The Inventor

by Emily Organ

  “She has nothing to be concerned about!”

  “Is that so?”

  “Of course! However, I would probably say something similar if I were in her shoes.”

  “Why would you say something similar?”

  “Because perhaps it isn’t fitting for a betrothed man and a spinster to be meeting together unchaperoned.”

  “You have always told me that it was for professional reasons.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In which case she has nothing to be concerned about.”

  “No, nothing at all. But it’s not commonplace, is it?”

  “No. But then you’re not really a commonplace sort of woman, Penelope.”

  “It was unfair of me to be rude to Inspector Blakely about it. It’s not his fault.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I think I shall need to apologise to him.”

  “If you’ve been petulant an apology sounds like the right course of action. Then you must learn to distance yourself from the man. He is to be married in September, after all.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s been some time since I last saw the delightful Mr Edwards. How is he?”

  “He’s very well, thank you, Ellie. I must say that I was impressed by his running ability earlier this week.”

  “Mr Edwards is athletic?”

  “Yes. He was the hundred-yard flat race champion during his university days.”

  I explained to Eliza what had occurred with Maria Forsyth in Russell Square.

  Eliza stopped eating for a moment and shook her head in dismay. “Oh dear, Penelope. You had the poor man arrested!”

  “He wasn’t arrested, he was merely questioned. As was the woman who took Tiger.”

  “How do you know that she is the culprit?”

  “I just know. She was hanging about nearby on the day Tiger went missing.”

  Eliza sighed. “Until quite recently I thought Mr Edwards was a suitable match for you.”

  “What’s changed your mind?”

  “I’m beginning to think that he could do with someone rather more sensible. You get yourself into such ridiculous scrapes, Penelope. And to think Mr Edwards ended up at the police station because you had a notion that some poor woman stole your cat.”

  “It’s rather more than that, Ellie,” I said, feeling exasperated.

  “Yes, I suspected as much. It sounds to me as though you owe both Inspector Blakely and Mr Edwards an apology. Why they should choose to consort with you I’ll never know.”

  “Perhaps they like a lady who gets herself into scrapes.”

  “I suppose they must do. But you can wipe that smile off your face. It’s hardly something to be proud of!”

  I occupied myself with my tomato soup and decided not to tell my sister that I had been instructed to stay away from the Morning Express offices for the time being.

  “Have you considered the plan George and I suggested about asking Mr Fox-Stirling to look for Father in Colombia again?” asked Eliza.

  “Must it be him? Can’t we find someone else?”

  “He knows the area better than anyone else.”

  “Yet failed to find any sign of Father’s whereabouts the last time.”

  “But there’s no better alternative, wouldn’t you agree? We can insist that he takes a Spanish translator with him this time.”

  “It’ll take us a long time to raise the funds.”

  “We’ll manage it. In the meantime, shall I go ahead and ask Mr Fox-Stirling?”

  I sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Good. That settles matters, then. I shall invite him and his wife over for dinner and propose the idea.”

  After lunch I walked up to the post office on High Holborn and sent a contrite telegram to James.

  I wish to apologise for my churlish conduct and have every respect for your fiancée’s wishes.

  Penny

  I addressed it to his home rather than to Scotland Yard.

  Chapter 49

  A warm breeze whipped down the steps as I exited Westminster Bridge Station the following afternoon. Big Ben chimed three o’clock as I crossed the road and made my way toward Westminster Bridge.

  I was on time.

  I slowly walked to the centre of the bridge as a multitude of people bustled past me. I wasn’t sure how I would identify the person I was supposed to meet there when I had no idea what he looked like.

  I paused beside one of the large ornate lamps and gazed up the river, where the Houses of Parliament and St Thomas’ hospital faced each other across the Thames.

  There was no word yet with regard to when I could return to the Morning Express offices, but that morning I had received a telegram from Mr Sherman.

  Mr Hamilton will meet you on Westminster Bridge at three o’clock today. Not his real name.

  Was Mr Hamilton young or old? Short or tall? I wondered. I turned to watch the passers-by, wishing that Mr Sherman had given me a clue about the man’s appearance in his telegram.

  I had begun to doubt that Mr Hamilton would turn up when a tall man in a dark frock coat and top hat leant up against the wall next to me.

  “Miss Green?” His voice had a slight Scottish lilt.

  I looked up at him. “Mr Hamilton?”

  He was about forty years of age and clean-shaven apart from a thin, dark moustache, which spread across his upper lip. He regarded me with cool green eyes.

  “I’m only doing this because William is a good friend of mine and I owe him a favour.”

  “I appreciate you speaking to me. Thank you, Mr Hamilton. Did you know Mr Borthwick and Mr Geller?”

  “I knew both of them,” he replied, looking out over the river.

  “Can you tell me anything further about their deaths?”

  “I don’t know. What have you already learned?”

  I spent a few minutes explaining the work I had done. His face betrayed no emotion as I spoke.

  “It sounds as though you’ve done quite a bit yourself,” he replied. “I’m not sure how I can help you.”

  “Have you any idea who might have murdered Mr Geller?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about him? Or about Mr Borthwick? How well did you know them?”

  “I should think I usually saw them two or three times a month; sometimes at The Ha’penny and sometimes at other places. Friends’ houses. I knew Geller much better than Borthwick, as I first met him about five or six years ago. He was outgoing with lots of friends. You know who his father is, I presume?”

  I nodded. “A rabbi, I believe.”

  “He was concerned about his family finding out too much about him, so he was very careful. He had a passion for pathology, and once you had him on the subject he would continue talking about it until late into the night. He took a few of us to that museum where he worked one time.” He gave a guarded smile. “There are some interesting things in there. He enjoyed his work very much.”

  “And Mr Borthwick?”

  “He was quite different from Geller. He could be entertaining at times and tempestuous at others, but they got along extremely well. Borthwick had a great mind, but his work often consumed him. Sometimes he missed dinner parties because he was working late in his laboratory. That irritated Geller a great deal.” Mr Hamilton gave a quiet laugh. “But on the whole they enjoyed each other’s company and were very much looking forward to their move to America.”

  “They had planned to emigrate?

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Geller had secured a position with the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania.”

  “And they were both going?”

  “Yes. You seem surprised, Miss Green.”

  “I certainly am, as it’s the first I have heard of it. But what about Borthwick’s work? Everything appeared to be going so well for him here.”

  “I’m sure it would have gone just as well for him in America.”

 
“Do you know what Borthwick planned to do when they reached America?”

  “I believe he harboured hopes of working with Thomas Edison.”

  “That would have been a wonderful opportunity for him.” I looked out over the river and felt a pang of sadness that the opportunity had never been realised. “When had they intended to travel?”

  “I can’t be certain. Within the next month or two, I suppose. I only heard of it shortly before Geller died.”

  “Have you ever come across a woman called Maria Forsyth?”

  Mr Hamilton shook his head. “No.”

  “Are you acquainted with Jeffrey Maynell? Or Jack Copeland?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do you know of Mrs Lillian Maynell?”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She was briefly engaged to Simon Borthwick.”

  “Oh, of course. Lillian! I recall her now.”

  “Was Mr Borthwick fond of her?”

  “He seemed to be. I suppose he would have married her if she hadn’t left him for some other chap. I think Borthwick craved the respectability marriage would have afforded him.”

  “She married Jeffrey Maynell, his colleague.”

  “So that’s who that Maynell chap he mentioned is. I understand now. I never met him, but I encountered Lillian once or twice.”

  “I don’t think she knew anything of Mr Geller. She has never alluded to him.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Mr Hamilton checked his pocket watch. “I’m afraid I must go, Miss Green.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

  “William assured me that our conversation would not be repeated to anyone else.” He took a pipe from his pocket and lit it.

  “It won’t be, Mr Hamilton. I can assure you of that.”

  “Thank you. In the meantime, we must hope that the police catch Geller’s killer. They’re taking their time, aren’t they?”

  “The case is not a straightforward one. In my mind there are a few obvious suspects, but it is proving impossible to gather enough evidence against them.”

  “Poor Borthwick,” he said. “Geller’s murder must have been devastating for him.”

  I nodded.

  “I wonder if that was the intention of Geller’s killer,” he continued. “I can think of no reason why anyone should wish to harm Geller other than to make Borthwick suffer.”

  “You think that might have been the motive?” I asked.

  “Does it make any sense to you?”

  “It’s a dreadful thought that someone would kill one man to wreak revenge upon another. But I must reluctantly admit that it does seem to make sense, Mr Hamilton.”

  While I took the underground railway to Moorgate I wrote down what Mr Hamilton had told me. I had become accustomed to discussing the case with James, but now that he could no longer meet me at the Museum Tavern my work felt quite solitary. Everything seemed much easier when I had someone to discuss it with, but now I would have to work out the implications for myself.

  It was busy on the platform when I disembarked from the train. As the crowd moved toward the stairs a man on my right suddenly lurched to one side, as if someone had pushed him. There was barely time for me to react before a shove into my back sent me flying to the floor. A woman cried out and I tried to get back onto my feet again, fearful of being trampled. A woman in a blue dress helped me stand up, her eyes wide with horror.

  “Get a doctor!” she called out.

  A man in a top hat suggested that I rest myself against the wall.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m almost home,” I said.

  “She hasn’t realised,” the woman in the blue dress said to the man.

  “Realised what?” I asked.

  “Your shoulder.”

  As she said the words I noticed that my right shoulder felt cold and damp. I touched it with my left hand and realised it was wet.

  “How did that happen?” I asked, looking at my left hand.

  And that’s when my head began to spin.

  My hand was covered in blood.

  Chapter 50

  “Miss Green!” Edgar greeted me as I arrived at his home for the dinner party. “How are you? Have they found out who attacked you? Tell us what happened!”

  “I’m fine thank you Edgar. The wound isn’t deep, they didn’t manage to cause me much harm.”

  “But who was it?” asked Georgina as she dashed over to me, her silk dress rustling.

  “I didn’t see, but I have an idea. A woman called Maria Forsyth has been following me and I recently confronted her, I think this attack must be an attempt at revenge. I’ve spent much of today at the police station in Westminster and I’ve told them to speak to Inspector Rigby in Bloomsbury who dealt with the previous incident. Between them I hope they find her.”

  “Well I think it’s a dreadful business,” said Georgina. “You don’t deserve this at all, you’re extremely brave Penny!”

  Georgina introduced me to Frederick Potter’s wife Clara. Mrs Potter was as portly as her husband and was laced extremely tightly into a dress of gold satin.

  I wore one of the few evening dresses I owned. It was made of russet-coloured satin, with fringing around the hips, a small bustle and a buttoned bodice. A silk shawl covered my bandaged shoulder, and before leaving home I had hastily pinned some rather limp cotton flowers into my hair.

  “How are you after the stabbing, Miss Green?” asked Frederick.

  “Quite recovered, thank you,” I replied. “What happened at the office? Mr Sherman told me to stay away, but I’m still not sure why.”

  “You don’t know why?” said Frederick with surprise. Just as he was about to elaborate we were interrupted as a sixth guest was shown into the room.

  Mr Edwards.

  His hair was neatly parted and he was dressed in a smart evening suit I hadn’t seen him wear before. I almost found him handsome, and I smiled warmly.

  “I hope you don’t mind us inviting Mr Edwards,” Georgina whispered into my ear. “We couldn’t think who else to invite to balance the numbers, and then Edgar remembered that you and Mr Edwards were acquaintances.”

  “Thank you, Georgina. I don’t mind at all.”

  A large white cat curled around my skirts. I bent down to stroke it and felt a lump in my throat as Tiger came back to my mind.

  “Are you all right, Miss Green?” asked Mr Edwards with a look of concern.

  “Yes, it’s only a superficial wound,” I replied.

  “It may be superficial, but the person who did it surely intended you serious harm!”

  “They may have done, but fortunately it was easily treated.”

  “Have the police caught the culprit?” he asked.

  “No. It was impossible to see who did it. The station was busy, and it happened so quickly. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was our friend Maria Forsyth.”

  “She wouldn’t go to such extreme lengths, would she?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Edwards, but that foolish inspector let her go, and I have no doubt that she still poses a threat. The situation is extremely frustrating.”

  “Perhaps a glass of champagne will make you feel better, Penny,” said Georgina.

  “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Thank you.”

  We dined on pigeon compote in a pleasantly furnished dining room with large windows overlooking the garden. I impatiently speared at my food with my fork, waiting for an opportunity to find out what had happened at the office.

  “I can’t help but admire your carriage clock, Georgina,” said Clara.

  “Thank you. We received it as a gift at our wedding, didn’t we, Edgar?”

  “We did indeed,” replied Edgar. “I must say I was listening to the thing ticking the other evening and it got me thinking about where on earth seconds and minutes come from. And hours and days. How did that whole business come about?”

  “It’s the time it takes for the earth to rotate,” said Frederick. “And for the
earth to travel around the sun.”

  “I know that, Potter. What I mean is that some chap somewhere decided to count it all up into seconds and minutes, and so on. Who on earth did that?”

  “We have the invention of the mechanical clock to thank for that,” said Mr Edwards. “Until time was represented on a clock face nobody concerned themselves too much with minutes and seconds.”

  “How the dickens were they on time for anything?” asked Edgar.

  Mr Edwards shrugged. “I don’t suppose time mattered so much back then. Summer hours were longer and winter hours were shorter.”

  “Hours were longer and shorter?” asked Edgar. “What are you talking about, Edwards?”

  Mr Edwards laughed. “It does seem rather confusing, doesn’t it? To summarise, the measurement of time uses the sexagesimal system, which we can credit as an invention to the Babylonians. Coincidentally, it fits well with the duodecimal system, which the ancient Egyptians used to divide the day into smaller segments. They began this with the use of sundials, which were simple at first but became surprisingly sophisticated.”

  I sipped my wine as Mr Edwards spoke and recalled how quickly he had sprinted across Russell Square. There was no doubt that he was talented, both physically and intellectually.

  “I’m sorry, but I found myself lost at sexa... What was it you said?” asked Edgar.

  “The sexagesimal system,” replied Mr Edwards. “It uses sixty as a base. There is also duodecimal, which uses twelve.”

  “I see,” said Edgar.

  “Twelve fits into sixty neatly five times over, which is rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?” said Mr Edwards.

  “And there are twenty-four hours in a day, which is twice twelve!” said Frederick. “It’s all quite simple, Fish. I don’t know why you’re looking so baffled.”

  “Greek astronomers refined the system of timekeeping, of course,” continued Mr Edwards. “And it would be remiss of me not to mention the Persians with their water clocks and the Chinese with their candle clocks.”

  “Important not to forget them,” added Frederick.