by Emily Organ
“You have spoken with Mr Barrett?”
“Of course.”
I noticed his stance soften a little.
“Well, I suppose you could speak to Mr Borthwick if I knew where he was.”
He held up the lamp and looked around him, as if the scientist might suddenly appear from behind a shrub.
“Who is it, Jeffrey?” called out a woman’s voice.
I hadn’t noticed the silhouette of a small, slender woman walking towards us.
“Just a news reporter looking for Simon,” he replied. “I’m Mr Maynell,” he explained. “And this is my wife. I’m a colleague of Simon’s and… Oh no, you’re in for it now. Here comes Repton.”
I was aware that Mr Repton was Simon Borthwick’s business partner.
“Hullo?” called out another shadowy figure with a lamp. “Who are you speaking to, Jeffrey?”
“A news reporter,” replied Mr Maynell.
“A news reporter, eh?” exclaimed Mr Repton. “We like those chaps! Oh, hello. It’s not a chap after all.”
I introduced myself to the lean, stooped man, whose shock of white hair protruded in tufts from beneath his top hat. His bright eyes twinkled in the lamplight and he smiled broadly.
“What a spectacle Mr Borthwick has created this evening,” I said. “You must feel extremely proud of Repton, Borthwick and Company.”
“I am indeed,” Mr Repton replied. “Come and have a look at how it all works.”
He began to walk back toward the engine house and I followed in his footsteps.
“Please mind the wires, Miss Green,” warned Mr Maynell. “You mustn’t trip on any.”
“Of course she’ll mind the wires,” said Mr Repton.
“Is Mr Borthwick available for an interview?” I asked.
“He would be,” replied Mr Repton, “if he hadn’t disappeared off somewhere. He’s in rather a bad temper this evening.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” I replied. I explained to Mr Repton that I had visited Simon Borthwick at his laboratory in the past.
“The chap reminds me of a pendulum,” replied Mr Repton as we entered the engine house. “His temper swings from one extreme to the other.” He had to raise his voice so that I could continue to hear him above the pistons. “Some days one encounters cheerful Borthwick and other days he’s glum Borthwick. This chap here, however, is perpetually glum.”
He laughed and gestured at a thin-cheeked man with bulging eyes and dark, drooping whiskers, who was examining a dial on the steam engine. “Meet Jack Copeland, Miss Green. He’s one of our engineers at Repton, Borthwick and Company.”
Mr Copeland acknowledged me with a nod and I smiled weakly. Towards the back of the engine house a man in overalls was shovelling coal into a furnace.
Where was Simon Borthwick?
In the gas light I could see that Mr and Mrs Maynell made a handsome couple. They were both fair-haired and Mrs Maynell was a young woman of slight build with pretty features and a retroussé nose. She said little but seemed friendly, listening patiently to Mr Repton as he embarked upon a shouted explanation of the machinery before us.
The generator was a machine about the size of a divan and consisted of two large barrels encased in wire coils. It hummed and rocked unnervingly, powered by the rapid belt of the steam engine. The pounding of the engine’s pistons made my heart race and the spokes of the large fly wheel were nothing more than a blur. I couldn’t hear much of what Mr Repton was saying, but I jotted odd words down in my notebook regardless.
Once Mr Repton’s explanation was complete we left the engine house. It was dark by this time and the thousands of coloured lights looked even more beautiful.
“It’s quite remarkable, Mr Repton,” I said, “to think that this spectacle is powered entirely by coal and water.”
“Incandescence is quite something, isn’t it, Miss Green? It’s almost four years since Borthwick obtained the patent for his light bulb. He paved the way by parchmentising cotton with sulphuric acid. And that was all there was to it.”
“Indeed. Although I’m sure it’s not as simple as it sounds.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But thank goodness the weather’s been kind to us this evening,” said Mr Repton. “Rain would have completely ruined the event. You must come and visit us again in Southwark, Miss Green. Perhaps you can meet the elusive Borthwick then.”
“I should like that. Thank you, Mr Repton.”
“Very good. When are you planning to eat your sweets?”
He glanced at the paper bag clutched in my left hand.
“Oh, I forgot about those. Would you like one?”
“What are they?”
“Fruit jellies.”
He considered this for a moment. “I’m more of a toffee man myself. Maynell might be interested, though. Are you a fruit jelly man, Jeffrey?”
“I can’t say that I am,” he replied. “But thank you for the offer, Miss Green.”
Mr Repton shrugged. “Never mind. I’ll have a raspberry jelly then, if I must. Unless you’ve eaten all the raspberry ones.”
“I haven’t eaten any of them yet,” I answered, proffering the bag.
Chapter 4
“I’m sorry I’m late!” I was breathless by the time I arrived at the dinosaurs, having run all the way to the lower lake from the engine house. My corset barely allowed for such exertion.
“There you are! We were about to leave without you, weren’t we, Fenella?” said Eliza.
They were overlooking the lake where the illuminated concrete statues of the dinosaurs stood on small islands and lay about in a lagoon.
“That’s a Megalosaurus,” said Fenella, pointing at a fearsome, dragon-like beast with four sturdy legs.
“Can you remember the name of the one in the water?” Eliza asked her, pointing at a creature which appeared to be half-dolphin and half-crocodile.
“An itchy thing.”
“Ichthyosaurus,” corrected Eliza.
“There is some suggestion that these dinosaurs may not be completely anatomically correct,” I said.
“Well, they’re about thirty years old now,” said Eliza. “It wouldn’t be too surprising if they had some details incorrect back then. Come on, we must leave for home. It’s late.”
We walked back across the illuminated gardens toward the Crystal Palace. Beyond it was the high-level station from which I planned to take the train to Victoria Station.
I felt disappointed that I had been unable to interview Simon Borthwick about his illuminations; however, I found solace in the thought that I would have the chance to meet him when I visited the Southwark works again.
“When will our next excursion with the delightful Mr Edwards be?” asked Eliza.
Mr Edwards was a clerk from the British Library reading room whom I had met socially a few times with my sister acting as chaperone.
“I don’t know.”
“Show some enthusiasm, Penelope! The chap is extremely keen on you.”
“I’m not sure it’s reciprocated, Ellie.” I offered her and Fenella a fruit jelly and took one for myself. It was strawberry flavoured.
“Why not? He’s an intelligent man from a good family, and he has sensible and stable employment. He’s a good influence on you, Penelope.”
“How so?”
“I like to picture the pair of you on a set of scales. Your impetuosity and flightiness are perfectly balanced by his pragmatism and sagaciousness.”
“In other words, he is rather boring.”
“Oh, Penny, don’t say that! He’s the best suitor you have come across for more than ten years. And you can’t be too particular now. You’re almost thirty-five!”
“I am thirty-five now, Ellie.”
“Oh, that’s right! We celebrated your birthday a fortnight ago, didn’t we? Silly me. Though that merely emphasises my point. Most thirty-five-year-old spinsters have no chance at all to rectify their status. At least you have someone to show an interest i
n you.”
I laughed. “Should I marry Mr Edwards simply because he’s interested in me?”
“I know the notion seems ridiculous, but the older you are the less you can afford to be particular. If you’re still a spinster at forty you will have no opportunity to be particular at all.”
“The alternative is that I remain a spinster for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, Penelope. What a bleak thing to say!”
“Aunt Margaret did it.”
“That’s because she had those rather odd earlobes. Sadly, she never had a suitor as a result, though she tried her best to cover them with her hair.”
“It wasn’t just the earlobes, Ellie. She had no wish to be married.”
“If she’d had normal earlobes she might have wanted to. I think her appearance made her wary and shy. I suspect your true reason for dismissing Mr Edwards is the affection you harbour for Inspector James Blakely.”
“That’s nonsense! He’s engaged to be married. How could I possibly harbour any affection for him?”
“Indeed. It would be most improper.”
We reached Crystal Palace Parade, a tree-lined avenue which separated the Crystal Palace from the train station. The gas lamps flickered, and the road thronged with hansom cabs.
“Fenella and I shall travel home by cab,” said my sister. “Will you join us, Penelope?”
“I’m quite happy to travel by train,” I replied.
“You must be careful travelling on your own.”
“I shall be quite all right. There are many people around this evening.”
I bid my sister and niece a fond farewell. They climbed into a cab and I continued along the parade toward the entrance to the station.
The air was still warm, and a tuneful blackbird sang in one of the trees. I finished the last of my fruit jellies, enjoying the sweet flavour of blackberry. Then I paused to cross the road.
As I did so, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang out.
Horses shied and birds scattered from their roosting places. My heart pounded as I pushed myself up against a tree, fearfully looking around me to see where it might have come from. Some people ran in different directions, while others remained rooted to the spot.
An eerie hush descended and then came a clamour of voices.
“What in the devil’s name?” said a man beside me.
Our attention was drawn to a nearby hansom cab, which stood stationary in the middle of the road. The driver had jumped down from his seat at the back of his cab and was attempting to calm his horse.
“Get a doctor!” he called out.
“Doctor!” I cried. “Is there a doctor about?”
People began to gather around the cab, and I hoped that one of them was a medical gentleman. I looked around frantically for the cab into which Eliza and Fenella had climbed.
Were they all right?
The sickening thought occurred to me that it was their cabman who had called for a doctor. I ran over to join the small crowd.
“Get ’im out!” ordered the cabman.
A thick-necked young man tried to lift the catch of the door at the front of the cab. “It’s locked!” he shouted.
The cabman asked someone to hold his horse while he jumped up onto his seat and pulled the lever to open the door.
I stepped back as four or five men pulled the passenger out of the cab. As they did so something clattered noisily onto the cobbles.
I felt relieved to see that it wasn’t the cab my niece and sister had been travelling in. But something terrible had happened and my stomach turned anxiously.
The men laid the passenger out on the ground, but I couldn’t get a good look for all the people crowding around.
“Does he have a pulse?” someone asked. “Is he breathing?”
“I think he’s dead,” said another.
“A shot to the head,” added someone else.
I winced and averted my eyes from them. Something on the cobbles glinted in the dim flame of the cab’s gas lamp. I stepped closer to examine it and realised that it must have been the object which had fallen out of the cab.
“A gun!” I exclaimed. “He had a gun in there with him!”
“I’m a doctor!” called a man as he ran toward the cab, top hat in hand.
“Don’t fink there’s nuffink yer can do for ’im, sir,” said the cabman, climbing down from his cab. “‘E’s gone an’ shot ’imself.”
“Here’s the gun,” I said, pointing it out to whoever chose to listen. I didn’t wish to touch it or pick it up.
“He had this case with him,” said the thick-necked man, opening it up and standing close to the cab’s lamp to get a better look inside. He pulled out some papers and examined them.
The doctor took off his jacket and placed it over the passenger’s face and chest.
My throat grew tight as I realised that he was dead.
“Simon Borthwick!” the man with the case called out. “These papers suggest he’s our man. Does anyone know anything about him?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded weak. “Yes, I do.”
Chapter 5
“So the chap spends a week setting up the largest display of illuminations in the world and then shoots himself in the head as he takes a cab home?” queried my colleague, Edgar Fish. “But why?”
We sat at our desks in the hot, cluttered newsroom at the Morning Express. Edgar Fish was a young man with small, glinting eyes and a thin, mousey-brown moustache.
“Irrational,” added the corpulent, curly-haired news reporter, Frederick Potter.
“I attended the inquest this morning and the coroner ruled his death as a suicide,” I said.
“Clever fellow, that coroner!” laughed Edgar. “I think a chap far less qualified than him might have deduced the same thing!”
“Simon Borthwick left a letter explaining his actions,” I said. “It was found in the case he was carrying and read out at the inquest. I managed to transcribe it in shorthand, and I think it’s rather intriguing.”
“What were his reasons?” asked Edgar.
“He said that he had a persecutor,” I replied.
“Don’t we all?” Frederick chipped in.
“Who might your persecutor be, Potter?” asked Edgar.
“The wife.”
Edgar snorted in reply.
“Simon Borthwick said that someone had turned his friends against him and besmirched his name,” I said.
“It sounds like sour grapes to me,” said Edgar.
“Have some sympathy for the poor man,” I replied.
“I do. I meant sour grapes on someone else’s part. And that’s why they persecuted him. This is why I don’t ever want to be too successful at anything. It breeds resentment among friends and acquaintances.”
“That’s your excuse is it, Fish?” laughed Frederick. “You deliberately try not to be successful.”
“I’m being serious, Potter. It’s the old head above the parapet, isn’t it? If you raise it too high, boom! You’re decapitated, or you fetch an arrow to the eye or similar. Nobody wants that, do they?”
“It’s why I try not to be successful too,” said Frederick.
“Aren’t you proud to be working with a pair of loafers such as us, Miss Green?” asked Edgar with a grin.
“I am indeed.”
“Life is less complicated when you loaf,” he continued. “No one tries to besmirch you or do all the other things that most likely happened to that poor inventor chap.”
“But what about your legacy?” I asked.
“My what?”
“How will your descendants remember you?”
“As a loafer!” Edgar laughed.
“No one remembers loafers, I’m afraid. They remember those who did something remarkable during their lifetime,” I said. “That’s why I’m so saddened by Simon Borthwick’s death. There was so much more for him to do. Just think what he might have achieved! And to think that the opportunity was denied by his own ha
nd. It makes no sense.”
“You hold this inventor chap in high regard, Miss Green, yet you know very little of his story,” replied Edgar. “Perhaps there was something rather peculiar about him.”
“And what if there was?”
“Well, it would change your opinion of him, wouldn’t it? Perhaps he wouldn’t seem quite so marvellous after all.”
“I should like to find out more about him. And about his persecutor, too.”
“You suffer from an inquiring mind, Miss Green.”
“That’s why I’m a news reporter. I’m supposed to have one!”
“I agree in part, but you create extra work for yourself, you see. Why not just concentrate on the work Sherman gives you?”
“Because I sometimes happen upon a newsworthy story by myself.”
“Let me quickly solve this inventor suicide for you,” said Edgar. “The main reason a chap shoots a bullet into his head is unrequited love. That’s all there is to it. There’s a woman behind this, I’m sure of it.”
“That’s rather presumptuous,” I said.
The editor of the Morning Express, Mr Sherman, marched into the room, allowing the door to slam closed behind him. He wore a dark green waistcoat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His hair was oiled and parted to one side, and a pipe was lodged beneath his thick black moustache.
“Ah, Mr Sherman!” said Edgar, quickly removing his feet from his desk. “There’s no need to give Miss Green any work to do today, as she’s found some for herself.”
“Is that so, Miss Green?” asked the editor.
“Not exactly, though I should be interested to find out why the inventor Simon Borthwick has taken his own life.”
“He explained it in a letter, didn’t he?” replied Mr Sherman.
“He sort of did and didn’t. The letter raised more questions than it answered.”
“Well, I don’t suppose we need to worry ourselves too much about what it did or didn’t say. You’ve written your article about the inquest, have you?”