by Emily Organ
“Shall we get it over with now?” I suggested.
“That’s probably for the best.” He seemed relieved at the suggestion. “I’m sorry, Miss Green. I hope to only interrupt your work for a short while.”
“It’s fine, Mr Edwards,” I replied, picking up my carpet bag. “I have plenty of time to finish it before my deadline later today.”
We walked down the steps of the British Museum and turned left into Montague Street, which was lined with large terraced houses. The air felt warm and oppressive, but the sky was a heavy grey.
“I fear this glorious weather we’ve been having will shortly come to an end,” said Mr Edwards. “I sense a storm brewing, do you?”
“I do, and it’s much needed. I’m looking forward to some cooler air again.”
I hoped that our conversation would remain focused on the weather. Surely Mr Edwards wasn’t about to choose this moment to propose to me. What would be the best way to politely decline him?
As we walked, I pondered on how our relationship had progressed to this stage. It had begun when I had asked him to help me find a map of Colombia in the reading room, and then I had been too polite to turn down his request to meet in Hyde Park. His requests had been made respectfully and he was such a pleasant, well-mannered man that I had struggled to find a reason to say no to him.
But I had to say no, otherwise I was likely to find myself engaged to a man I did not love. I recalled how Eliza had described her early days with her husband:
There only needs to be a glimmer of interest in the beginning. That’s how it began with me and George. In fact, I quite disliked George when I first met him, but true love takes time. You need to nurture it and allow it to grow. It doesn’t happen in the way it’s described in poems.
Was that how all marriages began? I didn’t want to believe it, but perhaps my expectations were too high.
I thought of James and how my heart performed an excitable flip every time I saw him. Much as I liked Mr Edwards, the sight of him never stirred the same emotions.
Could I avoid marriage for the rest of my life? Did I even want to? I knew that many day-to-day matters would have felt easier had I been married, and it would stop people speculating with regard to my availability. Perhaps some people felt threatened by an unmarried woman, I mused.
As we approached Russell Square I steeled myself for the uncomfortable conversation ahead. I decided to use my profession as an excuse. I would tell Mr Edwards that it kept me far too busy to be an attentive wife.
“I’ve managed to speak to a couple of the men who go by the name of Bannister,” said Mr Edwards. “However, both assured me that they had no familial relationship with the inventor Bannister, so I’m still no clearer on the identity of the person who vandalised our book in that manner. I will keep working on it.”
“Thank you for making these enquiries, Mr Edwards.”
We crossed over the road and walked into Russell Square, where neat pathways criss-crossed the lawn and a breeze gently rustled the trees.
“Russell Square is rather pleasant on a summer’s day, don’t you think, Miss Green? Shall we walk the circumference?”
I nodded.
Mr Edwards reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out an envelope. As he did so, I felt a combination of sentiments: relief that he wasn’t about to propose and concern about what the envelope might contain.
“This was the matter I wished to speak to you about Miss Green. I don’t know how to begin to explain it, but—”
“You’ve received an anonymous letter which says unpleasant things about me.”
“Yes.” He stopped and stared at me. “How did you know?”
“Because Eliza and Mr Sherman have received similar notes,” I replied. I walked on, and he strode alongside me.
“But why on earth would someone do such a thing?” he asked.
“I have no idea, Mr Edwards. It happens from time to time.”
“You make it sound as though it’s perfectly acceptable!”
“It’s not acceptable, but it isn’t the first time it has happened. What angers me this time is that my family, friends and acquaintances are being bothered by the anonymous letter writer when they should be left well alone!” I held out my hand toward the envelope. “May I read it?”
“Oh no, Miss Green. You mustn’t!” Behind his spectacles, his olive-green eyes were wide with concern. “No! You would find it too upsetting.”
“That’s what my editor, Mr Sherman, said, but he allowed me to read the one he received. I know the person sending these letters is simply trying to be vindictive and I refuse to allow such a person to frighten me.”
“I don’t understand what you could possibly have done to deserve it.”
“Neither do I! I can only imagine it has something to do with one of the stories I’m working on. I’ve upset someone and they’re not brave enough to tell me in person. Instead, they write these cowardly letters to people who are of no concern to them whatsoever.”
“How does this person know that I have any connection to you? How does he know where I live?”
“I don’t know. People who write such things like to think they’re rather clever. Please can I look at the letter, Mr Edwards? I would particularly like to see if the handwriting matches that of the others.”
He tucked the envelope behind his back.
“Mr Edwards,” I pleaded. “I am not a young woman any more. I have experienced hurtful comments before and I can assure you that I am quite at ease with reading a malicious letter. The person who wrote it doesn’t know me. He is simply trying to think of hurtful things to say so that I will stop doing my work.”
“Why have you chosen this profession, Miss Green?”
“Because the events which happen in this city are rarely what they seem. I like to find out the facts and communicate them to the general public, so that when they read the newspaper they are better informed on these matters. For hundreds of years the everyday working person has had to live in ignorance, relying only on hearsay and gossip to develop an understanding of the world.”
“That’s true. And what the church told them.”
“Yes, and the information passed on to people by the church was usually only what the church wanted them to hear. That’s all changed, Mr Edwards! For more than ten years now almost all children have been able to go to school, regardless of their wealth and status. That means more people than ever can read! And what was it Francis Bacon said? Knowledge is power.”
“Ipsa scientia potestas est,” said Mr Edwards. “The phrase appears in Bacon’s most famous work, Meditationes Sacrae.”
“Well, my Latin isn’t as good as yours, Mr Edwards. But you and I agree with Bacon’s sentiment, don’t we? It’s an exciting time to be a reporter and a writer. I can help people discover what is going on in the world around them.”
“All the ’Arrys and the ’Arriets out there.”
“Exactly.”
Mr Edwards smiled. “You’ve persuaded me now, Miss Green. I fully understand why you have chosen this profession. It is a noble calling.”
I laughed. “There are far nobler callings, I’m sure!”
We held each other’s gaze for a moment. I found myself quite impressed by his proficiency with Latin. Perhaps there was more to Mr Edwards than met the eye.
“Please may I read the letter now?”
“If you must.” He handed it to me. “But please don’t—”
“Become upset about it? I won’t.”
I examined the handwriting on the envelope and could see that it was different again from the other letters. I opened it out and began to read.
Mr Edwards
I am writing to suggest that you reconsider your association with Miss Green. She regards herself as a proficient and able news reporter, but she suffers from an inquisitive nature that is leading her into trouble. She is reliant on the advice of those around her and I would urge you to ask her to refrain from invest
igating matters which don’t concern her. I’m sure you would agree that only the police and judicial authorities have the right to investigate matters of supposed wrongdoing, and questions asked by anyone else should be treated as nothing more than an intrusion.
You are the person who is best placed to become her husband. If you were to marry her it would be easy to prevent her from putting herself in danger. It will only be a matter of time before someone forcibly stops her, and I’m sure you agree that it would be undesirable to reach that stage.
I can understand the predicament of any man who is interested in proposing to Miss Green. Her friendship with Inspector Blakely must, I am sure, raise as many questions in your mind as it does in everyone else’s. By marrying her, however, you would not only be able to remove her from Fleet Street but also from her influence at Scotland Yard. I don’t suppose you realised how powerful a position you were in until you read this letter!
I had been able to read the letters which had been sent to Eliza and Mr Sherman without too much difficulty, but this note seemed more offensive than either of them. I looked up at Mr Edwards and wondered what he must have made of the mention of marriage, and of James. It felt embarrassing, almost shameful, to see such things written down on paper, particularly as they had been written by someone who was supposedly a stranger. How did this person know so much about me?
Mr Edwards had watched me read the letter and was slowly shaking his head.
“I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to read it.” He held his hand out for the letter and I returned it to him.
“I think it would be best if you burned it,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Don’t you want to show it to the police?”
“What could the police do about it? They have no way of finding out who wrote it. All this person wishes to do is cause as much offence as possible.”
“Why would someone do this?” asked Mr Edwards.
He looked down sadly at the letter in his hand and I felt a surge of tears rush into my eyes. I couldn’t show him that I was upset, especially not after persuading him that I wouldn’t be. I strode off toward a large statue and tried to compose myself.
Chapter 26
“Miss Green!” I heard Mr Edwards call out from behind me.
I stood in front of the statue, removed my spectacles and wiped away my tears as quickly as I could. My throat felt tight with anger at the person who had written these things. Had the letter been sent to me directly I would likely have been less upset. But to offend me so publicly by writing to the people closest to me was a cruel trick indeed.
I heard Mr Edwards’ steps behind me.
“Miss Green, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “Please don’t be.”
I stared ahead at the statue of a man resting his hand on a plough with sheep and cherubs at his feet.
“I asked to read the letter, didn’t I?”
“But I should have refused. I shouldn’t have given in. And now you’re upset.”
“Not upset, just angry. I’ll be fine. I just need a moment to calm myself.”
Mr Edwards joined me but maintained a respectful distance and didn’t look directly at me. He passed me a neatly pressed handkerchief, and his gesture of kindness brought fresh tears to my eyes.
“Ah yes, the fifth Duke of Bedford,” he said, looking at the statue in front of us. “Francis Russell. He commissioned many of the buildings which surround this square. He was responsible for building most of Bloomsbury, in actual fact.”
He talked quickly, as if trying to distract me from the cause of my upset.
“He wasn’t just a man of the city, however. He also had a farm and bred sheep at the family seat, Woburn Abbey. Which is why you see him with a sheep here and some sort of…” He paused to inspect the statue. “Is that a plough?”
“I think so,” I replied.
“He was a Whig and was most upset when the government introduced a tax on hair powder.”
“Hair powder was taxed?”
“Yes. Those who wished to use hair powder had to buy a certificate each year at the cost of one guinea.”
I laughed. “How silly.”
“Bedford decided he’d do without, and instead wore his hair short and un-powdered. It was a hairstyle which caught on and became known as the Bedford Level.”
“How do you know these things, Mr Edwards?”
He shrugged. “I work in a library and I read a lot Miss Green. Speaking of which…” He checked his pocket watch. “Oh goodness! I shall be in terrible trouble with the head librarian if I don’t return to work right away. I shouldn’t even be here.”
He turned to face me. “Are you all right, Miss Green? Do you require more time to compose yourself?”
I put my spectacles on again and smiled. “I’m fully composed, thank you, Mr Edwards. Let’s get back to the reading room before the head librarian notices you’re missing.”
“Oh, he will already have noticed.” He grimaced. “Never mind.”
“You mustn’t pay that letter any attention, Miss Green,” said Mr Edwards as we hurried back to the reading room. “There isn’t an ounce of truth to any of it.”
“I will do my best to ignore it. Would you mind giving me the letter so that I can keep it with the others?”
“I thought you wished to have it burned?”
“I was upset. It’s important evidence and needs to be kept.”
“But you mustn’t read it again.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m sorry that you read it at all. But I know that you would never have allowed me to keep it from you.”
He handed me the envelope and I slipped it into my bag.
“Thank you for telling me about it,” I said. “I will find out who is sending them eventually. It can’t have been easy for you to read, either.”
“Oh, but I know that it’s all nonsense!” he replied dismissively.
I thought about the mention of my friendship with James and wondered whether Mr Edwards had dwelt on that matter at all.
“And I also know that any man who married you would stand no chance of stopping you from pursuing your profession.”
I laughed. “He wouldn’t at all! I think you know me quite well by now, Mr Edwards.”
“I do.” He stopped at the bottom of the museum steps and pushed his fringe away from his spectacles. “I wish to make it clear, Miss Green, that I would never stop you.”
“Well, it would be rather unreasonable of you if you did, wouldn’t it, Mr Edwards?”
“If you were my wife, I meant to say. I would never expect you to stop being a news reporter.” His cheeks coloured, and he looked down at the ground. “I’d better go,” he added hastily, before dashing off up the steps.
Chapter 27
Mr Edwards’ parting words continued to act as a distraction the following day as I tried to typewrite an article about the Panama Canal. It was the closest he had ever come to suggesting that he would like me to become his wife. I had found his company surprisingly comforting after reading the contents of the anonymous letter, and the thought of courting him no longer felt as unpalatable as it had before. Was it possible that I could develop some sort of affection for him?
“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Green,” said Edgar.
“I’m sorry?” I replied.
Edgar sat with his feet on his desk, fanning himself with a sheaf of paper. Outside it was another hot, overcast day. The storm which was supposedly brewing hadn’t yet arrived.
“I don’t think you’ve pressed a key on that typewriter for the past minute,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”
“Not a great deal, really.” I quickly changed the subject. “Edgar, does The Ha’penny public house in Covent Garden sound familiar to you?” I asked.
“It does for some reason. I’m trying to remember why,” he replied.
“The fancy dress ball and the police, do you remember?” said Frederick.
/> “That’s it!” I said. “That’s how I know the name.”
Edgar laughed. “That fancy dress ball where everyone there was a chap, with half of them dressed up as ladies?”
“The police arrested a fair few that night, as I recall,” said Frederick. “What a sight the police cells must have been!”
Both men laughed.
“Why are you asking about it, Miss Green?” asked Edgar. “I don’t think they’re fond of ladies down at The Ha’penny.”
“They’re certainly not!” laughed Frederick. “They’re only fond of men dressed as ladies!”
My colleagues laughed again.
“I think Simon Borthwick sometimes drank there,” I said.
“The inventor chap?” said Edgar. “Well, well, well. The plot thickens.”
“Please don’t mention anything about it to your wife,” I said. “She might tell Lillian Maynell, and then matters could become quite awkward.”
“It would be awkward indeed,” said Edgar.
“I don’t know for certain that Borthwick went to the place,” I continued. “I need to find someone there who might have known him.”
“No, don’t!” said Edgar. “There is no need to begin investigating such unsavoury matters. Some stones are better left unturned.”
“Which unsavoury stones are we talking about, Fish?” asked Mr Sherman, who had stridden into the room without us noticing. The door slammed closed as we turned to face him.
“The Ha’penny in Covent Garden, sir,” said Edgar. “The place where the police raided the fancy dress ball and discovered that the ladies were, in fact, chaps.”
“I remember that well,” replied the editor. “What of it?”
“Miss Green says the inventor who shot himself frequented the place.”
“Did he indeed?”