by Emily Organ
He gave a great sigh of relief and grinned. “Thank you, Miss Green,” he whispered breathlessly. “I am most honoured.”
“You suggested a walk in Hyde Park, didn’t you?”
“Yes, with a chaperone if you wish.”
“Of course. I will ask my sister to accompany us.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, Miss Green, simply wonderful. Would this Saturday afternoon be agreeable?”
I tried to think of a reason to arrange our meeting for a day several weeks hence but felt unable to come up with a suitable excuse while he stood there, eagerly awaiting my reply.
“I will have to check with my sister.”
I felt cruel for hoping that Eliza would be unavailable.
“Absolutely. I am certainly looking forward to becoming acquainted with her. Shall we meet at Marble Arch at half past two? If your sister is unable to make that time, you could simply leave a note for me at the desk here.”
He grinned again.
“I will do.”
I was distracted by the sight of someone walking toward my desk, and my heart leapt when I saw that it was James.
If only he had arrived five minutes sooner.
James waved when he saw that I had noticed him. I got to my feet and quietly introduced the two men.
“A detective,” whispered Mr Edwards. “How fascinating! Do you enjoy your work?”
“Most of the time,” replied James. “Although there are some days when being surrounded by books seems more appealing.” He glanced around the circular room and his gaze lingered on the impressive tiers of bookshelves.
“Yes, I can’t complain about it. I had always wanted to work in a library,” said Mr Edwards.
I gathered up my papers and put them into my carpet bag.
“Have you finished with Dorothea Heale already, Miss Green?” There was a note of disappointment in Mr Edwards’ voice.
“Yes, do please excuse us, Mr Edwards,” I said. “James and I need to go and discuss some developments relating to a news story I’m working on.”
I knew that James would want to talk further about the Glenville case in the nearby Museum Tavern.
“Very well,” said Mr Edwards. “I shall see you this Saturday, Miss Green. I am very much looking forward to it!”
Chapter 6
“This Saturday?” asked James as we walked down the steps of the British Museum. A damp breeze blew drops of rain onto my spectacles. “You’re seeing that chap this Saturday? Remind me who he is again.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that James’ face was turned towards me, but I stared resolutely ahead at the terracotta-brick building across the road.
“Mr Edwards. He works as a clerk in the reading room.”
“And you’re seeing him this Saturday?”
“Yes. He asked me.”
“And you immediately agreed?”
“He asked me a few weeks ago, and I neglected to reply because we were so busy with all that business down in St Giles. I felt I should agree to it as he’d been waiting so long for me to respond.
“I see.”
We stepped through the gate of the British Museum and out onto the busy street.
“He’s been assisting me with my research on Father’s travels.” I had to raise my voice over the sound of hooves and carriage wheels.
“That’s noble of him.”
“He’s been very helpful.”
“I expect he has.”
We crossed the street and reached the swing door of the Museum Tavern.
“Does it bother you?” I asked.
James paused with his hand against the door. He fixed me with his blue eyes, his brow furrowed.
“No.” He gave the door a hard shove. “I don’t suppose it does.”
Clouds of tobacco smoke and a loud hum of voices greeted us inside the tavern. Flickering gaslight danced in the carved glass mirrors, and my spectacles instantly steamed up.
We sat at a table which was partitioned either side by a wooden screen. James had removed his overcoat and jacket, so that he wore only a checked grey waistcoat over a white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up.
“How is your family faring since your grandfather passed away?” I asked. “And how is your grandmother?”
It had been a while since James and I had found the chance to have an informal conversation.
“She could be better.” He sighed. “She’s staying with my parents at the moment. She’s struggling to live in her house in Battersea without him. It must be lonely. I can only imagine what it’s like for her now, having spent so much of her life with him there.”
“I don’t think I would ever want to return. Surely everything in the house reminds her of what she has lost.”
“It probably does. I don’t even like to think how it must feel. The garden will need tending soon, as the spring weather arrives. I’ve helped them with the garden there for the past several years.”
“You gave me some leeks and potatoes from their garden, do you remember?”
“So I did! Didn’t I bring them into the reading room?”
“Yes.”
We both laughed.
“Where do your parents live?” I asked. There was still so much that I didn’t know about James.
“In Wembley.”
“That’s some distance from Battersea.”
“Yes. I think my grandmother is enjoying the change.”
“Did you grow up in Wembley?”
“I did.”
“I didn’t realise that.”
“I assumed I had told you.”
“I don’t even know where you live now.”
“Don’t you?”
“There’s no need for me to know,” I added quickly. “After all, you wouldn’t want me paying you a surprise visit, would you?”
James looked bemused and laughed. “Why would you do so? It’s not that I shouldn’t want you to, of course, but it would be a surprise indeed.”
“But there would be no need.”
“No.”
We held each other’s gaze for a moment, and then I busied myself with my sherry.
“I live in St John’s Wood. Henstridge Place, to be precise,” continued James. “It’s pleasant enough. Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park are both close by.”
“And the zoo?”
“And the zoo. So if you were to pay me a surprise visit, perhaps we could go to Regent’s Park Zoo.”
“I would like that. Although I feel sure the future Mrs Blakely would disapprove.”
“Do you think so? There would be no reason for her to. Perhaps Mr Edwards would disapprove.”
“Of course he wouldn’t! There is no attachment whatsoever between myself and Mr Edwards. You, on the other hand, are engaged to be married. That’s rather different.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, and I took a large sip of my sherry.
“I think we should discuss that crook, Mr Glenville, now,” said James, opening his notebook, which lay on the table. “That’s the reason I came to find you.”
He assumed a formal air as he read from his notes.
“Mr Alexander Glenville is forty-eight and manages Blundell & Co, a vinegar-brewing business which comprises of a factory in Vauxhall and another in Bermondsey. The Bermondsey factory is the old Archdale’s factory, which previously belonged to a good friend of Mr Conway’s. Glenville began working for Blundell & Co when he was just ten years old. I understand that he comes from a poor family background. He lost his right arm in an accident at the factory at the age of twelve.”
“Goodness, what happened?”
“I don’t have any further details. But it seems the accident did nothing to put a stop to his ambitions, because by the time he was eighteen he’d been promoted to supervisor. And he was clearly a favourite there, because following Mr Thomas Blundell’s death the factory passed to Glenville rather than to Mr Blundell’s eldest son. I understand that two of Blundell’s younger sons remain on th
e board, but Glenville is in charge.”
“And what of the eldest Blundell son? Surely he bears great animosity toward Glenville.”
“I’ve heard that’s the case. In fact, I’m sure most of the family bears some resentment toward Glenville, because old Thomas Blundell considered him to be more proficient at running the business than any of them.”
“But there has been much criticism of conditions in the factories, hasn’t there? I’ve just been reading the accounts written by Dorothea Heale. I copied some of them out.”
I rummaged in my bag for my notes and found one of the articles I had transcribed in the reading room. I read it out to James.
“Work commences at half past six each morning and concludes at six in the evening. Half an hour is allowed for breakfast and dinner. A typical worker earns between three and four shillings a week, and this salary is subject to fines if they are untidy, arrive late or cause any breakages or spillages. In some departments, there is a fine of three pence for talking.
“Many of the factory workers live in single rooms, often shared with family members or acquaintances because the weekly rent of two shillings accounts for at least half of the workers’ salary. They live only on bread, butter and tea, with meat on a Sunday should they be able to afford it.
“Earlier this year, Blundell & Co paid a dividend of thirty percent to its shareholders. This large sum of money was achieved by paying such a paltry sum to the company’s workers.”
“That’s interesting research, Penny. Glenville seems to be an unpleasant man, doesn’t he?”
“I also read that the factory workers attempted to attend a meeting about the conditions, but were threatened with instant dismissal. I’m concerned that Mrs Heale is no longer as vocal about the conditions at Blundell’s. It’s as if she, too, is afraid to speak up. Do you think Glenville might have threatened her?”
“It’s possible. The man has a ruthless reputation. However, it’s said that he is devoted to his family. He has six children, and the eldest daughter, Sophia, is engaged to the son of his friend, a local gin distillery owner.”
“Mr Conway and Mr Sherman explained that to me. Apparently, Glenville’s eldest son is a lunatic.”
“That would be Maurice. I’ve heard reports that he’s an idiot or an imbecile of some description, but I don’t know the details. He lives in the family home, though. He’s not kept in an institution.”
“And you want me to find out whom Glenville is associating with?”
“Yes, that’s what Mr Conway has asked me to investigate. As you’ve no doubt realised by now, he bears a grudge toward Glenville because Glenville bought his friend’s factory. It’s Conway’s view that Glenville is getting away with a great deal. He has managed to inherit a successful family business whilst being an outsider. He has acquired himself a new factory, treats his workers like animals and has survived a number of financial fraud allegations. He is rumoured to have friends in high places. Members of parliament, successful industrialists, that sort of thing. But the question is, who are they?”
“Do you not think this investigation might stem from sour grapes on Mr Conway’s part?” I asked. “Glenville may not be any more corrupt than the average industrialist, but perhaps Mr Conway begrudges his success for personal reasons?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? Especially when you consider that Glenville is from a poor background and has been working since the age of ten. Mr Conway was educated at Eton and Oxford, and it’s possible that he may object to seeing a working-class boy achieve the level of success Glenville has. However, there’s no doubt that there’s a whiff of unpleasantness about Glenville. I’ve met the man once myself, and he’s a slippery fellow. Untrustworthy. Shifty.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I laughed. “If I get the job as a maid, that is. I intend to call at the house tomorrow.”
“Good luck, Penny. You have a tricky job to do.”
“I hope I manage to uncover the answers you’re looking for. But what will happen if they discover who I really am?”
“Hopefully you won’t be there long enough for them to find out. I don’t see why you should want to stay longer than a few weeks unless you discover that you enjoy the life of a maid!”
“I consider that highly unlikely.”
James checked his pocket watch. “Goodness, I need to be back at the Yard to meet Cullen.” He leapt up from his seat and put on his jacket. “As I’ve already said, good luck with it all, Penny. I hope you manage to secure the position.”
I smiled. “Thank you, James.”
“If all goes well, I shall see you in a few weeks’ time,” he continued. “Don’t forget to send anything you discover to me at Scotland Yard.”
He retrieved his coat and hat from the cloak stand, then regarded me for a moment. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, Penny?”
“Yes. I always am.”
“Is that so?”
He grinned and placed his hat firmly on his head. He paused for a moment, as if considering something, then reached into his waistcoat pocket.
“Here, have this,” he said.
I held out my hand and he dropped a gold ring onto my palm.
“James! I can’t!”
“No, please do. It was my grandfather’s and I’ve been walking around with it in my pocket since he died, unsure of what to do with it. It won’t fit on any of my fingers. He had peculiarly small hands, my grandfather. I don’t mean for you to wear it. It may be too big, of course. Or perhaps it will fit. I’ll let you try it and decide. But keep it with you for luck. My grandfather always had a lot of luck in his life, and I like to think that whoever carries the ring will also have the same.”
“James, this ring is precious to you. There must be someone more important than me to have it!”
I tried to hand the ring back to him, but he pushed my hand away.
“There isn’t, Penny. Please keep it.”
He quickly walked away.
“James!”
But he was gone.
Chapter 7
The following day, I called at the Glenville household in Hyde Park Gate. It was an imposing, cream, stuccoed house, five storeys high with large sash windows and two stone columns supporting a classically styled porch. Two gas lamps hung from either side of a wrought-iron arch at the foot of the steps.
Although my clothes were rarely fancy, I had decided to wear the drab overcoat I usually reserved to keep me warm within my lodgings. Beneath it I wore a simple linen dress, which I imagined a maid of little means might wear on her day off. Pulled around my ears was an old-fashioned bonnet with faded cotton flowers sewn onto it, and I slumped my shoulders in imitation of a put-upon maid I recalled from my childhood home.
My heart thumped heavily as the door was answered by a short, plain woman in a grey ticking-dress that was buttoned up to her neck. Her greying hair was neatly pinned at the back of her head, and a bunch of keys hung down from her waist. I assumed that she was the housekeeper. Her mouth was turned down in a stern pout, and she looked me up and down with her suspicious grey eyes.
“The governess position is filled. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve come about.”
“I haven’t. I came to enquire about something else.” I felt disappointed that I didn’t give the instant appearance of a maid. “My name is Florence Parker, and when I saw the advertisement for the governess position I wondered if you might also be looking for a maid. I have a good reference.”
The housekeeper surveyed me a while longer, as if making up her mind about me.
“You’d better come in,” she eventually replied.
She stepped aside and I joined her in the tiled hallway, where the tick of a grandfather clock echoed and light flickered from a large and ornate gasolier above our heads. The wide staircase had a carved mahogany banister and was carpeted with a dark flock motif, which matched the gloomy pattern of the wallpaper.
Paintings of people I assumed to be family m
embers hung from the walls in heavy gilt frames. I felt their eyes on me as I followed the housekeeper along a corridor that ran parallel to the staircase. The house had a sombre, oppressive feel to it. The furnishings were tasteful and orderly, but everything seemed rather dark and quiet. It was a house which seemed well-suited to its dour housekeeper.
“I have a small room along here,” she said.
The austere woman turned the handle of a wooden door beneath the staircase and showed me into a dim little office with a sloped ceiling. Rows of keys hung from little hooks on the wall. Above them, several shelves stored oil lamps, candles, cloths and little glass bottles. Pieces of paper arranged neatly on the desk bore shopping lists and menus.
“I’m Mrs Craughton,” she said.
She didn’t bid me to sit, so I remained standing.
“May I read your character reference?”
“Yes.” I took a folded piece of paper from the inside of my overcoat and gave it to her.
“Mrs Fothergill in Berkeley Square.” The scowl from the housekeeper’s face lifted slightly as she read. “She thinks highly of you.”
“I have worked for her the last seven years.”
“So I see.”
“She’s a widow. Although I was her maid, I was also a companion to her.”
“Were there other staff there?”
“There was a cook and a general housemaid.”
“Hmm.” She folded up the reference and returned it to me. I could feel her scrutinising my looks, and my face began to redden.
“You don’t seem to be the usual sort of maid. Who are your family?”
“My mother lives in Derbyshire and my sister is in Kent.” I didn’t wish to admit that my sister was married to a wealthy banker and lived in Bayswater.
“Kent. I know it well. Whereabouts?”
I felt a prickle of cold perspiration beneath my arms as I tried to think up something in reply. Although I had prepared a story about myself, I hadn’t anticipated enquiries about my sister’s whereabouts.
“Chatham.”
“Your sister is also in service?”
“Yes, she’s a governess. We both received an education; our parents were insistent on that. But we’ve always been a poor family.”