The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  The Maid's Secret

  A Penny Green Mystery Book 3

  Emily Organ

  Contents

  The Maid’s Secret

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  The End

  Thank you

  Historical Note

  Get a free short mystery

  The Runaway Girl Series

  The Maid’s Secret

  Emily Organ

  Books in the Penny Green Series:

  Limelight

  The Rookery

  The Maid’s Secret

  Chapter 1

  London, 1884

  “Mr John Morrison?” I asked.

  The tall, dark-skinned man beside me nodded, and I wrote his name down in my notebook. John looked to be about twenty. His brow was crumpled and he kept loosening his necktie, as though it would help him breathe.

  “I’m supposed to be at work,” he said.

  “I’m sure your employer will understand on a day like today,” I replied.

  “I don’t know about that.” He pulled at his tie again.

  “Elizabeth Wiggins was your sister?” I asked.

  “Yes.” His voice cracked with emotion.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me. I know this must be extremely difficult for you.”

  We were standing on Gonsalva Road in Battersea: a drab street lined on both sides by cramped, brown-brick houses. Number sixteen looked just like all the others, aside from the police officer trying to keep onlookers away from the front door. A light drizzle fell, leaving small sparkling raindrops on my woollen jacket. Trains rumbled along the viaduct behind the houses, and the damp pages of my notebook tore beneath my pencil.

  A small crowd had filled the street. Men stood with hands in their pockets and dirty-faced children chased each other around, while women holding babies shouted at them.

  “What can you tell me about your sister?” I asked. “What sort of person was she?”

  John wiped his brow with his hand. “I can’t get used to that word was. I can’t believe she’s not here no more. I only saw her yesterday! She’s kind-hearted, like. She’d do anything for anyone. She worked north of the river ’til she lost her job. She’s a hard worker, she is. I’ll miss her. My wife and son’ll miss her too.”

  He quickly rubbed the tears from his eyes to prevent me from seeing them.

  “And what of your brother-in-law?” I asked. “Had he ever harmed Elizabeth before?”

  “No. I don’t think he did, anyway. She never told me so. The policeman told me he was drunk. He didn’t usually drink much. Mrs O’Donnell says she heard shouting. They must have argued, I suppose. Elizabeth would’ve been angry on account of him being drunk. She didn’t like drinkers, our Elizabeth. Because of our father, that is. Me and her saw what drink does to a family. He must have lost his temper with her. He wouldn’t normally have done it, but it was the drink. And now…” John wiped his hand over his face. “He’s ruined everything!”

  I wrote down what he had told me in shorthand. “The police are holding him now. He’ll face trial,” I said.

  “And so he should! I hope he hangs!”

  “John Morrison!” a voice called out from behind me. I turned to see Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette approaching with his pencil and notebook. His jaw moved up and down as he chewed on a piece of tobacco.

  “How old was your sister?”

  “I’m not speaking to no more reporters now,” said John tremulously. “I have to get back to me wife. She’s in a delicate state, she is.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mr Morrison.”

  “Only speakin’ to Miss Green, are yer?” Tom Clifford taunted as John walked away.

  “Leave him be,” I said. “His sister has just been murdered.”

  “What did ’e tell you?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  Tom Clifford spat out a globule of tobacco. “You won’t of got much from the likes of ’im. What can you say about a battered wife? Husband comes home in a foul temper, husband beats wife, wife dies, and husband gets hanged for it. Happens every week. What we need is another killer like we had in St Giles. How’s about that, Miss Green? It’s a bit more exciting, ain’t it? Sells newspapers, that kinda thing.”

  “It’s not about excitement, Mr Clifford. We’re reporting on real people’s lives. I don’t wish to report on murders in order to sensationalise them. I do it to pay my respects to the victims. Mrs Wiggins should be remembered.”

  Tom Clifford cackled. “You ’ave a nobler cause than the rest of us, don’t yer, Miss Green?”

  I ignored him and noted down the date and time at the top of my page: Tuesday, 4th March, 1884. Ten o’clock.

  I folded my notebook closed, put it into my carpet bag and took out my umbrella, while Tom Clifford walked over to the police officer and began questioning him.

  Reporting on domestic tragedies such as these was upsetting. The death of a woman at the hands of her partner should have been avoidable, and sadly it happened far too often.

  I wiped the raindrops from my spectacles, opened my umbrella and walked down to Wandsworth Road, where I could take the horse tram up to Westminster Bridge.

  Chapter 2

  The typewriter was situated in the corner of the newsroom in the offices of the Morning Express newspaper. I sat myself in front of the machine beside a narrow dirty window which looked out onto Fleet Street. If I had cared to peer through the grime, I would have been able to see the upper section of a letter ‘N’, which formed part of the large iron signage across the facade of our building.

  “You’re not about to start making an infernal racket on that contraption, are you, Miss Green?” asked my colleague, Edgar Fish. He was a young man with small, glinting eyes and a thin, mousey-brown moustache. “Can’t it wait ’til later? My head hurts.”

  “As a result of the beer in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese yesterday evening, or of Mrs Fish scolding you when you returned home?” laughed another reporter, Frederick Potter, who was portly and curly-haired.

  “Neither, thank you, Potter. And I don’t appreciate the slur. I have a headache because I’ve been working too hard.”

  Frederick was still roaring with laughter when the editor, Mr Sherman, strode into the room. Edgar swiftly removed the pencil from behind his ear and began scribbling on a piece of paper i
n front of him.

  Mr Sherman removed the pipe from beneath his thick black moustache. “What’s so funny, Potter?” His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he wore a grey serge waistcoat. His slickly oiled hair was parted to one side.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Good. Well it seems Downing Street has finally realised that Sir Hercules Robinson is a man worth listening to,” said Mr Sherman. “Now he can resume his duties as high commissioner in South Africa with the government’s full support. Fish, you’ll need to be at the Empire Club this evening to hear his address.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It will be interesting to hear the details surrounding Sir Robinson’s uniform system of frontier policy.”

  “It will, sir, yes,” replied Edgar, sounding unsure of himself.

  “You haven’t any idea what I’m referring to, have you, Fish?”

  “Well, I do sir, I—”

  “It will put an end to the clashes between the Europeans and the natives. May I suggest that you take yourself off to the reading room sharpish and read up on the topic? You don’t want to end up looking a fool this evening.”

  “Too late for that!” laughed Frederick.

  “What was that, Potter?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I need to speak to Purves, the parliamentary reporter, but he’s not here again. Ah, Miss Green!”

  I jumped at the sound of my name. Until that moment I had hoped Mr Sherman wouldn’t spot me in the corner of the room.

  “Stop typewriting. You’re required in my office. Mr Conway wishes to see you.”

  The mention of the proprietor’s name provoked a sharp intake of breath from Edgar. My heart began to pound wildly in my chest.

  “May I ask why?” I replied, tentatively rising from my seat and smoothing out my skirts.

  “All will be explained. Come along, now. Mr Conway is a busy man.”

  I followed the editor to his office and tried to recall which of my recent articles was most likely to have upset the owner of the Morning Express.

  Perhaps someone had made a complaint about me.

  My mouth felt dry as we walked into Mr Sherman’s office. The room smelled of pipe smoke and had greasy, yellowing walls. A gas lamp hung down from a long chain over the desk, where the piles of books and papers were stacked high. Mr Sherman had worked in this room, at the helm of the Morning Express, for almost ten years.

  Mr Conway sat in a low chair with his legs spread apart to allow room for his large stomach. His trousers, jacket and waistcoat were of a baggy brown tweed, and he had a fine head of wavy grey hair accompanied by long, bushy side-whiskers.

  “Miss Green.” He slowly moved his great bulk out of the chair and stood up. He nodded at me and looked me up and down before gesturing toward the two empty chairs next to him. “Please do sit.”

  He slumped back down again, the chair creaking under his weight. I sat down cautiously and wondered for whom the third chair had been reserved. Mr Sherman took a seat behind his desk.

  “Have you told Miss Green what we want her to do yet, William?” wheezed Mr Conway.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Well, don’t you think you’d better?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The proprietor breathed noisily through his nose as the editor began his explanation.

  “Have you heard of an Alexander Glenville, Miss Green?” asked Mr Sherman.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “He owns the Blundell’s vinegar factory in Vauxhall, and has just bought a second factory in Bermondsey.”

  “I have heard of Blundell’s.”

  “There’s been heavy criticism of his manufacturing methods for some time. Workers are required to work long hours in his factories, and there has been a high volume of accidents there. It’s rumoured that Glenville has children under the age of ten working at Blundell & Co.”

  “Which is a contravention of the factory code,” Mr Conway interjected.

  “Last year he lowered wages at the factory, and the workers who protested about the move lost their employment,” continued Mr Sherman. “The social reformer Dorothea Heale has published some articles about Blundell’s. Last year she attempted to help the workers form a committee that could stand up to Glenville, but her efforts came to nothing. Rumour has it she was warned off.”

  “Threatened?” I asked.

  “Something of that nature.”

  “I don’t like the sound of Alexander Glenville,” I said.

  “He’s a loathsome chap,” said Mr Conway. “And he’s a cripple, to boot.”

  “He has one arm missing,” said Mr Sherman. “Does that render him a cripple? The chap can still walk.”

  Mr Conway dismissed this last remark with a wave of his hand. “Glenville has friends in high places,” he wheezed. “The factory in Bermondsey belonged to a good friend of mine, Mr Albert Archdale. Archdale’s Vinegar was established one hundred years ago in Shoreditch, and Albert took over the factory from his father. Somehow, this Glenville chap has bought the place from him, and not for a fair sum either. It has ended poor Albert’s fortunes for good. When I saw him last at the Garrick Club, he could barely put a sentence together. A family business lies in ruins.”

  “There are many more rumours,” added Mr Sherman. “There are numerous alleged frauds and conspiracies.”

  “He keeps a tight circle of friends,” said Mr Conway. “He’s a secretive chap, so you won’t see him at any of the London clubs. It’s said he has plans for a cartel. Albert wouldn’t play ball, and that’s why Archdale’s was seized from him.”

  “Can I ask what it is you wish me to do?” I enquired.

  “Mr Conway has hired a detective from Scotland Yard to investigate Glenville’s unscrupulous business activities,” said Mr Sherman. “Once we have understood what the man is up to, we can publish our findings, embarrass the people who are helping him, and ultimately put him out of business.”

  “And who is helping him?”

  “That’s what we want the detective to find out for us,” replied Mr Sherman, blowing a puff of pipe smoke out from the side of his mouth. “We know of one associate by the name of Mr Ralph Lombard, who is the owner of the Lombard gin distillery in Vauxhall. His business is located close to Blundell’s, and Lombard’s son, Dudley, is engaged to be married to Glenville’s daughter. The plan appears to be for the son and daughter to inherit their fathers’ businesses and combine them into some sort of gin and vinegar conglomerate.

  “Glenville’s other associates are a mystery at present. We know he had a connection with Viscount Wyndham some time ago, but they appear to have had a falling out. He met Wyndham through his wife’s family. She’s from the ancient line of Noel-Johnstones, but the family’s wealth has been gambled away by her father.”

  “I wish I’d brought my notebook with me, sir. There is a good deal to remember.”

  “You’ll be acquainted with the detail of it all soon enough, Miss Green,” my editor replied. “As Mr Conway mentioned, Glenville isn’t a member of any of the clubs. He’s not part of the establishment. He joined Blundell & Co as a lowly factory lad, and within eighteen years he owned the place. He lives with his wife in Kensington, close to Hyde Park. It’s said that she married him for money, and that he married her for respectability. Their eldest child is a son, but as he’s a lunatic the family business cannot pass to him. The next child is the daughter who is to be married into the Lombard family.”

  “I’m still not quite sure what you would have me do,” I said. “Do you want me to work with the detective? Who is he?”

  “I asked for Chief Inspector Cullen,” said Mr Conway. “He’s worked on similar cases in the past. But he’s a busy man, so we’ve acquired a more junior detective. I do hope he will be up to the task.”

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Enter!” Mr Sherman called out.

  I turned to look at the door, and in walked Inspector James Bl
akely.

  Chapter 3

  A few weeks had passed since James and I had last seen each other down in St Giles’ Rookery. He smiled at me as he hung his overcoat and bowler hat on the cloak stand. There was a sparkle in his blue eyes, and I felt a warmth in my face. I adjusted a few pins in my hair and rubbed at a spot of ink on the sleeve of my jacket.

  Mr Conway heaved himself out of his chair again and onto his feet. The two men shook hands.

  “Have you met our reporter, Miss Green, before?” the proprietor asked James.

  “I have indeed. Good morning, Miss Green.”

  I tried to temper the wide grin which had spread across my face. “Good morning, Inspector Blakely,” I replied calmly as I lowered my eyes from his gaze.

  He sat in the chair next to me, and I tried to pretend that I didn’t find him handsome. He wore a dark blue suit and waistcoat, with a blue and green patterned tie. His dark hair was neatly parted, and he was clean-shaven.

  “Inspector Blakely and Miss Green have worked together in the past,” said Mr Sherman to Mr Conway.

  “Have they indeed?” puffed the proprietor as he lowered himself heavily back into his chair. “Well that is of some reassurance, I suppose.”