are quite busy with this story about the bomb.”
A man sitting at one of the desks below looked up at us as if we were disturbing his work, and I realised our voices probably carried across the domed space.
I lowered my voice. “I am busy, but I can find the time to accompany you. I would especially like to find out what Annie knows.”
“And Taylor too. We don’t have a suspect yet, but a lot of suspicion hangs on him. Do you know the house at Mile End?”
“Yes, I visited Lizzie there once.”
Mr Taylor had built himself a large home behind The King Henry pub on Mile End Road. It was located on the spot where he had overwintered as a travelling showman.
“I almost forgot,” said James, bending down and picking up a cloth bag which had been placed on the floor. “Potatoes and leeks.”
I smiled. “Thank you, James.”
“Let me carry these and the book down to your desk for you.”
When I returned home that evening, there was a letter waiting for me on the hallway table. I didn’t recognise the handwriting on the envelope. I picked it up, climbed the stairs to my room and opened the little window to let Tiger in. I got the fire in the stove going and put the kettle on to boil.
Then I sat down at my desk and opened the letter. I was surprised to see just a few words written on the paper, and they were written in an odd, childish hand. There was no sender’s name or address.
Stay out of this. It has nothing to do with you. There will be trouble.
I held the piece of paper in my hand and stared at it for a while.
Had I read it properly? Was there some other explanation in the words that I hadn’t understood? Or was this actually, as I feared, a threat?
My first thought was that it must have come from Mr Taylor as he had been so hostile towards me. If the letter was from him, he would not be pleased to see me on his doorstep with Inspector Blakely the following day.
Who else could have sent it? Was the sender referring to my work on Lizzie’s case or the railway bombing story I was working on? Was it linked to the bomb?
I doubted it was Mr Taylor, as he was a man who spoke his mind. If he wished me to stay out of this, I felt sure he would ask me directly rather than going to the trouble of sending me a letter.
There will be trouble.
What did the sender mean by that?
It was a threat; only a mild one, but a threat nonetheless. I shivered. I checked the address on the envelope and everything was spelt correctly: my name and the street.
This person knew me and knew where I lived.
What struck me as odd was the way the sender had attempted to disguise his or her handwriting in the letter, and yet the envelope was written in what I assumed to be the author’s usual hand: elegant, sloping writing in black ink. The letter was written in the same black ink but the writing was clumsy, as if a child had written it. This mismatch in handwriting was clearly an oversight. The sender was trying to manipulate me but was capable of making an error.
Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke.
The envelope bore a stamp from the General Post Office in St Martins le Grand, so that gave me no further clue, other than that the sender had posted the letter in the centre of London.
I felt hungry and tired, and my body ached.
I ate half a can of sardines with bread and butter, and drank a cup of cocoa. Then I lay awake in my bed, too wary to settle down to sleep. Instead, I listened to the raindrops rattling against the windowpane while Tiger lay next to me, licking the remains of the sardines from her paws.
Chapter 20
I met James outside The King Henry pub on the Mile End Road, as we had arranged. It was a crumbling weather-boarded building with a faded ale advertisement on one wall. A steady drizzle pattered onto my umbrella and an unpleasant stench wafted up from the filthy gutter at the side of the road.
My ears still felt muffled from the dynamite blast and I found myself going about my daily business with a new sense of nervousness. I felt worried that another bomb might be detonated around about me at any moment.
The Fenians were sure to strike again soon. The question was, where?
James greeted me with a warm smile, which helped me briefly forget about the bomb and the threatening letter. I had put the letter in my handbag and planned to show it to him once we had spoken to Mr Taylor and Annie.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“I am not sure how best to say this,” said James as we passed the pub. “But I have perhaps shared a little too much of the case with you. There are certain rules about how the Yard works with the press and I may have transgressed a few of them.” He stopped and turned to me. “I can rely on your discretion, can’t I?”
“Of course, James. I am here to help, not to write about the story. As you know, my colleague, Mr Fish, has the story, so you can trust me to keep everything confidential unless you instruct me otherwise.”
“Thank you, Penny.”
James smiled and we continued walking. “I felt certain I could trust you before I mentioned it. The Yard is extremely careful about the information it passes on to the press, for fear that an investigation could be compromised. So you and I are walking on eggshells.”
“I will be careful, you have my word.”
“Thank you for printing an appeal for information about the young man we saw at the cemetery. Y Division has found a witness who told them he saw a man of that description climbing over the fence of Highgate Cemetery on the night that Lizzie died.”
“Really? It has to be him!”
“It sounds like this man might have been involved. There could be a reasonable explanation for him being there, but it does sound suspicious.”
“Did the witness have any more information about him?”
“Sadly, no. However, I plan to speak to him myself just to be certain. Y Division is working on finding more witnesses.”
We reached the rambling, dark-bricked house Mr Taylor had built for himself. Lizzie had lived here with him during their marriage and I wondered how she had ever managed to feel comfortable in this place. The building was a cluster of towers, turrets, chimneys and ornamental gables. There were many little arched windows with wrought-iron tracery and the porch was of an iron and glass construction with castings of various animals incorporated into it. A row of rusty railings ran along the front of the house, each topped with a spike.
“Inspector Blakely!” came a call behind us.
My heart sank as I turned to see Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette approach. He was chewing tobacco, as usual, and his pork pie hat was pushed back on his head, revealing a creased brow. He stopped and regarded us with his hands in his pockets. “Come to arrest Taylor, have we?”
James’ face clouded. “No, I am just conducting my investigations.”
“He must be the one who done it, though, don’t you think?” Tom pulled out a notebook and pencil.
“Scotland Yard has nothing to say to the press at the present time.”
“No? What’s she doing ‘ere then?” Tom pointed his pencil at me.
“Miss Green was acquainted with the deceased actress and is assisting me with the investigation.”
Tom Clifford wrote this down. “And what’s that mean exactly? What’s she actually doin’?”
“She is doing what I have just told you. Now please excuse us.”
“Bit unfair the Morning Express gets preferential treatment, ain’t it, Inspector? What about the other papers? If you don’t talk to us we’ll come up with our own stories, if you know what I mean.”
James walked away from Tom towards Mr Taylor’s front door, and I followed.
“Is it Taylor what done it, Inspector?” continued Tom. “Is that why you’re ‘ere?”
A maid opened the door before we even had a chance to tug the bell
pull. She showed us into a large, dingy hallway, where an enormous stuffed bear stared glassily at us with its teeth bared.
Its presence sparked a memory of Lizzie complaining to me about her husband’s penchant for taxidermy and explaining how she had requested that the stuffed animals be confined to a storeroom. They had clearly reappeared over the past five years and now stared at us from various glass cases on the walls and tables.
James and I followed the maid into the drawing room, which had an unpleasant, animal-like smell. Heavy brown curtains hung at the windows, and there were many framed bill posters from circus shows on the walls. My eyes fell upon a poster showing a slim, youthful Mr Taylor dressed in a scarlet jacket and brandishing a whip, alongside several prowling lions.
The current Mr Taylor regarded us from the hearthrug, where he stood smoking a cigar. His ginger hair was neatly combed into a side parting and his mouth was hidden behind his large moustache. He wore a grey suit and the buttons on his waistcoat strained to hold it fastened.
He greeted us and asked us to sit, but he didn’t offer us a drink. James almost tripped over the tiger skin rug before realising what it was.
“Oh, hello! He’s a fine beast! Does he bite?” he said, examining the head of the animal, which was still attached to the skin. Its eyes were wide open and its teeth were sharp and white.
“Only if you annoy me,” retorted Mr Taylor.
James and I sat down side by side on a faded red velour settee, while the showman sat in an armchair next to a stuffed otter, which had a painted plaster fish between its jaws. Hung on the wall above the otter was a shotgun. I wondered if it was the gun which had been used to kill the poor otter.
“His name’s Nero,” continued Mr Taylor, still looking at the tiger skin. “I only had him for three months before he kicked the bucket. Tropical animals are sensitive creatures. I bought four giraffes from Charles Jamrach last month and two of them died the day after I got ‘em.” He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. “Now, I don’t have a lot of time. I have to be at the amphitheatre for midday. What can I do for you, Inspector?” He gave me a long stare as he took a puff on his cigar.
