by Emily Organ
“I suppose not. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? Perhaps I need to employ the services of a food taster in case Mrs Fish has it in for me. Isn’t that what the great rulers of old did? I believe they had a chap taste their food before they ate it, and if he didn’t die they would happily tuck in.”
“Perhaps you could ask your housekeeper to undertake the task,” suggested Frederick.
“I don’t think she’d be amenable. Perhaps I could dose myself with small amounts of poison on a regular basis so that I would become used to it. I’m sure I recall reading about a Persian king who did that.”
“He poisoned himself before anyone else could?” asked Frederick.
“Yes, but only with very small amounts so that he became accustomed to it. That way if anyone had tried to poison him they would have failed.”
“Did it work?” I asked.
“Do you know what, Miss Green? I have no idea whether his strategy was successful or not.”
“Mithridatism,” announced Mr Sherman, the door of the newsroom slamming shut behind him as usual.
“A what, sir?” asked Edgar.
“Administering poison to oneself. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”
“It is, sir,” said Edgar. “Although I wasn’t aware of that word you used to describe it.”
“It comes from King Mithridates the sixth, who was terrified of being poisoned.”
“That’s the chap I was talking about!” said Edgar. “I’m pleased to find that I still remember one thing from my school days.”
“But did it work?” I asked again.
“We know that he was successful in building up a tolerance to poison because his actions worked against him in the end,” replied Mr Sherman. “After being defeated by the Romans he attempted to take his own life. Guess how he tried to do it?”
Edgar laughed and slapped his desk. “Poison?”
“Exactly right, Fish.”
“And it didn’t work?” I said.
“Exactly, Miss Green. It had no effect at all, so he had his bodyguard run him through with a sword instead.”
“Ugh,” said Frederick.
“That’s how it was in those days,” said Sherman.
“Thank goodness we live in modern times,” said Edgar. “I’m glad there’s none of that falling on your sword business any more.”
“You might feel like doing so yourself, Fish, if I don’t have your article on the Abyssinian envoys shortly,” said our editor. “Don’t forget that it also needs to be typewritten.”
Edgar gave me pleading look.
“Not me this time, Edgar,” I said. “I have too much to do myself.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand why a woman might wish to poison her husband,” said Eliza as we dined at The Holborn Restaurant that evening. The clatter of silver on china and a mumble of voices filled the air.
“Ellie, that’s a horrible thing to say!”
“Some men are exceptionally tiresome,” she added as she sliced at a piece of boiled turkey.
“Being tiresome is no reason to be murdered. Perhaps if the husband is a violent drunk one might sympathise with an attempt to poison him, but there’s no evidence to suggest that either John Curran or Thomas Burrell were unpleasant men. In fact, we know that Catherine Curran’s motive was to claim the life insurance money.”
“I suppose I’m thinking about something else entirely,” said Eliza with a sigh. “There are moments when I have thought about poisoning George.”
“You don’t actually mean that!”
“Actually, Penelope, I do. The man has been so cantankerous and difficult since he went to live with his friend Mr Beale-Wottinger. I’m beginning to wonder what I ever saw in him.”
“Well, you know my thoughts on the matter,” I replied.
Eliza’s husband, George Billington-Grieg, had moved out of the family home since becoming indirectly implicated in a murder case I had worked on.
“I know that he hasn’t yet been found guilty of any wrongdoing,” said Eliza, “but he’s not a complete fool. I think he must have turned a blind eye when he shouldn’t have, if nothing else.”
“We shall find out in due course,” I said. “If he’s found to be blameless will you take him back again?”
There was a long silence.
“I’m not sure. I suppose there is my financial position to consider.”
“You could find yourself a job, Ellie. You’ve always wanted to do that.”
“I suppose I could. I must say that writing has always appealed to me.”
“There’s little money in writing, unfortunately,” I said. “You’ll need something which pays rather better.”
“George’s salary will continue to pay some of our expenses. We’ll have to sell the house, I suppose, which is a terrible shame as I adore living in Bayswater.”
“George’s salary cannot be completely relied upon,” I said. “If he goes to prison for his role in the murder he’ll have no income at all.”
“It won’t come to that!”
“And if you decide to divorce, the amount of money he gives you will be decided by a court.”
“Oh dear, no. This is why I think this could all be a big mistake. I don’t want to have the courts involved. I couldn’t bear the idea.”
“George is a lawyer, Ellie. If the animosity between you grows stronger, who knows what strings he’ll pull?”
“He wouldn’t do that, we’re his family!”
“I’d like to believe that, but you don’t know what his intentions are. I expect he’s as upset about the matter as you are, and his behaviour might be unpredictable. I think you should seek legal assistance, Ellie, especially when your estranged husband is a lawyer.”
“We’re not estranged!”
“Then what are you?”
“Briefly separated.”
“Do you expect a reconciliation?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do.”
“Do you want a reconciliation?”
“Only if he’s found to be innocent of all wrongdoing. And if he changes his ways.”
“George isn’t going to change, Ellie.”
“How do you know that?”
“We’ve known him for many years. He’s stubborn and set in his ways.”
“So are you, Penelope.”
“But we’re talking about George.”
“Oh dear, it’s such a terrible mess. I despise having to pretend that everything is well between us to all our acquaintances.”
“Then stop pretending.”
“His parents would be horrified! I’m worried they’ll find out if I drop my guard. I couldn’t bear the thought of all that disapproval.”
“If people are going to disapprove that’s their problem, not yours.”
“It is my problem, though. The stigma of being a divorced woman is quite dreadful!”
“It’s not as terrible as it used to be.”
“There’s a danger that I shall be ostracised.”
“Your good friends won’t ostracise you, Ellie.”
“Well that’s just it. I sometimes wonder whether I have any good friends.”
“I’m always here for you. I don’t care whether you’re divorced or not.”
“Thank you, Penelope. Sometimes I don’t think I’m brave enough to go through with all this. It feels as though it would be so much easier just to allow him to come back home and continue as we were before. It would be easier for the children. They keep asking me where he is, and I have to tell them he’s busy at the office. I’m going to have to explain the situation to them at some stage, and I really don’t want to.”
“That will likely be the most difficult part, Ellie. Perhaps you and George could explain it to them together.”
“Can you imagine George ever doing such a thing? He would refuse to have anything to do with it.”
“He needs to share the responsibility.”
Eliza gave a laug
h. “This may sound rather foolish, but of late I had started comparing George unfavourably with other men.” She took a sip of wine.
“Such as who?”
“Well, embarrassing as it sounds, I had begun comparing him with Francis Edwards.”
I laughed. “You couldn’t find two men who were more different in nature!”
“Exactly! That’s what I realised. As time went by I came to admire Francis very much, and when he announced that he was going to search for our father… well, my heart could have burst with pride and admiration. The man has so much courage; not to mention that clever mind of his. Such an interesting fellow. He was wasted at the library, of course, and although I’m desperately sad that he’s gone away I’m also extremely pleased for him. I cannot think of anyone I would rather have out there looking for Father.”
“He’s never done anything like this before, Ellie.”
“No, but I trust him. You trust him too, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
I showed Eliza the letter he had sent from Liverpool, and noticed that her eyes grew damp as she read it.
“Isn’t he marvellous, Penny? Such a good man. He wrote this before he left, I see. I wonder where he is now.”
“Hopefully he’s reached the Azores Islands by this time.”
“Azores. The name alone sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? I should think it’s rather wonderful there. A tropical paradise.”
“The islands are in the middle of the ocean,” I said. “They’re probably quite exposed to the elements.”
“Don’t ruin the image, Penelope. I don’t want to wish wind and rain upon the Azores islanders. Anyway, I was thinking about Inspector Blakely the other day. Have you seen him recently? It can’t be long now until his wedding.”
“It’s on Saturday the thirteenth of September.”
“Which is how long away?”
“Nineteen days.”
“I notice you’re keeping a close count. How are you feeling about it?”
“My feelings are irrelevant. It will go ahead regardless of how I feel.”
“It’s probably for the best.”
Eliza drained her glass of wine and I felt my teeth clench in response to her flippant comment. I wanted to tell her that his marriage wasn’t for the best at all, but I resisted the urge to snap at my sister. I knew she was upset about her marital troubles, and sharp words from me would do nothing to ease her pain.
“Oh well,” she continued. “Perhaps when Francis returns from South America you might feel like marrying him. The man will surely have proved his worth by then.”
“Perhaps you could marry him, Ellie.”
My sister’s mouth hung open in surprise.
“You obviously hold him in high regard,” I continued, “and if you were to divorce George it might be something to consider.”
She gasped. “Penelope! I would never… I couldn’t possibly consider Francis in that manner. What a ridiculous suggestion!”
I noticed that her face had turned crimson.
Chapter 11
I found James at Bermondsey police station with Inspector Martin the following morning. They were accompanied by a young, long-limbed police officer with close-set eyes who was introduced to me as Detective Sergeant Richards.
“Penny!” James smiled as he greeted me, and I felt a warm twinge in my chest. His blue silk tie matched the colour of his eyes. “I take it you’re here for an update,” he continued. “Events are moving swiftly, so there will be plenty for you to write about.”
“Good.” I returned his smile. “Are you any closer to finding Catherine?”
“Not so far, but we’ve found another husband.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Deceased, sadly.”
“Oh goodness. Another one?”
“Before I tell you the details, Penny, you’ll probably appreciate the added insight that Dr Grant, who carried out the autopsy on Thomas Burrell, has given. He believes the poor man was poisoned with arsenic. Samples of viscera have been passed to the analytical chemist at the Royal Institution; however, the police surgeon was somehow able to deduce—”
“The presence of inflamed and ulcerated intestines?” I asked.
“Why yes, Penny, I do believe he mentioned something like that. How did you know?”
“From John Curran’s inquest.”
“I’ll tell you something else he mentioned,” continued James. “He said that Thomas Burrell’s body was remarkably well-preserved for one that had been buried in damp ground. The reason being that arsenic acts as a sort of preservative. Were you aware of that?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“We must await the results from the chemist, of course, but it appears, as we feared, that Burrell was also poisoned by his wife.”
“And the third husband you found?”
“We found him in the parish registers,” said Inspector Martin. “A man named Francis Peel.”
“Of course!” I said. “Catherine’s surname was Peel before she married Burrell. I assumed that Peel was her maiden name, but it must have been the surname of her previous husband.”
“Indeed,” said Inspector Martin. “They married in November 1878 and Peel died on the ninth of February 1880.”
“Where is he buried?”
“Believe it or not, in the churchyard of St Mary Magdalen,” replied Martin with a smile. “If we’d found out a day or two sooner we could have dug both former husbands up at the same time.”
I shivered. “Are you also planning to exhume Francis Peel’s body?”
“We are indeed, at dawn tomorrow. And I expect we shall discover the same sorry scenario.”
“Have you any idea where Catherine obtained the poison?” I asked.
“No, and it’s something which is truly puzzling us,” said Sergeant Richards, stepping forward to join the conversation. “The house at Grange Walk has been extensively searched and we can find no container that the poison might have been stored in or administered from. Enquiries are still being made among local shop owners to ascertain whether anyone recalls selling rat poison, or something of that sort, to Mrs Curran. The woman is quite the enigma. We’re looking into William Curran as well, as several neighbours have reported witnessing arguments between the two brothers in the weeks leading up to John’s death.”
“He mentioned to me that they didn’t always see eye to eye,” I said.
“They didn’t get on at all from what we’re hearing,” said Inspector Martin. “There could be motive on William Curran’s part.”
“But that cannot explain Thomas Burrell’s death, can it?” I said. “Have you tracked down Thomas Burrell’s family?”
“Yes, there’s news on that front,” said Inspector Martin. “The chap was from Somerset, where his relatives continue to live. This morning we received a telegram from his sister, who had read about her brother’s exhumation in the newspaper.”
“Oh dear, she must be quite upset about that.”
“No doubt she is,” said Inspector Martin. “She is to travel to London at her earliest convenience.”
“She should be able to tell us a bit more about Catherine Curran,” I suggested.
“Or Catherine Burrell, as she was known back then. We do hope so.”
“It’s difficult to keep track of all the names, isn’t it?” I said.
“It certainly is,” said James. “We haven’t found a photograph of Catherine and Francis Peel, but I think it might be worth asking around at the local photography studios to find out whether any of them photographed the couple. We already have constables out and about looking for members of the Peel family.”
“Do you mind if I help with that?” I asked. “I would be interested in speaking to anyone who happens to have met her.”
“Of course,” said James with a smile. “First we’ll need to write out a list of photography studios from the Post Office Directory, and then we can split them between us. Let’s begin with the two we
know she has already visited.”
I went to the studio of Mr Lillywhite, the photographer on Upper Grange Road. He was a slight, neatly dressed man with an overly manicured moustache. I wiped the Bermondsey grime from my spectacles with a gloved finger and surveyed the room. A screen bearing a depiction of an Italianate balcony stood at one end, and beside it was an array of chairs of different heights and sizes. A couple of rugs were rolled up on the floor.
“Mrs Burrell had her photograph taken with her husband shortly after his death,” said the photographer. “That’s what I confirmed with the police officer the other day. I don’t recall her ever coming here before then. There was a husband previous to him, you say?”
“Yes, Mr Francis Peel. I’m told that he died on the ninth of February 1880. Would you mind checking your records for their names?”
“Of course. I won’t be a moment.”
Mr Lillywhite retreated into a room at the back of his studio to take a look.
I surveyed the rest of the room as I waited. A theatrical red velvet curtain hung from the ceiling, and a bench and plinth stood side by side. They gave the impression of stone, but I suspected they were constructed from papier mâché. Vases of artificial flowers and plants were scattered about the room, and at the centre stood the camera on a three-legged stand, draped with a black cloth.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to find anyone with the surname Peel who visited me in the month of February 1880,” said Mr Lillywhite on his return. “I’m sorry I can’t be of any help on this occasion. The woman you mention is suspected of murdering her husband, is she not?”
“Yes. What was your impression of her when she visited you with Mr Burrell?”
He stroked his manicured moustache as he gave this some thought. “I can’t say that I recall her very well. She was upset, of course, and found the photographic session rather distressing. People in her position usually do.”
I glanced at the chaise longue pushed up against a wall. It looked like the same one Catherine Curran and her dead husband Thomas Burrell had been seated upon for the photograph.
“How was the body of the deceased brought here?” I asked.
