by Emily Organ
“It’ll take a while for them to find the culprits, sir.”
“I’m sure it will. Why don’t you get down to D or C Division, or the Yard, and start asking more questions? I’m tired of you resting on your laurels in the newsroom. Police officers and the like need harassing. Miss Green may be guilty of carrying out work that is not strictly her own, but there’s no denying she’s out there giving chaps a difficult time until they answer her questions.”
“That sort of thing comes more naturally to the fairer sex,” replied Edgar.
“No more excuses, Fish. Get out of my sight and bring back something worth printing. Now, where have you got to on the Franchise Bill story, Miss Green?”
I was just about to reply when I heard a tentative knock at the door.
“Come in!” barked Mr Sherman.
The door opened slightly and in stepped Emma Holland.
“Can I help you, young lady?” asked the editor.
“My apologies for interrupting, sir, but I’d like to speak to Miss Green if I may.”
“Is it regarding a story she’s working on?”
“It is, sir,” I replied, standing to my feet. “This is Emma Holland, the sister of Alfred Holland.”
“The chap from the opium den? Please accept my condolences, Miss Holland.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have long, Miss Green. I need a thousand words on Lord Salisbury and the Franchise Bill by deadline today.”
Mr Sherman left the room and I moved some papers to make space for Emma to sit down. I introduced her to Edgar and Frederick, who greeted the young woman and then regarded her in respectful silence.
“Do you mind talking here in the newsroom?” I asked. “Or would you rather chat somewhere more private?”
Emma looked around. “Here should be fine.”
“Don’t worry,” said Edgar, “I’m just on my way out. I was ordered away by the editor.”
“I’ll be on my way too,” said Frederick. “I get nervous whenever I find myself outnumbered by women.”
Once the two men had left the room Emma pulled out a book from the bag she had been carrying.
“I didn’t intend to frighten your colleagues away, Penny.”
“Don’t worry about them. They have work to be getting on with.”
“This is Alfred’s diary from last year,” said Emma, laying it on the table. I could see that she had marked several passages with pieces of scarlet ribbon. She turned to one of them.
“Alfred describes how he caught one of his colleagues stealing opium.”
“What happened?”
“Do you recall me telling you that his job was to weigh the pots of opium when they arrived at the Ghazipur factory?”
I nodded in reply.
“As I said before, it was considered to be an important job because opium is so precious. The natives were keen to get their hands on it and had to be regularly checked to make sure they weren’t stealing the product. Apparently, even fragments of storage pots were highly sought-after in the hope that there might be opium residue on them.”
She turned the pages and pointed to a diary entry written in May of the previous year. “Alfred writes here that he discovered some of the papers were being altered. The opium was weighed in each district after it was harvested and then again on arrival at the factory. Alfred noticed that one of his colleagues was altering numbers on the form. It was quite a subtle change, with a single number being written on top of the original, but over the course of a few weeks he noticed these occasional corrections and the colleague’s behaviour became suspicious at times.”
“Did Alfred explain how?”
“It seems there was a nervousness about him. And on one occasion a bunch of keys went missing, only for this man to find them again. Alfred suspected he was behind the disappearance all along. You’re welcome to read about it here; he documents the whole affair.”
“Does he mention whether he reported his concerns to anyone?”
“Oh yes, he did. In the end he told someone senior and his colleague was dismissed.”
“I imagine his colleague would have been quite angry about that.”
“He probably was, but he was sent back to Britain so it’s unlikely that Alfred ever saw him again.”
“Did he name the colleague in his diaries?”
“He did, but I would need to look it up again as I can’t quite remember it.” She leafed through the pages. “Oh, here we are. Mawson. Charles Mawson.”
Chapter 35
“I recall a particularly difficult Atlantic crossing in 1880 when the sea was boiling with foam,” said Mr Fox-Stirling as we dined on roast chicken at Eliza’s home. My sister had invited the plant-hunter and his wife for dinner to discuss the arrangements for his search.
“While one side of the ship was down in the water the other was thirty feet up in the air,” he continued. “And then the side which had been thirty feet up in the air would swiftly descend and the water would sweep across the upper decks with a great splash and a roar.”
Mr Fox-Stirling was a stocky, fair-haired man of about fifty. He had dominated the evening’s conversation with his tales of adventure.
“Gosh, how terrifying,” said Francis.
Mr Fox-Stirling shrugged nonchalantly. “One grows perfectly accustomed to it after five days and five nights.”
George was present but had barely acknowledged my presence. I detected some sulkiness on his part for my appearance outside the Burlington Hotel.
“You must have suffered terrible seasickness, Mr Fox-Stirling,” said Eliza.
“The secret to overcoming seasickness is to maintain a full stomach. I ate like a horse throughout the storm and suffered no ill-effects whatsoever.”
“But how on earth can you even sit down to dinner when the ship is pitching about like that?” asked his silver-haired wife Margaret.
“There are ways and means, my dear. Batons are screwed onto the table, between which dinner plates are wedged with the assistance of rolled-up napkins. And the chairs are screwed to the floor. With such preparations a chap can enjoy a perfectly decent meal. My only complaint is that we had to endure pea soup three times a week.”
“I think the chef did well to serve any soup at all,” commented Eliza.
“Once the storm had passed the ocean was a thing of pure beauty,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “I sat on the deck smoking and watching the flying fish as the sun set.”
“Flying fish?” said George. “Do they have wings?”
“Yes.”
“How ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculous, George,” said Eliza, embarrassed by her husband’s outburst.
“They’re not wings as such,” said Francis. “They’re wing-like fins that enable the fish to glide through the air for about a hundred yards, perhaps even two hundred. They propel themselves out of the water with their tails.”
“How fascinating,” said Eliza. “I might have guessed you would know all about them, Francis.” She gave him a warm smile. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“There must be plenty of things, I’m sure,” George said gruffly.
I had been nodding at certain intervals in the conversation to feign interest, but I couldn’t stop my mind dwelling on what Emma Holland had told me earlier that day. Why had Charles Mawson failed to tell me about his time in Ghazipur? I had asked whether he knew Alfred Holland and he had denied it. Was he trying to hide something, or was this an innocent misunderstanding?
“Storms threatened again as we arrived in Bridgetown on the island of Barbados,” continued Mr Fox-Stirling. “However, we were safely ashore by the time they arrived. Delightful little pink houses they have there, and everyone was pestering me to buy their wares: interesting pieces of coral, lacework, jewellery and ornaments made from tortoiseshell.”
I stifled a yawn and picked at the food on my plate, considering how resentful Charles Mawson must have been when Alfred Holland reported him. Or was it poss
ible that Charles Mawson hadn’t known who had done so? I realised I should have asked Emma for a loan of her brother’s diary so I could read the account for myself. I made a note to visit her and ask if that would be possible.
“That was a first-rate piece of chicken,” said Francis as he laid his knife and fork down neatly on his plate.
“Thank you, Francis!” replied my sister with a wide smile.
“It’s what Napoleon had for breakfast every morning,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “Did you know that?”
We all shook our heads.
“There’s a wonderful story behind it,” he said. “Apparently, Napoleon would rise at any time between eight and eleven in the morning. By all accounts he wasn’t a man of strict routine. He enjoyed roast chicken for breakfast each day, and this set him off thinking. He summoned his cook and asked, ‘Why is it that no matter what time I breakfast the chicken is always perfectly roasted?’ The cook replied, ‘It’s quite easy, sire. I simply put a chicken on to roast every quarter of an hour, and then there is always one which is perfectly cooked for you!’” Mr Fox-Stirling slapped the table with great mirth and there was laughter all around.
“Who ate the other chickens?” I asked.
“Napoleon’s men, I suppose,” replied Mr Fox-Stirling. “Or the dogs.”
“Or the pigs,” suggested George as the servants cleared away our plates.
“I should tell you, Mr Fox-Stirling, that I am reading volume four of Travels, Trials and Adventure in the Andes,” said Francis.
“Are you indeed?” The explorer seemed surprised to hear that someone was reading his work. “Good man. That’s most pleasing to hear.”
“I’m enjoying the books immensely, and while we’re between courses I should like to show you the map I’ve drawn.” Francis unfolded the drawing he had shown me and Eliza during our boating trip. “Savanilla is at the top here, which is where you will disembark, I believe?”
“Not disembark, exactly. The ship anchors there in the delta of the River Magdalena, then a tender of some sort – usually a rickety form of marine architecture – takes the traveller on to Barranquilla.”
“Ah yes. I’ve marked that here on the map.”
Francis went on to explain the route and I watched as Mr Fox-Stirling pointedly lost interest in what he was saying. Francis also noticed and eventually tailed off.
“Maps have their uses, but I’ve done this before,” said Mr Fox-Stirling once Francis had finished speaking.
“Francis is contributing a significant sum of money to the expedition, Mr Fox-Stirling,” said Eliza.
“And money is all I require!” he replied. “I have no need for maps of a place I have been to before.”
Francis looked crestfallen. “I hope you don’t consider my map to be an interference with your plans, Mr Fox-Stirling,” he said. “I’m merely taking an interest in the search for Mr Green. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
“There is no need for assistance,” the explorer replied. “I know what I’m doing.”
I wanted to add that he had travelled the route before and failed to find Father but decided that such a comment would only inflame the situation.
“Given the fact that Francis is contributing so generously to the search I do feel that he should have some influence as to how it is conducted,” ventured Eliza tactfully.
“I appreciate the offer, Mrs Billington-Grieg, but as I say, there’s no need! A chap usually hands over his money and allows me to get on with it. He knows his job and I know mine.”
The room fell silent for a moment and the tension made my toes curl. I glanced at Francis’ disappointed expression and wondered whether there was a risk that he might withdraw his donation.
“Darling,” ventured Mrs Fox-Stirling, “don’t you think that when a patron wishes to —”
“I’m fifty-three, Margaret, and I’ve been doing this for thirty years. I’ve been shot by poisoned arrows, I’ve saved myself from river rapids and I’ve been sent into a three-day trance by the juice of the Banisteriopsis Caapi vine. I don’t require some young fellow to draw me a map!”
Another silence followed, and although Eliza’s face remained calm I detected a slight panic in her eyes as she considered how best to calm the situation. George studied the bottom of his wine glass.
“We have plenty of time before the expedition to Colombia departs,” said Eliza, breaking the silence. “Your experience and dedication is certainly respected, Mr Fox-Stirling, and likewise, Francis, your determination that the search will have a positive outcome is truly honourable. I’m certain that we can reach an agreement to marry the two —”
“I prefer not to marry things together, Mrs Billington-Grieg. I’m not a man of compromise,” retorted Mr Fox-Stirling. “Call me old-fashioned if you will, but every trip I’ve undertaken has been done my way. That’s the way it works.”
The plant-hunter had bored me with his tales and his arrogance was almost too much to bear. I felt so sorry for Francis at having his well-drawn map rejected.
“It didn’t work last time, though, did it?” I said. “You didn’t find our father.”
Everyone turned to stare at me and Mr Fox-Stirling’s expression grew stormy.
“I did my best, Miss Green,” he said stonily.
“Did you? You didn’t even have a Spanish translator with you.”
“My Spanish is perfectly —”
“I’m sorry, Mr Fox-Stirling, but it’s not,” I interrupted. “You admitted yourself when Eliza and I recently met with you that you didn’t understand what the people in El Charqito were saying to you. They could have been telling you about Father and you would have been none the wiser.”
“Penelope,” warned Eliza. “I don’t wish the discussion to escalate into an argument.”
“I think it already has,” said Francis.
Mrs Fox-Stirling looked embarrassed as her husband quickly drained his glass of wine.
Eliza summoned her housekeeper. “Skip the game course, please, and move on to pudding.”
Chapter 36
“That didn’t go terribly well, did it?” said Francis as he escorted me home in a hansom cab.
It was a warm evening and the gas lamps along Oxford Street twinkled as we passed. Although the seat was small we managed to sit at a respectful distance from one another.
“Not well at all,” I replied. “Mr Fox-Stirling seems to resent any assistance with his search whatsoever.”
“I used to be in awe of the chap,” said Francis, “and I have enjoyed reading his books, but he was rather rude this evening, wasn’t he?”
“He was, and there was no call for it, especially when you’re bearing much of the cost! The man is far too arrogant for his own good. I wish someone else could look for Father instead.”
“There aren’t many men who would undertake the task,” replied Francis. “It’s frustrating as I so wish for you and your dear sister to find out once and for all what has happened to your father, and Mr Fox-Stirling isn’t especially helpful. He’s so insistent on doing things his own way.”
“Which I don’t believe is necessarily the best way,” I said.
“Though he does have a lot of experience.”
“Yes, but does he really possess the skills needed to find Father?”
“I had to hide my laughter when you commented quite directly that he had failed in his last mission.”
“It had to be said, didn’t it? There he was sitting there convinced that his way was the correct one, yet he has nothing to back the theory up with! It was rather rude of me, and now I’m worried my comments may have ruined any chance we had of him looking for Father. Eliza will scold me about it when I see her next, I know it. But I struggled to sit there and listen to him being so rude to you, and so convinced of his own methods!”
“I don’t think you’ve ruined anything, Penny. I’m sure he will still carry out the search. The man relies on people to pay his way on these expeditions.”
“In which case you’d think he would be more polite and considerate, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, you would.”
“I don’t want him out there looking for Father, I really don’t. Ideally, I would go there myself, but I know that travel in such places is considered too dangerous for a woman.”
“And we would all forbid you, Penny. You couldn’t possibly put yourself at risk in such a way.”
“I cannot see it being anyone’s right to forbid me, but I know you, Eliza and James would nag me so much about any attempt to travel there that it would make life quite unbearable.”
Francis laughed. “It’s only because we care about you, Penny, besides which there is no cause for you to travel there. All you need do is find someone more trustworthy to carry out the search.”
“But who exactly? You’ve already mentioned that not many men would be willing to undertake the task.”
“Perhaps we simply need to ask around.”
“We must ensure that Eliza is happy pursuing someone else first. For some time now she has been quite convinced that Mr Fox-Stirling is the only chap for the job.”
“Perhaps she’ll be happier to consider someone else after this evening’s altercation?”
“It’s possible, or perhaps she’ll blame me for riling him instead. I don’t think I can attend any more of these dinners; I really don’t like the man. You have every right to withdraw your funding for the search, you know. He had no cause to speak to you in that manner.”
“No, I want to ensure that the search goes ahead. That’s the most important thing. You’ve waited long enough for news of your father.”
“You don’t have to do this, Francis. Why are you donating your money?” I turned to look at him in the dim light.
“I have an inheritance which is merely accruing interest in the bank, and I have few outgoings and a regular income from my work. At the moment the money is surplus to my needs.”
“But there are many other good causes which would benefit from your money. I realise you have decided you may not need it, but there are plenty of worthy institutions that might, such as orphanages and hospitals for the poor.”