by Emily Organ
“What twaddle, George!” said Eliza scornfully, pushing her lips together into a thin line.
“In response to your earlier comment, Mrs Fox-Stirling, there is no doubt that Mr Frederick Brinsley Green did a great deal of good work,” said Mr Edwards. “Particularly with orchids. I know that modesty prevents Miss Green from boasting about his achievements at the dinner table.”
“She should go ahead and boast, I say,” Mr Fox-Stirling insisted. “How’s your book about his life progressing, Miss Green?”
“Rather slowly,” I replied. “It takes a long time to write a book, doesn’t it?”
“It does, I’m afraid,” replied Mr Fox-Stirling. “I found it rather easier as everything I wrote about was already in my head. You, on the other hand, have the unenviable task of collating and reading everything before you can commit anything to paper.”
“I have been helping wherever possible,” Mr Edwards chipped in.
“Very admirable of you,” said Mr Fox-Stirling.
“I think the most pressing matter for me,” I said, “is to decide on how the book should end. The uncertainty about Father’s fate prevents me from making any decision about it. That’s where I hoped you could help us, Mr Fox-Stirling.”
“Indeed, and I’m more than happy to. When we last met I told you about my visit to that little place on the banks of the Funza. I cannot remember what it was called.”
“El Charquito,” I replied.
“That’s the one. Yes, and as I explained to you I could find no evidence of any final resting place for your father. The natives of that country may have simple ways but, to give them their dues, they do treat the death of a foreigner respectfully. There is scarcely a corner of the world these days that doesn’t contain the well-tended grave of an adventurous European.”
“True,” said George, nodding proudly in agreement.
“I think if your father had a grave I would have been directed to it,” continued Mr Fox-Stirling. “Which, my dear ladies, leads me to speculate on a possibility.”
“Which is what?” I asked.
“That your father is still alive.”
His knife and fork remained poised above his plate as he awaited our response.
“No,” I said slowly. “He can’t be.”
“Why not?” asked Mr Fox-Stirling.
“Because he would have come home,” said Eliza. “Or he would have written to us, at the very least.”
“But suppose that he has been unable to.”
“For nine years?” said Eliza incredulously. “I think he would have found a passage home or at least a method of sending a letter during that time. Unless he has been imprisoned.”
“Perhaps he has.”
“Did you ask around at any prisons?”
“No, but then I didn’t come across many.”
“Why would our father have been imprisoned?” I asked.
I thought back to the massacre he had described in his diaries. I looked down at my plate and pushed a piece of guinea fowl around it with my fork. I felt Mr Edwards’ sympathetic eyes on me.
“Is this theory mere speculation?” asked Eliza. “Or do you feel certain that he might still be alive, Mr Fox-Stirling?”
“Perhaps he was kidnapped,” suggested George.
My stomach began to twist into knots and I felt unable to eat anything more. I couldn’t bear the thought that my father might have been held hostage by someone for all this time. Surely death was preferable to nine years of suffering.
“It can only be speculation,” I said. “I would like to think that he is still alive, but if he is I am worried about what must have befallen him.”
“I think the lack of a grave site for your father means that you should remain hopeful,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “I knew him to be a brave and courageous man, and I feel certain that he is able to look after himself wherever he is.”
“You really think he’s still alive?” I asked.
“I like to think he is, yes. And there is no evidence to the contrary, is there?”
Chapter 21
The four of us left Mr Fox-Stirling’s home in a carriage. I sat next to Eliza, while George and Mr Edwards sat opposite us.
“Thank goodness that’s over,” said George. “What an irritating man. He is only ever happy when talking about himself.”
“He has some interesting things to say,” said Eliza.
“Such as suggesting that your father is still alive? That’s one way to upset the dinner guests!” laughed her husband.
“I feel pleased that he said it,” Eliza replied. “Although the possibility raises many questions, it gives me hope.”
“That’s the problem with these flippant comments; they do just that. Why make people hopeful when they’re only likely to be disappointed?” said George.
“But perhaps Miss Green and your wife will not be disappointed,” said Mr Edwards. “Suppose Mr Brinsley Green truly is alive.”
“The chap’s not been seen for nine years!” scoffed George.
“No one heard anything from Richard Livingstone for six years,” argued Mr Edwards.
“Which is not as long as nine years, but I see your point, Edwards,” said George. “Has the Fox-Stirling chap got you living in hope as well, Penelope?”
“Living in hope sounds rather desperate, George,” I said. “However, he has encouraged me to rethink Father’s disappearance. It’s nice to imagine that everything is not lost after all.”
We said goodbye to Mr Edwards as he got out of the carriage at his home in Devonshire Street.
I was lost in my thoughts about Father as we continued on to my home in Milton Street. A flash of white in the gloom caught my attention and I saw that Eliza had taken an envelope out of her bag. I could just about see George resting against the side of the carriage. Now and then he emitted a loud snore.
“This rather odd letter arrived for me yesterday morning, Penelope,” whispered my sister. “You won’t be able to read it in this light, of course, but when you do please remember that it’s just some silly nonsense.”
“What is it, Ellie?”
“Someone making disparaging remarks. I don’t know why they have chosen to address it to me. And I don’t know how they know that I am your sister. You’ve encountered this sort of thing in your work before, haven’t you? There really are some strange people about. Who do you think you might have upset on this occasion?”
“No one intentionally! But I suppose it’s inevitable that someone will always take exception to the work I do.”
Eliza held the envelope out towards me. “Promise me you won’t take the contents of this letter to heart, Penelope. It’s nothing more than the words of a foolish person.”
“Of course I won’t!” I said, laughing it off. “I’ve received plenty of strange notes before, haven’t I? I’m used to it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ll show it to James as well. I know I can rely on him to help me if there is any real threat.”
I took the envelope from her outstretched hand.
“He will help you, Penelope. I know that.”
Once I was back in my room, I lit my paraffin lamp and sat on my bed with the envelope. A warm breeze drifted through the open window, as did a number of flies, which proceeded to buzz around the lamp.
The sender had written Eliza’s correct address on the front. How had its author known where she lived? I thought to myself with a shiver.
The letter read:
As you are not only a valued sister to Miss Penelope Green but also her friend and confidante, I suggest that you advise her to resign from her work as a news reporter. You are no doubt aware that the profession is a rather insalubrious one and is especially unsuitable for a lady.
You must also be aware that it is a rather dangerous profession to follow. Miss Green has discovered this herself on a number of occasions, yet she persists in her work. No doubt you care for your sister very much and would encourage h
er to follow a safer path. With no father or husband to advise her, you really are her only hope.
My first reaction was to laugh. It was as though the author of the letter considered me a child who required looking after. But then I began to feel angered by its patronising tone. What was the writer’s aim in involving Eliza in my work life? Perhaps by sending the letter to Eliza he or she sought to demonstrate a far superior knowledge of me than I could show in return.
I walked over to my writing desk and opened out the brief note which had been sent to me at the Morning Express offices. The handwriting on the two pieces of paper was quite different. Next, I found the letter which had been hidden in Simon Borthwick’s book and laid it next to the other two. I could see no match between the three pieces of handwriting.
Surely the person who wrote to Eliza had something to do with the person who had sent the note to me at the Morning Express offices. Perhaps the author was simply adept at disguising his or her handwriting.
I examined the envelopes the two letters had been sent in and saw that the postmarks were different, though both had been posted in London.
Who could have sent them? I mulled over a list of people I had spoken to in recent days: Donald Repton, Jack Copeland, Mr Kurtz, Chief Inspector Stroud, Georgina Fish and Lillian Maynell.
Perhaps one or more of these people had been angered by my questioning. Perhaps Lillian Maynell’s husband had found out about our meeting and sent the letters. Perhaps the future Mrs Blakely had somehow discovered that I harboured feelings for her husband-to-be and was writing the letters herself; maybe with her mother’s help.
I slumped down into the chair at my writing desk. Tiger jumped up and sat on the letters, her face just inches from mine.
“You’re after sardines again, are you Tiger? Even though it’s almost midnight.”
I opened a tin for her, changed into my nightdress and sat on my bed without any blankets over me. It was too warm to sleep, and I felt a nervousness in my stomach at the prospect of the next letter I might receive if I were to continue my investigation.
Chapter 22
“I must say that I enjoyed our evening immensely,” Mr Edwards whispered to me in the reading room the following day.
The red-whiskered man sitting opposite kept glancing over.
“And what a thought that your father may still be alive, Miss Green! You must be encouraged by that.”
“Perhaps I could be,” I whispered in reply, “but if he is then it raises the question of why my sister and I have never heard from him. That’s what truly bothers me.”
“There might be a simple explanation,” said Mr Edwards. “Doctor Richard Livingstone spent a significant portion of his missing years suffering from ill health, which prevented him from getting in touch with those he loved. Perhaps that is also the case with your father.”
“But what a horrible thought,” I said. “I don’t like to think of him suffering from illness for nine years!”
Mr Edwards seemed rather taken aback. He had probably hoped I would be happy about the possibility that my father was still alive. But in truth the thought had only served to cause rather more complicated emotions to rise to the surface.
Mr Edwards cleared his throat and moved closer to continue his whispering. His breath felt hot and ticklish on my ear and I wanted to lean away from him.
“Miss Green, I really must ask you something. I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me to do so, but I think I need some idea from you about—”
A movement near the door caught my eye and I was relieved to see James walking towards us. I smiled at him.
“Oh, it’s the inspector,” said Mr Edwards flatly. “What could he possibly want with us now?”
“Good morning, James,” I whispered.
“She has two chaps fussing over her now,” the red-whiskered man muttered to his neighbour.
I glared at him then gathered up my papers and tucked them into my carpet bag.
“Must you leave so soon, Miss Green?” asked Mr Edwards, his brow furrowed.
“I’m not getting any work done here, am I?” I replied. “And I also appear to be disturbing the other readers in the library.” I stared at the red-whiskered man as I said this.
“Perhaps we can arrange another meeting soon,” said Mr Edwards. I felt a twinge of annoyance in my chest. “With your sister—”
“As a chaperone, of course,” I interrupted.
“Are you all right, Miss Green?”
“I’m rather tired if truth be told, Mr Edwards. I found the weather too warm for sleep last night.”
He seemed relieved by this explanation. “Yes, terribly hot, isn’t it? Good morning, Inspector Blakely.”
“Good morning, Mr Edwards,” replied James. “There’s no need to leave, Penny. My visit will be a quick one.”
“I do need to leave, James. It’s rather stifling in here.”
“What’s the matter?” asked James as I marched ahead of him down the steps of the British Museum.
I could feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes.
“I don’t know,” I replied in a small, tight voice.
“Wait for me!”
I slowed my step and he caught up with me.
“Penny?”
I turned to face him, and his concerned eyes met mine.
“It’s too hot in the reading room,” I replied, trying to blink away the tears. “And I didn’t sleep last night, and Mr Edwards keeps asking me…”
James touched my hand gently. “What does he keep asking?”
“I’m not sure exactly. But I feel as though he wants to clarify the status of our relationship and I’m absolutely terrified that he might ask me to marry him.”
“Really?” James’ eyes widened.
“I have no wish to be married.”
“Then that’s your answer to him. Perhaps you should let him know sooner rather than later so that he doesn’t keep upsetting you by trying to ask. It’s not right, Penny. You should be able to work peacefully in the reading room without feeling harassed by the clerk.”
“He doesn’t harass me, as such. In fact, he doesn’t really upset me at all. I’m fairly indifferent to him, I would say.”
I noticed that James smiled in response to this.
“I think what’s actually upset me is the thought that my father might still be alive.”
James scratched his chin. “Alive? Is there new information about his disappearance?”
“Not as such. It’s just something the plant-hunter Isaac Fox-Stirling said at dinner last night.”
“I think the Museum Tavern may have just opened. Let’s go in there and you can tell me all about it.”
“Thank you, James. I’d like that.”
James sipped his stout and listened patiently as I told him about the dinner with Mr Fox-Stirling.
“I can see why you find these thoughts upsetting,” he said. “It has presumably taken a long time to accept the idea that your father was most likely dead. That’s what most people believed for a while, wasn’t it? And after a certain length of time I suppose you begin to believe the same. But to be asked now to consider that it’s not the case at all… that’s rather difficult, isn’t it?”
“Have you ever stirred a deep pool with a stick?” I asked.
“Not recently, no.”
“When you do so all the silt which has lain undisturbed at the bottom is brought up to the surface again. That’s similar to how I feel at the moment.”
“It’s not really surprising, Penny. Does your sister feel the same way?”
“I haven’t had a chance to discuss it with her yet. On the way home in the carriage she wanted to discuss a letter which had been sent to her. In fact, I have it here.”
I pulled the letter addressed to Eliza out of my carpet bag and handed it to him, watching his face intently as he read it. Once he had finished he sighed and dropped it onto the table.
“Some people!” he hissed.
�
��It’s not the first time I have received such a letter. Although it is the first occasion when something like this has been sent to a member of my family.”
“That’s even worse!” said James. “It’s a cruel, calculated, malicious thing to do. How I wish I could get my hands on that person!”
“Perhaps you will,” I said.
“I hope so,” he snarled, thumping his fist against the table.
“Don’t be angry, James. This is a common occurrence for news reporters. People don’t like us asking questions. I must have got close to something which someone wishes to conceal. That’s encouraging news, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“If I had any idea who had sent the letter I should know which situations to avoid.”
“That’s the problem though, isn’t it? You simply don’t know. Threatening letters are rarely explicit, are they? Their authors are cowards who are purposefully vague so they can instil fear into every aspect of your life.”
“The tone isn’t particularly threatening, though, is it? It’s more of a warning.”
“Either way it’s unpleasant, Penny, and I wish I could advise you to ignore it, but I know that would be useless. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here. Who have you met with recently?”
I told him the list of people I had met with and interviewed.
“So it could be something to do with the work you’re doing on Simon Borthwick or Richard Geller.”
“If it was Mr Kurtz or Chief Inspector Stroud you would surely have received threatening letters yourself.”
“Not necessarily. In the eyes of a malicious person you’re an easier target. You’re female for a start. A coward is likely to think it easier to scare off a female.”
“Two cowards.”
“What do you mean?”
“I received another note.” I took it out of my bag and gave it to James. “They were written by two different people. I can find no similarity between them.”
James glanced from the letter to the note and sneered. “Perhaps you’re right. Sadly, I think one thing is certain.”