The Bermondsey Poisoner

by Emily Organ

  I shuddered. “Mr Sherman would never cope with that.”

  “He wouldn’t have a choice,” said Edgar. “I have a lot of respect for the chap, but if you break the law you have to be ready to face the punishment.”

  “The whole thing was rather a surprise,” said Frederick. “He often told us about his visits to the Turkish baths, but I had no idea that any untoward activities took place there.”

  “I had heard stories of untoward activities in some of those places,” said Edgar, “but I have visited them in the past and never encountered anything out of the ordinary. I never imagined that Mr Sherman would have got himself caught up in any of it. Perhaps it’s a mistake. In fact, it must be a mistake. I know the chap’s not married, but that doesn’t mean he would get involved in any funny business. He just hasn’t met the right lady yet.”

  “I don’t think he wants to meet the right lady,” I said.

  “You know better than us on this matter, do you, Miss Green?”

  “No, it’s just a guess.”

  Despite Mr Sherman’s arrest, I still wished to keep the secret he had imparted to me down in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “I’m worried about him,” I continued. “From what I’ve read, all the men who were arrested have been granted bail, but I can’t see him coping well with this situation.”

  “It’s the shame more than anything,” said Edgar. “And the ruin of one’s reputation. I should think his friends will be quick to desert him.”

  Chapter 19

  Defying Mr Childers’ orders to report to the office at the beginning of each day, I went straight to the reading room the next morning. I climbed the steps to the upper gallery, where I hoped to find some books which would help me with my ongoing articles about the Sudan campaign. From here I could look down on the circular room and watch the readers working quietly at the long desks which radiated out from the head librarian’s dais. The sight of Mr Retchford bustling about proudly made me feel the absence of Francis even more keenly.

  As I watched, a familiar figure in a dark blue suit and bowler hat entered the room. I smiled as I quietly observed James looking for me. It wasn’t long before he looked up and gave me a wave. I climbed down the staircase to meet him.

  “Hello, Penny,” he whispered. “I have something here you might be interested in.” He gestured toward a leather folder tucked beneath his arm.

  “Tell me more outside,” I whispered, spotting a reproachful glance from Mr Retchford. I quickly packed up my papers.

  “How’s Mr Sherman?” asked James once we had left the quiet confines of the reading room. “With all that business going on in Bermondsey yesterday I didn’t have a chance to discuss it with you.”

  “I should think he’s in rather a bad way,” I replied. “No thanks to your colleagues at Vine Street station.”

  James sighed. “They had to follow up on those reports, I suppose.”

  “But who bothers to make these reports to them in the first place?” I asked. “Haven’t they got better things to do? The police would be better off spending their time catching dangerous criminals.”

  “A police officer’s work is full of variety, Penny.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I said scornfully. “I’m struggling to believe that such a thing has happened. Mr Sherman doesn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. He’s a good man, and he would never hurt anyone.”

  “I agree, Penny, and so would many others. However, the police don’t make the laws of this land; we only enforce them.”

  “No, but they could consider doing what is really important. They have been watching those baths since February! And has any real crime been committed? The allegations all seem to be based on gossip and vague suspicion. Meanwhile, Mr Sherman has lost his livelihood and the Morning Express has lost its best editor.”

  We stepped outside, where a brisk, warm wind was whisking around the columns of the museum’s portico.

  “What’s in your folder, anyway?” I snapped.

  “There’s no need to be curt with me, Penny. I’m not Chief Constable Granger.”

  “I’m sorry, James. I’m just upset about the whole thing, and Blimpy Childers isn’t helping matters either.”

  “Who? Who on earth is…? What name did you say?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I sighed, instantly regretting using Edgar’s new nickname for the man.

  We paused on the steps of the museum as James opened his folder and pulled out a photograph. Once again, it showed a couple at a photographer’s studio. The woman looked familiar.

  “Catherine Curran?” I guessed.

  James nodded. “And the chap next to her is, or was, Francis Peel.”

  Catherine looked younger in this picture and appeared quite upset. The eyes of the young man next to her had the usual glassy look about them.

  The photographer’s name was embossed onto the bottom of the photograph and I saw that he was situated at an address in Walworth.

  “We have the constables of M Division to thank for this,” said James. “They eventually found the photographer you and I had been looking for. He’d kept a negative copy of the photograph and had it developed for us.”

  “Catherine looks like a woman who is genuinely mourning for her husband,” I said. “Perhaps she had nothing to do with his death.”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” replied James. “Perhaps Catherine is entirely innocent. There’s a good deal of evidence to substantiate Miss Chadwick’s claim.”

  “Really?”

  “After interviewing her yesterday, Inspector Martin visited the room where she lodges. It’s at a house in Grange Walk, not far from where the Currans lived. Martin and his constables found packs of fly papers there, some opened and some not. They also found bottles filled with a substance which Miss Chadwick claims is the arsenic-laced water she obtained from soaking the fly papers. They have been passed to the analytical chemist for testing. It has also been verified with Mr Gibson, who owns a general store on Tanner Street, that Miss Chadwick purchased these fly papers from him. There is no doubt that the woman is of a rather unusual character, but she does appear to be telling the truth about her involvement.”

  “But it couldn’t have been her!” I protested. “What would her motive be?”

  “The only motive I have come across so far is the one suggested by Miss Burrell.”

  “You think Sally was angry that Thomas Burrell had rejected her advances? I struggle to believe that.”

  “Me too,” said James. “However, though the motive may be intangible, the intent is clear. We cannot pretend that Miss Chadwick’s mind is sound. I suspect she may have a touch of insanity about her. If a murderer is insane there is a fairly good chance there is no motive to speak of. At the very best there may be a twisted motive which makes sense to an insane mind but not to a rational one.”

  “But even if Sally committed the murders for some reason related to her insanity, how do you explain Catherine Curran’s sudden disappearance? And the insurance policies she took out on her husbands’ lives?”

  “Good point, and we know that she was quick to claim on those policies,” said James.

  “Exactly. So Catherine must have had some involvement in the murders.”

  “It’s possible that the two women worked together.”

  “They could have done,” I replied. “And now Catherine has taken flight, leaving poor, simple Sally Chadwick to take the blame.”

  “But no one would ever have suspected her if she hadn’t confessed,” said James. “Why would she confess?”

  “I have no idea,” I said with a shrug. “A guilty conscience, perhaps?”

  “We need to persuade Sally to implicate Catherine in all this. Hopefully she can explain exactly what happened and why they did what they did.”

  James sat down on the museum steps and withdrew his notebook from his pocket. I took a seat next to him as he leafed through his notes. The warm breeze threatened to lift my cotton skirts, so I hug
ged them close to my legs.

  “Why is Miss Burrell’s face so terribly scarred?” I asked. “Did she tell you?”

  “Apparently, she mentioned to Sergeant Richards that she had suffered serious burns during an accident at a lead works here in Bermondsey.”

  “Poor woman,” I said. “Is that why she returned to her family in Somerset?”

  “I don’t know. It could be, I suppose. I should think she left the lead works after it happened.” He stopped turning the pages in his notebook. “Here we are. This is what we know so far. The lady we call Catherine Curran was named Catherine Vincent when she married Francis Peel in 1878. They were married for two years before he died in 1880, and the autopsy after his exhumation suggests that his death may have been caused by arsenic poisoning. Catherine married Thomas Burrell in 1881, a year after Francis’ death. The autopsy on Mr Burrell suggests that he also died of arsenic poisoning, although we are awaiting the results of the toxicology tests to confirm it. He died in 1882.”

  “And then Catherine married John Curran.”

  “Yes, in November of last year. Their marriage lasted ten months before he died a death which we know to have been caused by arsenic poisoning.”

  “Three husbands in six years.”

  “Quite an achievement, isn’t it?”

  “Sally mentioned that she poisoned ‘the other one’, but she couldn’t remember the man’s name.”

  “Presumably she means Francis Peel.”

  “She must do. You mentioned the surname Vincent. Does that mean Vincent is Catherine’s maiden name?”

  “In the record of her marriage to Francis Peel she is described as a spinster, so I think we can be confident that Francis was her first husband.”

  “So we’re not going to find any more deceased husbands from her past?”

  “I sincerely hope not. And with a matrimonial record like that I’m surprised the life insurance companies allowed her to take out any policies with them at all!”

  “If Sally Chadwick poisoned all three men she must have known Catherine for at least four years.”

  “Yes, she must have. But she won’t talk about Catherine at all.”

  “And where is Sally Chadwick now?”

  “Inspector Martin arrested her after they visited her home. She is currently being held in the cells at Bermondsey police station.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “She claims to have murdered three men, Penny!”

  “Without truly realising what she was doing, I should think. She is clearly not of sound mind. Will a physician pay her a visit?”

  “I should think Inspector Martin will arrange that as soon as possible.”

  “What of her family and friends?”

  “No one has visited her yet to my knowledge, but I’m sure someone will soon. I don’t really know what friends and family she has.”

  “What will happen to her next?”

  “She’ll be up in front of the magistrates at Southwark Police Court next week.”

  “Poor Sally.” I couldn’t imagine the childlike woman coping with the formality of a court.

  “Remember that she is a murderer, Penny. She has admitted to the crimes and we have found evidence to corroborate her confession.”

  “And Catherine?”

  “We have received reports of more sightings in Rotherhithe, and I believe Parish Constable Lopes is finally putting some of the necessary legwork in now. She can’t stay hidden for much longer. We almost got her a few days ago, didn’t we? Our chance will come very soon, I feel sure of it.”

  I glanced down at the steps in front of us, enjoying this rare moment in the sunshine with James.

  “It’s rather different today compared with that cold, foggy day we first met here last October,” I said. “Do you remember it?”

  “I remember it well,” he said with a smile. “The body of poor Lizzie Dixie had been found in Highgate Cemetery and I was told that I urgently needed to speak to a news reporter called Miss Green who had been a friend of hers.”

  “And you waited for me here.”

  “I did! Having called at your office I was told that you spent a lot of your time in the reading room. I waited for about five minutes, wondering whether I should go in and disturb you. I was quite nervous, because I’d only heard about you from Chief Inspector Cullen and he’d just had you dismissed from your job. I understood why you had no wish to be bothered by anyone from Scotland Yard. But when I set eyes on you, I saw that you weren’t what I had expected at all.”

  “What had you expected?”

  “Someone rather austere and serious. Trout-faced, perhaps.”

  I laughed. “Trout-faced?!”

  “Yes!” He grinned. “I wasn’t expecting someone so…” His words trailed away, but his eyes remained on mine.

  “What?” I asked quietly.

  He looked away and scratched at his chin. “Well-favoured, I suppose. I can’t say any more than that; it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “I see.”

  I looked in the direction of the Museum Tavern across the road. I recalled our first drink in there together as clearly as if it had occurred the previous day. I thought of Charlotte and anger balled in my stomach.

  “You were quite serious, though,” said James, turning to face me again. “And rather abrupt, if I may say so. But you had lost your job because of the actions of my superior, so I suppose it was justified.”

  “It was all justified,” I said, looking back at him with a smile. “I apologise for my grumpiness. I didn’t immediately realise you were a decent person, but I recognised it soon after you bought me a sherry at the Museum Tavern.” I looked back at the pub again and added. “I recognised it quite quickly.”

  “So did I, Penny,” he replied. “But as I have already said, this marriage was first considered long ago.”

  “Yes, you’ve already said that,” I snapped, standing to my feet. “I must return to my work.”

  Chapter 20

  Dearest Penny and Eliza,

  Monday 25th August 1884

  I hope this letter finds you both well. I have successfully reached the Azores Islands! Not due to any effort of my own, of course, but by the sterling work of the captain and crew of the Pampero. We are currently moored at Terceira, a coaling station for transatlantic steamships. Terceira is one of the islands in this delightful archipelago, which belongs to Portugal. Much of the land here is divided by low walls into little squares, within which the inhabitants grow oranges, passion fruit, tea, tobacco and a number of other crops. The early settlers brought sheep and cattle here. Mark Twain visited these islands seventeen years ago, so I have been enjoyed reading about his experiences here in his fine work, The Innocents Abroad.

  To date, the crossing has been calm, with only one night bumpy enough to require me to cling to the sides of my bunk bed. The company on board is most pleasant, and conversation with my fellow travellers is helping to pass the time. I am also now well acquainted with my Spanish translator, Anselmo. He is a good-humoured fellow with a grasp of the English language more impressive than some who speak it as their native tongue!

  Despite the new sights and sounds around me, my thoughts often turn to you both and the great city I call home.

  I shall write again once I reach the shores of Colombia.

  Ever your friend,

  Francis Edwards

  “What a lovely letter,” said Eliza, dabbing at her eyes. “I haven’t read anything so wonderful in months.”

  “Really?” I replied.

  “You must excuse me, Penelope. My emotions are running rather high at the present time.’

  We sat together in Eliza’s drawing room, where several piles of papers were laid out on the hearthrug. Eliza had been sorting through them when I arrived.

  “This letter is dated the twenty-fifth of August,” she said. “Do you think Francis might have reached Colombia by now?”

  “He’ll probably arrive there in a day or two. I t
hink he said that the crossing would take almost two weeks.”

  “Oh, I do hope his efforts won’t be in vain. How wonderful it would be if he found Father!”

  “I can’t imagine how I will feel if that happens. But I don’t want to raise my hopes too much. There’s as much chance of him discovering bad news about Father as there is of him receiving good news.”

  “Oh no, Penelope. Do you really think so?”

  Eliza began to cry again, and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie, I didn’t mean to upset you. I must resolve to be more optimistic.”

  “Yes, you should,” said Eliza, dabbing at her face. “And I’m sorry for getting upset again, but this business with George is affecting me so. I’ve spent much of the day trying to separate my papers from his, and one of his friends is visiting me later to collect his pile.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Mr Bertrand Butler. Odd man. I can’t bring myself to look at his horrible teeth.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “It’s the manner in which they protrude. I know the chap can’t help it, but I worry that one or more of them may fall out while he’s talking to me.”

  “What does he talk about when he visits you?”

  “He uses words such as peace parley and negotiation with regard to discussions between George and myself. He comes here to collect something and then embarks on a great speech about something or other. He’s an incredibly irritating man.”

  “Why bother with him, in that case? Why not speak to George yourself?”

  “Because the mere sight of him makes me livid, Penelope!”

  “That’s understandable. Does he wish to be reconciled?”

  “Yes, I believe so, but the trouble is that I don’t feel as though I know him at all now.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I don’t! I had no idea that he would get himself caught up in an illegal scheme with a dubious customer.”