by Emily Organ
He approached us, visibly breathless.
“I’m very sorry to interrupt, sir, but you did say—”
“Yes, I did,” said James impatiently. “What’s happened?”
“We’re needed in Bermondsey. We’ve just received a telegram down at Bow Street. News of Sally Chadwick, apparently.”
“This is Maggie,” I said to James as we sat in the spartan interview room at Bermondsey police station. “I’ve just realised I don’t know your full name, Maggie,” I added.
“It’s Mrs Maggie Westcott.” She looked smaller and older than I recalled her being.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs Westcott,” said James. “I’ve seen you around, and at the magistrate’s court with Miss Chadwick.”
“Yer did,” she nodded. “I ’eard the news about Mrs Curran.”
“News travels quickly around here,” said James.
“Mr Clark the verger ’appened to see Sergeant Richards runnin’ outta this ’ere station and into a carriage early this afternoon,” replied Maggie.
“He did indeed,” replied the sergeant. “It was shortly after I received your telegram from Bow Street, sir. Mr Clark asked me what the emergency was, and I told him that Catherine Curran had died after being hit by a carriage on High Holborn.”
“As soon as I ’eard it from Mr Clark I got meself over to Clerkenwell to see Sally,” said Maggie. “I told ’er what ’ad ’appened, and I’m sad to say she cried about it. I dunno why really, considerin’ what she told me after.”
“Which was what?” asked James.
“That Catherine told ’er she ’ad ter say as she’d murdered all them ’usbands! She ’ad ’er terrible frightened. All them poisons in Sally’s ’ouse was Catherine’s; that was where she made ’em all up. She done it for years. Told Sally she could ’ave some o’ the money, but I dunno as Sally ever saw any of it. She pretended to be ’er friend but she weren’t, and she made Sally take the blame ’cause Sally’s got a child’s mind. She don’t know no different, and she ain’t got no ma or pa. And ter fink she’s in that ’orrible prison! You need ter get ’er outta there.”
I felt great relief on hearing confirmation that Sally was no murderess.
“We do indeed need to get her out of there,” said James. “Sally has made a false confession, but we need to hear the truth from her now. Presumably Catherine Curran’s death will have prompted her to talk.”
“She can’t be scared of ’er no more,” Maggie agreed.
“I’ll go and see her now,” said James, getting up from his seat. “And I’ll telegram the doctor, Dr Sherman. The hour is already rather late, but hopefully he’ll be able to meet me there and assess her condition. I feel I could have done a little more for Miss Chadwick. I was so convinced that she had murdered a colleague of mine my sympathy for her had diminished. I’ll attempt to rectify that by doing what I can for her now, and I shall ask Dr Sherman for some advice on how we can best look after her.”
“She can go back ’ome,” said Maggie. “She’s capable enough o’ livin’ back there. I’ll keep an eye on ’er. I ain’t gonna be around forever ’cause I’m old, but me daughter’ll do the same. We’ll look after ’er, Inspector.”
“Thank you, Mrs Westcott.”
Chapter 56
“Well, Penelope, I don’t really know what to say. I can’t say that I approve. I think it dreadfully unfair of a groom to abandon his bride on her wedding day.”
I had met my sister on Parliament Hill, where a brisk wind tugged at our skirts and hats. Copper-coloured leaves scurried across the grass.
“It’s quite thoughtless, in fact,” continued Eliza. “Are you sure you can love a man who is as thoughtless as that?”
“He’s not thoughtless, Ellie. He was just worried about upsetting his fiancée. And his father, and his brother who had travelled—”
“All the way from Scotland. Yes, I remember you telling me. He’s upset them all now anyway, so he should have just done it sooner. He would have caused slightly less upset had he done so.”
“I’m not going to disagree with you, Ellie, but it is a lot easier, with hindsight, to reflect on a better way of doing things.”
“Oh, isn’t it just? None of us is perfect, I suppose.”
“Far from it.” I surveyed the view. “I love looking at London from here.”
Shafts of sunlight caught the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, which nestled among the many church spires and chimneys across the London skyline.
“I prefer Hyde Park to Hampstead Heath,” said Eliza. “It’s rather rustic up here, isn’t it? It reminds me of that book… Oh, what’s it called again? That’s it, Wuthering Heights.”
I laughed. “A hill in London is quite different from the Yorkshire moors!”
“I consider it strikingly similar as we watch your very own Heathcliff approach.”
James walked toward us, holding his bowler hat on his head to stop the wind whisking it away.
“Oh, he’s nothing like Heathcliff, Ellie. Don’t be so silly.” I felt a flip of happiness in my chest.
“Good afternoon,” said James with a grin. “Windy, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. How did the meeting go?” I asked.
“Rather dreadfully. I tried my best to explain matters to the Jenkins family, but… Well there is no nice way of explaining it, is there? Mr Jenkins’ face grew so red and angry at one point that I became concerned he might explode. I don’t think I shall bother visiting them again. What’s done is done.”
“It certainly is,” said Eliza. “It’s quite an unconventional thing to do, you know. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to walk out on their wedding before. I’m beginning to wish I had done it myself!”
“Come on, Ellie,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s go and find some shelter out of the wind. Thank you for being our chaperone today.”
Eliza laughed. “I don’t know why I’m bothering. You’ve spent much of the past year together unchaperoned. It’s quite scandalous! I’m quite sure Mother wouldn’t approve. And as for Father…”
“Hopefully we’ll find out what he thinks some day soon,” I said.
Epilogue
Four weeks later
Heavy rain began to fall on the two men on horseback as they followed the winding river south west from Bogotá.
One of the men pulled up his collar and tucked his head down into his jacket. “I suppose you must be used to all this rain in England,” he commented.
“In some ways,” replied the other man. “Although it’s still very warm today, isn’t it? It’s not usually warm when it rains back home.”
“It never rains in Spain,” said the first man with a grin. “The sun always shines there!”
“Of course it rains in Spain. All those delightful oranges you grow there must get their water from somewhere.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right, Francis. But it certainly doesn’t rain in the way that it does in England. And not as much as here, either. I didn’t know we would arrive here just as the rains came!”
“The rains will pass soon enough, Anselmo.”
The river to their right began to descend into a deep valley. To their left the land rose steeply, rich with lush vegetation.
“We must watch out for landslides,” said Francis, surveying the slopes. “The risk is considerable when there has been a lot of rain.”
He noticed a dilapidated hut high up on the hillside which looked as though it were gradually slumping toward the road.
“Oh! I hear it!” said Anselmo excitedly.
Francis listened and, sure enough he could hear the distant rumble of falling water.
The track bent sharply to the right.
“I think we’re negotiating our way around the hillside now,” said Francis. “I hope the road remains stable.”
He glanced nervously over the drop to his right, hoping his horse wouldn’t suddenly become startled by something and canter off the road as it had done the previo
us day.
“I hear it! I hear it!” sang Anselmo.
Another bend in the road brought them to the edge of a large basin lined with rock and scrub. Mist rolled above the steep, forested hills on the far side.
The hiss of an enormous waterfall filled their ears as white water cascaded down the rock face into the unseen river below.
“Salto Del Tequendama!” Anselmo called out, giving a loud whistle.
Francis felt as though his breath had briefly been extinguished within him.
Frederick Brinsley Green had likely watched the falls from this very same spot!
It was a beautiful, breathtaking place; so much more than he had expected when he’d first researched the Tequendama Falls for Penny. He had discovered many new worlds within the books he had immersed himself in, but nothing could compare to seeing these places with his own eyes.
They watched the waterfall for a while and Francis wondered what Penny was doing at that moment.
How would she fare now that Inspector Blakely was married?
He decided to write to her as soon as they reached El Charqito.
“Come on, Anselmo!” he called to his friend. “We’re almost at the place where Mr Green was last seen. The real work is about to begin!”
The End
Historical Note
Female poisoners seem to have been more prevalent in Victorian times than any other time, and I’m not sure whether this is a fact or just my perception! While writing this book I read about an interesting case which became known as the Black Widows of Liverpool. In 1884 two Irish sisters, Catherine Flannagan and Margaret Higgins, were hanged for four murders.
Margaret’s husband of 10 months, Thomas, died in October 1883 after an illness of about three weeks. During that time he had been ‘nursed’ by both sisters. His brother, Patrick, had suspicions about his death and alerted a doctor who in turn informed the coroner. At the coroner’s request an autopsy was carried out on Thomas Higgins and Catherine Flannagan immediately fled.
When the autopsy revealed that Thomas was poisoned by arsenic, Margaret Higgins was arrested. Catherine Flannagan, meanwhile, managed to evade the police for eleven days, stopping at various friends’ houses and lodging houses in Liverpool. By the time she was finally arrested it was found that five life insurance policies had been taken out on Thomas Higgins’ life – only one of them with his permission.
Growing suspicion led police to exhume and examine the body of 18 year old Margaret Jennings who had lodged with Catherine Flannagan. They also exhumed the bodies of John Flannagan – Catherine’s 22 year old son, and Mary Higgins – Margaret Higgins’ 10 year old stepdaughter.
Analysis of the victims showed that, tragically, all had died from arsenic poisoning. Life insurance policies had also been effected on their lives.
Arsenic was not an easy poison to come by in the late 19th century as it had been a controlled poison for many years by then. Flannagan and Higgins had obtained the arsenic by soaking fly papers in water (fly papers are sticky strips of paper treated with poison to catch and kill flies indoors). The arsenic laced water had then been stored in bottles and administered to their victims, arsenic was found in bottles, bowls and on spoons which the two women had used.
Reporting on the execution of the two women in March 1884, the Liverpool Mercury reported that they’d been “aided by a loose system of insurance which calls for immediate remedial legislation”. It was also reported that the judge in the case, Mr Aspinall stated, “how many people might there be at that moment lying in the burial ground who, if their lives had never been insured, might be living at that moment?” Source: Liverpool Mercury, 4th March 1884.
There are rumours that the Black Widows of Liverpool were part of a wider poisoning network and that many deaths may have been undetected. And there’s no denying that a life insurance payout is still a motive for murder these days, often carried out by people who think they’ll escape suspicion.
Industry which was deemed too noisy or smelly to be carried out in the City of London was banished south of the river to Bermondsey many centuries ago. The area’s riverside location also led to the development of wharves and warehousing to serve the port of London. This industrial past meant that Bermondsey was a hive of manufacturing by the late 19th century. Leather, beer, gin, vinegar, biscuits, preserves, hats, glue, gunpowder and rubber were just some of the products processed in Bermondsey’s factories and their chimneys constantly pumped smoke and malodorous smells into the south London air. Bermondsey was also home to some notorious slums which received a mention in Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. My interest in the area grew when I discovered that several generations of my family worked as coopers in Bermondsey - so far I’ve managed to trace them there back to the early 17th century.
Nowadays much of the industry has left Bermondsey and redevelopment in the area has seen some streets become very expensive, desirable places to live. Poorer parts also remain and this mix continues the tradition of Bermondsey’s diverse and interesting appeal.
The ancient church of St Mary Magdalen in Bermondsey has a striking appearance, both inside and out. A church has been on this site since the 13th century and the current building dates from the 1600s. The churchyard was closed for burials in 1854 which was the case with many central London churches because they had run out of space.
In the second half of the 19th century, people were usually buried in the large, newly built cemeteries in London’s suburbs. It’s therefore impossible that Catherine Curran’s husbands would have been buried at St Mary Magdalen, however I engineered it that way to keep the location of the story within Bermondsey.
With the emergence of photography in the second half of the 19th century, post-mortem photographs became quite common. Few people had many photographs taken of them during their lifetime, and the purpose of a post-mortem photograph was to provide the family with a lasting memento of their loved one.
The deceased would usually be dressed in their best clothes and photographed with their family at the photographer’s studio or in their home. They would often be posed as if sleeping and this was very common with post-mortem photographs of babies and children. Sometimes they would be posed as if they were awake and the photographer would add touches to the photograph to make their eyes and face seem more lifelike. Often a post-mortem photograph was the only photograph taken of someone, particularly if they had died at a young age. For this reason the photographs were very much treasured by families.
A visit to the baths was not only a popular pastime for Victorians but a necessity at a time when only the extremely wealthy had plumbing in their homes. Turkish baths were inspired by those found in Turkey, Greece and Spain and the London versions boasted magnificent themed interiors.
The Hammam Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street opened in 1862 and were said, for a time, to be the finest in Europe. The popularity of these facilities declined in the twentieth century as bathrooms were installed in homes and the Hammam was completely destroyed by a bomb landing on Jermyn Street during the Second World War.
I can’t find any record that the Hammam Turkish baths were visited by the gay community, but the Savoy Baths in the same street had a long association with the community and were visited by many famous men including the composer Benjamin Britten, the writer WH Auden, the actor Rock Hudson and the young politician Harold Macmillan before he became Prime Minister.
The police raid on the Hammam Turkish baths is fictional, but inspired by a real-life event in 1880 in Manchester. On 25th September police raided a private party at the Temperance Hall in Hulme where 47 men were guests: around half of them wore women’s clothing. All the men were arrested and charged with ‘soliciting and inciting each other to commit an unnameable offence’. In court they were fined on the surety of ‘good behaviour’ for the following twelve months, if they defaulted then the punishment was imprisonment for three months. The incident was widely reported in the press with The Illustrated Police News headlin
e being: ‘Disgraceful Proceedings in Manchester - Men dressed as Women.’
The most extreme punishment in 1884 for homosexuality was imprisonment from ten years to life. In 1885 the Criminal Law Amendment Act recriminalized male homosexuality, one of the most famous cases tried under this act was the trial of playwright Oscar Wilde in 1895 for ‘gross indecency’. He was sentenced to two years’ hard labour which led to poor health and undoubtedly his premature death at the age of 46.
The once magnificent Euston railway station opened in 1837. It was notable for its beautiful, classically styled Great Hall in which a statue of George Stephenson - who the Victorians called 'Father of Railways' – once stood. At the entrance to the station stood Euston Arch which was a large, impressive structure built of sandstone.
The station was demolished and redeveloped in the 1960s to the upset of many. The statue of George Stephenson and the gates from Euston Arch are on display at the National Railway Museum in York in the north of England.
Tower Subway was the main route for crossing the Thames by the Tower of London before Tower Bridge opened in 1894. The subway is a narrow iron tube which opened in 1870 and originally had a small rail carriage for people to travel on.
This early subway train failed to make money so the tunnel became a foot tunnel and was apparently a damp, echoey claustrophobic walk with a halfpenny toll.
It was used little once Tower Bridge opened and it closed in 1898 - but it's still there! It's now used for water mains.
The Royal Doulton Pottery was established on London’s south bank in the early nineteenth century and became a major employer in the area. Some of the buildings, including the showroom, had a beautiful, ornamental style designed to reflect the products the factory made.
