by Emily Organ
“That sounds like a good idea.”
The cut-glass mirrors, flickering gas lamps and haze of tobacco smoke made me think of James again. I glanced over at our usual table and saw a man seated there reading The Times. Would James and I ever meet in this place again? It seemed unlikely.
I shivered as a fresh wave of concern that he was suffering from the effects of poison flashed into my mind. I knew that arsenic didn’t always kill people immediately; poor Inspector Martin’s death was proof of that. He had been poisoned on a Thursday but had died the following Monday, having endured four days of agony.
“Are you all right, Miss Green?” asked Mr Sherman as he handed me a glass of sherry.
“I am. Thank you, sir.”
He gave me a look which suggested that he didn’t quite believe me as we sat down at a table. He wore a suit that I had often seen him wear at the office, though it wasn’t as tight-fitting as it had been before.
“This confusing case must be creating a lot of work for you,” he said.
“It is, sir. As soon as I begin to think that a conclusion has been reached something else occurs to complicate matters.”
He took a sip of his sherry. “My brother paid a visit to Miss Chadwick.”
“Did he?” I smiled. “Thank you. What did he think of her?”
“The gaol is a rather difficult place to get into.”
“I suppose it would be. It’s the House of Detention, after all.”
He gave a feeble laugh. “Yes, Henry was quite surprised by it all. He probably thought it would be as straightforward as walking into the Peter Jones department store in Sloane Square. Fortunately, he persevered. He managed to convince the authorities that he had been instructed to visit Miss Chadwick by an eminent London lawyer. Henry knows a few prominent lawyers socially, and he can put on quite an intimidating display when required. If he hadn’t become a doctor he could easily have been an actor.”
“And how did Sally seem when Dr Sherman saw her?”
Mr Sherman’s brow furrowed. “He was concerned. So concerned that he has visited her again since then.”
I felt a chill in my stomach. “Goodness, really?”
“She’s quite distressed, apparently, which I suppose is to be expected in a young woman being held in such a gaol. She has been causing herself some harm.”
“Doing what?”
“She has terrible scratches on her arms and legs, and she is eating very little.”
“I knew she would struggle to cope in there.”
“In theory she’s a murderess awaiting trial. Many would say that she deserves to be there.”
“And what does your brother think?”
“Henry is of the opinion that she should be in a lunatic asylum instead. He doesn’t believe that she should appear at the Central Criminal Court. The stress of the situation would be too much for her.”
“I agree that it would, though I think an asylum might be almost as bad as the House of Detention. It doesn’t seem fair when her mind is clearly affected. Surely there must be another way.”
Mr Sherman shrugged. “Such as what? She has confessed to three murders and must be detained somewhere.” He drained his glass and lit his pipe.
“Does Dr Sherman believe she is guilty?”
“He seems rather surprised that she managed to carry out three poisonings without being detected. The murders would have required a significant degree of planning and stealth, which he does not believe her capable of.”
“So he thinks she is innocent?”
“I think it would be difficult to proclaim that. After all, many crimes surprise us. The evidence against her is overwhelming, isn’t it? They found all those bottles of poison in her home. Henry thinks she carried out her crimes without considering the severity of them due to the weakness of her mind. She was incapable of realising the seriousness of what she was doing.”
“But if her mind was too weak to consider the severity of her crimes, how could it possess the strength to plan and execute them so efficiently? It’s a paradox.”
“Yes, it is. Henry believes she was coerced.”
“By another person. I knew it! Catherine Curran must have made her do it.”
“She’s been arrested as well, hasn’t she? It shouldn’t be too difficult to charge her in connection with the murders.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Sherman. I think they have arrested the wrong woman and that the real Catherine Curran is still out there.”
Chapter 40
Mr Sherman bought another round of sherries and took a large sip from his glass. I told him about my meeting with the young woman in the police cell the previous day.
“What does Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard make of all this?” he asked.
“I don’t know because he’s currently unwell at home. I tried to visit him yesterday but his fiancée wouldn’t let me see him.”
Mr Sherman gave a knowing smile.
“I’m worried that he has been poisoned just as Inspector Martin was,” I continued. “This is a complex case and the people who are best-placed to solve it are being targeted.”
“It sounds like a coordinated plan.”
“It is. And Sally Chadwick has very little to do with it, I feel sure of that.”
“So apart from the sergeant at Bermondsey, who else is working on the case?”
“There’s an Inspector Wallis at the Blackman Street station in Southwark. I’m not quite sure what he’s doing. And there’s a rather annoying chief inspector from L Division who is investigating Benjamin Taylor’s death. Personally, I think the police are being outwitted. I suspect that Catherine Curran is behind the whole thing, but she seems to have other people helping her. How could one woman outwit the combined efforts of the Metropolitan Police?”
“By killing one of their officers, it seems. And you think she may be trying to do the same thing to Blakely?”
“I truly hope not. But he’s rarely unwell and I’m desperately worried about him.” I took a sip of my sherry. “He’s due to be married this weekend, and his fiancée is concerned that he won’t be well enough to attend the wedding.”
“Is he indeed?” Mr Sherman raised an eyebrow. “In which case his illness is unfortunate indeed.”
He watched my face as if waiting for me to say something further. I tried not to give anything away.
“I think you should send him a telegram as soon as we’re finished here,” he said.
“Do you think I’m right to be worried about him?”
“It’s natural to be concerned, especially if it’s unusual for him to be taken ill. And in light of the other poisoning I can certainly understand your concern. Let’s hope he makes a swift recovery. He’s generally fit and well, isn’t he? And it sounds as though he is being well looked after.”
“I’m sure he is.” I felt my stomach turn.
“How is Mr Childers faring?”
“Circulation figures have already fallen.”
“Oh dear, really?”
“I wish you could come back, sir. It’s not the same without you.”
“You know that won’t be possible.”
“But you’ve been at the Morning Express for so long. It’s not fair!”
“Perhaps it’s time for a change, anyhow. Perhaps I should be doing something different. It may be best for me and the newspaper.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I couldn’t be the editor forever, Miss Green. Perhaps twelve years is long enough.”
“Perhaps it is long enough for you, but if the newspaper is to survive it will require a better editor than Mr Childers.”
“You’re right, it will. If circulation figures are already down he won’t last long. Mr Conway values the numbers above all else, so he’ll soon be rid of Childers, nephew or not.”
“I hope so. That’s what we are all hoping. Please pass on my gratitude to your brother. I’m grateful to him for taking the time to visit Miss Chadwick. I’ll tell the pol
ice about his concerns.”
“He told me he would write up a report for them.”
“Really? That’s very helpful of him.”
“He is concerned about her, just as you are. It sounds as though she needs help rather than punishment. Perhaps someone could be persuaded that she shouldn’t have to face the Central Criminal Court.”
I left the Museum Tavern feeling pleased that Mr Sherman and his brother had been so helpful. A report from Dr Sherman would presumably prevent Sally Chadwick from having to face a courtroom at the Old Bailey: a court where only the most serious criminal cases were heard. I remained concerned, however, about her future. If she was deemed unfit for prison her confession would undoubtedly lead to her confinement in a lunatic asylum; an institution which was probably little better than gaol.
I sent a note to James from the telegram office on Great Russell Street. Feeling certain that Charlotte would read it I kept the wording polite and simple, choosing not to mention any developments in the case. I then made my way down to Bermondsey, keen to find out whether Sergeant Richards had found anyone who could positively identify the woman he believed to be Catherine Curran.
Inspector Wallis from Blackman Street station was at the Bermondsey station when I arrived. He was a tall man with grey whiskers, and he walked with a limp.
“It’s rather queer,” he said when I asked about recent progress. “We have one person who has confirmed that the woman is Mrs Curran and another who claims she isn’t.”
My heart sank. This felt like the worst possible outcome.
“Two people have seen her?” I asked.
“Yes. Remind me who they are again, Sergeant,” said Inspector Wallis.
“Mr Curran and Miss Burrell,” said Sergeant Richards.
“And which of them said that it was her?”
“Miss Burrell,” replied Sergeant Richards. “But Mr Curran says that it isn’t.”
“And is the woman saying anything herself?”
Sergeant Richards shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Why not? Why does she not wish to defend herself?”
“It’s a mystery,” said Inspector Wallis. “Her mind must be extremely muddled.”
I sighed. “I suppose it makes sense to listen to Mr Curran given that he has seen her more recently than Miss Burrell. Thomas Burrell died two years ago, so Miss Burrell presumably hasn’t seen Catherine Curran for at least that length of time. Mr Curran saw her shortly before his brother died two weeks ago, so I think we should listen to him.”
“That means the search for Catherine Curran must be resumed,” said Inspector Wallis.
“Only if we are assuming that the woman in the cell is not her,” said Sergeant Richards.
“I think we have to, don’t we?” replied the inspector. “There is reasonable doubt over her identity, so we should carry on looking for the woman.”
“I’m so pleased you’ve said that, Inspector,” I said. “Because this development makes it far more probable that Catherine Curran has murdered her first husband. It seems she attempted to do so six years ago and came back to finish the job. And because his poisoning happened in Lambeth you can also draw on the help of L Division. If everyone starts looking for her again she will surely be found soon.”
Chapter 41
A telegram was waiting for me on the hallway table the following morning. I hurriedly opened it, hoping it would bring news of James.
James is recovering.
Charlotte Jenkins
She had used few words, but I still felt relieved to read them. Then I began to doubt the good news. I thought of the effects of arsenic on the body once again and how the suffering could be prolonged.
James obviously wasn’t well enough to write a telegram himself. Was he really recovering or was Charlotte just saying that so I’d stay away? Could she be certain that he was recovering?
Even if Charlotte was correct in her assessment of James’ condition I didn’t hold out much hope of seeing him before his wedding, which was only three days away.
“Oh dear, what’s happened?” asked Mrs Garnett as she arrived in the hallway with a feather duster in her hand.
“Good morning. Nothing has happened.”
“Then why does your face look so terrible?”
“Regrettably, this is my usual face, Mrs Garnett.”
“No, it’s not. You look like you’ve just received bad news.”
“The only news I have is that Inspector Blakely is recovering.”
“So why aren’t you happy about that?”
“I am. Anyway, I need to head off to Southwark Police Court, Mrs Garnett.” I pinned my hat to my head.
“Whatever for?”
“Sally Chadwick, the woman who has confessed to three of the poisonings, is back in front of the magistrates again today.”
“Oh, her. The poisoning murderess.”
“The case isn’t quite as straightforward as that, Mrs Garnett. I’ll explain it all to you when I have a little more time.”
I took the omnibus in the direction of London Bridge and pondered the impending court appearance. It had been arranged so that James could find sufficient evidence to add Inspector Martin’s murder to the existing charges against Sally Chadwick. However, he had found no compelling evidence and still wasn’t well enough to attend court. It meant that the morning’s proceedings would most likely be a waste of time and that, for the time being at least, the mystery surrounding Inspector Martin’s death remained unsolved.
The courtroom was busy, just as it had been a week previously. I stood with the other press reporters and wondered whether Inspector Wallis and Sergeant Richards had restarted their search for Catherine Curran. The inspector had seemed reasonably convinced that they were holding the wrong woman in custody, so I tried to remain hopeful that the search would soon be underway again.
The three magistrates entered the room. Among them was Mr Sidney Parnell with his familiar hooked nose and cloud of white hair. Sally Chadwick was brought into the dock and I stood on tiptoes to look at her, feeling saddened by the sight of her gaunt face and slumped shoulders. I was surprised to see that she was followed by Maggie once again, and felt a touch of relief knowing that someone was supporting her.
Mr Parnell opened the proceedings and went on to explain the reason for this second court session.
“A week ago, Detective Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard requested some additional time to find evidence that the prisoner may have committed a fourth murder,” he said. “Has any evidence been found?”
He looked around the silent courtroom but there was no response.
“Is Inspector Blakely present?” he asked.
More silence ensued and I felt a heavy weight in my stomach. This hearing was a waste of time and James would be sorely disappointed.
“Is there anyone here who can speak for him?” asked Mr Parnell with a hint of impatience in his voice.
Sergeant Richards hesitantly stepped forward. “He has been taken ill, Your Honour.”
“I see. Are you able to speak for him, Sergeant Richards?”
“I can try.” The young sergeant’s voice was quiet, making it difficult to hear what he was saying.
“My question is this,” continued Mr Parnell. “Has any evidence been found that would justify a charge being made against the prisoner for the murder of Inspector Charles Martin?”
Sergeant Richards was about to open his mouth when another man who had only just entered the courtroom stepped forward. He moved cautiously, as if nursing a strong headache.
It was James.
My heart skipped, and I suppressed the urge to dash over and embrace him. He looked pale and moved slowly, but I felt encouraged that he was well on the road to recovery. I realised there was a grin on my face, which must have looked quite out of place on such an occasion.
“Good morning, Your Honour,” said James. “I apologise for my late arrival this morning. In the past week Bermondsey p
olice station has been thoroughly searched for evidence to suggest that Miss Chadwick poisoned Inspector Martin. I regret to say that no such evidence has been found.”
Mr Parnell asked the clerk to make a note of this.
“Very well,” replied the chief magistrate. “Miss Chadwick, no charge will be brought against you for the murder of Inspector Martin. The charges against you remain the same as before for the murders of Mr Peel, Mr Burrell and Mr Curran, for which you have freely admitted your guilt. Now, before we finish I must mention a report which has been passed to me by a physician, Doctor Henry Sherman.”
I felt myself smile once again. Mr Sherman’s brother had not only written a report about Sally but had also given a copy to the magistrates.
“Did you commission this report, Inspector Blakely?” asked Mr Parnell.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “I know nothing about it, Your Honour.”
Mr Parnell scowled and muttered something to his colleagues. There was an uneasy silence before the chief magistrate addressed James again. “My understanding, Inspector, is that Dr Sherman was requested to visit the prisoner at the House of Detention. Did you not issue such a request?”
“No, Your Honour.”
I bit my lip and felt rather sorry for James as he tried to comprehend this new piece of information. He gave Sergeant Richards a searching glance.
“Perhaps my colleague can enlighten you further, Your Honour.”
Sergeant Richards shifted from one foot to another. “I think a copy of the report was handed in at the station, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
The chief magistrate frowned. “I see. Did you not commission the report yourself, Sergeant Richards?”
“No, Your Honour.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Honour.’
“Didn’t you seek to find out once a copy of the report had been handed in to Bermondsey police station?”
“It was something I intended to do, Your Honour, but I hadn’t found an opportunity.” His face began to redden.
