by Emily Organ
“Where did you vanish to, Miss Green?” asked Edgar when he returned to the newsroom that afternoon.
“I wasn’t allowed inside the East India Club.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised. It only takes a single glance to realise you’re trouble.” He laughed.
“I didn’t find it funny at the time.”
“You truly weren’t allowed inside? I thought you were joking.”
“The East India is a gentleman’s club, Edgar,” said Frederick Potter. “Miss Green is a member of the fairer sex.”
“Yes, I realise she’s a lady. Thank you, Potter,” said Edgar. “But I didn’t realise the club would stop you going in altogether, Miss Green. That’s a bit out of sorts, isn’t it?”
“Do you ever see ladies at your club, Edgar?” asked Frederick.
“No, it’s not a place for ladies.”
“And that’s precisely why Miss Green wasn’t allowed in.”
“But surely an exception should have been made!” protested Edgar. “She’s a news reporter and works just as hard as you and I do.”
“Thank you, Edgar,” I said. “Perhaps you could have helped me explain that to the man on the door.”
“I hadn’t even realised he’d stopped you, Miss Green. I do apologise.”
“He wouldn’t have allowed her in even if you had explained it,” said Frederick. “Rules are rules.”
“Let’s forget about all that now,” I said. “Did you write down everything the police had to say, Edgar?”
“I certainly did.”
“What happened to Mr Forster?”
“The unfortunate chap was staying at the club after all that terrible business with the burglary and the murder of his wife. Yesterday evening he decided to step out into St James’s Square for some air, and that’s when the attacker struck. A knife in the back, it was.”
I winced. “Were there any witnesses to the murder?”
“Not that the police are aware of. It’s believed that Mr Forster was lying there for a while before he was discovered by a constable doing his rounds.”
“At what time was that?”
“About two o’clock this morning. The constable had previously walked the perimeter of the square shortly before midnight and all had been quiet at that point. And then at some time between midnight and two o’clock, the poor fellow was done in. The chap on the reception desk at the club said he thought Forster had left for his walk shortly after midnight. He’d had a few drinks at one of the lounges beforehand and had presumably decided to take some air before retiring for the night.”
“Has there been any sign of the murder weapon?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“But why? Why would someone wish to murder him?”
“That’s the question everyone asks, isn’t it? I can’t see why there should ever be a reason to murder anyone.”
“Oh, I can think of a few good reasons,” said Frederick.
“Perhaps someone knew that he’d had his wife murdered and then killed him in a quest for revenge,” I suggested. “Or perhaps he somehow found out the identity of the men who had killed his wife and was murdered to prevent him from telling anyone.”
Edgar nodded. “Either theory is possible.”
“Or,” I continued, “the people who killed his wife had also intended to kill him that same evening but were unable to because he was absent, so they finally caught up with him.”
“Anything’s possible, Miss Green,” said Edgar, “but it’s not for us to conjecture. We must leave the detective work to Inspector Paget of C Division.”
“I’ve just thought of another scenario!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps his death has nothing to do with his wife’s, and instead he had an argument with someone at the club. That person may have followed him out and stabbed him in the back.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Edgar. “Why are you hurling all these theories at me? Do I look like a detective?”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” I replied.
“There are many things I wish to make sense of, Miss Green, but striving to consider every possible explanation isn’t a sensible use of my time.”
“We need to find out more,” I said.
“And we will, in good time.”
“Thank you for writing everything down, Edgar. If you could pass me your notes I’ll get the article written up.”
He scowled at me. “I shall be the one writing the article, Miss Green.”
“But I was there before you!”
“Were you?”
“Yes!”
“At what time?” asked Edgar.
“I left my home at half-past five. How about you?”
“I left at six, but I live nearer to St James’s Square than you, so I was there first.”
“You were not! I managed to get further into the crowd than you, which confirms that I was there earlier.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Edgar, I have to write this article because I wrote the one about Mrs Forster’s murder.”
“Ah, but it’s not the same story.”
“It is! It involves the same family.”
“But it’s a separate incident.”
“I saw Mr Forster the morning after his wife’s murder. I’m closer to this story than you.”
“It’s an entirely different story, Miss Green.”
“If I’d been allowed inside the East India Club this story would have been mine!” I fumed.
“Maybe, but then again maybe not,” said Frederick. “You’d both still be bickering about it whether you had been allowed into the club or not, Miss Green.”
“Thank you, Potter,” said Edgar. “I’m pleased you agree that the story is mine.”
“I said nothing of the kind,” replied Frederick.
“Whose story should it be, then?”
“Miss Green’s, given that she wrote the story about the wife.”
Mr Sherman marched into the newsroom. “Good Lord!” he declared. “What’s all this noise about?”
“Miss Green and I have been arguing about who should write the story on Mr Forster’s murder,” said Edgar. “I say it should be me as I was on the scene first and was able to listen to Inspector Paget’s briefing at the East India Club. Miss Green wasn’t permitted entry because she’s a woman.”
“I see, well get on with your article then, Fish,” replied the editor. “Less talk and more writing, please.”
“Edgar gets the story?” I said. “But I covered Mrs Forster’s murder. It’s only fitting that I write this piece!”
“I cannot abide discord, Miss Green,” replied Mr Sherman. “I want four hundred words from you about the funeral of Bishop Claughton, and you’ll need to typewrite it quickly as the deadline is fast approaching.”
Chapter 8
I left the newsroom that evening feeling angry that Edgar had been given the story. It made no sense to me that the two murders should be treated as separate incidents. Surely Mr Forster’s death was related to the murder of his wife?
With Edgar working on the article it would be difficult for me to find out how the investigation was progressing. I was desperate to discuss the murders with someone, and James was the only person I could think of. We usually met at the Museum Tavern by the British Museum to discuss our work, but James’ fiancée Charlotte had begun to express her disapproval of our meetings. I felt I could no longer send him a telegram and ask to meet at our usual place. He had probably left Scotland Yard for the day, so the only alternative was to visit his home.
I had never called on James at home before and I wasn’t sure how he would receive me. Besides discussing the Forster murders I also wished to hear more about his conversation with Mr Edwards.
James lived at Henstridge Place in St John’s Wood. One side of the street was lined with large stucco buildings and James lived in one of the smart terraced houses on the opposite side. An unseasonably chill wind blew along the
street as I approached number twenty-five. My heart pounded heavily as I knocked at the door and waited.
I knew James would be surprised to see me, and I also knew that it wasn’t entirely ladylike for me to be here.
As I had hoped, James answered the door. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he had unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Penny! Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine, nothing to worry about. I just found myself passing by and thought I’d call in on you for a moment.”
“Passing by?”
“Yes.” I grinned.
I had expected him to invite me inside, but instead he stepped out onto the top step with an uneasy expression on his face.
“You’ve heard about poor Mr Forster, I presume?” I asked. “I was down in St James’s Square this morning, but Edgar has been given the story.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s quite shocking. I expect Inspector Paget of C Division has the matter in hand, but no doubt he’ll call on the Yard if he requires our assistance.”
“Have you discovered anything more about the gang that broke into Forster’s home?”
“I’ve spoken to the housekeeper and the maid, who have both given me their accounts. There’s a boy who worked there, too, and he managed to escape unharmed. I have a description of the men, but they disguised themselves quite well with hats and scarves over their faces. I made sure the descriptions were sent out to all the police divisions as it’s possible some of them may have encountered the gang before.”
“Could the same men have murdered Mr Forster, do you think?”
“It may be the same men behind both attacks. It’s terribly tragic, and it begs the question why.”
“Do you think Inspector Paget and Inspector Bowles are capable of finding that out?”
“I don’t doubt their competency, but there are two separate divisions working on this now: St James and Marylebone. I’ll have to see what I can do to coordinate the effort.”
“I don’t suppose you spoke to Mr Charles Mawson, who was hanging about the Forsters’ home when I saw you there?”
“The chap with the bushy whiskers? No, I didn’t. Did he have anything interesting to say for himself?”
“Only that he had known the Forsters in India. He seemed rather keen to find out where Mr Forster was. I had assumed he was asking out of concern for his friend, but now I’m beginning to wonder whether he had another motive.”
“He might have wanted to find him so he could stick a knife in his back, you mean?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“One of many possibilities at this stage, I should think.”
“The man was asking a lot of questions about the burglary. He seemed keen to find out what the police knew.”
“But that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“I realise that, but he may know something. I wish I could find him again.”
“Why don’t you try?” James asked.
“It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack! That’s why I hoped you had spoken to him. I wondered if there was an easy way to track him down.”
“Why don’t you ask Inspector Bowles?”
“Yes, I will. I know he spoke to the man, at least briefly. Perhaps he’s also suspicious of him. Thank you, James. I won’t detain you any longer.”
I felt disappointed that we had conducted our entire conversation on the doorstep. It appeared that James considered it ungentlemanly to invite me inside.
“Hopefully we shall see one another again soon,” I continued. “Perhaps when you have made some progress with Mrs Forster’s murder you could let me know.”
“Inspector Bowles would be better placed than I, Penny.”
“I suppose he would be, yes, I’ll ask him to update me. I shall be on my way then, James. Oh, I had a visit from Mr Edwards yesterday evening.”
“Is that so?” James’ brow furrowed.
“He told me about your conversation. You seem to have taken full responsibility for what happened at Eliza’s home, and he respects you for doing so.”
“Does he?” James lowered his voice. “Well, I do take responsibility for it, Penny, and I hope that the friendship between yourself and Mr Edwards is unaltered.”
“Yes, thankfully no great damage appears to have been done, which is quite miraculous given the circumstances.”
“He seems to be quite forgiving where you are concerned.”
“Thank you for speaking to him. Matters would no doubt have remained quite awkward between Mr Edwards and myself otherwise.”
“I wanted to do what I could to right the situation.”
“Well, things are righted now, thank you. Mr Edwards considers me a lady of virtue once more.”
I laughed and James smiled. We held each other’s gaze for a moment until I was startled by a woman’s voice from beyond the door.
“Who are you speaking to, darling?”
James gave a brief look of alarm before swiftly regaining his composure. The door opened wider to reveal Charlotte, whom I had met once before. She had a wide, apple-cheeked face framed by fair curls. I blinked and forced a smile onto my face.
“Miss Green!” she said. “What a surprise.” Her mouth smiled, but her blue eyes did not match it.
“Who is it?” came another voice. Behind Charlotte was an older woman with the same face, though decorated with age lines. It was Charlotte’s mother.
“How lovely to see you again, Miss Jenkins,” I said, trying my hardest to sound sincere.
“What is it you want?” Charlotte asked abruptly. Her tone was not as polite as it had been when I had met her last.
“I was passing by and needed to tell James something about a case I’m reporting on. That was all, Miss Jenkins. I’m just about to leave.”
“Charlotte and her mother are here to discuss wedding arrangements,” said James as cheerily as possible.
“How lovely,” I said. “It’s not long to go now, is it? Just six weeks, I believe. I shan’t detain you any longer; you must have a great deal to discuss.”
Chapter 9
“Thank you for your information regarding Mr Mawson, Miss Green. I shall bear him in mind.”
Inspector Bowles closed his notebook and tucked it into his jacket pocket. We stood in the wood-panelled waiting room at Marylebone Lane police station.
“I had hoped you would know where to find him,” I said.
“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know anything about the man.”
“Don’t you think he seems rather suspicious?”
“It sounds as though he was simply enquiring about the whereabouts of his friend when you spoke to him.”
“He wished to find his friend, and then his friend was murdered. What if he only wanted to locate Mr Forster so that he could carry out the deed?”
“That seems rather unlikely to me,” Inspector Bowles replied.
“But it’s a possibility. Who else do you suspect may have been behind Mr Forster’s murder?”
“C Division is investigating Mr Forster’s murder; I am investigating Mrs Forster’s murder.”
“Aren’t you communicating with one another about the two cases?”
“Absolutely. We know how to do our job, Miss Green.”
“Do you think the same person might be behind both murders?”
“That’s for myself and Inspector Paget to decide. Please allow me to proceed with my work now,” Inspector Bowles replied, “You’re fortunate I’m speaking to you at all. Many police officers have no time for news reporters, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, Inspector. There’s something else which has been troubling me since I saw Mr Forster the morning after his wife was murdered. I recall that you and he walked past me discussing something, and then he laughed.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, and I thought it rather an odd thing to do considering that his wife had just died. Do you not recall it?”
“I can’t say
that I do. It’s not as if we can ask the chap now, given that he’s dead.”
“You don’t remember him laughing?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I see. Well, thank you for your time, Inspector Bowles. I realise this has become quite a complicated case, but I’m sure Scotland Yard could be of some assistance.”
“I’ve already had Blakely from the Yard sniffing about and that will do for the time being. D Division is quite capable of handling this case. Thank you, Miss Green. You’ve taken an extremely keen interest in matters but please concentrate on your job and allow me to do mine.”
As the omnibus carried me along Oxford Street I reflected on the frosty reception I had received from Charlotte Jenkins the previous evening. Although I resented the manner in which she had spoken I knew that she had every right to be suspicious of me. Having asked James to stop meeting me at the Museum Tavern she must have been deeply annoyed to find me standing on his doorstep.
I wondered if she had discussed me with him after I left. I pictured an awkward conversation between James, Charlotte and her mother. After that they had probably forgotten all about me and discussed their plans for the wedding: which guests should be seated together, which should be kept apart and what they should all dine on.
How I envied Charlotte and wished I were the one discussing wedding plans with James. An advert for Pears Soap situated above the passenger opposite me caught my eye. Beaming out from the picture was a woman who looked just like Charlotte, all apple-cheeked and happy.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of other matters. My father. The book I was writing about my father. My cat. Charlotte may have been betrothed to James, but she didn’t have a cat as adorable as Tiger. Though it was but a small consolation, it offered momentary relief.
“You seem perplexed, Miss Green,” whispered Mr Edwards as I sat at my desk in the reading room. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I wouldn’t waste your penny, Mr Edwards.” I smiled. “I’m not perplexed; I’m just wondering how I might find out more about a person I met only briefly. He was a friend of Mr and Mrs Forster, and I think he may have been in possession of some useful information.”