by Emily Organ
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” said Edgar.
“I’m not sure any more.”
“It is of no importance what Miss Green or any other of us think about that news. The police are the ones armed with the facts and they have made the decision to release him, which means, of course, that the suspect is still at large.”
I felt a horrible, heavy feeling in my chest, worried that my notes about Reuben O’Donoghue’s innocence had influenced the decision to release him.
Surely they hadn’t paid too much attention to anything I had written?
“Have they released him because they’ve found another suspect?” I asked.
“They haven’t said,” replied Mr Sherman. “It’s your job to find out, so I suggest you have a conversation with Inspector Fenton and find out which direction they are taking the Jack Burton investigation in now.”
“I will.”
“So what are you waiting for? Fish, off to the reading room with you. Miss Green, you need to get out there and uncover what’s going on.”
I gathered up my papers and put them back in my bag. I couldn’t face the detectives at Bow Street station again. I had already pestered them with my misinformation and now I had to decide whether I could, in good conscience, stand by it.
Had I been right or had I encouraged them to release a triple murderer?
Chapter 14
I walked from Fleet Street to Drury Lane with my bonnet pulled down firmly over my ears. Lampposts and signs were spectral in the heavy fog, and the ice underfoot showed no sign of melting. The fresh air and flowery scents of the Andes came to mind and I empathised with my father’s yearning for exotic destinations. He had told me that the best months for travel in South America were between October and July, which enabled him to avoid many harsh winters back home.
I hadn’t decided what I was to say to Inspector Fenton and Inspector Pilkington, so I walked past the turning to Bow Street, drank a coffee at a street stall, and then continued on towards the British Museum. The reading room was usually a welcome retreat, but as I got closer I was reminded of the embarrassing fracas between Edgar and Tom Clifford, along with Mr Edwards’ look of disapproval. He had been helpful with my South American research, but I was concerned that I had disappointed him. Perhaps he would no longer help me with the map of Colombia should I need to see it again.
I could just about discern the railings of the museum in the fog up ahead. As I prepared to cross the street, I caught sight of a familiar figure up ahead.
I dashed across the road and saw that the familiar-looking man had turned in through the gate of the museum. He was little more than a silhouette in a bowler hat and overcoat in the fog, but his comportment was unmistakable. I ran to catch up with him and almost slipped on the ice as I hurtled through the gate.
The man was walking steadily towards the grand columns of the museum entrance.
“James!” I called out.
I suddenly hoped that I hadn’t been mistaken.
Was it really James?
The man turned to face me.
“Penny?”
We strode towards each other and I felt an enormous grin spread across my face.
“James! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Manchester!”
“I was.” He returned my grin. “I was. Goodness, it’s lovely to see you again.”
We held each other’s gaze and I felt a strong urge to embrace him as I would a long-lost friend.
“I was coming to see if you were in the reading room,” he said.
“You were looking for me?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were the same bright, twinkling blue I remembered and his cheeks were flushed slightly with the cold. He had grown dark whiskers across each jaw, which gave him the appearance of a more mature gentleman. I felt a flutter of joy in my chest.
“Your sling.” I looked down at his arm. “You don’t have to wear it any longer?”
“No, everything is just about healed. You’re still encumbered, I see.”
“Yes. It’s good to see you again, James.”
“And you too, Penny. Do you have time to pay a visit to our old haunt over the road?”
He nodded in the direction of the Museum Tavern.
“Of course. I’d love to.”
It was a little before noon and the Museum Tavern was quieter than usual.
“I suppose it’s rather early for a sherry?” said James.
“Perhaps so, but I think your return from Manchester is sufficient cause for celebration.”
We sat with our drinks at a partitioned table by one of the etched-glass windows. Mirrors reflected the flickering gaslight and pipe smoke hung in the air.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m well, thank you, Penny. The case in Manchester was resolved satisfactorily.”
“And the future Mrs Blakely must be pleased to have you returned. How is she?”
He seemed surprised by the personal nature of my question.
“She is very well, thank you. Very well indeed.”
He took off his overcoat and hung it on the partition behind him. He wore a smart grey jacket and waistcoat, and as he sat down I noticed that the gold pin in his dark green tie was in the shape of a horseshoe. I realised that I was once again wearing my green jacket with the frayed velvet cuffs. I wished I had heeded Eliza’s advice and bought myself something new to wear.
“Do you have a date yet for your rearranged wedding?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. It was supposed to take place at the end of this month, but Manchester rather altered our plans, so the future Mrs Blakely and her mother have settled on September.”
“A lovely time of year to be married.”
“Isn’t it? Yes.” James took a sip of stout and pursed his lips together.
“I don’t think you have ever told me her name,” I ventured. For some reason, I wanted to build up a clearer idea of James’ fiancée in my mind.
“Who?”
“Your wife-to-be?”
“Oh, of course. Charlotte.”
“Charlotte Blakely sounds rather lovely.”
“Does it? Well, I suppose it does, yes.” The thought leapt into my mind that Penny Blakely sounded even better, but I pushed the idea away, feeling my cheeks begin to redden at the notion that I had even considered it.
“So you’ve had an interesting few days?” asked James.
“Yes, you could describe it as such.”
“I hear that you paid a visit to CID in E Division. Chief Inspector Fenton?”
“Oh dear, has the word spread? I have spoken to Fenton and Pilkington, and I can’t say that I care a great deal for either inspector.”
James laughed. “You’ve been trying to swim against the stream again.”
“I don’t think I managed the situation very well. It was a terrible shock to see the boy murdered in that way. I don’t mean see, as such. I didn’t actually see it happen, thank goodness. But one moment he was running off with my bag and the next moment he was found with his throat cut. And there he was laid out on the ground. Dead.”
I stared at the wood grain of the table as the unwanted image flooded into my mind once again.
“I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t bear him any ill-will at all, even though he took my bag from me. He only did it because he was so desperate. And then I was convinced that Reuben O’Donoghue had only been helping me and couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He seemed such a nice man... He was friendly and handsome.”
“Handsome men cannot be murderers, eh?” James smiled.
“Oh, well, I realise now that they could be! I had no idea he’d been in so much trouble in the past. It was only when I spoke to some of the people living in St Giles that I realised what a violent man he was. So now I feel rather ashamed that I tried to convince Fenton and Pilkington that he was innocent. I’ve made rather a mess of things and would be quite happy now to have nothing further to do with it, except
that my editor, Mr Sherman, wants me to continue covering the story, so now I must return to Bow Street and ask Fenton for further information relating to the investigation.”
I drained my sherry.
“I must learn to think before I act,” I continued. “My sister keeps reminding me to do so.”
“Perhaps. But this is what I like about you, Penny. You care.”
“About what?”
“About people and fairness. You’re a determined person and perhaps that means you irritate the authorities, but the authorities need someone irritating them, don’t they? If no one’s challenging them, there’s a risk that they won’t do their work properly. I suppose that has become the role of the news reporter now. In the past, you would simply have written about events as they happened, but these days news reporting has become a more persistent quest for truth and justice.”
“Yes, I think it has. Thank you, James. You’re already making me feel a little better about it.”
“So continue making a nuisance of yourself, I say.”
“But perhaps only when I can be sure of my convictions. I thought Reuben O’Donoghue was innocent, but now I’m worried that he is, in fact, guilty. And now he has likely been released because I was so insistent that he hadn’t committed the crime. And what evidence did I have? Nothing other than a hunch.”
“Probably quite a good hunch, I’d say.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think Reuben O’Donoghue is the culprit. He may have got himself into a number of sticky situations in the past, but I don’t think he murdered Jack Burton.”
“Have you looked at the case?”
James nodded. “Witnesses have confirmed that Mr O’Donoghue was not at the scene of the murder. He was close by, as you know, but not in the courtyard. The police have released him on that basis.”
“Not because I asked them to?”
“No, Penny. They consider you to be nothing more than an interfering news reporter. However, they read your notes and I have put them into the case file at the Yard.”
“You read my notes?” I felt my face grow hot again.
“Yes. You’ve done some useful work, and your friend at the Yard, Chief Inspector Cullen—”
“He’s not my friend!”
“I know, I was using sarcasm. Cullen, your friend at the Yard, has asked me to consider the possibility that the three recent murders in St Giles might have been committed by the same person.”
I exhaled with great relief. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear. James, I’m so pleased! I thought I’d made a considerable mistake. And to think that you’ll be working on the case!”
I resisted another urge to embrace him.
“It’s certainly an interesting one. And I’m looking forward to hearing all about the people you’ve spoken to so far in St Giles. The clues must be in there somewhere. There’s one thing which worries me, though.”
I didn’t like the solemn look on his face. “What’s that?”
“If we’re looking for someone who has killed three people within three weeks, then the chances that he’s about to strike again are extremely high.”
Chapter 15
Two days later I joined the throng of reporters hurrying from Fleet Street to St Giles. The fog had lifted, but the morning had dawned cold and grey.
“Who is it? Do we know who it is yet?”
“A man. A shopkeeper.”
“I heard he was a publican.”
“It’s up at the pop-shop.”
I tried not to pay much attention to the rumours floating around me; the facts would be known once we arrived there. I followed the crowd down Long Acre, up Endell Street and left into Castle Street. The crowd became a crush as we turned into Nottingham Court and passed the place where Mrs O’Brien had been murdered.
People were fighting with their elbows and umbrellas to get through the throng, while residents hung out of their windows to watch the spectacle. There were shouts and cries, and several constables tried to discourage us from walking any further.
“Six apples for sixpence!” shouted an enterprising costermonger with a basket of pitiful-looking fruit. “A dozen for tenpence! Did yer ’ear me, sir? A dozen for tenpence! Gimme a shillin’ and I’ll give yer fifteen of ’em!”
“Let me through! Press!” I called.
My colleagues echoed my cries.
“I got a good view o’ the murder from me window,” said a woman with a baby strapped to her back. “Yer can look out me window for two shillings! Who wants to look out me window for two shillings?”
We pushed our way to the top of the street, where the pawnbroker’s shop stood, and I thought I caught a glimpse of Tom Clifford’s pork-pie hat in amongst the crowd.
“Move away!” shouted the police officers. “Move back! Make some space!”
I could see Chief Inspector Fenton in the doorway of the pawnbroker’s shop with two constables at his side, and I wondered whether James had arrived there yet.
“Move away!”
The people in front of me were shoved backwards and someone trod on my toes. I began to feel panicked. There were too many people there for such a small space.
“All the gentlemen from the press over here!” came a shout.
I followed the voice to where Fenton stood.
“Not you, sir. You’re not press, are you? Press only!”
I felt encouraged that Fenton was making time for the news reporters. He knew that he would make life easier for himself by giving us what we wanted now, or so I conjectured.
I jostled with my colleagues to get closer to Fenton, and felt an elbow dig into my side as Tom Clifford pushed past.
“Steady, gentlemen, steady,” said Fenton. “We don’t want any more murders here today.”
“What’s happened?” called out a reporter.
“All in good time,” said Fenton. “Can everyone hear me? Splendid.”
He straightened his tie and retrieved a notebook from his pocket. He cleared his throat and glanced around at the crowd, as though he were enjoying this moment of undivided attention.
I held my notebook and pencil ready, and Inspector Fenton peered at his notes before reading them out to us.
“At approximately twenty past eight this morning, Constable Burns was walking his usual route along Queen Street when a concerned gentleman approached him to say that the pawnbroker’s shop had not yet opened for the day. The gentleman in question was keen to pawn a spectacles case and had failed to rouse the occupant of the shop, a Mr Ernest Larcombe.
“The gentleman informed Constable Burns that it was most unusual for Mr Larcombe’s shop to be closed at such an hour, as the pawnbroker was in the habit of opening at half after seven o’clock each morning. Constable Burns then took it upon himself to rouse Mr Larcombe by knocking on the door and windows with some vehemence. He, too, was unsuccessful in rousing him.
“It was then deemed necessary to gain entrance to the shop to establish the welfare of the occupant. This was undertaken by accessing a window at the rear of the property, which had been left open. Once inside the shop, Constable Burns discovered the occupant, Mr Ernest Larcombe, lying behind the counter on the floor of his establishment. The pawnbroker’s throat had been cut in a manner which was incompatible with life.
“It was Constable Burns’ immediate supposition that the pawnbroker had been murdered the previous evening and had lain undiscovered throughout the night.”
“What time was he murdered?”
“The investigation has only just begun and, at the present time, the last sighting of Mr Larcombe alive was yesterday evening at seven o’clock.”
“Where’s his wife?”
“We’re trying to establish her whereabouts. The residents of St Giles can rest assured that a number of auxiliary police constables have been brought into the area and that there is no need for panic. Thank you, gentlemen, that is all for now. We must carry on with our investigation.”
“Did
the wife do it?”
Inspector Fenton ignored the question and began to move away as the reporters scribbled in their notebooks. I pushed past them to get closer to the inspector.
“Inspector Fenton, do you think this could be the work of the same person who killed Jack Burton?”
“Good morning, Miss Green.” He fixed me with his narrow eyes. “It’s too early to say, I’m afraid. At the moment, we’re trying to find witnesses and locate the murder weapon. Perhaps your friend Inspector Blakely will consider your question in greater detail when he arrives.”
“He’s not my friend, he’s a colleague. You must be pleased that the Yard is now helping you?”
“The Yard would be more helpful if its detectives arrived promptly.”
The inspector checked his watch just before he was accosted by a reporter from the News of the World.
I peered through the grimy, latticed casement of the pawnbroker’s shop, but I couldn’t see past the clutter piled up in the windows. A china shepherdess stood next to a tarnished silver cup, while an emerald brooch lay among a number of pocket watches and a pair of bent spectacles rested atop a pile of silk handkerchiefs.
“It’s Miss Green, isn’t it?” said a nasal voice.
I turned to see Winston Nicholls standing beside me.
“Not another one,” he added, wiping the window glass with his sleeve and trying to ascertain what was happening inside. “I’ve a good mind to move Ma to my house. It’s not safe here any more. Do they know who did it? A swindled customer, perhaps?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“I don’t suppose it’s an enormous coincidence that this happened after Reuben O’Donoghue was released. Where’s the man now? I doubt he’s at his own shop in Lumber Court.”
“He has a shop?”
“Yes, he’s in the rag trade.”
“Did Reuben know Mr Larcombe?”
“Everyone knows Mr Larcombe.” He gave me a brief glance with his pale eyes before looking away again.
“What was he like?”
“A swindler and a drunkard. Just about everything you see in that window is stolen; most of it by the Seven Dials Gang. The police should have done something about Larcombe years ago.”
