The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  A maid brought in a heavy-looking tea tray.

  “This is Darjeeling, which I brought back from India myself!” boasted Mr Fox-Stirling as he poured it out. After listening to a number of his travel anecdotes – during which he advised us that the full version of his tales could be found in his books – I eventually persuaded him to focus on his mission to find Father.

  “Ah yes, it was a hellish crossing, that one, and I remember that we were held up somewhat. We finally disembarked in Savanilla, and spent some weeks in a steam boat travelling up the Magdalena. You can only get as far as Honda in a steamboat, so from that place hence it was a journey of more than two hundred miles by mule to Bogota. It was rather arduous, really.

  “We were guests of a Dutch dignitary in Bogota, and what a place! Wonderful fountains in the most beautiful marble courtyards. We drank the most marvellous guarapo. Have you ever tried it? I don’t suppose you would have. It’s the juice of boiled sugar cane, and if you allow it to ferment a little it’s potent stuff, I can tell you!”

  I noticed Eliza stifling a yawn.

  “And when did you reach Tequendama?” I asked.

  “Tequendama, you say?” He seemed to be put off by my interruption.

  “Yes. Father’s last known location was the Falls of Tequendama.”

  “That’s right. Well, that’s some miles southwest of Bogota. Before that we had to—”

  “What did you find when you got there?”

  “Bogota? Well, as I was saying, we stayed—”

  “No, Tequendama. Did you find any trace of Father at Tequendama?”

  “Not immediately by the waterfall, no. We found his hut at a nearby place. I forget what it’s called now.” He got up and walked over to his bookcase, pulled out one of his books and leafed through the pages.

  “I recommend that both of you read this one. It’s volume three of my collection Travels, Trials and Adventure in the Andes if you’d like to purchase copies. Ah yes, here’s the place. El Charquito, a small village on the banks of the Funza. That’s where I found where he’d been staying, because he’d left a notebook of sketches. Fine drawings they were too. Your father was an accomplished artist.”

  “And when you discovered the hut, what was it like?” asked Eliza.

  “It was but a simple hut; of primitive construction, with everything in one room. There was a sleeping area, an open hearth and a rather ramshackle table, as I recall.”

  “Did it appear as though the hut been used recently?”

  “I don’t think so. Leaves and general detritus had blown in under the door. It was an ill-fitting door, I seem to remember.”

  “And his book of sketches was where? Had he left it on the table?” I asked.

  “No, the old lady who lived next door was in possession of them. She thought I was the man himself, come back to retrieve them! She greeted me and swiftly handed over the book. I think she was worried that I would accuse her of stealing it. She had looked after it well, so she did us great service. And the book, as you know, is now in the possession of the British Museum’s natural history department in South Kensington.”

  “Did the old lady tell you when she last saw Father?” Eliza queried.

  “I’m sure she did. My Spanish has only ever been rudimentary, I’m afraid, and she seemed to speak with a strong dialect. From what I could understand, he hadn’t been seen at the hut for a long time.”

  “But didn’t the old lady think you were Father?”

  “I think she probably did. If truth be told, I think we were as confused as one another!”

  He chuckled, and I felt a ball of growing frustration in my chest.

  “Did you not have someone with you who could translate properly between Spanish and English?” I asked.

  “Not on that occasion. It’s quite the feat to get yourself across the Atlantic and then travel for several weeks by steamboat and mule, you know, never mind finding a translator to come with you.”

  He seemed offended that I had suggested that the lack of a translator was a shortcoming on his part.

  “Did you ask anyone else in the village if they knew what had become of him?” Eliza enquired.

  “I did my best. The Spanish dialect was a hindrance, as I’ve mentioned. But if anyone had known something useful, I feel sure they could have communicated it to me one way or another. They could have led me to a gravesite, for example. I apologise for mentioning that, as I know you most probably harbour hopes that he is still alive somewhere. But searching for a gravesite was something I had to do.”

  “We realise that. Thank you, Mr Fox-Stirling,” said Eliza. “I think if Father were still alive he would have contacted us by now.”

  “He may have done. He may not have done.”

  “What do you think could have happened to him?” I asked.

  He puffed out a cloud of smoke from his clay pipe. “There are a number of possibilities. He might have been taken ill like poor Henry Chesterton, who died last year at Puerto Berrio. There are many tropical diseases to which our men have no resilience, you see. I suppose he might have been killed by red men. Explorers aren’t popular with the red men in that part of the world.”

  I thought of the account of the massacre in Father’s diaries, but kept quiet about it for the time being.

  “If he’d died of an illness, I would have expected to find a gravesite,” Mr Fox-Stirling continued. “Similarly if he’d died at the hands of the red men. Unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “I can’t recall now whether or not they practise cannibalism in those parts.”

  I shuddered, and he brushed the thought away with a wave of his hand.

  “Or perhaps he met with an accident,” he continued. “You say that his last known location was the Falls of Tequendama. Have you any idea what the place is like?”

  “A little.”

  “The River Funza plunges from five hundred feet or so there. The effect is quite dizzying. Perhaps he missed his footing and fell down into the churning waters. I do apologise, ladies, for suggesting it. But you strike me as calm-headed women who understand that such possibilities must be considered.”

  “If the river had washed him away,” said Eliza sadly, “where might he have ended up?”

  “Well, from memory I think the Funza joins up with the Magdalena.”

  He stood to retrieve another book from his shelf. “Volume four of Travels, Trials and Adventure in the Andes is of great help on this subject.”

  We waited for him to flick through the pages again. “Ah yes, I’ve written here that the two rivers join at Girardot, and from thence the Magdalena flows northward. It meanders through for many hundreds of miles until it eventually reaches Barranquilla on the northern coast. I cannot imagine anything being carried so far in the river, however. I’m sure it would have been deposited somewhere along the way.”

  He closed the book and pursed his lips while he considered this possibility.

  “So if he fell into the waterfall, his body may have been washed up anywhere along hundreds of miles of riverbank?” asked Eliza.

  I looked down at my fidgeting hands, struggling to believe that we were even considering such a possibility.

  “We understand now,” I said. “There’s no need to think on it too much, Ellie. It is too distressing.”

  “Of course it is. I’m simply considering all the possibilities, as Mr Fox-Stirling suggests.”

  “I think I’ve considered them enough for now,” I said. “I can’t imagine Father would have fallen into the waterfall, so I don’t wish to pursue that avenue any further.”

  “Of course,” said Mr Fox-Stirling, replacing his book onto its shelf and returning to his seat. “I must commend you both on being very strong-minded ladies. Few members of your sex would allow their minds to stretch to these unpalatable thoughts. Your father was a brave man, and he has two courageous daughters. I have run out of time on this occasion, but perhaps we can meet for dinner so I can share
my memories of your father. You must bring your husbands, of course, and Mrs Fox-Stirling would be only too delighted to meet you both. You might find it useful to read my books before we meet again, just so I shan’t boring you with information you can find out another way!”

  He chuckled.

  Much as I wished to hear Mr Fox-Stirling’s memories of Father, I struggled to endure the man’s company.

  “I don’t have a husband,” I replied tersely.

  “Oh, I do apologise.”

  I felt a strange pleasure in seeing his face redden.

  “It’s Miss Green, isn’t it? My mistake. I do hope you accept my most sincere apology.”

  “Perhaps you could bring Mr Edwards to dinner with the Fox-Stirlings,” suggested Eliza as we walked along Chelsea Embankment. Large white clouds scurried over the Thames, and a steam boat puffed out a plume of smoke. “After all, he has been most helpful with your research.”

  “If I invite him, he will make assumptions about our current position,” I replied. “I don’t wish there to be any misunderstanding.”

  “What is there to misunderstand? You have already enjoyed a walk with him in Hyde Park!”

  “There’s a rather large leap between a walk in the park and marriage, Ellie.”

  “There is when you’re a young woman,” my sister replied. “But you’re almost thirty-five. At your age, the leap must be taken as quickly as possible.”

  “I think it rather short-sighted of Fox-Stirling not to take a translator with him,” I said, purposefully changing the topic of conversation. “How else could he have expected to speak to the local people about Father’s disappearance?”

  “He strikes me as the type of man who assumes he is adept at a certain skill until he has to try it out in a real situation.”

  “He didn’t tell us much that we didn’t know already, did he?”

  “Not a great deal. I think it would be useful to meet him again,” said Eliza. “I know you’re not keen on the man, but we should take him up on his dinner invitation. There must be some new information for you to include in the book you’re writing, Penelope.”

  “I suppose so. And as soon as it’s published, I can pester Mr Fox-Stirling to buy it!”

  We both laughed.

  Chapter 45

  “Your sister rides a bicycle, does she not, Miss Green?” asked Edgar Fish. “Is she aware that if she lived in Warwickshire she would be compelled to carry lights between sunrise and sunset? But if she lived in Birmingham, she would be permitted to drive without lights for an hour before sunset and an hour after sunrise?”

  I paused from my typewriting. “I don’t think she’s aware of those rules.”

  “But only between the first of March and the thirty-first of October,” added Edgar.

  “But she lives in London,” I said. “What about the bylaws in London?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t found those out yet,” replied Edgar. “But I do know that if your sister rode a tricycle in Warwickshire, as opposed to a bicycle, she wouldn’t have to carry any lights at all! Bylaws in Warwickshire don’t cover tricycles.”

  “What a contradictory state of affairs,” said Frederick Potter. “I think one would be better off riding neither.”

  “Sherman asked me to write a piece on the lack of uniformity concerning bicycle and tricycle laws,” said Edgar. “And it seems the entire system is a Gordian knot.”

  “I still don’t understand what it means for bicycles and tricycles in London,” I said.

  “That simply illustrates my point, Miss Green! A Gordian knot, as I say!”

  I returned to my work, but soon became distracted by a jammed ink ribbon on the typewriter.

  “It’s the schoolboy inspector!” announced Edgar Fish.

  I turned to see James in the newsroom, his bowler hat stowed in his hand.

  “Must you still call me that, Mr Fish?” he asked.

  “I suppose it’s a habit now, Inspector Blakely,” replied Edgar. “On account of your relative youth.”

  “Which is still significantly greater than the age of your average schoolboy,” replied James.

  He walked over to my desk. “Hello, Penny. How are you?”

  I felt an uncomfortable twinge as I remembered that the last time I had seen him was on the occasion when I had walked away from the cab.

  “I’m well, thank you, James.”

  We exchanged a smile. He appeared to have forgiven me for my bad temper.

  “Have you managed to speak to Mr Wiggins yet?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here. L Division finally relented after a good deal of persuasion on my part. Mr Wiggins is not a well man. The arrest and trial have taken their toll on his health, unfortunately.”

  “That’s terribly sad if he’s an innocent man.”

  “It is indeed. And he remembers little about the evening on which his wife died. He doesn’t even recall leaving the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Until now, he had assumed that the man who had bought his drinks had made his own way home. Mr Wiggins seemed surprised when I told him that a neighbour had seen him with the man in his own street. The problem is that, because Mr Wiggins has no memory of the latter part of the evening, he actually believed that he had murdered his poor wife. He is filled with remorse and fear, and has made several attempts to take his own life.

  “He has been unable to reconcile himself with what happened that night. When I suggested that the stranger who bought him drinks that evening might have been behind his wife’s death, there was no relief in Mr Wiggins’ eyes. Instead, I saw immense sadness. The events have broken him. I now fear that, even if this stranger is caught and it’s proven that he was responsible for Elizabeth’s death, Wiggins will never recover.”

  “The poor man. Did he tell you who the stranger was?”

  “A man who called himself Mr Evans. Apparently, he approached Mr Wiggins a week before Elizabeth’s murder and asked if Wiggins would like to work for him. He assured him the work would be better paid than his employment at Lombard’s factory. Wiggins agreed to meeting him at the public house.

  “Apparently, the man was initially reluctant to meet in the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, but Wiggins insisted on it because he wanted to be in a place where there would be other people he knew. He felt wary of Evans; he didn’t feel sure he could trust him. He said the man was very generous in buying drinks. Wiggins admitted to me that he wasn’t a regular drinker, and on the odd occasion when he did partake, he didn’t drink much. But he said that after two drinks he began to feel rather odd.”

  “Just two drinks,” I mused. “Do you think the man might have put something in them?”

  “I suspect that he might have. He may well have administered a small dose of something which was enough to incapacitate Mr Wiggins but not cause him lasting harm. He says that his memory failed him for the remainder of that evening, and that he woke the next morning to find poor Elizabeth dead. At no point did he imagine that the stranger had anything to do with it. He blamed himself entirely.”

  “I suppose we cannot be completely sure that Mr Evans committed the crime.”

  “Not until we have managed to find the man himself. But it’s a fair assumption to make for the time being.”

  “If Mr Evans approached Mr Wiggins a week before Elizabeth’s murder, the attack was clearly planned well in advance. But if Mr Evans did kill Elizabeth, I cannot understand his motive.”

  “Me neither. I need to ask Elizabeth’s brother, John Morrison, if he has ever come across the man before. There is another option, of course.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That someone paid Mr Evans to carry out Elizabeth’s murder.”

  “Why should they have done so?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But it may mean that our Mr Evans has done this sort of thing before. Evans may not even be his real name. I’ve sent a telegram out to all divisions asking if they are aware of any men for hire operating in their area. It may be that he�
��s known to the police. I have obtained a reasonable description of him from Mr O’Donnell. He describes him as a broad man wearing a long coat, so thankfully the description is similar to that given by the Whippet fellow.”

  “So who could have paid Mr Evans to carry out the attack? Viscount Wyndham? Mr Lombard? Dudley Lombard?”

  “Or Mr Glenville, perhaps.”

  “But why?”

  “I think why is the crucial question here, Penny. I need to find this Evans chap first. He may yet be an innocent man, after all. I wondered if the Morning Express might publish an appeal for information on the man. If he’s of the criminal fraternity, there may be someone he has fallen out with who would like to inform the police of his whereabouts.”

  “Certainly. I should be happy to, James.”

  I glanced at my colleagues. They had lost interest in our conversation and were busy talking about cricket. I took the opportunity to whisper an apology to James for jumping out of the cab and walking away.

  “There is no need to apologise, Penny,” he replied quietly. “I shouldn’t have laughed at you in that manner.”

  “It’s because you don’t like Glenville,” I said. “But I don’t mind that. You’re allowed to dislike him.”

  “And you like him,” said James.

  “I don’t suppose we can agree on everything, can we?”

  He smiled. “No. Not until we can be certain of the truth. I’ll keep you informed, Penny.”

  A messenger boy delivered a telegram to me the following week. It was from James. His message instructed me to meet him, Inspector Cullen and Inspector Trotter at the Glenville house the following day. They were ready to make an arrest.