by Emily Organ
“So if Inspector Blakely can meet with him they can discuss the case.”
Martha eyed me for a moment, then shook her head. “Nah, there’s summink goin’ on ’ere. The police ain’t never been interested in nothin’ Winston’s got to say abaht the case. So why’s they so int’rested now? Yer workin’ for the police, ain’t yer?”
She jabbed a finger at me. “They’ve sent yer ’ere in the ’opes I’ll be stupid enough to tell yer where ‘e is. That’s a real shame, Miss Green, a real damn shame ’cause I always thought you was a nice lady. You told me you was a news reporter, not the police. And now it turns out yer the same as the rest of ’em and yer must think I were born yesterday and be ’appy to tell yer where me son’s ’idin’ just so’s yer can go back and tell the police and get ’im arrested. Well, it ain’t ’appenin’, I can tell yer! I may be poor, but I ain’t stupid, Miss Green. Got that? I ain’t stupid!”
I sighed, desperate to reverse the tone of the conversation. “Martha, it’s not what you think. I’m not working for the police. I just want to help them find the man who’s doing these terrible things. We need to get him off the streets.”
“Course we do. But that man ain’t my son!”
Martha stared at me forlornly and I noticed that her lower lip quivered slightly as she turned from me and strode back toward her home.
“Martha!” I called out after her, but my voice wavered.
She felt as though I had betrayed her.
A friendship had been lost.
I left Martha’s courtyard cursing myself over my clumsy attempt to find out where Winston was. I thought the conversation over again in my mind, trying to understand how I could have phrased my words to better effect, but the damage had been done.
With a heavy heart, I walked down the narrow lane toward Seven Dials, sunshine illuminating the crooked rooftops and rags fluttering in the windows.
A man swaggered towards me, accompanied by two boys. He wore a top hat and long velvet overcoat, and a small dog trotted by his side. My heart began to pound all the way up to my throat as I realised the man was Ed Keller. E Division must have released him again.
But when?
“Mornin’, Miss Green.”
He stopped when he reached me and grinned widely, exposing his crooked yellow teeth. “Why ‘aven’t you come a’visitin’ me lately?”
“I heard you had been arrested.” I gripped my bag tightly to stop my hands from shaking.
“I’m always gettin’ harrested.” He laughed as he looked me up and down.
“What do you know about Mr Turner?”
“Another drunkard, like Yeomans and Larcombe.”
“He was a lawyer.”
“That don’t mean he weren’t a drunk.”
Ed stepped closer to me and ran his tongue along his upper lip. “I enjoyed you a’visitin’ me,” he said in a soft voice. “Fancy interviewin’ me again? I got lots I can tell yer.”
“No, thank you.” I took a step backwards. “Do you know anyone who would want to kill Mr Turner?”
“I might do. I’ll tell yer if you come back wiv me now.”
“Goodbye, Mr Keller,”
I continued on my way, my whole body trembling violently. I heard him mutter something crude to the boys and they laughed. I hated how he had made me so fearful of him. It had been foolishness on my part to try to interview him. I should have heeded the warnings and stayed away.
I was supposed to be finding out if someone in St Giles could tell me more about Mr Turner, but with Martha angry at me and the danger of Ed Keller ever present, I wished that I could be anywhere but here.
Chapter 40
We were making slow progress up the river this afternoon when we heard the unmistakable twang of bows. In the duration of less than a minute, countless arrows flew at us and I ducked my head as they whistled around me. In return, I fired several shots into the vegetation on the riverbank, but there was no sign that I had succeeded in hitting my intended targets.
Once the attack had subsided, we realised that our companion in the stern of the canoe had two arrows firmly embedded in his chest. We pulled the canoe onto the nearest sandbank, but he suffered terribly during his last moments. He died swiftly from his injuries.
We made camp on the riverbank and dug a resting place for our dead companion. Not one of us rested at nightfall; instead, we all remained awake with our firearms at the ready. The red men had resolved to finish us off and we didn’t have long to wait.
We kept completely silent as we sheltered under some trees at the edge of our camp clearing. Before long, we heard the vegetation rustling around us and, although there was little moonlight to see by, I could discern the dark forms of our foe gathering in the clearing.
On my command, we opened fire and such was the blaze from our rifles that the flailing limbs and gaping mouths of our insurgents were briefly lit up in the darkness. Their shrieks and howls curdled my blood, but it wasn’t long before an eerie silence descended.
When we were certain that they were all dead, we lit our lamps and surveyed the tangled bodies of the men who had attacked us. They were young men with strong physical forms, each wearing no more than a cloth around their loins. We will bury them at first light.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the massacre, Ellie?”
I was seated on an easy chair in my sister’s drawing room, with sherry almost spilling over the edge of my glass. I had visited her as soon as I had finished reading this diary entry.
“I didn’t know what to make of it. I still don’t. I prefer to think that it never happened.” My sister was seated on the other side of the fireplace from me, rummaging through the work basket on her lap.
“I can understand why you would like to forget about it, but it happened. Father killed those men.”
“He was defending himself.”
“I suppose so.” I sighed. “And I suppose that if he hadn’t done it they would certainly have killed him. They had already killed one of his companions.”
“It’s difficult to understand when you live in a civilised country such as ours. Life in South America is rather different, it would seem. The rules are different.”
“Are they different? I’m not sure they are. Presumably the men who attacked Father did so for a reason. Was it because he was trespassing on their land?”
“But is it their land? It once belonged to the Spanish.”
I took a gulp of sherry and enjoyed the warm, comforting sensation in my chest. I had begun to realise that I knew little of the circumstances surrounding Father’s plant hunting. I had always assumed that his work had been honourable.
“I don’t see how a meaningful pursuit of orchids can degenerate into a massacre,” I said. “It seems that such a high price was paid for all those beautiful plants he brought back to England.”
“Yes, and Father paid the ultimate price. He lost his life to those endeavours.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if he was killed in revenge for what he did to those men.”
“We can speculate for a long time, Penelope, but even if we reached a conclusion we would be unable to bring him back. Conflict such as this is commonplace in any part of the world where the European sets foot outside his own domain. Occasional resistance from natives is natural, although it usually subsides when they realise that we mean them no harm.”
She took a piece of embroidery out of her work basket and began to stitch.
“On the contrary, it does them good,” said George, Eliza’s husband, as he marched into the room. “It won’t be long until civilisation is brought to all four corners of the globe, and what a marvellous day that will be.”
My brother-in-law was a tall man with wavy brown hair swept to one side. He had thick mutton-chop whiskers and the buttons on his waistcoat were strained around his stomach. The buttons pulled even more as he sat down on the settee and opened up his newspaper.
“How can a globe have four corners?” Eliza asked
her husband.
“Why must women always pick holes in a fellow’s words?” he said from behind the Morning Express.
“As I was saying, Penelope,” continued Eliza. “There is no need to document any acts of violence in Father’s book. It wouldn’t improve the reputation of Frederick Brinsley Green. Even though people understand that these unfortunate incidents occur in the name of exploration—“
“Commerce, Christianity and civilisation,” George piped up.
“Thank you, but that’s a rather old-fashioned phrase now,” she said.
“It is still relevant.”
“Thank you, George.” Eliza rolled her eyes. “You know what I’m trying to say, Penelope. Let’s forget about this horrible incident. We both find it upsetting to dwell on and neither of us can imagine our own father doing such a thing. But life is what it is.”
I gazed into the bottom of my glass and tried to remember what my father had looked like. I could still picture his kindly dark brown eyes, which creased at the corners when he smiled, and I also recalled his light brown whiskers. He hadn’t looked like a man who would commit murder.
A friend of his had given my mother a sketch of my father, which was a good likeness. I wanted to see it again to remind myself what he had looked like and to somehow find some reassurance in it that he had been a good person.
“You’ve escaped the masked man so far then, Penelope?” I looked up to see that George had lowered his newspaper and was regarding me with his cool blue eyes.
“Fortunately, I have, and it shan’t be long before he’s caught now.”
I thought of Winston Nicholls and wondered whether James had been able to locate him.
“I haven’t told you yet, Penelope, that I’m taking the children to Mother’s,” said Eliza. “I can’t bear the thought of this killer roaming around. I’ll bring them back to London once the police have caught him. George has suggested I stay up there with them, but I’m helping to organise the women’s suffrage demonstration, which will take place in Hyde Park next month.”
“How will Mother cope with looking after the children?”
“The nurse and the governess will also be staying there.”
I tried to picture Eliza’s six children, along with two members of her staff, residing in Mother’s little cottage in Derbyshire.
“It will be rather a tight squeeze,” I said.
“It will indeed! But they will rub along just fine up there, I’m sure. And it is far better than their being murdered!”
“The children aren’t in danger, Ellie.”
“How can you be sure of that? Anyone could be targeted next, absolutely anyone. No one is safe. I don’t understand how all this started in the slums and then spread to Clerkenwell and now Chelsea. Chelsea of all places! What are the police doing about it? Every so often I read that some fellow’s been arrested and then he’s let go again, and all the while I have no idea what the police are up to. What does your friend the inspector make of it all?”
“He’s working extremely hard.”
I thought of how tired and despondent James had appeared recently. I didn’t want to let slip that he was struggling to find the man responsible.
“He must have an inkling of who’s behind it, has he not?” said George.
“He has a good description of the man now, and we know that the killer is using a pseudonym in his letters. James is finding the case a challenging one, but he’s the most capable man for the job. And he’s not doing all the work by himself, of course. There are many officers from each of the divisions working on this.”
“And a private detective,” said George.
“Which one?”
“Some chap whom I saw mentioned in The Holborn Gazette.”
“George, you shouldn’t be reading The Gazette. It’s the bad newspaper, remember?” said Eliza with a smile.
“Winston Nicholls?” I said.
“I can’t recall his name,” replied George. “Anyway, I thought it was an interesting development that the Yard has decided to bring in a private detective to sort this business out.”
“The Yard didn’t bring him in. He has appointed himself as a private detective. In fact, I’m not sure he has any investigating credentials at all.”
“Is that so? Well in that case, this thing’s even more of a mess than I first thought.”
“Anyone can decide to become a private detective if they so wish. I’m not sure why The Holborn Gazette thinks that Nicholls’s findings are worthy of anyone’s attention.”
“Desperation, I suppose. The police are doing such a dreadful job of it all.”
“It’s a difficult job,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“It certainly is,” added Eliza. “Don’t forget, George, that Penelope knows the Scotland Yard inspector extremely well.”
“This is why I cannot allow you to have a profession, Eliza,” said George. “I won’t have you knowing your male work associates extremely well. I’m afraid this is what happens when men and women are forced to work together. Keep ’em separate, I say. Like doctors and nurses.”
“Don’t forget that we have women doctors now, George,” said Eliza.
“Women doctors!” George almost spat out the phrase. “What a ridiculous notion. Can you imagine a chap visiting his doctor on Harley Street and finding a woman sitting behind the desk? How is a chap expected to discuss matters of a personal nature with a member of the female sex? What if she should be required to carry out a physical examination? I pray that I make it to my deathbed without encountering a woman doctor.”
“You’ve finished your sherry, Penelope. Would you like some more?” asked Eliza.
“Yes, I’d like a large glassful. Thank you.”
Chapter 41
‘Lamplough’s Effervescing Pyretic Saline. Provides Instant Relief in Headaches and Sickness, and Cures the Worst Form of Skin Complaints.’
I read the advertisement a number of times as the omnibus took me to Fleet Street the following morning. Two men sitting opposite me were browsing The Holborn Gazette.
I sighed and wondered if my father’s reputation would be damaged if the massacre he had been involved in became public knowledge.
Was Eliza right when she said that conflict such as this was commonplace when Europeans travelled in remote parts of the world? How had my father been able to write so calmly about the event in his diary?
I understood that he had been defending himself, but there had been no hint of remorse in his account. Surely he had felt saddened by the deaths of these men? The revelation had changed the way I now thought about him. Did I want to feel close to a man who was responsible for bloodshed? Could I ever feel proud again to be his daughter?
I could feel my enthusiasm for the book about his life waning. It would be a struggle to write if I was unsure about how I should remember him. I hadn’t seen him for nine years and I had long since accepted that he was probably dead, but this didn’t prevent me from feeling a new sense of loss. I had lost the man I thought he had been, and it left me with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
I arrived in the newsroom to find my desk already occupied.
“James?”
The surprise lifted my despondent mood.
James was clean-shaven and wore a smart crimson silk tie I hadn’t seen before. I recalled what he had said to me on Mrs Garnett’s doorstep and my face flushed.
“Penny!”
He stood up from my chair and I tried to dampen my smile, aware that Edgar and Frederick were watching us.
“Meet our new reporter, Miss Green,” laughed Edgar. “He’s given up on his detective work having decided this murder case will be the death of him!”
James gave a hollow laugh. “Indeed.”
I sat down at my desk. “There hasn’t been another—”
“Thankfully, no. No more murders, nor even another letter. I came here to check with you about the location of Winston Nicholls. You haven’t seen him, I presume?�
��
“No. So he’s still missing? I think his mother knows where he is, but she refused to tell me. It sounds as though he has already been scared off. She said that a constable from E Division was asking him too many questions.”
“E Division have been keeping watch outside his home, but there have been no sightings of him for several days.”
“Probably because the police are loitering outside it,” said Edgar. “Why don’t you just break into his house? If you find a mask and a knife in there, you’ll know you’ve got your man.”
“That may be our next step,” said James. “Mr Turner’s maid and butler were both able to give us a good description of the man who calls himself Adam de Vries. And although he doesn’t have any distinguishing features, the murderer does seem to bear something of a resemblance to Mr Nicholls. I should like to arrest him.”
“You think he and Adam might be one and the same?” Edgar asked.
“I can’t be certain, but he’s a pretty likely candidate. And his disappearance is rather suspicious, don’t you think?”
“What’s the evidence against him?” Edgar persisted.
“Apart from a physical resemblance, he has also taken a keen interest in our investigations, possibly because he wants to know how close we are to catching him. By presenting himself as someone interested in the case, he could be hoping that we will automatically exclude him from our investigations. Why would a murderer appear to investigate his own crimes? It makes no sense, which is why I believe he may be doing it to put us off the scent. And he’s found a decent platform via The Holborn Gazette. Can you see how he’s trying to manipulate us? Another manipulation, of course, is the creation of this Adam de Vries character; a man who we know doesn’t exist. However, like Mr Nicholls, he does like to write letters.”
“But the handwriting on the letters doesn’t appear to be a match,” I said.
“No, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Obviously, if he were to use the same handwriting he would incriminate himself immediately.”
