The Black Crow Conspiracy

by Christopher Edge

  “Penelope, please!”

  She stared back into Monty’s pleading eyes, as next to him the plainclothes detective turned towards her with a suspicious stare. Her thoughts raced, trying to find a way out of this predicament. Even if she told Inspector Drake the truth, there was no guarantee that he would believe her. The only evidence she had to prove that Montgomery Flinch wasn’t behind the theft of the Crown Jewels was one anonymous letter. No name, no address, no lead to follow – Drake would just think that her story was some desperate ruse to clear her “uncle’s” name.

  And what’s more, if she did reveal the letter, then she dreaded to think of the further questions it would bring. Why had Montgomery Flinch chosen this plot to mark his return to the literary world? What other inspiration had fed his invention of the villainous Black Crow? And how come his “niece” knew more about his stories than the man himself? If she told the truth, she ran the risk of exposing them all.

  As if growing weary of waiting for her reply, Drake gave a dismissive grunt. With a nod of his head, he gestured to the two constables who lumbered forward to haul Monty to his feet.

  “We’re wasting our time here,” he snapped. “Let’s see if we can get some more sense out of you after you’ve spent a night in the cells.”

  The two policemen began to drag Monty towards the door, the actor spluttering in protest as his cricket shoes scraped against the dusty floorboards.

  “This is ridiculous! Unhand me at once!” Glancing back wildly, he caught Penny’s gaze again. “You have to tell them the truth, Penelope!”

  With these last words, she felt Inspector Drake’s eyes turn towards her again, the detective’s nose twitching at this mention of the truth. She stood there frozen, Montgomery Flinch’s fate in her hands. Deep down, she knew the only chance she had of clearing Monty’s name was to find out the truth herself. She would have to track down the author of the anonymous letter and unmask this real-life Black Crow. But first she had to make sure Monty didn’t spill any of the secrets that they shared.

  With an anguished wail, she rushed towards him, flinging herself between the two policemen and wrapping her arms around Monty’s neck.

  “I won’t let them take you, Uncle,” she cried with a snivelling sob. “Your only crime is to be touched by clairvoyance. It’s just as Mama says, you must have the gift of second sight if these stories that you write are so close to the truth. How else could you have known about this terrible crime?”

  Leaning closer, Penny dropped her voice to a low whisper, pressing her mouth to Monty’s ear.

  “You have to keep quiet, for all our sakes. If Inspector Drake finds out that your real name is Monty Maples, you’ll be facing charges of fraud, deception and conspiracy instead.”

  Monty’s eyes grew wide as he realised he was caught on the horns of a dilemma. There was no way of revealing the truth without facing the consequences that this would bring. As the younger police constable tried to peel Penelope off Monty like some kind of limpet suffragette, she clung even closer still.

  “I will make sure that Mr Wigram gets this ridiculous case dismissed,” Penny hissed. “But for now you must convince Inspector Drake that you really are Montgomery Flinch, not some imposter. That would only make things worse.”

  With a trembling nod, Monty signalled to her that he understood.

  “Get that girl off him,” Drake barked.

  Penny felt a pair of bear-like arms wrap themselves around her waist, the sudden rough embrace holding her more tightly than any corset. As she gasped in surprise, the second burly policeman lifted her off her feet, her arms flailing free as he hauled her across the office before dumping her down into the chair that Monty had just vacated.

  “Sit still,” he growled.

  He turned back to where his fellow constable had seized hold of Monty again, the actor’s face pulled in a pained grimace as the handcuffs chafed at his wrists. Winded, Penelope glowered from the depths of her chair, desperately praying that Monty would heed her warning.

  Inspector Drake stepped forward, meeting Penny’s defiant gaze with a glare.

  “Let us have no more of this unseemly behaviour, Miss Tredwell. I appreciate your feelings of family loyalty, but your uncle is accused of a treasonous crime. You must not reveal a word of what you have learned today. Otherwise I will have no choice but to take you into custody as well.”

  Leaving this threat hanging in the air, Drake turned and, with a snap of his fingers, pointed the way to the door. Following his command, the two police constables dragged Monty forward again, his howls of protest now turned to wails of despair.

  Then from the rear of the office came the sound of a cough. Buttoning up his grey morning coat, Mr Wigram stepped out of the shadows.

  “As Mr Flinch’s lawyer, I will, of course, be accompanying him to the police station. If you are going to persist with these outrageous allegations, then I insist that you allow my client the privilege of legal counsel.”

  Inspector Drake cast the elderly lawyer an exasperated stare.

  “The more the merrier,” he sniffed. He reached inside his pocket to pull out a crumpled envelope, presenting this to Wigram with a thin-lipped smile. “And as a policeman, I expect you to ensure that The Penny Dreadful obeys the laws of the land.”

  Opening the envelope, Mr Wigram paled as he read the letter inside. As the two police constables pushed Monty out through the front door of the office, Inspector Drake turned to follow them, leaving Wigram standing there alone.

  “What is it?” Penelope asked. Leaving her chair, she hurried to her guardian’s side.

  With a shake of his head, Wigram thrust the letter into her hands.

  “The end,” he replied grimly. “They’re closing the magazine down.”

  Penny stared down at the letter in disbelief, recognising the royal seal above the copperplate script.

  BY ORDER OF THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, NOTICE IS HEREBY SERVED UPON THE PROPRIETORS OF THE PENNY DREADFUL MAGAZINE THAT THIS PERIODICAL SHOULD CEASE PUBLICATION FORTHWITH. ALL EXISTING COPIES OF THE JULY 1902 EDITION SHOULD BE DESTROYED, AND ANY MATERIALS USED FOR THE PREPARATION OF THIS EDITION SURRENDERED TO THE AUTHORITIES WITHOUT DELAY. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH THIS ROYAL DECREE WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE IMPRISONMENT.

  “They can’t do this,” she cried, indignation shining in her eyes.

  From the doorway, the gruff voice of Inspector Drake gave his reply.

  “They can and they have,” he growled. “The King’s coronation will take place in five days’ time. If Montgomery Flinch has planned any further treasonous crimes, the public will not learn of them from the pages of his magazine. You shut it down – now!”

  With this final warning delivered, Drake marched out of the door. As it slammed shut behind him, Penny could still hear Monty’s anguished cries as the policemen bundled him down the stone steps.

  Her guardian clasped her hands in his own.

  “You must return home at once, Penelope; there’s nothing more you can do here. I will do my best to facilitate Mr Maples’ release.”

  Glancing back over his shoulder, the lawyer lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “There is danger here. Somehow this story of yours has unleashed forces that I do not understand. Please keep yourself safe until my return.”

  As he hurried out of the door in pursuit of Inspector Drake, Penny stared down at the letter again. Her mind whirled with unanswered questions, the mystery growing with every second that passed. The Crown Jewels stolen, Monty arrested, The Penny Dreadful put out of business by royal decree.

  When she looked up again, Alfie’s worried face was staring back at her; the two of them were now alone in the office. There was a long moment of silence before Alfie finally spoke.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Her guardian’s words of warning echoed at the back of her mind. There is danger here. Ignoring this, Penelope set her face in a determined manner, lips pursed as she reached for her parasol that was h
anging from the coat stand.

  “We find out who has really stolen the Crown Jewels,” she replied, striding briskly towards the door as Alfie hurried to grab his coat. “I think we should start with a spot of sightseeing at the Tower.”

  VI

  The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, bathing the Tower in a golden light. Its turrets and ramparts glistened like a grey stone forest, the frowning battlements flanked by a series of smaller towers, stretching along the riverbank. Beneath Tower Bridge, the muddy waters of the Thames were churned by paddles and oars, tiny skiffs and pleasure barges eddying in the swell of the steamers seeking a berth at St Katharine Docks.

  Penny and Alfie strolled along Tower Wharf, the trees shading the promenade offering them some welcome relief from the heat of the day. Blossom hung from every branch, and petals lay scattered across the cobblestones. It was as if nature itself was trying to compete with the brightly coloured bunting draped between the street lamps. Along the walkway, sightseers mingled with river workers, leisurely gaits and ruddy faces with heads held high replacing the stooping shoulders and anxious looks that were more usually seen in a London crowd. They were nearing the south-west corner of the castle now, the throngs of people growing thicker as Penny and Alfie approached the entrance to the Tower itself.

  “So what are we going to do when we get inside?” Alfie asked, a nervous smile pinching his features. “If we ask to see where the Crown Jewels were stolen, they’ll probably lock us up in the Tower too.”

  Penelope shook her head.

  “There must be a clue that the police have missed.” She stared up at the imposing keep.“It’s ridiculous to think that a thief could walk through these walls and stroll off with the Crown Jewels tucked in their pocket. This isn’t a story.”

  Alfie arched an eyebrow, but seeing the frown on Penny’s face wisely kept his own counsel.

  They were nearing the front of the crowd now, dozens of people huddled outside the squat towers that stood guard at the entrance. But beneath the stonework of the royal crest, the huge oak doors were bolted, and on the sign where the entrance prices were posted, a single word was written:

  CLOSED

  As the milling tourists slowly turned away, Penelope overheard a dapper gentleman as he turned to his companion. “They say it’s closed for the King’s coronation,” he brayed. “They must all be busy polishing his crown ready for the big day.”

  As the lady on his arm laughed coquettishly, Alfie shot Penny a knowing glance.

  “Talk about closing the stable door after the horse has bolted,” he muttered.

  Beyond the Spur Gate, Penelope could see the Bell and Byward Towers, their impregnable walls silently mocking her with their secrets. Her gaze returned to the locked gates, a lone soldier standing sentry there. There was no way she could slip past him to sneak inside the Tower. Still, if she couldn’t inspect the scene of the crime, perhaps there was another way she could find the answers she was searching for.

  She thought back to what Inspector Drake had told them. The detective had mentioned numerous eyewitnesses, but only one by name: the Keeper of the Keys. From her study of the pages of The Navy & Army Illustrated magazine, she had learned that the present Keeper of the Keys was one Sergeant Major Thomas Middleton, the Chief Warder of the Tower. It was time to find out if he had really seen the hooded figure of the Black Crow walk through these walls.

  “Wait here,” she told Alfie.

  Without giving him the chance to reply, Penny set off at a brisk pace, heading directly for the Tower Warder. As she approached, the old soldier’s gaze stayed fixed firmly ahead, even as the dainty clatter of Penelope’s heels on the cobblestones announced her arrival. She stared up at the grizzled veteran, his dark-blue tunic and trousers edged with scarlet bands and his broad chest covered in medals. Before taking up the duties of a Tower Warder, these soldiers had served the Empire with distinction, a billet at the Tower their just reward on retirement from active service.

  Penelope cleared her throat to try to attract the guard’s attention.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she began.

  From beneath the broad brim of his black velvet hat, the warder looked down at Penelope with a flinty stare.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I need to speak to the Chief Warder of the Tower,” she replied. “It is a matter of great urgency.”

  The yeoman warder shook his head.

  “That’s quite out of the question, miss. Sergeant Major Middleton is not on duty at the moment, but if you leave your message with me, I will ensure that it is delivered without delay on his return.”

  Thinking fast, Penny crumpled her features into a crestfallen expression.

  “But Mother said I was to speak only to Uncle Thomas – I mean Sergeant Major Middleton. This is a family matter. The doctor doesn’t think Mama will last another night, and she dearly wishes to speak to her eldest brother one last time before she passes over to the other side.”

  The warder shifted uncomfortably in his shoes. Rules and regulations were one thing, but he didn’t want to deny a dying woman’s wish. Penelope’s barefaced lie was having the desired effect.

  “You cannot come inside, miss,” he said, leaning closer as if he was fearful of being overheard. “No visitors allowed within the bounds of the Tower, by order of the King. But if you want to find Sergeant Major Middleton, you might try your luck at The Anchor Tap.” With a tilt of his head, he nodded towards the river. Penelope followed the direction of his gaze until her eyes alighted upon the Anchor Brewery sitting on the south bank, its high chimney belching a trail of contented smoke into the pale-blue sky.

  With a smile of thanks, Penelope turned to leave, pleased that she had managed to hoodwink the warder.

  “Be careful, miss,” the guard called out as she began to walk back to where Alfie was waiting. “The Anchor Tap is no place for a young lady like you.”

  VII

  As she stood on the threshold of the public house, Penelope could see that the old soldier had been telling the truth. Outside the sun was still high in the sky, the summer afternoon slowly idling its way towards evening, but here inside the tavern, darkness reigned. Dark-oak walls framed a cramped public bar, its woodwork stained almost black where it could be glimpsed amidst a press of elbows.

  Wiping a pint glass with the hem of her pinafore, a sour-faced barmaid was serving a gaggle of burly dockworkers, their crude attempts to coax a smile rousing the pub with their laughter. In the corner of the bar, an old soldier banged out a regimental tune on an upright piano, a young woman in a low-cut French dress perched on his lap. As the soldier reached the chorus, she joined in with his singing, her tuneless screech causing Penny to wince in discomfort. The revels seemed more suited to a Friday night free-and-easy than a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

  As the tavern door closed behind Penelope, she became uncomfortably aware of the gazes now turned in her direction. With Alfie standing protectively by her side, she felt eyes crawling over every inch of her outfit, inspecting the finery of its embroidery and the shine of her shoes. It was clear by the sneers that this wasn’t a place where she was welcome.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”Alfie murmured.

  Penny held her head high. With Monty for the moment keeping his counsel behind the bars of New Scotland Yard, it was time for her to find the man who might hold the key to his freedom. Surveying the bar, she couldn’t see any sign of a face that matched the portrait of Sergeant Major Middleton she had seen in the pages of The Navy & Army Illustrated magazine. But, to the left of the bar, she spied an open door.

  “We have to find the Keeper of the Keys,” she replied, linking her arm with Alfie’s. “Let’s try this way.”

  The two of them negotiated their way past the bar, ignoring the muttered comments from the men propped up there. Through the door, she could see further rooms stretching back into the pub; these snug dens were populated by those drinkers who wanted to conduct their business a
way from prying eyes. And there, at a table in the corner, she saw the figure of a man sitting staring into the bottom of a half-empty glass. Penelope recognised his long bushy beard from the portrait she had seen. Sergeant Major Thomas Middleton – the Chief Warder of the Tower of London and the Keeper of the Keys. Beneath an army greatcoat, the old soldier’s shoulders were hunched, his face turned away from the dull light spilling in from the smoked-glass windows.

  “That’s him,” she murmured, nudging Alfie as they stepped inside the warren-like room. The other tables in the snug were filled with numerous rough-looking coves: coal-whippers, stave porters, lumpers and labourers. Calloused hands cradled glasses as the men cast them both suspicious glances. With low mutters following their every step, Penny led the way to Middleton’s table, the floorboards beneath her feet sticky with spilled drinks and other dubious stains.

  As Alfie fidgeted nervously by her side, Penelope took this opportunity to take a closer look at the Chief Warder. Middleton’s head was still bowed, his gaze seemingly fixed to the bottom of his glass. His army portrait had shown a distinguished-looking man, his long beard silvered with age, but the hunched figure in front of her seemed somehow broken. He appeared unaware of their presence, the huddle of empty glasses littering the small table a measure of how long he had been here.

  Endeavouring to gain his attention, Penelope cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant Major Middleton?”

  The old soldier lifted his head, staring up at her with flint-grey eyes. His face was ghastly pale, his expression haggard and drawn as if nursing some unspeakable suffering. Penelope had seen this expression before, recognising the distant stare from the faces of the soldiers her father had served with in British India. The men who had fought in the North-West Frontier Uprising, seen women and children dragged from their beds and murdered by the marauding tribesmen. It was the face of a man who had seen too much.