by Emily Organ
The men lit their pipes as I sipped my sherry and glanced around the busy room, recognising some of the faces from Fleet Street. I saw one other woman there, who I was sure worked on one of the periodicals.
“There are quite a few reporters from the News of the World here,” I said.
“There are always hordes here from the News of the World,” said Edgar. “How they find the time to do their reporting and writing I’ll never know.”
“Perhaps they do most of it here.”
“Highly likely.”
We ordered our food from the waiter and Edgar had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by a roar of laughter behind us. We turned to see Tom Clifford and his colleagues chuckling at a neighbouring table and Edgar groaned.
“Is there a single place in this city you can go to without bumping into someone from The Holborn Gazette?”
“In their defence, this is the pub which everyone on Fleet Street comes to, so it’s not much of a surprise, is it?” said Frederick.
“Perhaps we need to find a new pub,” said Edgar.
“But isn’t this the place where you can have your ear to the ground?” I asked.
“Anyway, forget about The Gazette,” said Frederick. “Their circulation may be up, but it’ll fall again. Just wait and see.”
“Why should it fall?” I asked.
“Because it’s a tawdry newspaper. It doesn’t have the pedigree of the Morning Express.”
“That’s what will carry us through? Our pedigree?”
“Of course. Other papers will come and go, but the Express will stay its course,” Frederick replied.
“If only Sherman believed that,” said Edgar. “He’s got the needle about our circulation, and don’t forget that he has the proprietor, Mr Conway, breathing down his neck. No wonder he’s getting into a stew about Tom Clifford’s reporting on the murders. London hasn’t seen anything like this for years and people want to buy the newspapers each day so they can find out whether another poor fellow has been murdered or if the killer’s been found.
“It’s times like these that present us with our prime opportunity to procure more readers. A large number of the masses can read now, and we need them to buy our paper rather than any of the others. To do that, our reporting needs to be more entertaining. Look how popular the penny dreadfuls are! If you’ve ever read one, you’ll know what utter tosh they contain. But tosh is what the masses want to read.
“The Morning Express may have pedigree. But if we don’t cater for all those readers out there, and rely purely on the old guard, our circulation is certain to spiral downwards. You laughed at me concerning the story of the man selling his fat wife’s corpse, but that’s the direction in which we’re heading. Tom Clifford has the right idea, much as I dislike to admit such a thing.”
He glared in the direction of Tom and his colleagues.
“But don’t you think he might be making his stories up?” I asked quietly.
“He is probably elaborating on the truth. And he has done so for quite some time now.”
“Well, he won’t get away with it for much longer,” said Frederick. “We’re merely seeing a temporary craze for sensationalist stories. The fad will pass and people will demand quality again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said, draining my sherry.
“I don’t blame Sherman for losing his rag this morning,” said Edgar. “Although I know you’ve been working hard, Miss Green, I also believe there’s more you could be doing to grab the reader’s attention. Think about how involved you are in all this. The boy who was murdered had stolen your bag! Why not write a piece about how you discovered him on the ground with his throat cut?”
“I didn’t discover him; someone else did.”
“But you saw him.”
I nodded in reply.
“Then write about what you saw! What was it like to witness the corpse of a poor boy who had been savagely murdered just moments earlier?”
“It was awful.” I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. I didn’t like to think about poor Jack and how he had suffered. “I can’t write about it. It doesn’t seem respectful to write about him in that way. People should be allowed to remember him as he was.”
“As a thief, you mean?” Edgar smirked. “It may not seem respectful to you, but it’s what people want to read. Don’t you see that?”
“How would you feel if the death of your son was described so publicly in a newspaper?”
“I’d be devastated if anything of the sort happened to my son. But you must detach yourself from such thoughts, Miss Green. The boy was neither my son nor yours. He was a thief, and he was also the victim of an exceptionally dangerous man who is still roaming the streets of St Giles! Now, don’t tell me there’s no story in that. You must commit it to paper and give it to Sherman. He would be extremely grateful for it.”
Frederick placed another glass of sherry in my hand and I gratefully took a large sip.
Could I really write about the boy’s death so graphically?
The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that I couldn’t. Even though he had been a thief, Jack had undoubtedly been born with a good heart. A short lifetime in the slums had turned him into a criminal, and I believed that, following his tragic demise, he deserved to rest in peace.
“You are very quiet now, Miss Green. I apologise if my last words were rather strong.”
“There was sense in them.” I took another sip of my drink. “But I don’t think I can do that sort of news reporting.”
“Perhaps you would be better off reporting on the society dinners and balls?”
“Perhaps I would, but I cannot think of anything more tedious.”
“It would be, but don’t forget, Miss Green, that our job is to make the dullest of events seem interesting to our readers. That’s the skill of a journalist. You may not like Tom Clifford’s method of exaggerating the truth, but perhaps you have been adding your own embellishments to your work without actually realising it. Every story requires embellishment to make it interesting, does it not?”
“Yes, Edgar, you’re right. I suppose I’m doing that already without realising.” I finished my drink and rested my shoulders against the back of the bench, feeling slightly carefree after two sherries. “We don’t often find the opportunity for conversations like this, do we? When we’re in the office we’re so busy with our work and very often end up sparring over something.”
I watched Edgar take off his jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves. We hadn’t always worked well together and there was still a faintly venomous glint in Edgar’s eye, but I felt that we could perhaps work more harmoniously from this time onwards.
“There’s always a deadline hanging over our heads, and although we work together there’s a sense of competition, isn’t there?” he replied. “We all want to be the one who is patted on the back by Sherman. We all want to be given the important story. In fact, truth be told, I’m rather envious that you’re reporting on the St Giles murders. I wouldn’t mind having a go at that story myself.”
“At the present time, I would say that you are welcome to it.”
“You don’t mean that, Miss Green.”
“I’m not sure whether I’m really suited to some of this news reporting.”
“Of course you are. You’re responding to what I said a few moments ago, aren’t you? That’s why I apologised for my words being a little strong. You don’t have to do what I say.”
“But it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? I need to forget about any emotional attachment to the boy and write a lurid story about his death.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Green. Really, I wouldn’t.”
“Do you think it’s because I’m a woman?”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps I’m more sensitive with regard to reporting on such events. Perhaps if I were a man I should find it easier.”
“There’s no doubt that you’re
sensitive, Miss Green, but I don’t think you would find it any easier if you were a man.”
“Look at the people standing around us,” I said. “Most of them are men. Perhaps news reporting is better suited to the masculine population.”
“What are you saying? This is the very opposite of what you usually stand for, Miss Green! I know I sometimes joke about female reporters and poor bad grammar, but I only speak in jest. I believe that you are just as well-suited to this job as any man I know, including myself.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Edgar.”
“I’ll be brutally honest with you.” He leant forward and fixed me with his earnest gaze. “Do I think women make good news reporters? On the whole, I would say no. But you’re a little different, Miss Green. You’ve worked on Fleet Street for ten years and you do your job extremely well. I have faith in you.”
Our eyes locked and his cheeks reddened, so he busied himself with refilling his pipe.
“And I’m only saying this because I have drunk two tankards of beer.,” he added. “You won’t ever hear me say such a thing when we’re in the newsroom. That wouldn’t be right, would it? Well, look who it is! Your schoolboy inspector.”
I turned to look over my shoulder and saw James weaving his way between the tables towards us wearing his bowler hat.
Chapter 22
“James! How did you find us here?”
I moved along the bench to make space for him to sit down with us.
“I’m a detective, remember?” He grinned and took off his hat. “Good evening, Mr Fish. Mr Potter.”
“Jam Keys Label!” said Edgar.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just one of Edgar’s infernal anagrams,” I said. “He concocts them while I’m busy in the reading room doing his work for him. Why are you here? Please don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”
I felt a sudden sinking sensation in my chest.
“No, just some intriguing correspondence.”
He removed some folded pieces of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket while Frederick ordered more drinks from the waiter.
“Tell me what you think about these. You know Winston Nicholls, don’t you?”
I groaned. “Yes, according to The Holborn Gazette he witnessed the murderer leaving the pawnbroker’s shop.”
“Did he? Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Perhaps Inspector Fenton is aware, although he hasn’t said anything to that effect.”
“Winston says the murderer wore a mask. I think it’s more likely that he or Tom Clifford invented the story.”
“I shall have to speak to him and find out more, especially in light of these letters he’s sent us.”
He passed me three pieces of parchment, handwritten in sloping blue ink.
“Tom Clifford is just over there.” I pointed him out. “You can speak to him about Nicholls in a moment.”
I read the first letter.
Dear Inspector Blakely
I have spent many hours studying the murder scenes in St Giles and I can tell you that the murderer is most certainly Mr O’Donoghue. He was arrested for the murder of Jack Burton, but later released. I saw him going into the pawnbroker’s shop on the day of Mr Larcombe’s murder. I thought nothing of it until I heard that Mr Larcombe had been murdered. Mr O’Donoghue is a violent man and he is responsible for the murders of Mrs O’Brien, Mr Yeomans, Master Burton and Mr Larcombe. You must arrest him at once.
Winston Nicholls
“How confusing,” I said. “He told Tom Clifford that he saw the masked murderer leaving the pawnbroker’s shop after Mr Larcombe’s murder, yet in this letter he says that he saw Reuben O’Donoghue going into the pawnbroker’s shop, presumably before Mr Larcombe was murdered.”
“I believe so.”
“But in his interview in The Holborn Gazette, he didn’t mention Reuben O’Donoghue at all. I don’t understand him.”
“It’s as clear as mud, isn’t it?” said James. “There are two more letters to read.”
I perused the second letter.
It is a great shame that you do not employ me as a detective at Scotland Yard. I tell you now that I know who the murderer is, and what’s more, I can lead you to him. I have seen the man with my own eyes and if you do not arrest him forthwith he surely will kill again.
The third read:
I am worried for the safety of my mother. She lives by the courtyard where Master Burton was murdered. If there are any more murders in St Giles, she will have to move as she is not safe. Why do you not arrest the man? His name is Reuben O’Donoghue. He was arrested once and then released. The police do not know what they are doing. I hope that you do.
“Most peculiar,” I said, handing the letters back to James.
“Do you have any insight into Winston Nicholls’ state of mind?”
“Sadly, I don’t. I have had only two conversations with him, and on both occasions I found his manner to be rather odd. He seems unable to look anyone in the eye. His mother is a friendly, pleasant lady, however.”
“Do we know for sure that he is a clerk, or is that only what he tells his mother? From what I’ve heard, he spends a good deal of his time hanging about in St Giles.”
“I couldn’t say for sure. I know very little about the man.”
“I’ll interview him properly and find out more, although I have to say I’m wary of doing so. I think he considers himself to be more of an expert on this investigation than any police officer, but we do occasionally encounter men such as him and we must entertain what they tell us, as we could miss a trick if we were to ignore them completely.”
“Let’s hope that he has something useful to tell you and it isn’t a complete waste of your time.”
“Have you encountered anyone in St Giles by the name of Adam?”
I considered this question while I thought about all the people I had met during my visits.
“No.”
“Because I have another letter here from someone who calls himself Adam. It was sent to Bow Street station.”
James unfolded the letter and handed it to me.
“Could this actually be another letter from Winston, although he calls himself Adam?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Look, the handwriting and paper are quite different.”
“Goodness,” I said, my hand beginning to tremble. “This man claims to be the murderer!”
You took your time to wake up. No one noticed me after the woman in Nottingham Court and the man in The Three Feathers. It was the boy what did it, and after the shopkeeper they’re all running scared.
Adam D.V.
“It was the boy what did it. What does he mean by that?”
“I think he means that Jack’s murder was what finally got the Yard involved.”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that. I still despair at the fact that E Division did so little about the deaths of Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans. But do you think this letter is actually from the murderer?”
“Of course not!” interjected Edgar. “These people are all time-wasters. You can’t take them seriously. You should have seen how many fishy letters the Morning Express received at the time of the Lizzie Dixie case last year.”
“I remember,” I said. “We were sent a lot of bewildering letters, many of which made little sense.”
“It’s not unusual for the Yard to receive letters about crimes,” said James, “and there’s no telling whether Adam has any connection to the murders. He doesn’t give away any information here which isn’t already public knowledge, so this letter could have come from anyone, I suppose. I was interested to find out whether you had come across someone by that name, but as you haven’t I shall add it to the case file with Mr Nicholls’ letters and wait to see whether we receive any more.”
“Adam D.V. He tells you his first name but not his surname. What can the letters D and V stand for?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Edgar. “He cannot be
sane. Just ignore it.”
“That’s the challenge of detective work,” said James, folding up the letters and putting them back in his pocket. “You have to determine which elements deserve your attention after discounting all the red herrings.”
“I don’t envy you,” I said, finishing off my sherry. “I really don’t.”
James ordered a chop and Edgar ordered two bottles of wine, and we ate and drank together.
When we had finished eating, James went to speak to Tom Clifford for a while, and by the time he returned I realised that my head felt rather fuddled.
“So, what did Tom say?” I asked.
“Penny, your words are slurred. I think we need to get you home.”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” I replied.
I noticed Edgar smiling at me, and for some reason I began to giggle.
“She’s three sheets to the wind!” laughed Frederick.
“So are you,” said Edgar.
“What did Tom Clifford say?” I asked after I had recovered from my laughing fit.
“Penny you have just asked me that same question!” James laughed. “It’s no use me telling you now, as you won’t remember. I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”
“Oh.” I sank forward and rested my forehead on the tablecloth.
I heard Edgar and Frederick talking, but I didn’t raise my head because it felt so comfortable where it was. I closed my eyes and decided that I could quite happily sleep there.
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on, Penny, I’ll escort you home,” said James.
“There’s no need. Just carry on talking and I’ll have a rest.”
“Not here, you won’t. Come on.”
The icy air cleared my head slightly and James quickly found a cab. We both got in.
“There’s no need for you to travel with me,” I said. “I’ll be fine now.”
“No, I insist. It’s late and I intend to ask the driver to take me to my house after dropping you safely at Milton Street.”
