by Emily Organ
A young man who had been seated behind a shiny desk rose to his feet and greeted me as I entered. An enormous map of the Atlantic Ocean was mounted on the wall behind him.
“Please could you tell me what a steamship ticket to Colombia might cost?” I asked.
He seemed surprised by my question. I knew that Colombia was probably one of the least-requested destinations.
“Of course.” He gestured for me to take a seat opposite him and opened one of the books on his desk. He leafed through the pages.
“Carthagena, I presume?”
“Savanilla.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I would strongly recommend Carthagena. It is a civilised port town with proper accommodation, restaurants and the suchlike. Much more suitable for the lady traveller than Savanilla.”
“But Savanilla is at the mouth of the Magdalena River.”
“And that is important to you?”
“Yes, I wish to travel down the Magdalena.”
“Will you be accompanied on your travels?”
“No, I haven’t arranged for anyone to join me as such, although there is someone I hope to find once I’m there. Two people, in fact.”
“You have acquaintances in Colombia?”
“Yes.”
He ran his finger down the page which lay open in front of him. “Saloon is available from twelve pounds, and intermediate from nine pounds.”
“Steerage?”
“I would strongly advise against travelling in steerage, madam.”
“How much is it?”
The man sighed. “Six pounds. But a young lady like yourself would not wish to travel in steerage.”
I thought this over. A steerage ticket would cost me a whole month’s wages, and it would only get me as far as Savanilla. I would also need to fund my travel from the coastline to Bogotá.
“May I suggest Philadelphia, madam?” said the young man. “It’s our most popular route at the present time. Steamships depart from Liverpool every Wednesday, and passengers are landed at the wharf of the Pennsylvania Railroad. From there you can travel on to Baltimore, Washington and New Jersey, among many other destinations. It is the fastest route to the West and I can offer you a competitively priced ticket at seven pounds. The accommodation is simply excellent.”
I felt tempted by the idea. Surely one of the many newspapers operating in these American cities would consider employing me as a reporter.
“Thank you for your help,” I said. “I shall think it over and return a little later.”
Chapter 48
I had hoped there would be news of Catherine Curran’s arrest by the time I arrived back at the newsroom, but there were no telegrams awaiting me.
I sat down at my desk, and for a rare moment felt rather at a loss as to what to do next.
“Miss Green, you look very despondent if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Edgar. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Edgar.”
“Are you sure?”
Frederick got up from his seat, stepped over to Edgar and whispered something in his ear.
“Oh, right, yes. Thank you, Potter,” he muttered.
“Can’t I hear whatever it is you have to say, Frederick?” I asked.
“It was nothing, Miss Green. I was just reminding Fish to use some tact.”
“Why so?”
“Because he has none.”
“Why does he need to use tact?”
The two men exchanged an awkward glance.
“Your feelings need to be considered, Miss Green,” said Frederick.
“I wish I knew what on earth you were talking about. Besides, it’s rude to whisper. You’re making matters worse.”
“Worse than what?” asked Edgar.
“Than they already are. If you feel there is a need to be tactful, why whisper something which I cannot hear?”
“There’s no need to get upset, Miss G—”
“I’m not upset!” I snarled.
Edgar sat back in his chair with mock fright on his face. “I’m sorry, Miss Green. I won’t say anything further.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Just speak normally without any whispered nonsense.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Edgar spoke again. “Miss Green, I apologise if we upset you. I do try to be tactful, but I’m a straight-talking man, as you well know. I would rather not mince my words, so I shall say now that I realise the schoolboy inspector is to be married tomorrow and that you may not be exceedingly happy about it.” He squirmed with discomfort as he delivered these solemn words.
“I find it amusing you still refer to him as the schoolboy inspector, Edgar,” I said.
“The chap is undoubtedly youthful for an inspector of the Yard.”
“So you have said in the past. Thank you for your statement, and I must say that it helps to hear the issue openly acknowledged.”
“Well, we would be fools if we were to think that you weren’t the slightest bit affected by it. If Mrs Fish were to marry someone else I would be most upset.”
“But she couldn’t,” said Frederick. “She’s already married to you.”
“I meant if she had decided to marry someone else before she married me.”
“But that didn’t happen,” said Frederick.
“Potter, you’re confusing matters.”
“You’re confusing me.”
The newsroom door slammed behind Mr Sherman as he marched into the room.
“Curious news from Falmouth,” he said, reading from a piece of paper in his hand. “Three sailors have been arrested for eating a cabin boy.”
“What?!” exclaimed Edgar.
“It’s a Cornish story, but I think that a report on it would interest our readers. After almost three weeks drifting in a lifeboat on the South Atlantic they decided to kill the dying cabin boy for food, and this sustained them until they were rescued a week later. On arrival in Falmouth the three freely admitted to what they had done, believing they were protected by the Custom of the Sea. But the police and magistrates saw it differently, and it looks as though they may be charged with murder.”
“Good,” I said.
“But the boy was already dying,” protested Edgar, “and he saved three lives! Presumably all four would have perished otherwise?”
“But you can’t just decide to end someone else’s life in order to save your own,” I said.
“Those men may have wives and children,” said Edgar. “How old was the boy?”
“Seventeen,” replied Mr Sherman.
“There you are, you see. He’s unlikely to have had a family waiting for him at home.”
“What about his mother and father?” I said.
“Let’s not argue about the rights and wrongs of the case,” said Mr Sherman. “It has certainly caused a stir in Falmouth, and apparently public opinion is in support of these men. It’s unlikely the boy would have survived anyway.”
“I shall report on the case,” said Edgar.
“Thank you, Fish.”
“I think it’s terribly sad,” I said.
“That’s because you’re not cut out for sea voyaging, Miss Green,” said Frederick. “It’s a different life out there on the ocean.”
“What do you know about the sea, Potter?” asked Mr Sherman.
“I have no personal experience, sir, but I know that it’s a very different kettle of fish.”
“Indeed. Any news on Catherine Curran, Miss Green?” asked Mr Sherman.
“None. I shall head down to Lambeth now and find out how the search is progressing.”
“I thought she was from Bermondsey.”
“She is, but with the most recent murder having occurred in Lambeth the search efforts are now being concentrated there.”
“Well, good luck. Hopefully there’ll be something to report on soon.”
Chapter 49
The police station on Lower Kennington Lane was busy with constables filing their reports.
A sergeant in the parade room had made notes of which areas had already been searched and which remained to be searched. I had a brief conversation with him, but he was too busy to talk for long. Members of the public loitered by the door, many keen to tell anyone who would listen that they had seen Catherine Curran.
An old man told me she had been seen laughing outside Mr Taylor’s home on Tyers Street. A friend of his said she had been drinking in the Royal Vauxhall Tavern and joking about all the murders she had committed.
I waited outside the police station for a while hoping to catch sight of James, but he was nowhere to be seen. Deciding there was little left for me to do besides joining in with the search, I walked through a maze of streets lined with terraced houses. Beyond the roofs rose chimneys which filled the damp sky with clouds of smoke.
There was a small gathering of people outside what had until recently been Benjamin Taylor’s home on Tyers Street. Perhaps they believed local reports that the murderess had returned to the scene of the crime. I decided that Catherine would probably stay away from here, so I turned onto Broad Street and walked in the direction of the river. I passed beneath the railway arches and reached the red-brick buildings of Doulton’s Pottery, where Benjamin Taylor had worked. The pottery buildings occupied a large area south of Lambeth Bridge. As I turned left onto the riverside Albert Embankment, I was greeted by the Doulton brick chimney, which rose to more than two hundred feet and was topped with a structure resembling a Romanesque bell tower. Beside it sat the six-storey pottery showrooms with countless arched windows, a steeply pitched roof, several spires and a beautiful terracotta and tile facade.
I paused by the river to admire these buildings and once again attempted to distract my thoughts from James’ impending wedding. The drizzle had turned to a steady rain, creating rivulets on my umbrella and dampening my skirts. My eye was drawn across the river once again to the grey walls of Millbank Prison. I felt a heavy sadness in my stomach, which was followed by a snap of impatience at my feeling so sorry for myself.
How could I possibly work with James once he was married to Charlotte? I couldn’t bear the thought of it.
Travelling to Colombia had been a fanciful idea of mine, though it would have been almost impossible for me to fund it. But what about America? There was a good chance I could earn a living there.
I continued on my way and soon reached The Crown Tavern, where Benjamin Taylor’s inquest had been held. From there I turned away from the river and walked back toward Lambeth police station. I had seen no sign of Catherine, but I wasn’t surprised. So far she had managed to evade and outwit everybody.
Back at the busy police station I found James speaking to the sergeant in the parade room.
“Penny!” He greeted me with a smile, but his eyes lingered on mine as if he had noticed the sadness lurking there.
“No news of Catherine yet?” I asked.
“No, unfortunately not. As you can see we have everyone searching, but I don’t know how long we can sustain this for. This isn’t the only case the south London police divisions have to deal with, and she isn’t making it easy for us to find her, is she?”
“No, she isn’t. I have just taken a little wander myself, for all the good it’s done. Wherever she is, I don’t think it can be around here.”
“And we have many more sightings than we can realistically follow up on. All I can think of now is enticing her to come to us.”
“How would you do that?”
“By setting up a trap of some sort.”
“A cage, perhaps?”
We both laughed.
“I think there must be someone else she’s planning to poison next,” I added.
“There could well be, couldn’t there? We haven’t discovered any more husbands, though. She appears to have stopped at four.”
“What is happening with Molly Coutts?”
“Ah yes, I have news on her. Your theory was correct, Penny. Catherine had paid her to go on the run.”
“She spoke at last?”
“At her mother’s insistence. She marched Molly down to Bermondsey police station yesterday evening and made her give a full statement to the police. She said she didn’t want her daughter caught up in any more of this unpleasant business, and the statement was given on the understanding that the police would not press charges against her daughter.”
“Catherine used her as a decoy, didn’t she?”
“Exactly.”
“She’ll be rather upset that Molly has told the police the truth.”
“Yes, there is a risk to the girl’s safety now. We have a constable keeping an eye on her while she stays at her mother’s home.”
“That’s how you can lure Catherine in!” I exclaimed. “We can print Molly’s confession in the Morning Express and then Catherine will be angered that someone is talking about her, just as she was irked when I printed Benjamin’s interview. She’ll try to get to Molly because she won’t want the girl revealing all her plans. But we must be careful that Catherine doesn’t harm her in any way.”
“We will. We’ll have to plan it extremely carefully. Sergeant Richards has her written confession at Bermondsey. If you could write a summary of it and have it published tomorrow that will hopefully encourage Catherine to come after Molly.”
“But you will look after Molly, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. We can have officers in plain clothes close by at all times. We’ll need to ask Molly to go somewhere her drink could be tampered with. A public house would make sense. That’s how Catherine found Benjamin Taylor, isn’t it?”
I watched James’ face brighten as he considered this plan.
“I’ll discuss it now with Inspector Austen,” he continued. “He’ll need to set the plan in motion as I won’t be on duty tomorrow…”
There was a pause.
“Because you’ll be at your wedding,” I said.
“Yes.” He held my gaze. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” I turned away so that he couldn’t see my face.
“Inspector Blakely, may I have a word please?” asked one of the sergeants.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at James, but I felt his eyes on me as I turned and left the parade room. By the time I reached the street my vision was blurred with tears.
I composed myself during the short horse tram journey up to Borough. From there I walked to the police station on Bermondsey Street.
Every few moments a rush of tears threatened to disrupt my composure, but I swallowed them back and marched on.
I couldn’t think about James any more. I had to put him out of my mind. The relationship we had enjoyed for the past year could no longer exist.
I pictured James’ face at some point in the future when he was told that I was working as a news reporter in America. I imagined him stopping for a moment and pausing to think about the huge mistake he had made.
He would recall all the times I had told him to call off his wedding and would finally realise that I had been right.
But by then it would be too late.
I gulped back more tears as I marched up the steps outside Bermondsey police station.
Chapter 50
“Penelope!” said my sister Eliza as her maid showed me into her drawing room that evening. “How are you? You don’t need to tell me why you’re here.”
“How do you know why I’m here?”
“Because it’s Inspector Blakely’s wedding tomorrow and you need a shoulder to cry on.”
“I’ve done all the crying I intend to do.”
“Oh dear. Really? For a moment I was hopeful that he had seen sense and called it off.”
“He would never call it off. After all, it might harm his father’s health, and his brother has travelled all the way from Scotland.”
“Hopeless excuses.”
“He doesn’t care enough for me,” I said, sitting on the settee. “If he really cared for me he would have put a stop to it by now. But he hasn’t
, and that tells us all we need to know. So I haven’t come here to cry and feel sorry for myself, Ellie. I have already progressed beyond that stage.”
Eliza gave me a sceptical look. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I came here for a different reason entirely. We need to talk about money.”
“Oh dear. I haven’t any to spare if that’s what you were hoping.”
“No, I’m not asking you for any. However, I recall that Mother and Father might have put something in trust for us.”
“But that will only be released after they have died, Penelope.”
“That’s rather complicated for us, given that we don’t know whether Father has died or not.”
“Hopefully we shall find out soon. Anyway, Mother is still very much alive.”
“What’s the use in us waiting until after they’re dead? That could be a long time yet, and what happens if we’re never able to prove whether Father is dead or not?”
“I hope Francis will find that out. And even if he can’t manage it, I suppose a period of time will have passed that would mean he couldn’t possibly be alive any longer.”
“That could be another twenty years! It’s no use at all. Oh, but this talk of Francis reminds me that a letter arrived from him yesterday.” I pulled it out of my carpet bag and handed it to her.
“Why are you so interested in the money, Penelope?”
“I don’t need much; about twenty pounds. Perhaps thirty to be safe.”
“Whatever for?”
“A steamship ticket to Philadelphia.”
“What?” Eliza’s mouth hung open. “You’re going to America?”
“I may as well go somewhere. There’s nothing left for me here. I had thought about following Francis to Colombia but it would cost too much, and I don’t know whether I would be able to earn any money there. In America I could work as a news reporter. I hear there are a number of women reporters there, and just think of all the stories there must be in those great cities. Picture me working in New York! Can you imagine it, Ellie? In fact, I should be quite happy with Philadelphia to begin with. I could sail from Liverpool next Wednesday, and a travel agent told me I can buy a ticket for just seven pounds. It’s the fastest route to the West.”
