by Emily Organ
“Yes, of course.” My memories of him were of little more than a shadowy figure in the yard. I could now see that he was a tall, freckle-faced young man with grey eyes and a dimpled chin. He had a straw-coloured moustache and a smiling, cheerful demeanour.
“Miss Green! I remember. The poor boy took your bag, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And I see that you have had it returned to you.”
I looked down at the carpet bag in my hand. “Yes, although I don’t suppose it matters when you consider that a young boy lost his life in the process.”
“St Giles is a dangerous place,” said David Meares. “At least you remained safe during the incident, Miss Green. We’ve become rather used to it, I’m afraid. We worked in the slums in Salford for a few years, didn’t we Hugo?”
The older man nodded in reply and gave his protégé a smile.
“At least Reuben O’Donoghue’s been arrested for the murder,” said Winston.
“I’m still not sure why,” I said. “He was trying to help me. He chased after Jack when the poor boy took my bag.”
“And then cut his throat when he caught up with him!” said Winston.
“No, he couldn’t have done it.”
“Who else did it, then?” Winston’s voice had an unpleasant nasal whine to it.
“I don’t know, but Mr O’Donoghue was simply being helpful.”
Winston laughed. “I’m not sure about that! Have you told her, Ma?”
“Told ’er what?”
“About Reuben O’Donoghue. That ne’er-do-well.”
“’E’s ’ad ’is moments.”
“He’s had his moments,” repeated Winston. “That’s ‘Ma speak’ for, ‘He’s a murderer.’ Miss Green, did you know that Mr O’Donoghue once punched a man so hard he broke his jaw?”
This time, he fixed his pale eyes on me, as if he hoped I would show some sign of revulsion. I struggled to believe that he was talking about the same man I had met.
“Sadly, there are many in St Giles who have troubled lives,” said David. “They remind me of myself, as I was in a similar situation until I met Hugo. I’m indebted to him for showing me the right path. That’s why the mission is here, in fact. If we can help these people live in the Christian way, St Giles’ Rookery will be changed forever.”
“It’ll take more than that,” scoffed Winston.
“I hope to visit Mr O’Donoghue while he’s in custody,” continued David, ignoring Winston’s comment. “A time of prayer will give the man some solace. He has given the mission some generous donations in the past, and we have tried our best to help him mend his ways.”
“No chance of that.” Winston laughed. “He’s too busy fighting with his fists and knives in The King’s Head.”
“Really?” I thought of Reuben’s smile and struggled to imagine such a violent side to his character.
“Yeah, so it’s no surprise it’s come to this. Murder was the next rung on the ladder for him,” said Winston.
“Very sad,” added David.
There was a pause in the conversation, during which I found myself sombrely staring at the cobbles beneath my feet. I thought of the notes I had given to Inspector Pilkington about the murders and how I had insisted that Reuben O’Donoghue was innocent of Jack’s murder.
Had I been mistaken?
Chapter 12
“Penelope, you’re late,” said my sister Eliza as a waiter showed me to her table.
She rose from her seat and we embraced.
“I’m sorry, Ellie, I’m rather busy with my work at present.”
We sat down and I removed my gloves.
“You’re trying to do too much again, no doubt. I don’t know how you’re going to find enough time to write the book about Father.”
We had agreed to meet for lunch in the Fitzroy Dining Rooms; a smart restaurant with gleaming white tablecloths and an elaborately corniced ceiling. Voices hummed around us, cutlery chinked and the smell of roasted meat made my stomach grumble.
Like me, Eliza was blonde-haired and brown-eyed. She was three years my junior and married to a lawyer, George Billington-Grieg. Her energies were devoted to the West London Women’s Society, which boasted a membership of more than seventy women and was forging strong links with the National Society for Women’s Suffrage.
“Did you ride here on your bicycle?” I asked.
“Of course. The Maître d’Hôtel kindly found space for it by the kitchens. Did I tell you someone tried to steal it a few weeks ago? I’d left it by the stationers on Queen’s Road while I made the briefest of shopping visits, and I stepped out onto the street to find some fellow trying to ride off on it! He didn’t succeed, of course. He hadn’t a clue what to do with the pedals. I hurled the paperweight I had just purchased at him and it hit his back! Then off he scarpered. Fortunately, the paperweight survived unscathed.”
“And your bicycle was also unscathed?”
“It was.”
Eliza called over to the waiter. “Could you take our order, please?”
She turned back to face me and lowered her voice. “Much as I adore this restaurant, it wouldn’t do to be sitting here all afternoon.”
“You’re wearing a new jacket, Ellie. It suits you very well.”
“Thank you! It’s double-worsted, which is much needed in this weather.”
Her jacket was red and she wore it over a loose divided skirt in a matching shade. Her clothing allowed her to ride her bicycle without suffering the indecency of her skirts riding up.
“The cuffs on your jacket look a little frayed,” said Eliza.
I examined the green velvet sleeves on the jacket that had become a firm favourite of mine. Unfortunately, Eliza’s observation was accurate.
“Have you bought any new clothes recently?” she probed.
“Not recently.”
“I know you’re busy, Penelope, but you need to take a little more care over your appearance. I know many married women who have allowed their standards to slip a little over the years, but when you’re looking for a husband it’s important to—”
Thankfully we were interrupted by the waiter arriving to take our order.
“How’s the arm?” asked Eliza once the waiter had left.
“I hope to stop wearing the sling in a week or two.”
“It must be a terrible inconvenience.”
“It is rather, and I think it singled me out as a target for a young bag pincher. With my arm in a sling, he must have seen that I would be unable to put up much of a fight.”
“He took your bag?” Eliza’s eyes widened.
“Yes, but fortunately I got it back. It had Father’s letters and diaries in it.”
“Oh, Penelope, that’s terrible. You could have lost everything!”
“I shall be more careful with his papers from now on. But that’s not the worst of it.”
I told Eliza about Jack’s murder and the other murders I had heard about in St Giles. She listened intently as we dined on mock turtle soup.
“Well I never! I read all about the boy’s murder and didn’t have an inkling that you had been involved!” She mopped up the last of her soup with a wedge of bread. “You take a lot of risks in your line of work.”
“I wasn’t working when my bag was taken, Ellie. I was simply walking down the street.”
She gave me a doubtful look. “I worry about you. Look at you sitting there with your arm in a sling from all that terrible business last year and now, before your arm’s even healed, you’re embroiled in something new! I can’t help but think that if you had someone looking after you—”
“Not this conversation again.” I sighed.
“Yes. And of course you know all this, I’ve told you enough times, but married women don’t find themselves in the scrapes you do, Penelope.”
“Are you suggesting that’s a good or a bad thing?”
Eliza rubbed her temples. “I don’t suppose it’s either really. But you know wh
at I mean, don’t you? A husband would... I’m not sure how to put this without causing offence.” She took a sip of wine. “A husband would ensure that you looked after yourself.”
“A husband would prohibit me from working. Just as George does with you.”
My sister flinched as though this remark had wounded her. “Not necessarily. A husband mightn’t stop you at all. As for George, that’s just how he is. He’s proud and he doesn’t want anybody entertaining the idea that he doesn’t earn enough to support his family. It’s the way he was brought up by his father. I have very little time for my father-in-law, as you well know.”
“But you should like to have a profession, shouldn’t you?”
“Yes, and I’ve made some amends with my voluntary work. Besides, we aren’t talking about me, Penelope. We’re talking about you.”
“I’m happy as I am, Ellie.”
“Are you sure? I worry about you almost as much as I worry about my own children. I suppose that... well, I just wish that you were settled.”
Eliza rested her hand on mine.
“I am settled, and I have Tiger,” I replied. “This is what I always wanted to do. You remember me wanting to be a writer even as a child, don’t you?”
“I do indeed. You used to make us read all your stories!”
“And you remember how much Father encouraged me?”
“He was extremely encouraging, although I don’t think he expected you to take off to London. I think he anticipated you remaining in Derbyshire and becoming a writer there.”
“I wanted to come to London. I like an adventure, just as he did.”
“But you shouldn’t be putting your life at risk as he did.”
“This is what I have always wanted to do. And I enjoy my work. Most of the time, at least.”
“What do you mean by most of the time?”
“This week has been rather difficult, and I’m concerned that I may have made a mistake.” I dabbed at a splash of soup on my chin with my serviette.
“Oh dear. What sort of mistake?”
“I told you just now that the police have arrested Reuben O’Donoghue, the man who chased after Jack. I couldn’t believe that he would kill a boy so brutally in that manner. He just doesn’t seem the sort to do it. On two occasions now I’ve appealed to the detectives at Bow Street station to let poor Reuben go free.”
“So that is your mistake?” she asked.
“Well, there have been three murders in St Giles in recent weeks.”
“That’s dreadful!”
“And I think they’ve been committed by the same person. For a while I couldn’t possibly imagine that Reuben might have murdered three people. I spent some time visiting the scenes of the murders. I wrote down my thoughts and drew some simple maps.”
“Maps?” Eliza raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, just so that I could understand what had happened and when. And then I gave my notes to one of the detectives, asking him to consider the possibility that the murders had all been carried out by one person, and that this person could not possibly have been Reuben O’Donoghue.”
“Do you have any evidence to support this theory?”
“Not especially.”
“So this is something you’ve put together on a whim? A hunch that perhaps this man is not the guilty party?”
“I realise now that this is what I’ve done. It didn’t seem that way while I was working on it. At the time I was certain, absolutely certain, that the three victims had been murdered by the same person and that Reuben was completely innocent of any involvement in their deaths. But having spoken to a few people, it seems Reuben may not be as charming as he first seemed.”
“Isn’t that always the case?”
“Yes, it is. I should have known better, shouldn’t I?”
“You always have been rather impulsive, Penelope. It wouldn’t do you any harm to give matters a little more thought before you decide to act.”
“I’m worried that I’ve made myself appear rather foolish.”
“If you’ve been undertaking your own investigations and given written reports and maps to the police, then I would say that you probably have been rather foolish. Can you still say with any certainty that this Reuben fellow is innocent?”
“I don’t know. Having been convinced that he was, I’ve heard certain things said about him which suggest he is a rather violent man.”
“So now you regret trying to demonstrate that Reuben is innocent as he may be guilty after all?”
“Yes. I’m worried that I may have been rather rash.”
“It sounds as though you have been. I would leave the investigating to the police from now on.”
“But they don’t understand what has been happening in St Giles!”
“And you do?”
“I like to think that I do,” I said after a pause. “But perhaps I am also mistaken about that.”
Chapter 13
“Ah, Miss Green. My favourite lady news reporter,” said Edgar when I arrived in the newsroom.
“Perhaps the only lady news reporter you know of?”
“No, I know dozens of them and you’re my absolute favourite.”
“You’re an abominable liar, Edgar. What do you want?”
I took my papers out of my bag and sat down at my desk.
“With all this General Gordon business going on, Sherman’s asked me to write an article about the Sudan.”
“That should present you with an enjoyable challenge.”
“It requires rather a lot of research.”
“You don’t know anything about the Sudan?”
“I know a moderate amount. But a few historical and geographical books would certainly enlighten me.”
“Such as those found in the British Library’s reading room?”
Edgar cleared his throat. “Which is a pity, because I am no longer allowed inside the reading room.”
Frederick Potter paused from his work and looked up. “Why are you not allowed in there?” he asked.
“Edgar’s had his reading ticket taken away from him,” I said.
“Why?”
“For fighting with Tom Clifford,” I explained.
“You had a fight with Tom Clifford in the reading room of the British Library?” Frederick slapped his desk and threw his head back in laughter.
“I fail to see why it’s so amusing,” said Edgar.
“It could only happen to you, couldn’t it?” said Frederick, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard this year!”
“It’s only the fourteenth of January. So far, competition for the year’s funniest event is rather scarce.”
“Did Tom Clifford also have his reading ticket taken away?”
Edgar nodded and Frederick laughed again.
“His editor, Cropper, is going to be hopping mad. What did Sherman say? He can’t have been happy.”
Edgar said nothing.
“You haven’t told him?” said Frederick. “Even funnier!”
“Hilarious,” said Edgar.
“You have to tell Mr Sherman,” I said. “Access to the reading room is essential for your work.”
“I am absolutely not telling Sherman that I’ve had my reading ticket confiscated. I will find a way to appeal. Perhaps my father will write a favourable letter to the Head Librarian.”
“Is it a lifetime confiscation?” I asked.
“How should I know? He didn’t show any sign of returning it soon, did he? Miss Green, when you are next in the reading room – which I’m hoping you will be within the next day or two – would you mind taking down some notes about the Sudan for me?”
“How am I supposed to find the time, Edgar?”
“You manage to find time to do other things, such as wandering around St Giles trying to solve murder cases.”
“I’ve been working on the story of Jack Burton’s murder.”
“You’ve been doing more than that, though, have
n’t you? I saw your notes. You’re trying to do the police’s work for them.”
“I am not.”
I took offence at the suggestion, even though I knew there was an element of truth to it.
“Anyhow, my reporting on the matter will be limited to Mr O’Donoghue’s trial from now on.”
“Is that so? Miss Green, don’t forget that I defended you when the Head Librarian also threatened to take away your reading ticket.”
“That’s correct, you did. Thank you, Edgar.”
“See what a gentleman I am?” said Edgar to Frederick. “I made sure that Miss Green would not be expelled from the reading room.”
“Extremely honourable of you, Fish.”
“You’d think she would happily repay me in some manner, wouldn’t you?”
I sighed. “What is your deadline for the Sudan article?”
“Thursday. Are you going to do the research for me?”
“If you’re not going to tell Sherman about the ban, I suppose I have very little choice, don’t I? I can’t be doing your research for you indefinitely, though. You will have to decide whether to tell Mr Sherman what happened or find a way to get your reading ticket back.”
“I’ll get it back, Miss Green, don’t you worry. My father will pull some strings for me, as he usually does.”
Mr Sherman entered the newsroom with a slam of the door.
“Morning,” he grunted.
“It’s Mr Small Aim Whiner,” said Edgar removing his pencil from behind his ear as though he were about to do some work.
“Is that another of your anagrams, Fish? If only you devoted as much brain time to something useful. In fact, you should be in the reading room. Your article on the Sudan will require a good deal of research.”
“Yes, of course,” said Edgar, giving me an uneasy glance.
I noticed Frederick stifling a snigger.
“Miss Green, there is news on the Jack Burton case,” said Mr Sherman. “E Division has announced this morning that their suspect, Mr O’Donoghue, has been released.”
“Released?” I said with surprise.
