by Emily Organ
“What’s that?”
“You will receive more of these. I have no doubt about it.”
I picked them up from the table, folded them and put them back in my bag.
“That’s enough about my woes,” I said, finishing off my sherry. “Talking to you has made me feel a bit better.”
“That’s good news,” said James. “If only I could do something about them.”
“What did you come to see me about in the reading room?” I asked. “We’ve become so distracted that I forgot to ask why you wanted to find me.”
“Oh yes. I spoke to Mr Daly, the assistant surgeon at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. He’s the chap who Mr Kurtz claimed he went to see. It turns out that Mr Daly was in his office for the entire morning of the seventeenth of June. And what’s more, he neither heard nor saw any sign of Mr Kurtz!”
“So Mr Kurtz is lying?”
“Yes, just as we thought. His story always seemed rather suspicious.”
“Has Chief Inspector Stroud found anyone to provide an alibi?”
“Only the medical students who visited the museum at about ten o’clock that morning, so Mr Kurtz wasn’t lying about that. And the students can vouch for the fact that Mr Geller was alive and well at that time.”
“But no one saw Mr Kurtz on his way to or from Mr Daly’s office?”
“No. Presumably he didn’t go that way at all. So where was he? Did he ever leave the room?”
“Oh dear. Mr Kurtz didn’t think his explanation through at all, did he? Surely he must have known you would ask Mr Daly about him. I think you should instruct Chief Inspector Stroud to order his arrest.”
“I must say that I’m not far away from doing so, Penny. The man has to find someone who can verify his story.”
“I don’t believe he can. I think it is quite obvious that he murdered his colleague.”
Chapter 23
“Was Mrs Maynell of any help?” asked Edgar.
“She was indeed. Please thank Georgina for arranging our meeting.” I hadn’t found the meeting with Lillian particularly useful, but I had no wish to admit that to Edgar.
“Jolly good. Well, you must hurry up and decide who will accompany you to dinner at our place. I know Georgina would be delighted to see you again.”
“Thank you, Edgar.”
As I returned to the article I was writing about the Metropolitan District Railway Bill I heard the newsroom door slam behind me. It could only mean that Mr Sherman had entered the room.
“Miss Green! In my office now, please.”
It was unusual to be called into the editor’s office for a conversation.
“Of course,” I replied, my heart thudding in my chest.
The editor’s office had greasy, yellowing walls and smelled of pipe smoke. Piles of books and papers were stacked on top of the desk and all over the floor.
Mr Sherman sat down behind his desk. “Do take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.
Conversations in Mr Sherman’s office always made me nervous, as they usually involved the breaking of unpleasant news. Mr Sherman picked up an envelope from his desk.
“I’ve received a rather unusual letter,” he said.
“Oh no.” I closed my eyes and groaned.
“What’s the matter, Miss Green?”
“Is it anonymous?”
“As a matter of fact it is, yes. Have you also received one?”
“Not a letter. I received a short, rude note and someone sent my sister a letter telling her that she should advise me to stop working as a news reporter.”
“Ah. Oh dear. Well this one is rather similar in tone, I’m afraid. There’s no need for you to read it. I don’t wish you to be upset by it.”
One of the speaking tubes next to his desk whistled.
“Excuse me a moment.” He turned to bark into it. “Yes?”
“What page is the Tonkin War story going on, sir?”
“Page eight. Tell Byers it needs the sketch map to accompany it!” Mr Sherman moved away from the speaking tube and shook his head. “Compositors,” he tutted. “There’s little more than empty space between their ears. Now, where was I?”
“The letter, sir.”
“Ah yes.” He pulled the letter out of its envelope and pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. “Let me just give you an idea of what it says… Inept… Should not be employed by such a reputable newspaper… Misguided… Reporting on the news is not a suitable profession for a woman… Weak-minded…”
“I think I have a general idea of what’s in it now. Thank you, Mr Sherman. May I take a look at it?”
“I don’t think that is a good idea, Miss Green.”
“I wish to look at the handwriting and see if it resembles the writing on the note and the letter I already have in my possession.” I reached into my carpet bag and pulled them out.
“I suppose that is a good idea. But don’t dwell on the contents, Miss Green. It has clearly been written by someone with a vendetta against you.”
He passed the letter over to me and I could see that the handwriting was different yet again.
“This person is playing games,” I said. “There cannot possibly be three people who wish to discredit me!”
“They’re simply adept at adapting their handwriting, is that what you’re saying?”
“They have to be! Why would three separate people suddenly bear me ill-will, sir? I cannot think of anything I have done wrong.”
“That was to be my next question. Are you sure of that?”
“I’m certain. I have visited a few people recently and asked them about Simon Borthwick. Each was perfectly civil and I didn’t publish any of our conversations. And then there is the medical school murder. I suppose Mr Kurtz and Chief Inspector Stroud were rather grumpy to see me in attendance with Inspector Blakely. But there’s quite a big jump from being grumpy to writing vindictive letters, isn’t there?”
“I suppose there is. Although you never quite know the thoughts which run deep in a man’s mind.”
“No, you don’t, and it’s probably just as well. Please may I keep this letter, sir?”
“Absolutely not, Miss Green! You’ll only go upsetting yourself over it.”
He reached out his hand for the letter, but I held on to it.
“I am perfectly capable of coping with the situation, Mr Sherman. I know that it’s nothing but the scribblings of a madman.”
“You are sure you can handle this? You won’t lie awake tonight worrying about unpleasant missives? I know it’s rather personal of me to say this, but I know that you live on your own. It’s not as though you have a husband or someone who can keep an eye on you.”
“There are plenty of people who can keep an eye on me, sir.”
“Are there? Well, that’s good to hear. I’m not saying we all need spouses. I’m a bachelor myself, but I do have a trusty housekeeper who looks after me. Perhaps us men need looking after more than women, eh?”
“Perhaps.” I smiled. I didn’t often see the gentler side of Mr Sherman.
“Right, well you keep that letter for now, but don’t torture yourself by reading it over and over. And perhaps have a mind to tell your friend Inspector Blakely about these unpleasant notes. Usually the writing of a barbed letter is enough to satisfy the anger of the aggressor; rarely does it come to anything more than that. But we don’t know who we’re dealing with here, do we? You must be careful, Miss Green.”
“I will, Mr Sherman. I can hardly stop working on my stories, though, can I?”
“That is true, but if you encounter any more unpleasantness you will let me know, won’t you? As your editor I feel rather responsible for you.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, sir. I shall be fine, I feel sure of it.”
Chapter 24
“I asked the headmaster of Wilstead School if he would like me to carry out some demonstrations for the schoolchildren,” Borthwick had told me when I had visited hi
m in his laboratory. “I feel enormous gratitude to Faraday for his dedication to the Christmas lectures. He did them for more than thirty years! I could never equal Faraday’s expertise, but if I can inspire just one child to become an electrochemist I would consider my work complete.”
“Are your demonstrations at the school to be a regular fixture?” I had asked.
“Yes, I visit them once a month. And another school has asked me to do the same.”
“I think that’s extremely honourable of you, Mr Borthwick.”
“No, not honourable. All I wish to do is share my enthusiasm and encourage the next generation. That’s my only aim. Just think of what the future holds, Miss Green! The possibilities are almost unimaginable.”
It occurred to me that the children of Wilstead School must have been greatly upset by Simon Borthwick’s death. I hoped he had inspired some of them as he had wished. I stood under my parasol outside his home in a pleasant street of terraced houses close to Swiss Cottage station. This was number eleven, Adamson Road: the address which had been given at the inquest. It was a four-storey home with a dozen steps leading up to the portico. Curtains had been pulled across the large bay windows on the ground and first floors.
When I rang the bell, the front door was opened a short distance by a woman in a simple black mourning dress. The bunch of keys at her waist indicated to me that she was the housekeeper. She looked about thirty with thick brown hair swept back from her face.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Good morning. My name is Miss Green and I’m a news reporter for the Morning Express. Is there someone I can speak to about Mr Borthwick?” I saw her open her mouth to reply, but before she could speak I quickly added, “I was there on the night he died.”
The door opened wider once I had relayed this piece of information, as I had hoped it would.
“You were there?” asked the housekeeper.
“Yes. I attended his illuminations at the Crystal Palace and as I was leaving his cab passed me. I heard the gunshot and ran over to the cab with some other people. They got him out and… well, that’s when I saw what he had done to himself. This was his home, I believe.”
The woman nodded in reply.
“Then please accept my condolences. You must be extremely shocked and saddened.”
I handed her my card.
“Thank you, Miss Green. However, in answer to your question, there is no one here to speak to you about Mr Borthwick. He lived alone.”
“With staff?”
“With staff, yes, but he had no family in London.”
“Perhaps I can speak with you for a short while. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Miss Blight. I don’t think there’s anything much I can tell you. Besides, I shouldn’t be speaking to news reporters.”
“I won’t publish anything about our meeting, Miss Blight. You have my word.”
She stared at me for a little while longer.
“I can only talk for a few minutes,” she said eventually, widening the gap behind the door so that I could step inside.
“Thank you, Miss Blight.”
I folded up my parasol and followed her into the cool, gloomy interior. Mr Borthwick’s home already had an air of abandonment about it. I felt a shiver run down my back.
“You’ll have to forgive the state of the house,” said Miss Blight as she closed the door behind me. “I’ve covered the furniture in dust sheets. Would you mind holding our conversation in the kitchen? It’s one of the few rooms we still use.”
“Not at all,” I replied, wondering who the other people in the house might be. “Is this place to be sold?” I asked as I followed her down a flight of stairs to the basement kitchen.
“Yes, it’s to be auctioned. The butler has already left and it’s just me and Kitty here now. We leave at the end of this week.”
“Have you found another position?”
“Yes, in the country. That’s where I’m from, so I’m looking forward to returning. Here’s Kitty.”
A young maid with a round face sat at the kitchen table. Miss Blight introduced us, then occupied herself with filling a kettle.
I sat down on a wooden chair and felt reminded of the brief time I had worked undercover as a maid in the house of Mr Glenville.
“Did you work for Mr Borthwick for very long?” I asked the housekeeper.
“Almost three years; the duration of the time he lived here.”
“And you saw him on the day he died?”
“Yes, in the morning.”
“What was his mood like?” I asked. “Was there any indication that something was bothering him?”
She placed the kettle on the stove. “If truth be told, he was in rather a foul mood and had been for some days, hadn’t he Kitty?”
The maid nodded.
“It wasn’t unusual. He often suffered from a bad temper,” the housekeeper added.
“Did he ever take his temper out on you?”
“It was never directed at me personally, but he could be rather rude and dismissive. Of course, he was mostly a well-mannered man, and he could be amusing and entertaining when it pleased him. He struck me as someone who always had something weighing on his mind.”
“Did he give any idea of what that something might have been?”
She shook her head. “No. I can only assume it was to do with his work because that’s what he did most of the time. He spent a lot of time in his laboratory.”
“Did he socialise with friends?”
“Occasionally, but his work was what he loved to do more than anything else.”
“It’s interesting you should say that, because it concurs with what Mrs Lillian Maynell told me last week when I met with her. She and Mr Borthwick once courted, didn’t they?”
“You’ve spoken to her? You seem to know quite a bit about him already. Yes, but she called off the courtship. I could tell that it upset him a great deal.”
“Did he talk about her much?”
“He did for a little while when she first ended it. In fact, he seemed to blame a third person for it. I remember him saying, ‘They’ve taken her away’ or something similar.”
“Who did he mean by they?”
“I have no idea. I was wary of asking too much as he seemed quite upset at the time.”
“Are you aware of the letter he wrote just before his death?” I asked.
“Yes, I heard it read out at the inquest.”
“What do you think he meant when he said that his persecutors had finally won?”
Miss Blight shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“He said that he would rather die by his own hand than theirs. Did he ever discuss anything of this kind with you?”
“No, never. But then I was his housekeeper. It would have been unusual for him to discuss such matters with me. Have you asked his friends and colleagues about it?”
“I haven’t found any friends of his yet. I’ve spoken to a few colleagues, but they know little more than you do. They do say, however, that Mr Borthwick tended to be rather melodramatic.”
“He certainly could be.”
“Do you think there was a valid reason behind his so-called melodrama?”
“I certainly detected some discord surrounding his work, although I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was. He took offence easily. If someone said or did something unpleasant he would be terribly upset about it.”
“To the extent that he might take his own life?”
“I can only imagine that’s what must have happened. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Miss Green, but you’re asking a lot of questions and I’ve been answering them without giving any thought to what you plan to do with the information. Why do you need to know all this if you don’t intend to publish it in your newspaper?”
“That’s a good question, Miss Blight. My interest in Mr Borthwick has become a personal one because I admired his work and I saw him on the night he died. And having listened to
his letter being read out at the inquest, I’m keen to find out who these people were who supposedly persecuted him. I suppose I have an inquisitive nature.”
“Rather essential for a news reporter!”
“It is, isn’t it? Although I’m finding it rather frustrating trying to get anywhere with this. I’ve come across a malicious note which was left in one of Mr Borthwick’s books in the British Library, but other than that no one seems to have any idea about who might have born him resentment. I confess that I’m at rather a loss as to who I could speak to next.”
“I’m not sure you’ll find the answers to all your questions, Miss Green. None of us could ever know what his true thoughts were.”
“Perhaps not. But I’m inclined to think that the letter provides the most clues.”
“But with him no longer being here there is a lot that cannot be explained.”
“That is true, and you probably feel I’m wasting my time with this. You wouldn’t be the first to say so.”
Miss Blight sat down at the table and smiled politely.
“Are there any friends of Mr Borthwick’s I could speak to?” I asked.
“I can only think of his colleagues. There’s Donald Repton and Jack Copeland.”
“I’ve spoken to them, thank you.”
“There were a few friends he invited here occasionally, but I forget their names now. I think they were something to do with his work.”
“Was he a member of any clubs you know of? Any favourite restaurants or other places he would go to regularly?”
“None that particularly spring to mind. I’m sure I remember somewhere in Covent Garden he used to go to. Do you recall it, Kitty?”
The young maid pursed her lips in thought.
“Can you remember what it was called?” Miss Blight asked her.
“The Ha’penny I think,” replied Kitty.
“The Ha’penny public house. There you go, Miss Green. That’s the best we can come up with between us, and he probably only went there a handful of times, didn’t he, Kitty?”
The name of the public house sounded familiar, but I couldn’t think why.