The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “You recovered yet, Miss Green?”

  “I don’t think I have. I slept badly.”

  “Don’t suppose you’re used to seein’ someone what’s been murdered, are you? We got your bag back, though.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about the boy. He shouldn’t have lost his life.”

  “It were proberly nothing to do with ’im thievin’ yer bag. It were proberly someone who was after ’im anyways. One o’ them gangs.”

  “What about the other two murders?”

  “Mrs O’Brien? And someone else... Yeomans I fink ‘is name was.”

  “Yes. What do you know about them?”

  “O’Brien were found in the street early one morning, round Christmas time. Some poor fella on his way ter work found ’er and they’s been looking for Mr O’Brien ever since as everyone’s sayin’ he done it.”

  “Do you know anything about Mr Yeomans?”

  “Only that he were found out the back o’ The Three Feathers. They says it were a robbery.”

  “Who says that?”

  “The police.”

  “Do you think the same person could have murdered Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans?”

  “Like I said, one were done by O’Brien and Yeomans were a robbery. You think O’Brien robbed Yeomans?”

  “I don’t think so, because Martha told me Mr O’Brien hasn’t been seen for a long time. Someone else could have killed Mrs O’Brien and the same person may have killed Mr Yeomans. They both had their throats cut, didn’t they? And so did Jack.”

  “The same person mighta done all three?” Reuben’s eyebrows knotted together.

  “They could have done.”

  “You’d ’ave to ’ave a kink in the brain to do that kinda thing.”

  “Well, yes, you would.”

  “I don’t think the same person’s bin cuttin’ people’s throats. There’s no reason ter. They’s three different people and I think as Jack’s bin murdered by a gang. Proberly the Daly Boys. Keller’s ’ad a carry-on with them for ages.”

  A door to the left of the desk swung open and Chief Inspector Fenton strode out with a bundle of papers in one hand. His mutton-chop whiskers were tinged with grey and he had dark, narrow eyes.

  “Miss Green? Mr O’Donoghue?” He pointed at us accusingly. “You shouldn’t be sitting together like this. It gives you an opportunity to collude.”

  “Collude?” I asked. “About what?”

  “To fabricate a story.”

  “There’s no need to fabricate anything, I’ve come here this morning to tell you what happened. I’m making a witness statement.”

  The inspector scowled. “I don’t like witnesses, suspects or anyone else finding opportunities to confer.”

  “I didn’t realise we weren’t allowed to speak, Inspector Fenton. Perhaps your colleague could have warned us.”

  I glanced at the officer behind the desk, who was attempting to shrink from view.

  The inspector consulted the papers in his hand and stroked his whiskers. “Miss Green, can you come with me, please?”

  Having originally considered my visit to be little more than a formality, the inspector’s confrontational manner made me feel concerned that I had done something wrong. I gave Reuben a parting smile and followed Inspector Fenton. We passed through the door and along a whitewashed corridor, in which a smell of latrines mingled with soap.

  We reached a small room with a table at the centre and a clock on the wall showed that it was ten minutes after nine. The room was lit by a gas lamp and a narrow window. Sitting at the table was a police officer with a large grey moustache and a crooked nose, which looked as though it had been broken once or twice. He stood up as we entered the room.

  “This is Inspector Pilkington, and allow me to introduce myself to you again, Miss Green, as Chief Inspector Fenton, head of CID in Holborn E Division.” He paused, as if allowing time for the noble title to sink in, before gesturing me to sit on the chair opposite them.

  Once we were all seated, Inspector Fenton leafed through the papers in front of him, took a pen from his inside jacket pocket and dipped it into a pot of ink on the table.

  “Miss Green, can you please tell me your full name?”

  “Miss Penelope Jane Green.”

  He wrote this down.

  “Age?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Thirty-four and unmarried?”

  “Yes.”

  “No husband? Never married?”

  “No.”

  “Address?”

  “Five Milton Street, Cripplegate.”

  “And have you an occupation?”

  “I’m a news reporter.”

  “A news reporter, eh?” Inspector Fenton sat back in his chair and regarded me with renewed interest. “Which paper?”

  “The Morning Express.”

  He wrote this down with an impressed nod of his head. “So now you find yourself in a story of your own?”

  “I suppose I do. Rather reluctantly, I must add.”

  “Yes, it’s rather a sorry state of affairs.”

  “Are you any closer to finding out who did it?”

  “Not yet, Miss Green. We have many people to speak to, and I’m certain that the conversation we’re about to have will assist us immensely.”

  “I don’t think it will, Inspector. I didn’t really see anything. I can’t see how I can be of much help.”

  “Everyone says that,” he replied. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  He pushed his piece of paper towards Inspector Pilkington, indicating that he should continue with the writing.

  I told the two detectives what I could remember from the time I had left the reading room to the moment when Jack Burton had been found dead. Inspector Pilkington wrote everything down while Inspector Fenton asked the questions. A map was produced so that I could attempt to show them the route I had taken through St Giles. I admitted that much of it was guesswork, but they were patient with me and by the end of our conversation they had as thorough an account as I could possibly give.

  “Do you have any suspicions yourself, Miss Green, about who might have committed the crime?”

  “None at all. I’m not familiar with the area or the people who live there. I can recall a lone gentleman, who I assumed was a gang member, standing with us in the courtyard. I could make a wild guess that perhaps the murder was the result of a gang feud.”

  “But that is only a wild guess, as you say. You have no evidence with which to corroborate this view?”

  “None.”

  “I would like to discuss again when you first saw Mr O’Donoghue. That would have been shortly after four o’clock?”

  “Yes. I heard the clocks chime four and then my bag was taken by Jack Burton. Moments later, Mr O’Donoghue informed me that he would run after the boy.”

  “So you saw Mr O’Donoghue pursue the boy across Drury Lane and into a street, which you have identified on the map as Short’s Gardens?”

  “Yes.”

  Inspector Fenton took the pages of notes back from Inspector Pilkington before continuing.

  “And we have ascertained that the time of death for the deceased was between a quarter past and twenty minutes past four o’clock. Did you see Mr O’Donoghue between the time of your bag being taken and the boy being found murdered?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he was?”

  “He was following the boy.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Somewhere in St Giles.”

  “But you don’t know exactly where?”

  “No.” I shifted uncomfortably as I realised what Inspector Fenton was implying.

  “And you next saw Mr O’Donoghue where?”

  “At Seven Dials.”

  “At approximately what time?”

  “I can’t be certain, but I know now that it was after Jack was killed, so I suppose it must have been about half past four.”

  “You suppose? Y
ou do not carry a watch?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you didn’t happen to see a clock?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. And from which direction did Mr O’Donoghue approach you?”

  “I couldn’t say. I had got myself quite lost by that stage.”

  “You mentioned that a young lady pointed you in the direction of Little White Lion Street?”

  I nodded.

  “Did Mr O’Donoghue appear from that direction?”

  “No.”

  “He came from the opposite direction?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Inspector Fenton unfolded the map again and pointed at Seven Dials.

  “The street opposite Little White Lion Street is Great White Lion Street. Do you think he might have come from there?”

  I stared at the area of the map where his large finger was pressed.

  “No. I think it more likely that he approached me from Great St Andrew Street or Queen Street.”

  “Which?”

  “I can’t be certain which.”

  “Very well.” I looked again at the map, aware that the courtyard where Jack had been found was just off Queen Street.

  “Inspector Fenton, if you think that Mr O’Donoghue had anything to do with Jack’s death, I will say now that he could not have done it. He wouldn’t have done it. He helped me.”

  “He helped you because a street urchin pinched your bag.”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t have harmed him.”

  “How else would he have retrieved your bag?”

  “I’m sure he would have simply asked the boy for it.”

  The inspector snorted as if he perceived my comment to be naive.

  “If he’d killed Jack, he would have returned to me with my bag,” I continued. “He wouldn’t have left it lying by Jack’s side.”

  “How do you know that he was returning to you? He may have been walking away from the scene of his crime with every intention of escaping the area when he unexpectedly came across you. Presumably he was expecting you to have remained on Drury Lane. However, he wasn’t walking in the direction of Drury Lane, was he?”

  “I suppose he was still looking for Jack.”

  “But you merely suppose that, Miss Green? You cannot know it for sure.”

  “I don’t know Mr O’Donoghue well, but I can tell that he wouldn’t have done such a thing to Jack. Besides, he had no blood on his clothes.”

  “Can you be certain? It was almost dark when you saw him the second time.”

  “I would have noticed. And he would have been bothered or flustered, or out of breath in some way. I know he didn’t do it, Inspector!”

  Chapter 7

  Inspector Fenton regarded me with his narrow eyes. “I can understand your defence of Mr O’Donoghue,” he said. “After all, he is a charming man who appeared to help you in your hour of need. However, Mr O’Donoghue is no stranger to the officers here at Bow Street station.”

  “Perhaps not, but has he ever murdered anyone?”

  “Not to our knowledge, Miss Green, but there is always a first time.”

  “A criminal is not necessarily a murderer.”

  “Not always, no.”

  “Inspector Fenton, have you ever considered that the same person could have committed all three murders?”

  “Three murders?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Two other people have been murdered in St Giles recently. Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans. Have you found the people responsible for their deaths?”

  “Mrs O’Brien was killed by her husband, who is currently missing.”

  “But perhaps he didn’t do it.”

  “There is no evidence pointing to anyone else. And as for Mr Yeomans, he was murdered after an argument at The Three Feathers public house. No suspect has been arrested, but we suspect that it was a fellow drunkard. The regular customers of The Three Feathers are rather uncooperative, so it has been difficult to flush the suspect out. In these communities, you find that people often protect each other.”

  “Mr O’Donoghue told me that the motive for Mr Yeomans’ murder was robbery.”

  “If Mr O’Donoghue has more information about the murder of Mr Yeomans, I shall be extremely interested to hear it.”

  “I hear that Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans both had their throats cut in the same manner as Jack Burton.”

  “It is a common method of killing.”

  “But do you not think it something of a coincidence?”

  “There is no similarity between the three victims, Miss Green. Now that concludes our interview.” He glanced at the clock, which indicated that it was ten o’clock. “We must get down to the business of speaking to Mr O’Donoghue.” Inspector Fenton got up from his chair.

  “Did they know each other?”

  “Who?”

  “The three people who were murdered. Perhaps they all knew each other and their murderer?”

  “Miss Green, it seems to me that you are clutching at straws in an attempt to create an entertaining tale for your readers. We are not in the business of entertaining here. We are in the business of solving crimes.”

  “Do you not even wish to consider the possibility? If three people have been murdered by the same person, there is a case for involving Scotland Yard.”

  Inspector Fenton’s face reddened. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Miss Green? There is no need for the Yard to be involved. We are quite capable of managing our own affairs.”

  “Perhaps I might ask Inspector Blakely what he makes of it.” I said this, despite the fact that I had no idea how to contact James in Manchester.

  “Blakely? What does he have to do with this? Just a moment.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “Are you the lady reporter who was embroiled with Blakely in the Lizzie Dixie case? Now I understand why you have your arm in a sling. I should have realised. You’re a good friend of the Yard, aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly. There are plenty of detectives there who have never warmed to me.”

  “Hardly a surprise, I suppose, Miss Green. You are, after all, an ink slinger, and those of your profession have a reputation for meddling, spreading false rumours and generally hindering the business of the police.”

  “Perhaps the less reputable members of my profession would do such a thing, but I would not, Inspector Fenton.”

  He leant forward across the table, so that he could look down at me. “Why would you choose a profession such as this, Miss Green? It is hardly a suitable calling for the fairer sex.”

  I had noticed a hard look in his eye ever since I had first mentioned Scotland Yard.

  “I think women are perfect for news reporting,” said Inspector Pilkington snidely. “Naturally nosy.” He tapped the side of his crooked nose and laughed.

  I ignored the comment.

  “I like to inform people and uncover the truth, Inspector Fenton. Too often, the truth is kept hidden.”

  “And it’s kept hidden for a good reason.”

  “However uncomfortable it may make you, people have a right to know.”

  “Do they? Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Green, that if we tell the public everything that happens in our investigations they would be swarming all over London like a plague of locusts trying to solve crimes? Everyone from Mrs Grundy to ’Arry and his gal ’Arriet.”

  “I don’t expect to report on all the details of a crime, Inspector. I merely think that people—”

  “That’s enough now, Miss Green. We need to speak to your friend, Mr O’Donoghue.”

  Inspector Fenton turned away from me, so I bit my tongue, picked up my gloves and bag, and left the room. The two inspectors walked behind me into the waiting area, where Reuben O’Donoghue was still sitting on the bench.

  Reuben doffed his hat when he saw me.

  “Thank you again for your help yesterday, Mr O’Donoghue.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “But you certainly tried.�
��

  “I done me best, I s’pose. God rest ’is soul, poor boy.”

  “Are Mrs Nicholls and the missionaries not yet arrived?” I asked.

  “Ain’t seen ’em.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Green,” said Inspector Fenton, impatient for me to leave.

  I bid him farewell and pushed open the door. More snow had settled on the steps and pavement outside.

  “Now then, Mr O’Donoghue. Consider yourself in custody,” came Fenton’s voice from behind me.

  I let the door slam closed again and turned around. “You’re arresting him?”

  “I said good day to you, Miss Green.”

  The inspector had a deep scowl on his face and maintained a firm hold on Reuben’s arm. Reuben’s face was pale.

  “But he didn’t do it, Inspector! I told you that!”

  “The judge and the jury shall decide upon his fate, not you, Miss Green. It would be best for you to leave now before you find yourself in danger of impeding a police investigation.”

  Reuben watched me, his eyes wide and his forehead creased.

  How different he looked now from the man who had chased after Jack in an attempt to retrieve my bag.

  I wanted to stay and help him, but I knew I would likely find myself in trouble if I tried to do anything more. I turned and left the police station, resolving to do whatever I could to make sure the real killer was caught.

  Chapter 8

  There was no further snow the following day, but that which had already fallen sat in dirty frozen mounds swept up from doorways, paths and roads. After a morning at work in the reading room, I walked down Museum Street and Drury Lane, then turned into Short’s Gardens, the road Reuben had chased Jack Burton along two days previously.

  The inquest into Jack’s death had taken place that morning at St Giles’ Coroner’s Court and returned a verdict of wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. As yet, there was no further evidence that Reuben O’Donoghue had killed the boy, and the coroner had urged the police to solve the case as quickly as possible.

  The maze of grimy streets and passageways soon enveloped me. I clutched my carpet bag to my chest as I passed a cluster of children dressed in ragged clothes and throwing snowballs. In the street beyond the workhouse, a man with a withered hand played an accordion while a monkey in a makeshift dress skipped about on the cobbles. The monkey performer had drawn quite a crowd. Women chattered, babies cried and men leant up against doorways with their hands in their pockets, some of them swaying with drink. An old man with an eyepatch had cleared the snow and ice from one side of the lane to lay out numerous little glass bottles for sale at twopence each.