by Emily Organ
I felt pleased that Mrs Yarborough was being so talkative.
“Mr Forster worked for a large merchant company there, am I right?”
“Yes, I believe so, based in Calcutta. I forget the name of it now. I heard he made a great fortune out there and brought it back with him, but the thieves have taken full advantage! It’s terrible.”
The maid carried a bulky leather case out of the house.
“Have there been many burglaries in this street?” I asked.
“No, none. It’s been perfectly pleasant living here, and it’s so well placed for shopping. I have friends who wouldn’t dream of living north of Oxford Street, but Mayfair is so overpriced these days because of all the rich foreigners. They pay such ridiculous sums of money for an exclusive address, but that’s not our style at all. Fitzrovia suits us much better. Until last night, that is. The level of violence was quite shocking! Why attack people in that brutal manner? Everyone in that household was utterly defenceless!”
“Perhaps if Mr Forster made his fortune in India the burglars knew which house to target,” I ventured.
“Possibly, or they may have chosen the house entirely by chance. It could have been any one of us, and that, quite frankly, is what I find so frightening. We’ve decided to stay at our home in Somerset.”
“You have no plans to return?”
“Only to arrange the sale of our house. After the events of yesterday evening, who on earth would want to live here?”
The maid joined us with a small dog under her arm, which bared its teeth at me.
“Do please excuse me, Miss Green, but we must go,” said Mrs Yarborough. “I wish to stop thinking about this dreadful unpleasantness, and we have a train to catch at Paddington.”
“Thank you for speaking to me, Mrs Yarborough. Have a safe journey.”
As Mrs Yarborough was helped into her carriage I noticed the crowd had begun to disperse. Mr Forster, his smart, round friend and the two police officers were walking toward me with a group of reporters in tow.
“When did you last see your wife, Mr Forster?” called out a reporter I recognised as Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette.
“Leave the man alone,” ordered the chief inspector.
“Where were you when your home was being burgled?” another reporter shouted.
Mr Forster ran a hand across his brow.
“My condolences, sir,” I said as he passed me.
He gave me a startled glance, as if he hadn’t expected to see me standing there. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin looked pallid and clammy. As soon as he caught my eye he quickly looked away again, then muttered something to the detective. To my surprise, the two men began to laugh.
I wanted to ask them what could possibly be amusing on such a misty, dismal morning. Mr Forster’s wife had just been bludgeoned to death by a gang of burglars, yet he was able to laugh quite readily.
I simply couldn’t comprehend it.
Chapter 2
Murder on Margaret Street!
A burglary and brutal murder took place on Tuesday night at a house on Margaret Street, Fitzrovia. The occupier, Mr. Augustus Forster, had left home at seven o’clock for an evening appointment at the East India Club. His wife, Mrs Olivia Forster, had remained in the house and retired to bed at ten o’clock. The housekeeper, Mrs Elizabeth Fereby, was preparing to retire for the evening when she was disturbed by a noise in the kitchen in the basement at just after ten o’clock. Upon investigation, she discovered the kitchen window wide open, and four men armed with cudgels demanding to know the whereabouts of the household’s occupiers. Mrs Fereby refused to tell them, whereupon one of the men struck her on the head and rendered her insensible.
The men climbed the stairs to the first storey and threatened a maid they found there, a Miss Harriet Riddiford, who, in a bid to be rid of the gang, told them the details of some valuable vases that were to be found in the drawing room. She was hit about the arms and chest, and ordered to keep quiet if she wished to preserve her life. Two men went into the drawing room and the other two climbed the stairs to the bedchamber where Mrs Forster slept.
While the content of the exchange between these men and Mrs Forster cannot be known, it is clear that she suffered a blow to the head and died from her injury shortly afterward, while the gang decamped with a stash of valuable jewellery and ornaments. The housekeeper recovered sufficiently from the attack to raise the alarm and constables were soon in attendance, alongside Police Surgeon Dr Sweby and Detective Inspector Bowles of Marylebone Lane police station.
Mr. Forster returned home at eleven o’clock to discover the distressing scene. Mrs Fereby and Miss Riddiford continue to receive treatment at the Middlesex Hospital.
Mr. Forster and his wife had recently returned from Calcutta, Bengal Province, India, where Mr. Forster had worked for the merchant Messrs Lewis Sheridan and Co.
“Well done, Miss Green,” said my editor, Mr Sherman. “You must have spent quite a bit of time at the scene yesterday to get all this detail. And well done on the interview with Mrs Yarborough, too. You’ll notice we’ve published it in its entirety. None of the other papers managed to get an interview with her.”
“It was a bit of luck,” I replied. “I saw her step out of her front door just as she was dashing off to Paddington.”
“You were in just the right place at the right time,” he replied, placing his pipe in his mouth. “That’s the skill of a good news reporter.” His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he wore a blue serge waistcoat. His black hair was oiled and parted to one side. “You haven’t forgotten about the story on the Irish Conference in Boston, though, have you?”
“No, Mr Sherman, I’m working on it now,” I replied.
“I need it on my desk by four o’clock.”
The editor promptly left the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him. The newsroom of the Morning Express newspaper was a small, cluttered place with a grimy window looking out over Fleet Street.
“Well done, Miss Green, for being Mr Sherman’s favourite today,” said my colleague, Edgar Fish. He was a tall, broad man with heavy features and a thin, mousey-brown moustache.
“I’d say that Miss Green has been Sherman’s favourite for much of the week,” added the corpulent, curly-haired reporter, Frederick Potter.
“Now you come to mention it, Potter, she has, hasn’t she?” said Edgar. “That won’t do, will it? After all, you and I work a darn sight harder than she does.”
“We do indeed,” added Frederick.
“What I want to know, Miss Green,” said Edgar, “is how you got onto the scene of the Forster murder as quickly as you did. After all, it occurred in Margaret Street and you live in Milton Street, which must be a good three miles away.”
“I have my landlady, Mrs Garnett, to thank for that,” I replied. “She has a friend who is famed for gossip and always seems to hear of these things before anyone else. I had only just sat down to breakfast at the time.”
“Miss Green has an assistant!” said Edgar. “That’s how she does it, Potter!”
“She’s my landlady,” I corrected, “and I think she would object to anyone describing her as an assistant.”
“But she’s a woman,” said Frederick, “and we all know the fairer sex has a predilection for nosiness and gossip.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head there, Potter,” said Edgar. “Miss Green and her landlady have a natural advantage over us chaps.”
“But aren’t your wives inclined to nosiness and gossip?” I asked.
Both men shook their heads.
“That’s odd,” I replied, “as I’m sure you suggested just a moment ago that these were characteristics all women possessed.”
“Almost all,” replied Edgar. “To tell you the truth, Miss Green, Mrs Fish is really quite distressed about this murder business in Margaret Street. She’s fearful that we might be next!”
“But you don’t have anything worth stealing in your
home, Fish,” said Frederick.
“Try telling that to Mrs Fish!” replied Edgar. “She didn’t want me to leave for work this morning, and I’ve been instructed to be home by six o’clock at the very latest.”
“That’s a shame,” said Frederick. “It means you won’t be able to have your customary tipple down at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
“I know. Customary tipples are quite out of the question at the moment, Potter. I’m afraid they won’t be permitted until Mrs Fish has found a way to calm herself.”
“Tell Georgina not to worry,” I said. “I’m quite sure the burglars won’t be paying you a visit any time soon.”
“But you can’t be sure of that, Miss Green,” said Edgar. “Your interview with Mrs Yarborough just goes to prove that many people are fearful. No one can bear the thought that it might happen to them. You just don’t know where these villains are likely to strike next.”
“I don’t think this was an opportunistic attack,” I said.
“Is that what the police are saying?” asked Edgar.
“No, not yet. It’s just what I think. It sounds as if the burglary was carefully planned. And I don’t really believe that the motive was burglary at all.”
Edgar groaned. “Oh no, Miss Green, you’re theorising again. Leave all that to the police.”
“I can’t help it, Edgar! I saw Augustus Forster yesterday morning, and there was something about him which didn’t quite ring true.”
“Are you suggesting the chap burgled his own house?”
“No, but I happen to think it rather convenient that he wasn’t there at the time.”
“But surely the fellow should be allowed to enjoy an evening at his usual club without being accused of committing a shocking crime! Perhaps the burglars knew he would be out and simply seized their chance.”
“Perhaps so, but if they were merely after some valuable items, why not wait until the middle of the night when everyone in the house was fast asleep? They’d have had a better chance of pulling it off undisturbed.”
Edgar pondered this. “That’s an interesting thought. Then you really think they wished to attack Mrs Forster and her servants?”
“I believe so. Otherwise, why would such violence have been employed? There was no need to attack everyone in that forceful manner; I’m sure threatening them would have had the desired effect.”
“Perhaps they were set upon by the staff.”
“No, I think the burglars must have chosen to harm them from the off in order to approach Mrs Forster unchallenged.”
“Then Mrs Forster was the intended target?”
“Yes, I believe she was intentionally murdered. The burglars struck when her husband was out of the house. They ensured that the servants were incapacitated and were devastatingly brutal once they reached the poor, unsuspecting woman. The theft of valuable items was nothing but a half-hearted attempt to disguise the true motive of this crime.”
“Only you’re saying it wasn’t; that it was, in fact, murder?”
“I can’t say for sure, Edgar, but it’s the most plausible theory I have at the moment.”
“Well, it’s not a bad one. Have you discussed it with your detective friend, Inspector James Blakely of the Yard?”
“No, not yet.”
The mere mention of James’ name made my stomach flip. I hadn’t seen him since we had shared a forbidden kiss in my sister’s hallway the previous week. It was an incident which I both felt ashamed of and treasured. James was supposed to be marrying his fiancée in just six weeks’ time.
I also had a terrible suspicion that the kiss had been witnessed by my friend Mr Edwards, a man who had once held what I believed to be a deep affection for me.
“Are you all right, Miss Green?” asked Edgar. “Has your mind wandered elsewhere?”
Chapter 3
“Your theory is an interesting one, Miss Green,” said Detective Inspector Bowles as we stood outside Mr Forster’s home. A constable guarded the door and several onlookers lingered in the midday sun. Bowles was a thick-set man with a thin moustache, and a left eye which appeared to be looking over my shoulder while his right eye was firmly fixed on me. “However, we are continuing to treat the incident as a burglary at the present time.”
“But Inspector —”
He raised his hand to prevent me from talking any further. “That’s enough, Miss Green. I have an important job to be getting on with and I can’t stand around being detained by news reporters any longer.”
Inspector Bowles was the detective I had seen with Mr Forster the morning after the murder. I wanted to ask him what he and Mr Forster had been laughing about, but instead I sighed and tucked my notebook and pencil back inside my carpet bag.
“You think there’s something more to this, do you, madam?” I turned to see a man with bushy brown whiskers. He wore a top hat and a long, dark coat. His eyes were grey and watery.
“Were you listening in to our conversation?” I asked.
“Apologies, madam. Miss Green, isn’t it? That’s what I heard the inspector call you. I’m Mr Charles Mawson, a friend of the Forster family.”
“I offer you my deepest condolences, Mr Mawson. This must be a most difficult time for you.”
“It is, rather. I came here looking for Forster, but I don’t know where the chap has gone. I don’t suppose he’ll want to set foot in his home again after the terrible tragedy that has taken place within its walls. I’m interested in this idea I overheard you mention to Inspector Bowles. Do you really think the incident could be something other than a straightforward burglary?”
“I have no idea, Mr Mawson. I suppose it’s in my nature to speculate on these matters. You should ignore most of what I say; I’m nothing more than a nosy news reporter!”
“Ah, I see. For a moment you seemed rather earnest about your thoughts on the matter. Do you know how the burglars got inside the house?”
“Through a kitchen window at the rear of the house.”
“Oh dear. So they set upon the staff at first?”
“Apparently so.”
“Bludgeoned with cudgels, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And then they went upstairs and attacked poor Olivia.” He shook his head. “Dreadful business. How many of them were present, do you know?”
“Four, I believe.”
“They would have covered their faces, I imagine, so it will be quite impossible for the police to catch them unless the stolen goods appear for sale at some market stall in the near future, which might arouse suspicion. Though they could sell the valuables in another city altogether, couldn’t they? That would cover their tracks rather well. You can see how solving these crimes becomes a battle of wits between the criminals and the police, can’t you?”
“You can indeed.”
“I wonder what evidence the police have uncovered so far. I should like to find out.”
“Have you known the Forster family for long, Mr Mawson?”
“Yes, for some years, in actual fact. I spent some time in India and became acquainted with Mr Forster there.”
“He worked for a large merchant company, did he not?”
“Yes, Sheridan and Company.”
“What sort of merchant is it?”
“It trades in a number of items; principally cotton and opium. It’s one of the largest firms in Calcutta and employs a number of people here in London too.”
“Did you work for the same company while you were there?”
“No, I worked for the Indian government. I first met the Forsters while dining at a club in Calcutta, and subsequent to that we often enjoyed riding, shooting and picnicking together; that sort of thing. I returned a year ago.” He sighed. “I do miss those days, and now everything has changed. I don’t suppose you know where Mr Forster has gone, do you?”
I was surprised that Mr Mawson didn’t know the answer to this question himself.
“I’m afraid I don’t. He was here yesterday m
orning, but I suppose he must wish to stay away from the house for the time being. Do the Forsters have any children?”
“A son and a daughter. The son is at Oxford and the daughter is married to a chap in Bristol. He works in shipping. Dear me, I struggle to believe that we have lost poor Olivia in this frightful way. I do hope Forster’s all right. I wish I knew where he was.”
“The police might have an idea as to his whereabouts.”
“They might, mightn’t they? I say, Inspector!”
Inspector Bowles turned to acknowledge him.
“Do you know where Forster is at the moment? I’m Mr Mawson, a friend of the family.”
“I’m not at liberty to say where he is,” Bowles replied, suddenly distracted by a man who was swiftly approaching. “Good afternoon, Inspector Blakely.”
I caught my breath before slowly turning to face James.
“Penny!”
He grinned at me and I felt my face redden. He wore his customary bowler hat along with a smart grey suit and waistcoat. He held my gaze with his sparkling blue eyes.
“Hello, James.”
“It’s terribly sad, isn’t it?” His face grew solemn as he glanced up at the Forsters’ house.
Mr Mawson wandered off to speak to a police constable, presumably hoping to find out where his friend might be.
“Immensely sad,” I said. “I was here yesterday morning and spoke with the neighbour, Mrs Yarborough. She’s headed off to Somerset now.”
“I read your interview with her in the Morning Express and I’m not surprised she has decided to leave. This whole business is rather unpleasant.”
“Miss Green has been trying to persuade me that this was more than just a violent burglary, Inspector Blakely,” Inspector Bowles interjected.
“What makes you think that, Penny?” asked James.
“A few things —”
“No, don’t you be getting into all that again,” said Bowles, “there’s important work to be done. Come on, Blakely, I’ll show you the crime scene.”