Curse of the Poppy (Penny Green Series Book 5)

by Emily Organ

  He stopped and looked at me. “That’s terribly kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Green. It’s been a huge blow, it really has. I cannot make head nor tail of it.”

  “When we last spoke you were trying to find him. Did you succeed before his tragic death?”

  “I did. I found out that he was residing at the East India, which I should have guessed, anyhow. We spent a pleasant evening together the night before he died.”

  “Pleasant? Even though his wife had just been murdered?”

  “I chose my words unwisely, Miss Green, I do apologise. The chap had been through the most appalling time and it was the first opportunity he had found to enjoy some whisky and a chat with a friend. I shan’t pretend that it was easy, but it was convivial. The fellow was in need of some light conversation; a brief respite from the darkness into which he had been plunged. I don’t understand why such a pleasant, friendly couple should have had their lives taken from them in such a dreadful way. Mrs Forster was a delightful lady, the daughter of a tailor. Her family were Somerset folk and she never lost the slight burr in her accent no matter how hard she tried to conceal it.”

  We reached an ornate door.

  “Have you ever seen the inner courtyard before, Miss Green?”

  “No, this is the first time I have ever been here.”

  Mr Mawson pushed it open and we stepped out onto a flight of steps that led down to an expansive marble floor. A glass roof stretched high above our heads, and surrounding us were three storeys of elegant arches, columns and balustrades.

  “The Sultan of Turkey was received here in 1867,” said Mr Mawson. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Mrs Forster was instrumental in organising the walks and picnics in India, and colossal picnics they were too!” continued Mawson. “She would have her servants working for an entire day to prepare the food, and then they would have to carry it all, of course. Mr Forster and I dined at the club each Wednesday evening, and we’d go out shooting partridge on a Saturday afternoon. He was an accomplished whist player and a good dancer. There was at least one dance a week in those days.”

  “It seems you and the Forsters were kept quite busy out there.”

  “Oh, we were, and the lawn tennis tournaments were also enjoyable. I don’t consider myself much of a player, but I did manage third place once.”

  Mr Mawson seemed keen to impress upon me the lifestyle he had enjoyed in India, but he had told me little about himself. I wondered whether his achievements were, like his tennis ability, rather mediocre.

  We walked across the highly polished floor toward a flight of steps at the far end of the courtyard.

  “What did you do in Bengal, Mr Mawson?” I asked.

  “I worked for the Indian government in various capacities; most of them administrative and extremely dull, I’m afraid. I spent time at a few locations in Bengal and some in Calcutta itself. The work didn’t hold much interest for me, but the social life, as you have heard, more than made up for it.”

  He paused to look up at the roof. “This courtyard takes my breath away every time I walk through it. Does it have the same effect on you, Miss Green?”

  “There’s no doubt that it’s an extremely impressive sight, Mr Mawson.”

  I thought of the wealth that must have been required to build such a beautiful place, and the eight million pounds of opium revenue came to mind. I was astonished that the British government made so much money from the trade. Then my thoughts shifted to the death of Alfred Holland at a miserable opium den in Limehouse.

  Somehow it all seemed to be part of the same intricate web.

  “Have you ever come across a man named Alfred Holland?” I asked Mr Mawson as we ascended the steps.

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “I attended the inquest into his death yesterday. He was shot dead at an opium den in Limehouse.”

  “Oh goodness, how unfortunate.” He opened the door in front of us and we stepped into another elaborate corridor.

  “You may have come across him,” I continued, “because he also worked for the Indian government. He was an opium agent in Ghazipur.”

  “Was he indeed? There are many chaps employed up there, you know. It’s the largest opium factory in the world.”

  “You haven’t heard any mention of him? Or of his murder?”

  “Not until you mentioned it just now.”

  “I realise the topic of murder is rather a gloomy one, but I hope you don’t mind me asking whether you have any idea who might have wished to murder Mr and Mrs Forster?”

  “None at all, Miss Green. Forster had no idea who had attacked his wife, but he believed the motive to be burglary. And as for who attacked him, I simply don’t know. I wasn’t aware of any grievance he had with anyone.”

  “Do you think they were murdered for the same reason?”

  “Who can say? But it has to be more than just a coincidence. Someone clearly wanted them both dead, but I can’t for the life of me think why.”

  “Have the police interviewed you?”

  “No, why should they?”

  “Because you knew the couple. Perhaps you unwittingly know something about them which could help the police investigation.”

  Mr Mawson laughed. “I think you’re overestimating me, Miss Green. I merely socialised with them. I had no knowledge of their intimate affairs.”

  “I’m wondering whether there’s a connection between their deaths and Mr Holland’s.”

  “Why should there be?”

  “Both men worked in India and were involved in the opium trade.”

  “I wish you every success in finding a connection, Miss Green, but I cannot think of one.”

  “I wonder where I might find someone who worked with Mr Holland. Would you be able to find out for me, Mr Mawson?”

  “Such as who?”

  “Someone who worked with him in Ghazipur, perhaps. Preferably someone who is back on home soil now.”

  Mr Mawson grimaced. “I could try, but I don’t know how successful I’d be. A lot of chaps have worked there, I suppose, but the chances of finding someone who knew this Holland chap seem rather slim.”

  Chapter 15

  As arranged, I met Inspector Reeves by the Chinese laundry in Commercial Road. Tom Clifford was already there when I arrived.

  “Oh, you turned up, Miss Green,” he said disappointedly as he chewed on his tobacco.

  “Of course I did. I wouldn’t let The Holborn Gazette be the only newspaper to carry a story about an opium den.”

  The inspector removed the pipe from his mouth and held out his hand for payment. Once we had each handed over three shillings we were on our way.

  The sun was setting as we left the busy thoroughfare of Commercial Road, turning into a side street which led us beneath the railway.

  “You’ll need a strong stomach for where we’re going,” said Inspector Reeves. “Have you reported on many murder cases before?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Which ones?”

  “Lizzie Dixie, the St Giles’ murders, Sophia Glenville, Richard Geller —”

  “I’ve done that lot an’ all,” interrupted Tom Clifford. “And I’ve done more ’an that. The man who’s been found in the canal and that other one where he got pushed under a train.”

  “The same man?” I asked with a smile.

  “No, they was different murders. You can’t get pushed into a canal and under a train.”

  “Not unless you’re extremely unlucky,” said Inspector Reeves.

  “Miss Green’s very friendly with an inspector down the Yard,” continued Tom Clifford.

  “Which one?”

  “Inspector Blakely. Turns out ’er and the inspector’s quite the double act when it comes to murders.”

  “Is that so?” asked Reeves.

  “Not really,” I replied curtly.

  “The rest of us reporters don’t get no chance when it comes to the
Yard. Miss Green’s the favourite.”

  We found ourselves in a narrow street of cramped dwellings with several people watching us from dark doorways.

  “Evenin’, Inspector,” called a man from outside a ship chandler’s store.

  “Evening, Juggins,” replied Inspector Reeves.

  The man stared at me and I suddenly felt out of place.

  Outside a noisy pub, a group of dark-skinned sailors sang in a language I didn’t recognise. A woman in a brightly coloured dress and headscarf quickly ducked out of sight.

  “Mr Holland was an opium agent in India. Is it possible that his habitual use of the drug began there?” I asked Inspector Reeves.

  “It’s a possibility. After all, he was surrounded by the stuff in Ghazipur, wasn’t he? But not all men come back from there addicted to opium. Perhaps he had a weaker character than most.”

  “I’m surprised that a man who had shown such promise should have his life ended in such a sad manner.”

  “It happens, Miss Green,” replied Inspector Reeves. “Education and wealth aren’t always enough. A man must rely on the strength of his character.”

  “True enough,” added Tom Clifford.

  “Do you think Mr Holland’s sister would be happy to speak to me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but you could try calling on her. You’ll have her address from the inquest, no doubt, but be aware that she’s grief-stricken, so don’t go upsetting her.”

  “Has she been able to tell you anything useful about what may have led to his murder?”

  “No, she knows very little of what he’d been getting up to,” replied the inspector. “He kept his opium-soaked life to himself.”

  We crossed the road and walked briskly through a dingy alleyway which ran between two enormous warehouses. The alleyway opened out into Regent’s Canal Dock, where tall sail ships were moored beside rows of coal barges. Heavily loaded carts lumbered past us, seagulls wheeled above our heads and an unpleasant, dank smell rose up from the water, which lapped at the slimy stone walls.

  Inspector Reeves strode along the quay beside me with Tom Clifford following closely behind. Beyond the dock stretched the River Thames, its shore lined with warehouses, chimneys and cranes, which were silhouetted against the darkening sky.

  Without warning, the inspector turned sharply to his right and into a passageway I would otherwise have walked past without noticing it was there. A putrid odour hit my nose and I felt forced to hold my breath as we walked along the cobblestones. Tom Clifford mumbled a string of curse words relating to the stench.

  Inspector Reeves paused beside a door with flaked paint on it. I placed a hand over my nose and mouth in a vain attempt to keep the smell away.

  “Mr Tan has permitted us to visit his establishment,” announced Inspector Reeves.

  “We’re goin’ to see the gaff where Mr Holland was shot?” asked Tom Clifford.

  “We certainly are,” replied the inspector proudly.

  Tom eagerly pulled out his notebook and pencil, while I clasped my carpet bag and shivered. The alleyway was so wretched and miserable I wasn’t sure how prepared I was for what lay beyond the door. It reminded me of the misery I had encountered in St Giles’ Rookery during a previous murder investigation.

  Inspector Reeves knocked at the door and eventually it opened slightly. He and the occupant exchanged a few words, and then the door opened just wide enough to permit us entry.

  “Ladies first,” Tom said with a grin.

  “I’ll follow you,” I replied, feeling rather hesitant.

  The dingy corridor smelled almost as bad as the alleyway had. I could hardly see where I was going.

  “Mind the steps, there are a few missing,” said Inspector Reeves as we clambered up a narrow, greasy staircase.

  The hazy figures of Inspector Reeves and Tom Clifford turned right at the top of the stairs. I followed and knocked into the back of Tom, unaware that he had stopped.

  “You remember Mr Tan from the inquest, don’t you?” said the inspector.

  I couldn’t quite see the man from the doorway that led into a dimly lit room.

  “Yes. Evenin’, Mr Tan,” said Tom as he entered breezily.

  I remained where I was and simply peered in. My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and I saw that Mr Tan nodded a brief acknowledgement when he saw me.

  A thick layer of smoke floated above a dim paraffin lamp. A person lay on a mattress on the floor and two other forms lay prostrate on a bed. A fourth person was sprawled over a mattress lying upon some tea chests. In the gloom I could see that this person was reclining with a long pipe in his hand, the end of which was held over a small flame. A sweet, rich, floral smell mingled with the odour of unwashed bodies.

  I had worried at first about what the men in this place would think of a woman visiting, but I realised they were too insensible even to notice my presence. I considered the romantic idea of the opium den portrayed in theatre and art with its colourful wall hangings, silk cushions and paper lanterns. The room I saw now was a truly pitiful place. How dreadful had Mr Holland’s life become that he had needed to seek solace here?

  “Show the reporters where the bullet holes are, Mr Tan,” instructed Inspector Reeves.

  Mr Tan nodded and walked toward the dishevelled man lying on the tea chests. The man gazed at Mr Tan nonchalantly as the proprietor pointed beyond his shoulder at some marks on the wall.

  “Bullet hole,” he said.

  I shivered as I pictured Alfred Holland lying in that place and receiving the fatal gunshot to his head. I imagined how loud it would have sounded in this small room. Mr Tan seemed remarkably calm for a man who had been through such an ordeal. I reasoned that the opium had most likely dulled his senses.

  “Thank you, Inspector Reeves and Mr Tan,” I said. I was beginning to feel nauseous and craved clean air. “I think I’ve seen enough now.”

  “How does the opium pipe work?” asked Tom.

  Mr Tan picked up a thick bamboo pipe, which was about the length of his arm. It was etched decoratively and a small silver bowl was attached to one end. Mr Tan proceeded to explain how the opium was placed in the bowl and then heated over the flame.

  “I can’t ’ave come all this way up ’ere not to give it a go!” said Tom cheerily.

  “But a man died in here,” I said. “Don’t you wish to leave immediately?”

  “I should imagine that a good few men have died in here,” said Inspector Reeves.

  “I’m going back outside now, Inspector,” I replied, “Thank you for your time.”

  My stomach turned as I stumbled down the staircase, and I held my breath until I was safely back at the quayside of Regent’s Canal Dock.

  Chapter 16

  A light drizzle fell the following morning as I arrived at Drummond Street. The Euston Hotel and a row of terraced houses lined one side, while on the other was Euston station with its enormous, sandstone arch, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in ancient Greece. The word ‘Euston’ was etched into its architrave in gold lettering.

  I found number seven: a modest, three-storey terrace. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and hoped Alfred Holland’s sister Emma would be willing to speak to me.

  A maid with a black armband answered the door and asked me to wait in the hallway while she took my card to her mistress. I felt relieved when she returned and informed me that Miss Holland was prepared to see me.

  I was led into a parlour at the front of the house. The curtains were drawn, the mirror above the fireplace was covered with black crepe and the room was lit by two gas lamps. Miss Holland stood by the fireplace, her face and hands white against the black of her mourning dress. I guessed she was about twenty-three years of age.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Holland,” I said. “Please accept my condolences for your brother’s untimely death.”

  She nodded warily and waited for me to continue.

  “I realise this must be a difficult t
ime for you,” I said, “and I hope not to detain you for long. I attended the inquest and I should like to find out more about your brother. It seems he led rather an interesting life.”

  “Why do you want to discover more about him?” Her eyes were a hard, sharp green.

  “To understand why someone might have wished to harm him.”

  “But isn’t that the job of the police?”

  “It is, yes, and I know that Inspector Reeves is working hard to find your brother’s murderer. But I am interested to find out whether Alfred’s murder might be connected to the death of a couple from Fitzrovia; a Mr and Mrs Forster. They also worked in India. Bengal, to be precise.”

  “I read about them in the newspaper, but I don’t think Alfred would have known them. They once lived in Calcutta, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Alfred was in Ghazipur, which is more than four hundred miles from Calcutta.”

  “Yes, I can see how their paths may not have crossed, though Mr Forster worked for a merchant which traded in opium, and Alfred was an opium agent.”

  “But a great many people work within the opium trade. I don’t see any reason why the two should have necessarily known each other.”

  I sighed. “No, I suppose the chances are rather slim.”

  As her eyes remained on me I wondered exactly what I had hoped to achieve. My conviction that Alfred Holland and the Forsters had somehow known one another seemed rather weak, but I couldn’t think of anything else to suggest.

  “Would you like some tea, Miss Green?” she asked, her expression softening a little.

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Holland. Thank you.”

  She called for the maid and gestured for me to take a seat on the settee. Once she had asked for some tea to be brought in she seated herself in an easy chair next to the fireplace.

  “I haven’t spoken to many people about Alfred,” she said. “He had lost many of his friends, and our parents had disowned him.”

  “Because of his opium habit?”

  She nodded. “It turned him into a selfish person. He was my brother and I loved him dearly, but I didn’t like the man he became. The past year has been especially difficult. Since his death I have received few condolences, and as for my parents…” she paused as her eyes grew damp “…I can’t tell whether they’re sad or relieved. He brought great shame on them after his return from India.”