Fleet Street Felony

by Bettie Jane

  Julia walked with Frankie to her auto. “Perhaps the Sisters will find themselves locked in the garden shed with the Dock Murderer. It would serve the old biddies right.”

  “Oh, Julia?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Remind me never to make you angry. I do believe you could truly make me suffer if you had a mind to.”

  Frankie was true to his word. They parked down the road from St. Vincent’s and waited until dark before walking the remaining distance. Hiding behind shrubbery on the moderate-sized grounds, they watched until all the lights on the ground floor were out.

  “We’ll grab the files and look at them once we are back to the city. As soon as we have the files, I say we check out the garden shed.”

  “Fine by me,” Frankie said.

  Julia followed Frankie, who managed to open the door without breaking a sweat and in no time at all.

  Julia whispered low. “You are good at this, Frankie. I’ll need you to teach me how to do this, please. I can foresee it being a skill I could use.”

  They moved slowly and steadily toward the main desk area where they’d encountered Sister Therese earlier in the day. Julia found herself wishing she knew where Mary slept so she could rescue her from this place.

  Once they made their way to the desk, mostly by feel and what little light came in through the windows from the moon, they closed themselves into the office, and Frankie turned on the lantern-style flashlight he’d brought.

  “Let’s be quick. If anyone walks by, they’ll see the light under the door.”

  Luckily the room didn’t have any windows.

  Frankie held the light while Julia looked for the files. The first drawer was employee files. She found Walter Smith’s and pulled it out, setting it on the table next to her. She’d look at it later. First she needed to find files for the girls, if they were here.

  One by one, she found a file for Rebecca, Louise, Sharon, Nicole, and Brenda. She stacked them all on top of Smith’s file, then searched for Harry’s. She found it filed under the J’s, right where it should be. Considering how determined these nuns were to keep this information a secret, they certainly didn’t get very creative about hiding the files on their residents.

  “There,” Frankie said. “Are we done?”

  “Wait,” Julia replied. “One more.”

  She dug through looking for Mary’s file, but she wasn’t so lucky this time. There were at least fifteen Mary’s. There wasn’t time to look through each one and see which one belonged to her thirteen-year-old Mary.

  Julia pulled out every single folder with a first name of Mary, added it to the stack, then closed the filing drawer. Frankie still held the light while Julia stuffed all the folders into the big leather satchel they’d been carrying around all day.

  “We have the files. Turn off your light and let’s make our escape.”

  He turned off the light and they slipped out of the orphanage building without notice.

  “So far, so good,” Frankie said quietly.

  “Now to the gardening shed,” Julia told him.

  They snuck around the building, staying close to it but avoiding any windows. They didn’t want to risk anyone looking out and seeing two figures stealthily making their way across the grounds of the orphanage.

  Finally, they made it the back of the building and could see the garden shed out in the distance.

  A light shone from the lone window.

  “Frankie!” Julia hissed quietly. “Someone’s there. You see the light?”

  He nodded. “Good. If Walter Smith is in there, I’ll handle things right here and now.”

  “He might have killed as many as six people. It might not be as easy as you think.”

  They eased their way across the dark lawn, hoping that whoever was inside—if someone were actually inside—would not be able to see them.

  Once they arrived at the shed, Frankie risked a peek through the window.

  He immediately recoiled, stumbled, and then vomited in a bush next to the shed.

  “Frankie? What is it?”

  She started to move toward the window to see what he’d seen, but Frankie stopped her.

  “Julia. Stay there. Do not look. It’s a man.” He finally got hold of himself. “Walter Smith if I had to guess. He is most obviously and definitely dead.”

  “What?” Julia, unable to stop herself, steeled herself for a gruesome sight and then looked in the window. Her stomach roiled and she looked away quickly. A decomposing body was truly horrific to view.

  “Oh, my. I suppose he is dead. Not that I feel any sympathy for him. Another coincidence, Frankie?”

  He shook his head, wiping his mouth on the corner of his sleeve.

  Julia whispered, still careful not to draw attention to them. “If Walter did kill Harry, we are going to have a hard time proving it. If Walter didn’t kill Harry, we still don’t know who did, and now we have another dead body to contend with.”

  “Let’s get these files back to the city before anyone notices we are here. You are already a suspect in one murder. I don’t think you need to be found right on top of another murder scene.”

  “You make solid arguments, Frankie. Let’s go.”

  Once back in the auto, this time Julia drove. Frankie’s stomach still hadn’t recovered from the sight.

  “How long do you think he’s been dead?” he asked.

  “I would think at least a couple of days, if not more. He’s quite decomposed, and I don’t think that happens in the span of one day. Which would tell us that Walter, if that’s who that is, did not kill Harry.”

  Frankie restated the obvious. “I’m stumped, Julia. I was convinced Walter was the Dock Murderer and that he’d killed Harry, in addition to whatever he’s been up to here with the girls. Personally, I’m glad he’s dead, but we are no closer to figuring out who killed Harry or who the Dock Murderer is.”

  Julia raced along the dark streets in her typical chaotic fashion, and Frankie was a dear and never complained once.

  9

  Tuesday, February 12th, 1921

  Frankie’s House

  Mayfair

  London

  They went to Frankie’s house once they were back in Mayfair. Frankie called in an anonymous tip to Scotland Yard to notify them of the dead body in the garden shed. Now they sat in his study with all the files they’d stolen from the orphanage, the files they’d stolen from Scotland Yard, and the files that belonged to Harry.

  “It’s possible that Walter Smith was the Dock Murderer even though we know he couldn’t have killed Harry,” Frankie pointed out.

  “True,” Julia said. “Who killed Walter though? And we don’t know who killed Harry. I feel like I know less than I did when I started out this morning.”

  Frankie perused the orphanage file on Harry, narrating the contents to Julia.

  “Walter Smith was definitely employed as a gardener when Harry and Brenda were at the orphanage. Harry, according to this file, was only there for about six months, and he appeared to have been in trouble for the entirety of his visit there. That’s odd. For such an accomplished adult, he really struggled there for a bit.”

  Julia thought for a moment. “Perhaps he struggled because he was trying to protect himself from the perverted Walter Smith?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Finally, Julia closed all the files. “Frankie, can I sleep here tonight? I’m so tired and my brain is not functioning properly. I need a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Of course. I’ll show you to a guest room.”

  He led the way up the stairs.

  Frankie’s family had lost the bulk of their money a few months ago due to business dealings that fell apart. They’d managed to keep their house in Mayfair but had to let all the staff go. Frankie was currently living in the house alone, and Julia was rather impressed with how well he’d kept it up.

  “You’ve done a lovely job with the house, Frankie.”

  He bent his back in a
mock bow. “Why, thank you, my lady. Most of the credit actually goes to Mattie.”

  “Ah, yes. Opal mentioned that you and Mattie had taken a liking to each other.”

  “You could say that. I think I’m going to ask her to marry me as soon as I get my affairs in order. She deserves a better life than I can reasonably give her, but it’s sort of wild to think that she loves me anyway.”

  “Oh, Frankie. I’m so happy for you both. That’s wonderful news!”

  “Your rooms, darling.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you first thing in the morning, Frankie. I hope I can think of something when I’m asleep because I have no idea what to do next. We need to find Brenda, but I don’t know where to look. Maybe we’ll go back to the orphanage tomorrow in case she’s there? I have absolutely no idea what’s happened to her or who is responsible.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I have tremendous faith in your brains.”

  “Thank you, Frankie. See you in the morning.”

  Julia lay on the bed in her clothes since she’d not packed anything to wear. She fell asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow but awoke with a start after only about an hour. Something in what she’d been dreaming woke her. The memory of the dream was on the edge of her awareness, but she was having trouble grasping it.

  “Think, Julia. You had it. Think.”

  She lay there with her eyes closed, running through what she did know.

  Harry was dead, Walter was dead, the Dock Girls were dead. Brenda was missing. Someone wanted her to take the blame for Harry, at the very least. How was all of this connected? It was likely that Brenda and Harry knew each other because they were at the orphanage at the same time. Neither of them might have known the four Dock Girls since they were much younger. All of them probably knew, at least indirectly, Walter Smith.

  What connected all of this to her? The only connection she truly had was that she and Harry shared the same profession and they were both writing articles about the Dock Girls. What other similarities were there? They both had little black note. Mr. Thompson wanted them to both work together—

  The memory from Julia’s dream returned with such force that she sat bolt upright in bed.

  Her black notebook had been found at the crime scene. Mr. Thompson was at her speech, the last known location of her notebook before it turned up next to Harry’s corpse. What time had Thompson left the ladies’ club? They’d spoken after her speech about the job offer and had left about the same time. She’d gone to Jacob’s and arrived around nine. Mr. Thompson would have had time to get to Bower and Co. on Fleet Street before Harry left the bar at half past nine with time to spare.

  Did Fred Thompson kill his own reporter? And frame Julia for it? What could he possibly have to gain from that? He definitely could have gotten ahold of her notebook at the club if he were quick-handed. She made no secret of where it was in her bag. He’d been standing over Harry’s body when she and Jacob had arrived at the scene. He could have planted the notebook at that time. How would he have gotten a certificate of ownership in Julia’s name for the murder weapon?

  She knew sleep wasn’t coming back to her so she decided to go downstairs and look through the files again. When she stepped into the study, she was surprised to see Frankie already there.

  “You didn’t sleep, Frankie.”

  “No, my mind was turning. I couldn’t. How about you? Did you get some rest at least?”

  “I did. I woke up with a thought. It’s a stretch, but humor me?”

  “Sure. I knew your brain would get us on the right track.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Fred Thompson was at my speech. He could have taken my black notebook. When Jacob and I arrived on the scene at Bower and Co., Fred was standing near the body in a group with several other reporters. He could easily have planted my black book near the body. Did he kill Harry and frame me for it? The only thing I can’t work out is motive. What reason could he possibly have to want Harry dead? He was making the newspaper famous. It doesn’t make sense. There is something I’m missing still.”

  She dug out her backup notebook and looked at the names that Scotty had written of the people who’d been in at Bower and Co. that night. One of the names was Fred Thompson.

  A chill ran through Julia’s body and her mind unwittingly began making connections.

  “Frankie, Fred Thompson was at the bar the night that Harry was killed. I need to talk to that bartender and find out if he remembers what time. If it was between half-past eight and nine o’clock, he could have gone outside and waited for Harry to come out and then killed him, dropped the notebook next to his body, then hired me to find the killer. But why on earth would he do that?”

  “So are we thinking that Harry’s murder doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with the Dock Girls and that was truly a coincidence?” Frankie asked.

  Julia struggled with her thoughts. They needed to find Brenda. That was more critical right now than to find Harry’s killer. He was already dead, she still might be saved.

  “We need to find Brenda,” she told Frankie. “I’m going to look through Harry’s notes again. They are so thorough. I’m sure I’m missing something.”

  She sat down and began looking for anything that might jump out at her. She skimmed through the notes on the women and the orphanage and found some seemingly unrelated notes about St. Bride’s church and about the underground crypt that was rumored to be underneath. She remembered that Fred said Harry had been fascinated by St. Brides, but now Julia wondered if something else were going on. She thought of the files she’d taken from Jacob, regarding the location of the bodies of each of the women. Sifting through the piles, she found the stolen documents.

  “Each of their bodies was found near St. Bride’s Church. One in the churchyard itself, one just outside the newly constructed gates, and the other two very nearby.”

  Frankie considered thoughtfully. “Harry had detailed notes about each of those locations. St. Bride’s Church seems to be at the center of this.”

  “Fred Thompson, when he showed me Harry’s office, went on and on about how much Harry loved St. Bride’s and Fleet Street. What if it wasn’t Harry that loved it, but Fred? Maybe Fred is the Dock Murderer, and Harry found out, so Fred killed him to keep his secret.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? There are crypts there, Frankie. Harry had very detailed notes about the existence of the crypts and tunnels under the church. I don’t know how to access them. I think they were sealed off—”

  She shifted papers and found the one she wanted.

  She read aloud. “St. Bride’s crypts, along with all London crypts, were sealed by an act of Parliament in 1854 during the cholera epidemic. It says here they’ve never been unsealed. What if Fred Thompson found a way in and is hiding Brenda there? I know it’s a bit of a stretch—both Fred’s involvement and our suspicions about the crypts, but we have to look. Her life could depend on it.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. Underground crypts, skeletons, probably rats. You are testing the limits of my friendship, Julia Barlow. Should we notify Jacob?”

  “No!” Julia exclaimed a bit too quickly. “He’s bound by the law and if it’s still ordered sealed, he won’t be able to unseal it. Trust me, this is one of those times when you ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”

  “I was also afraid you were going to say that. Fine. You want to go now or at first light?”

  “Now. He could be killing her as we speak.”

  “I’m going to stop asking you questions now because I’m not liking any of your answers.”

  “You know you love me, Frankie. Bring the flashlight.”

  10

  Late Tuesday Night

  February 12th, 1921

  St. Bride’s Church

  London

  They made their way to St. Bride’s and snuck into the courtyard and past the old, non-working pump that remain
ed in the churchyard.

  Julia kept talking, mostly to keep herself from thinking too hard about what they were getting ready to do.

  “Did you know that this is the 8th church to be built on this site? There’s been a church on this ground for nearly 1400 years. Incredible, don’t you think? And did you know that the spire on top was the inspiration for wedding cake tiers. Fascinating!”

  Frankie grunted while he rooted around the foundation of the building on his hands and knees with the flashlight lantern.

  Julia’s nervous chatter kept on. “Oh and are you familiar with Eleanor Dare? She had the first English baby in America when she settled Roanoke with her husband and father in 1587. She was married in this church around three hundred fifty years ago. There is a bust of Virginia Dare, Eleanor’s daughter, inside the church. So much history. Did I ever tell you that history and architecture are two of my favorite things?”

  “No, I don’t think you ever mentioned that before. But I am learning that you talk when you are cold and nervous while hunting a killer in the middle of the night. It’s very insightful, actually.”

  After much searching in the cold, midnight February air, Frankie managed to find an opening into the crypt at the base of the ancient building. It appeared to have been used recently, which made it all the more frightening to enter.

  Before they continued, Frankie gave Julia one last threat.

  “Julia, so help me, if we don’t die down here from either a psychopath killer or rat attack, I might kill you myself just to get even with you bringing me with you.”

  “I hope we aren’t too late.” She took the lantern from him and led the way. “You did the hard part, you found the opening. I’ll lead the charge from here.”

  She slipped into the crypt and could feel Frankie right behind her. The lantern glow lit enough space in front of her that she could see two paces ahead. There were skeletal remains on either side of the walkway that she did not look too closely at. The musty smell was overpowering, and she tried to not think about the putrid scent of death.