by Emily Organ
“And what was her explanation?”
“Mr Maynell, there is no need to be quite so confrontational,” said James.
“I don’t take kindly to my wife being asked questions about a former suitor!” retorted Mr Maynell. “Can you understand my ire, Inspector?”
“I appreciate that you may feel angered by it, but there is no need to speak to Miss Green in this curt manner.”
“What was my wife’s explanation?” Mr Maynell asked me again, ignoring James’ interjection.
“She told me that Mr Borthwick had seemed more interested in his work than in her, and that she felt he had been rather indifferent to her.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes. Please don’t worry, Mr Maynell. Your wife harbours no sentiment for Mr Borthwick.”
I noticed that his face softened slightly in response to this comment.
“Did you know Mr Borthwick well, Mr Maynell?” James asked.
Mr Maynell turned his nose up at the question. “Of course!” he replied. “He was my colleague for some years.”
“Do you know who might have been persecuting him?” I asked.
My question drew an unexpected laugh from Mr Maynell. “You think he was persecuted?”
“That’s what his letter suggests.”
“Ah yes. Now I’ve heard about that letter, and I’ve also heard that my wife receives a mention in it. I should like to read it for myself. Do you know where I can find a copy, Inspector?”
“You would need to contact the coroner,” said James.
“I see.”
“So you don’t believe that Mr Borthwick was being persecuted?” I asked.
“Of course not!”
“How was your own relationship with Mr Borthwick?” asked James.
“We were not unfriendly with each other, but neither were we close. You must remember that he had once been a suitor of Lillian’s. Nevertheless, I had no truck with the man. We stayed out of each other’s way. Anyway, I think we’ve rather strayed off the point here. Did I give you permission to question me, Inspector?”
“No. You simply began answering.”
“The point I wished to make was to you, Miss Green.” He glared down his nose at me. “I don’t want you speaking to my wife again about this Borthwick character. Do you understand me? To be honest, the matter upsets her a great deal and must be dropped.”
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“Find out what?”
“That I met with your wife.”
“She told me! She knows better than to keep secrets from her husband. Stay away, Miss Green. Do you hear me?”
“There is no call for you to speak to Miss Green in such a way,” said James, glowering at Maynell.
“And there is no need for her to speak to my wife again!” snarled Maynell. “Good day to you both. I have work to do.”
“As have I,” retorted James, taking a step closer to Maynell’s desk. “I advise you to calm your temper or I shall deem it necessary to interview you down at Southwark police station rather than here in your comfortable office.”
Maynell’s lip curled slightly.
“Another serious incident has been linked to Simon Borthwick’s death,” continued James, taking out his pencil and notebook. “I have a few questions for you if I may, Mr Maynell. You were with Simon Borthwick on the day he died, I believe?”
“You know I was. Miss Green will have told you that.”
“Was he at the Crystal Palace for the entire day? He didn’t leave and go anywhere else at all?”
“No. He was there throughout the day.”
“And you were with him for all of that time?”
“Most of it, yes.”
“It’s possible that Mr Borthwick might have received some bad news that afternoon or in the early evening. Were you aware of anything of the kind?”
“Bad news? What sort of bad news?”
“Something happened to a friend of his that day, but we cannot be sure as to whether he found out about it before he died.”
“What happened?”
“If I understand you correctly, you don’t recall Mr Borthwick either receiving or discussing any bad news?”
“None. Though it would help if I knew what sort of bad news you happen to be referring to.”
“A death, Mr Maynell.”
“Another death? No, I didn’t hear anything about a death that day. Only Simon’s, of course.”
“A friend of Mr Borthwick’s, Richard Geller, was murdered inside the museum of the medical school at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
Mr Maynell’s face lost its sneer and grew solemn.
“I read about that.”
“So, to your knowledge, Simon Borthwick received no news about his friend’s death before he took his own life?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. He may have done, but if so he did not discuss the matter with me. That’s rather rough about Mr Geller, though. Has the murderer been caught?”
“Not yet, sir. Is there anyone else who might have known whether Mr Borthwick heard about his friend’s death that day?”
“Only Repton.”
Chapter 32
“I think we can be fairly certain that Borthwick was at the Crystal Palace for most of the day on the seventeenth of June, and therefore couldn’t have been responsible for Richard Geller’s murder,” said James as we made our way through the corridors to Donald Repton’s office.
“Unless he paid someone else to murder Richard Geller.”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose. But why would he do that? It seems they were good friends. If we can find any evidence of discord between them that would be something to consider.”
“This is Inspector James Blakely from Scotland Yard,” I said to Mr Repton as we sat in his large, cluttered office. “He is investigating the death of Richard Geller inside the medical school museum at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
“Ah yes, dreadful business. Can I offer either of you a brandy?”
The white-haired engineer hovered a decanter above a filthy glass. We both declined.
“Mr Geller was friends with Simon Borthwick,” I continued. “And Inspector Blakely would like to ask you a few questions, if possible.”
“I will only reply to questions once Miss Green has paid me in fruit jellies,” said Mr Repton, pouring out his brandy and immediately drinking a large mouthful. “I’m only joking, of course. Ask away! I must say, this rings a bell now.”
“Rings a bell how?” asked James.
“Simon told me he had received some bad news that day. He seemed rather shaken by it.”
“This was while you were both at the Crystal Palace?”
“Yes.”
“Did he elaborate on the subject of the bad news?” asked James.
“No, but I’m assuming it was the death of this chap at the hospital or whatever it is. Am I right?”
“Yes. Do you know how he found out about it?”
“I don’t, I’m afraid. Perhaps someone had a telegram sent down to the Crystal Palace.”
“Did you tell the inquest into Mr Borthwick’s death that he had received bad news on the day of his death?”
“Do you know what, Inspector? I didn’t. I made no mention of it because I didn’t know the nature of the bad news, and in all honesty he often made a big fuss about something or other that had occurred. Or hadn’t occurred.”
He took another gulp of brandy. “It wasn’t out of character. I did try asking him about it on this occasion, but he said that he couldn’t dwell on it for the time being because he had the illuminations to prepare for and needed to clear his mind of all else.”
“Do you think the news of his friend’s death might have driven him to take his own life?” asked James.
“It’s difficult for me to say. I didn’t know the man personally enough to speculate. But it’s possible, isn’t it? Definitely possible. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,
Mr Repton. Did you know about Mr Borthwick’s friendship with Mr Geller prior to his death?”
“No. I only found out just now when you told me! It makes sense, of course. I remember reading about the murder in the newspaper, but I hadn’t realised the poor chap was Borthwick’s friend.”
“What do you think Mr Borthwick meant in his letter when he said that he thought it best to die by his own hand rather than at the hands of theirs?” asked James.
“Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?” Mr Repton looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Miss Green and I have already had this discussion. The answer is that I really don’t know, Inspector. I would tell you if I knew, but that’s the sort of thing that can only be found out through an investigation.”
“I’d like to request permission to return here and read through any of Mr Borthwick’s personal papers which are kept in this building,” said James. “Would that be possible?”
“Absolutely. Help yourself to whatever you need, Inspector. Now that I’ve learned of the connection between the poor unfortunate hospital chap and Mr Borthwick I’m as keen as you to understand what happened on that strange day.”
James and I left the works, passing the warehouses and timber yards of Upper Ground Street before walking across Blackfriars Bridge. It was only a short walk to Fleet Street from the other side and James could take an omnibus from there to Scotland Yard. I wiped the drizzle from my spectacle lenses.
“What do you think about our friends at the Southwark works?” asked James.
“I find Mr Repton rather amusing and charmingly eccentric,” I replied, squinting through the smears I had added to my spectacles. “Copeland and Maynell seem rather guarded to me. I feel sorry for Lillian Maynell being married to that man. He’s rather humourless, isn’t he?”
“He is. I suppose he was angered by your meeting with his wife. But I feel there may be more to this than they’re telling us. They didn’t overstretch themselves when replying to our questions, did they?”
I stopped, struck by a sudden thought.
“I think Jeffrey Maynell could be the anonymous letter writer!” I exclaimed. “The malicious letters began shortly after I met with Lillian.”
“There’s a thought,” said James. “I can imagine him doing such a thing, and perhaps he’s adept at altering his handwriting.”
“But how do we find out?”
“There must be a way.” He smiled. “Leave it with me.”
Chapter 33
The rain pummelled the windows of the reading room dome as I balanced on the ladder in the upper gallery, trying to find a book about Panama. I had no idea that someone else was in the gallery until I began descending the ladder and a woman in a grey dress and black hat pushed past me, almost knocking the heavy book from my hand.
“I do apologise,” she whispered without turning to look at me. I found her manner rather brusque, but I thought little more of it as I returned to my desk.
As I leafed through the book I had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching me. I looked up and glanced around, but everyone seemed occupied with their work.
“Miss Green!” whispered Mr Edwards. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m well, thank you, Mr Edwards.”
I hadn’t seen him since he had made his comment about allowing me to continue with my work if I were to become his wife. I felt my cheeks redden slightly at the memory.
“You’ll be relieved to hear that I haven’t received any more unpleasant letters,” he said.
“Good,” I whispered in reply. “I don’t know of anyone else who has received another, so hopefully the letter writer has stopped that nonsense. Actually, I’m wondering whether I met with him yesterday.”
“Really?” Mr Edwards’ left eyebrow lifted in surprise.
“Yes. I suspect the writer could be the engineer Jeffrey Maynell; one of Simon Borthwick’s colleagues.”
“Do you really think he could write such nasty letters about you?”
“He took exception to me meeting with his wife and discussing Simon Borthwick with her. And he warned me off again when I saw him yesterday. You found out some extremely useful information for me about Hugo Banister—”
“Would you like me to find out more about Mr Maynell?”
“If you could I should be extremely grateful. Thank you, Mr Edwards.”
“My pleasure, Miss Green. I can’t think why a scientist of his calibre should resort to writing unpleasant letters, but I’m quickly learning that one should never underestimate people.”
“That’s right, Mr Edwards. One shouldn’t.”
“I’m afraid my research into the various Bannisters hasn’t come to much. I have spoken to a couple of people with the same surname. One chap took offence to the suggestion that he might have written such a letter.”
“Don’t worry about Hugo Bannister for the time being. Thank you very much for your help, though. I’ll let you know if the matter needs to be investigated further.”
He left my desk, but the sense that someone was watching me remained. I looked around and saw the young woman in grey again. The back of my neck prickled as she stared at me from a desk approximately ten yards away. Her face was angular and solemn, her hair dark and her black hat distinctly unseasonal.
I returned her stare and eventually she looked away.
“If Father is still alive, I don’t quite know what we’re supposed to do about it,” said Eliza as we sat in a box at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane waiting for the performance of As You Like It to begin. We were located to the right of the stage in a position that afforded us a good view over the auditorium.
“How do we find him?” continued Eliza. “It would cost such a vast sum of money. We were so fortunate that Lizzie Dixie funded the first search. I cannot even begin to think where we might find the money a second time.”
“Do you think Father is still alive?”
“I like to hope that he is, Penelope. Don’t you?”
“I do and I don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You can be so terribly confusing at times.”
“If he is alive I can only guess that he has been unwell or in prison, and I don’t like the sound of either possibility.”
“Perhaps he simply doesn’t care about us any more.”
“Ellie!”
“But it could be true, couldn’t it? Maybe he hasn’t written because he doesn’t consider us to be important any longer. Perhaps he’s quite happy where he is and feels worried that if he contacts us we’ll beg him to come home against his will.”
“How could he be happy there? Surely he would rather be at home with his family.”
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? I should also like to think that. But there is a possibility that he chose not to come back. We must be ready to cope with that eventuality, Penelope.”
“Wouldn’t it be wrong of us to go looking for him again if he has made that decision?”
“No, I don’t think it would be wrong. After all, I think he owes us an explanation, doesn’t he?”
“If he’s alive, that is. I’m not sure he can be. It isn’t the sort of thing Father would have done.”
“Maybe he suffered a blow to the head and forgot all about us,” suggested Eliza. “It happened once to my friend’s spinster aunt. She was found wandering about in Elephant and Castle, which is no place for a lady from Belgravia.”
“I’m not sure about this, Ellie. I don’t like having to consider all these possibilities when there is nothing to suggest that Father might still be alive. If Fox-Stirling hadn’t mentioned it we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this turmoil again. And what does he know, anyway? It’s just something he said in passing, and I wish he hadn’t because it took so long for us to accept that Father might not be alive any more. I don’t think it’s fair of him to have mentioned anything of the sort!”
“I disagree. I think he was quite right to say something. If he has the slighte
st suspicion that Father might be alive he should say so while we still have the time to do something about it.”
“But can we really find the funds to pay for someone else to travel to Colombia and find him? What if they couldn’t find him? What if there are no further answers about what has happened to him? Then it will all have been for nothing.”
“But we would feel better for having tried again, don’t you think? Don’t you agree that we should do everything we possibly can to find out what has happened to him?”
“I thought we had.”
“As long as there is a possibility that he is still alive, I want to find him. I’m surprised to hear that you don’t feel the same way, Penelope.”
“I want to believe that he’s still alive, Ellie, truly I do. But it’s so hard having to adjust my feelings about him all over again. I don’t want to raise my hopes for it all to be a complete waste again.”
I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my eyes.
“I understand.”
A great fanfare rose up from the orchestra pit and startled us both.
“Time for curtain up,” said Eliza with a sense of relief to her voice.
Just before the lights dimmed I looked down at the audience and saw a face upturned towards me. It was the face of a woman.
The woman in grey I had seen in the reading room.
Chapter 34
I searched for the woman again during the play’s interval but was unable to see her. Either she had stopped staring at me or she had left the auditorium altogether.
“Are you all right, Penelope?” asked Eliza. “You seem rather distracted.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Ellie. Just a little tired.”
“Well you do work tremendously hard, it has to be said. Have you found out who sent me that odd letter yet?”
“I think I know who it is. His name is Jeffrey Maynell and he took offence after I spoke to his wife about the inventor who committed suicide.”
“That Borthwick fellow?”
“Yes. Mr Maynell’s wife once courted him and I had lunch with her to discuss his death. She swore me to secrecy about our meeting, as presumably she knew that her husband would be upset if he found out about it. Then for some odd reason she went and told him about our meeting.”