Curse of the Poppy (Penny Green Series Book 5)

by Emily Organ

  “The Forster family who fell victim to that dreadful burglary and murder business?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s horrifying, isn’t it? I cannot understand why they should have been harmed in such a manner.”

  “Me neither. And the police haven’t made much progress with the case as yet. I think they should be speaking to the people who knew the Forsters.”

  “I’m sure they already are.”

  “But not all of them. I spoke to a chap who Inspector Bowles thought was of no consequence at all. I’m not convinced he’s interested in speaking to the man, though I think he may have some valuable information.”

  “Is this the man you wish to discover more about?”

  “Yes. His name is Charles Mawson, and he told me he was living near the Forsters while he was working for the Indian government. There’s a periodical which summarises news and appointments in India, isn’t there? I’m trying to remember the name of it.”

  “The Homeward Mail?”

  “Yes! That’s the one, Mr Edwards, thank you. Presumably there are copies held here?”

  “There are indeed. Do you intend to search for a mention of this Mawson chap?”

  “Yes. There might also be something in there about the Forsters.”

  “I believe it’s a weekly publication, Miss Green, which means there would be quite a lot of information to search through. It could take you a long while.”

  “Mr Mawson told me he returned about a year ago. Hopefully there are passenger lists in The Homeward Mail.”

  “I seem to recall that just about everything is listed in that publication. What is it exactly that you wish to find out?”

  “Whatever I can. I should like to find Mawson and ask him what else he knows.”

  “I’ll show you where it’s stored, and hopefully something will leap out from its pages for you.”

  I followed Mr Edwards, feeling relieved that he had returned to his usual self after witnessing the events of that unforgettable dinner party. After a short walk we reached the newspaper storage area of the British Library, where shelves from floor to ceiling held tall, leather-bound volumes.

  “Here we are. The Homeward Mail, July to September 1883,” he said, pointing at a heavy-looking volume. “Do you think this might include a reference to your chap Mr Mawson?”

  “He told me he had returned a year ago, so he must be in the passenger lists if nothing else.”

  “Let me lift this off the shelf and carry it into the newspaper reading room for you, Miss Green. It’s rather cumbersome.”

  We walked to the newspaper reading room where Mr Edwards rested the volume on a rack over one of the desks.

  “There you are,” he said with a smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. It seems rather a daunting task.”

  “Thank you, Mr Edwards.”

  “And do let me know when you need to look through the other volumes, won’t you? They’re rather heavy to be carrying about by yourself.”

  “I’ll manage. Thank you, Mr Edwards.”

  “I mean it, Miss Green. I wouldn’t wish for you to injure yourself.”

  I spent much of the morning leafing through copies of The Homeward Mail hoping to find any mention I could of the Forsters or Mr Mawson.

  I skimmed through various articles on the Indian budget, schools, military intelligence, stocks and shares, the cotton trade, shipping intelligence, births, marriages and deaths. I found no mention whatsoever of Mr Mawson in the passenger lists.

  I eventually ran out of time. The volume was heavy, as Mr Edwards had warned me, but I managed to return it to the shelves. The time had come to write my article about the prime minister’s recent speech on fruit farming.

  Chapter 10

  “It fills me with fear that a woman could be murdered in her own home,” said Eliza. “Whenever I think of poor Mrs Forster I shake like a leaf!”

  “And now the husband’s dead too,” added her husband George. “It’s a terrible state of affairs.”

  I was dining with Eliza and George at their large home in Bayswater. My brother-in-law was a lawyer: a tall man with wavy brown hair swept to one side. He had thick mutton-chop whiskers and the buttons on his waistcoat strained around his generous girth.

  “Please don’t worry, Ellie,” I said. “I don’t think Mrs Forster’s death was a case of a burglary gone wrong. I think it’s more likely that she was the intended target.”

  “That’s even worse!”

  “I know it’s dreadful, but it should be of some reassurance. I’m quite sure nobody wishes to murder you.”

  “But how do you know that? Presumably poor Mrs Forster had no idea that someone wished to murder her, yet they did exactly that!”

  “And don’t forget about the husband,” said George, sawing away at his lamb cutlet with a blunt knife. “Stabbed to death outside the East India. That’s only a few streets away from my club! It could just as easily have been me stabbed in the back.”

  “There’s no denying that it’s horrific,” I said, “but someone must have had a reason to attack Mr Forster. It wasn’t just a man lying in wait for any old gentleman to step outside his club of an evening. Someone had a reason for wanting the Forsters dead.”

  “But what could that reason have been?” asked my sister.

  “That’s what the police need to find out,” I replied.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if you were trying to find out as well, Penelope,” she said.

  “I’m taking an interest in the case. I spoke briefly to a friend of the Forsters, who I’m sure must have some clue about who might wish to murder them. Perhaps it was the chap himself! The trouble is, I don’t know how to find him again.”

  “There’s a surprise,” said George. “If he’s the man behind it I expect he’s scarpered. He’s probably escaped to the continent by now. Switzerland. That’s a good place to escape to; nobody bothers a chap in Switzerland.”

  “Adjust your serviette, George, or you’ll end up with gravy on your shirt,” scolded Eliza.

  Her husband did as he was told.

  “But I still don’t understand the motive behind the two murders,” she continued. “What could they ever have done to harm someone to such an extent? They were a respectable married couple living in a respectable home without bothering anyone.”

  “And rather wealthy, too,” added George.

  “But why murder them?” asked Eliza.

  “We don’t know enough of the detail about their lives as yet,” I said. “Perhaps they did harm someone and we don’t know about it.”

  “Nonsense, how could they?” said Eliza. “Wealthy people who live in respectable homes don’t go around harming people, do they George?”

  “They most certainly do not.”

  “They led a whole life in India which we know nothing about,” I said.

  “That makes them even more respectable!” said George. “What did Forster do? Indian government? Military?”

  “He worked for a merchant in Calcutta.”

  “Eminently respectable,” said George, taking a sip of wine. “We look after the legal affairs of several Indian merchants. You don’t find anyone more respectable than them.”

  “I have learned very little about Mr Forster so far,” I said, “but I did hear that he once worked for a merchant who dealt primarily in cotton and opium.”

  “The opium trade?” asked Eliza. “Oh dear. How I detest the opium trade. I don’t understand why the government won’t abolish it.”

  “Because it makes too much blessed money, that’s why,” said George. “Not as much as it used to, but still a fair amount.”

  “But it’s immoral, darling!” protested Eliza. “Have you seen what opium does to people? It turns them into empty, vapid husks of their former selves. Opium addicts become selfish and neglect their families, and eventually they neglect themselves as well. It’s nothing short of a tragedy.”

  “But if John Chinaman wishes t
o smoke opium it’s not our duty to stop him,” replied George.

  “But it’s bad for him! It’s bad for China! I feel sorry for all those poor little Chinese babies whose parents show far more interest in their opium pipes than their charges.”

  “The Chinaman has smoked opium for hundreds of years,” said George. “And if the British didn’t sell it to them they’d only grow it themselves. In fact they do, and I hear it’s rather poor quality when compared with the opium of Malwa or Bengal. Better that they smoke ours, and that we make some money from it in the meantime. The Chinese government also makes money on it from the import duty! It’s not as if we’re smuggling it any more; it’s all perfectly above board these days.”

  “It may be above board, George, but it’s still immoral,” said Eliza.

  George laughed. “Trust a woman to consider morality above revenue! Do you know how much the opium trade is predicted to make for us this year? In excess of eight-and-a-half million. Abolish the trade and where on earth could we raise eight million pounds from instead? Do you think the British taxpayer would be willing to cover the deficit? I should think not. And we’re not just talking about money here; we’re also talking about trade. How else would we get our hands on fine silk and porcelain? You’re rather fond of the Canton vases, Eliza. In order to display such fine Chinese porcelain in our homes we must trade something in return. The British have nothing that is of interest to the Chinese save for opium, so opium it is.”

  “If that’s how we came by the Canton vases I think they should be sent back,” said Eliza sulkily.

  George laughed again. “All the way back to Canton? I knew it would be hopeless trying to explain such matters to a woman! It’s easy to throw one’s hands up in the air at the plight of poor little Chinese babies, but far more difficult to understand the economics of the modern globe. This is how empire operates, Eliza, and it’s what my clients have to continually explain to the empty-headed chaps at the Society for the Abolition of the Opium Trade.”

  “I think that sounds like a very worthwhile society,” said Eliza. “I should like to join it.”

  “I think you belong to quite enough societies for the time being,” said George. “And many of these so-called societies are founded on passions of the heart rather than on anything factual, or indeed any knowledge of how the world really works.”

  “I’m not sure I always agree with the way the world works,” I said.

  “Neither do I, Penelope,” said George, “but this is what we are up against.”

  “But isn’t it admirable to demand change?” I asked.

  “Yes, when it makes sense to do so,” he replied.

  “But perhaps it doesn’t always appear to make sense at the time,” I said. “When it was first suggested that women should have the vote many people said it made little sense.”

  “And many still say it,” said Eliza.

  George groaned. “Oh, not that topic again. If you think I’m about to ruin my dinner discussing women’s suffrage with the pair of you, you’re sorely mistaken. I happen to have a lot of work to do for a client who is just about to land a lucrative contract with the India Office. Do excuse me while I get on with that.” He stood and dropped his serviette onto his plate. “I shall take pudding in my study,” he said to the butler on his way out.

  “I do apologise on behalf of my husband, Penelope,” said Eliza once he had left the room. “He’s so terribly stubborn and old-fashioned.”

  She was trying to smile, but I noticed that her eyes were damp.

  “There’s no need to apologise. I’ve known George long enough to recognise his views on most things.”

  “But don’t you find it all rather frustrating?” she asked. “You and I can see the things that are wrong, and we want to do something about them. We want to change them. But as long as men like George remain in charge we have no hope, do we?”

  “There is always hope, Ellie. We just have to keep speaking up and making ourselves unpopular.”

  Eliza laughed. “It seems to be the only way. Do you know who I should like to see again, Penelope? Mr Edwards. He’s a good conversationalist. How is he?”

  “He’s well. In fact, he has been assisting me in my research today.”

  “Oh good. I think an excursion with him is long overdue, don’t you? And besides, we need to speak to him about Mr Fox-Stirling’s search for Father. As a generous benefactor Mr Edwards needs to be closely involved, don’t you think? Some time spent with him will take your mind off that troublesome inspector’s forthcoming wedding.”

  Chapter 11

  “Here you are, Miss Green,” whispered Mr Edwards, placing some papers on my desk. “I spent a bit of time perusing The Homeward Mail and made some notes for you.”

  “There was no need to do that!” I whispered in surprise. “It must have taken you ages.”

  “It didn’t take that long, and I had some spare time anyway,” he replied. “I began at January 1882 and worked through to December 1883. I found a few mentions of the Forsters and Mr Mawson in the listings.”

  “That’s extremely helpful of you, Mr Edwards, thank you. You must have put an enormous amount of your time into this. I really don’t deserve it.”

  “You don’t deserve it, Miss Green? What nonsense!”

  James had done such a convincing job of persuading Mr Edwards of my virtue that he seemed content to spend as much time helping me as he had done before, but I felt rather guilty about the whole affair. I knew I had been partly to blame for the kiss, yet Mr Edwards considered me entirely innocent.

  “Thank you again, but there really is no need to go to such great lengths on my behalf.”

  “But why ever not, Miss Green? I’ve helped you with your research in the past and I’m simply continuing in the same vein. Has anything changed?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He softened his whisper further. “That business with Inspector Blakely is all forgotten about. There is no need to feel ashamed about the matter.”

  “Thank you, Mr Edwards. I would prefer not to be reminded of it.”

  “I shan’t mention it again, Miss Green. Perhaps we could enjoy another walk out together in one of the parks again soon. You could invite your delightful sister to accompany us.”

  “Perhaps we could.”

  “I should very much like to discuss the search Mr Fox-Stirling is to conduct into your father’s whereabouts.”

  “Oddly enough, Eliza said the same thing at dinner time yesterday. You have made an extremely generous donation to the search, and it is only right that you should have some say in how it is undertaken.”

  “Oh, I don’t wish to have any say, Miss Green! I merely wish to take a keen interest. Mr Fox-Stirling will be in charge of it all.”

  “Yes, I daresay he will.”

  “Perhaps you could ask your sister when might be a convenient time for her.”

  “I will do, Mr Edwards.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “I shall leave you alone with your work now. I know how busy you are.”

  “How is Inspector Paget getting on with the investigation into Mr Forster’s death?” I asked Edgar in the newsroom that afternoon.

  “I’ve visited him several times at Vine Street police station, but he’s rather fed up with me questioning him,” replied Edgar.

  “Inspector Bowles is the same with me,” I said. “Between us we’re duplicating quite a bit of the effort, aren’t we? It makes sense for just one of us to be working on the story.”

  “Yes, but there’s little we can do about that now. It was the editor’s decision.”

  “What was the editor’s decision?” asked Mr Sherman as he marched into the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him in his customary manner.

  “The decision to have me working on Mrs Forster’s murder and Edgar working on Mr Forster’s,” I said. “It means that we’re both putting a lot of time into what might have been treated as one story.”

  “Ah, I see.
” Mr Sherman puffed on his pipe as he gave this some thought. “I suppose we could consider it one story given that they were husband and wife.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I think it would be better for one of us to work on the murders, Mr Sherman, as they must surely be linked.”

  “They might well be,” he replied. “The chances of both Mr and Mrs Forster being killed in unrelated attacks within a matter of days must be fairly slim.” He paused a moment longer. “Fish!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You will take both the Forster stories.”

  “But sir!” I protested. “I’ve already done a lot of work on the Forsters!”

  “Work I asked you to do? Or work which you have undertaken because you fancy yourself the detective, Miss Green?”

  “Work I felt necessary in order to understand the case,” I replied, feeling aggrieved.

  “Well, no need to worry about it any longer as Fish has the story now. I want you at Limehouse Mortuary tomorrow afternoon to report on the inquest into the death of a chap who was pulled out of the river. They think he was the chief engineer on the steamship Gaia, which collided with the SS Hoxton. I believe they have recovered all the bodies, but an update from you would clarify that nicely. In the meantime, you have Mr Gladstone’s fruit farming speech to be getting on with.”

  “Mr Sherman, I beseech you to let me work on the Forster case.”

  “You will work on the stories I give you, Miss Green. Now get on with it, and no more of your perpetual detective work.”

  Chapter 12

  I sat at a table with several other reporters in the dreary, high-ceilinged courtroom of Limehouse Mortuary. Opposite me was Tom Clifford of The Holborn Gazette. He grinned at me, his slack jaw chewing on a piece of tobacco. On raised benches behind him sat the jury, and behind me was the witness stand. Members of the public occupied the benches to my right.

  “Didn’t I see yer in St James’s Square?” Tom Clifford asked me.