by Emily Organ
“Yes, I heard. It’s quite shocking. I expect Inspector Paget of C Division has the matter in hand, but no doubt he’ll call on the Yard if he requires our assistance.”
“Have you discovered anything more about the gang that broke into Forster’s home?”
“I’ve spoken to the housekeeper and the maid, who have both given me their accounts. There’s a boy who worked there, too, and he managed to escape unharmed. I have a description of the men, but they disguised themselves quite well with hats and scarves over their faces. I made sure the descriptions were sent out to all the police divisions as it’s possible some of them may have encountered the gang before.”
“Could the same men have murdered Mr Forster, do you think?”
“It may be the same men behind both attacks. It’s terribly tragic, and it begs the question why.”
“Do you think Inspector Paget and Inspector Bowles are capable of finding that out?”
“I don’t doubt their competency, but there are two separate divisions working on this now: St James and Marylebone. I’ll have to see what I can do to coordinate the effort.”
“I don’t suppose you spoke to Mr Charles Mawson, who was hanging about the Forsters’ home when I saw you there?”
“The chap with the bushy whiskers? No, I didn’t. Did he have anything interesting to say for himself?”
“Only that he had known the Forsters in India. He seemed rather keen to find out where Mr Forster was. I had assumed he was asking out of concern for his friend, but now I’m beginning to wonder whether he had another motive.”
“He might have wanted to find him so he could stick a knife in his back, you mean?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“One of many possibilities at this stage, I should think.”
“The man was asking a lot of questions about the burglary. He seemed keen to find out what the police knew.”
“But that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“I realise that, but he may know something. I wish I could find him again.”
“Why don’t you try?” James asked.
“It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack! That’s why I hoped you had spoken to him. I wondered if there was an easy way to track him down.”
“Why don’t you ask Inspector Bowles?”
“Yes, I will. I know he spoke to the man, at least briefly. Perhaps he’s also suspicious of him. Thank you, James. I won’t detain you any longer.”
I felt disappointed that we had conducted our entire conversation on the doorstep. It appeared that James considered it ungentlemanly to invite me inside.
“Hopefully we shall see one another again soon,” I continued. “Perhaps when you have made some progress with Mrs Forster’s murder you could let me know.”
“Inspector Bowles would be better placed than I, Penny.”
“I suppose he would be, yes, I’ll ask him to update me. I shall be on my way then, James. Oh, I had a visit from Mr Edwards yesterday evening.”
“Is that so?” James’ brow furrowed.
“He told me about your conversation. You seem to have taken full responsibility for what happened at Eliza’s home, and he respects you for doing so.”
“Does he?” James lowered his voice. “Well, I do take responsibility for it, Penny, and I hope that the friendship between yourself and Mr Edwards is unaltered.”
“Yes, thankfully no great damage appears to have been done, which is quite miraculous given the circumstances.”
“He seems to be quite forgiving where you are concerned.”
“Thank you for speaking to him. Matters would no doubt have remained quite awkward between Mr Edwards and myself otherwise.”
“I wanted to do what I could to right the situation.”
“Well, things are righted now, thank you. Mr Edwards considers me a lady of virtue once more.”
I laughed and James smiled. We held each other’s gaze for a moment until I was startled by a woman’s voice from beyond the door.
“Who are you speaking to, darling?”
James gave a brief look of alarm before swiftly regaining his composure. The door opened wider to reveal Charlotte, whom I had met once before. She had a wide, apple-cheeked face framed by fair curls. I blinked and forced a smile onto my face.
“Miss Green!” she said. “What a surprise.” Her mouth smiled, but her blue eyes did not match it.
“Who is it?” came another voice. Behind Charlotte was an older woman with the same face, though decorated with age lines. It was Charlotte’s mother.
“How lovely to see you again, Miss Jenkins,” I said, trying my hardest to sound sincere.
“What is it you want?” Charlotte asked abruptly. Her tone was not as polite as it had been when I had met her last.
“I was passing by and needed to tell James something about a case I’m reporting on. That was all, Miss Jenkins. I’m just about to leave.”
“Charlotte and her mother are here to discuss wedding arrangements,” said James as cheerily as possible.
“How lovely,” I said. “It’s not long to go now, is it? Just six weeks, I believe. I shan’t detain you any longer; you must have a great deal to discuss.”
Chapter 9
“Thank you for your information regarding Mr Mawson, Miss Green. I shall bear him in mind.”
Inspector Bowles closed his notebook and tucked it into his jacket pocket. We stood in the wood-panelled waiting room at Marylebone Lane police station.
“I had hoped you would know where to find him,” I said.
“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know anything about the man.”
“Don’t you think he seems rather suspicious?”
“It sounds as though he was simply enquiring about the whereabouts of his friend when you spoke to him.”
“He wished to find his friend, and then his friend was murdered. What if he only wanted to locate Mr Forster so that he could carry out the deed?”
“That seems rather unlikely to me,” Inspector Bowles replied.
“But it’s a possibility. Who else do you suspect may have been behind Mr Forster’s murder?”
“C Division is investigating Mr Forster’s murder; I am investigating Mrs Forster’s murder.”
“Aren’t you communicating with one another about the two cases?”
“Absolutely. We know how to do our job, Miss Green.”
“Do you think the same person might be behind both murders?”
“That’s for myself and Inspector Paget to decide. Please allow me to proceed with my work now,” Inspector Bowles replied, “You’re fortunate I’m speaking to you at all. Many police officers have no time for news reporters, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, Inspector. There’s something else which has been troubling me since I saw Mr Forster the morning after his wife was murdered. I recall that you and he walked past me discussing something, and then he laughed.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, and I thought it rather an odd thing to do considering that his wife had just died. Do you not recall it?”
“I can’t say that I do. It’s not as if we can ask the chap now, given that he’s dead.”
“You don’t remember him laughing?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I see. Well, thank you for your time, Inspector Bowles. I realise this has become quite a complicated case, but I’m sure Scotland Yard could be of some assistance.”
“I’ve already had Blakely from the Yard sniffing about and that will do for the time being. D Division is quite capable of handling this case. Thank you, Miss Green. You’ve taken an extremely keen interest in matters but please concentrate on your job and allow me to do mine.”
As the omnibus carried me along Oxford Street I reflected on the frosty reception I had received from Charlotte Jenkins the previous evening. Although I resented the manner in which she had spoken I knew that she had every right to be suspicious of me. Having asked James to
stop meeting me at the Museum Tavern she must have been deeply annoyed to find me standing on his doorstep.
I wondered if she had discussed me with him after I left. I pictured an awkward conversation between James, Charlotte and her mother. After that they had probably forgotten all about me and discussed their plans for the wedding: which guests should be seated together, which should be kept apart and what they should all dine on.
How I envied Charlotte and wished I were the one discussing wedding plans with James. An advert for Pears Soap situated above the passenger opposite me caught my eye. Beaming out from the picture was a woman who looked just like Charlotte, all apple-cheeked and happy.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of other matters. My father. The book I was writing about my father. My cat. Charlotte may have been betrothed to James, but she didn’t have a cat as adorable as Tiger. Though it was but a small consolation, it offered momentary relief.
“You seem perplexed, Miss Green,” whispered Mr Edwards as I sat at my desk in the reading room. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I wouldn’t waste your penny, Mr Edwards.” I smiled. “I’m not perplexed; I’m just wondering how I might find out more about a person I met only briefly. He was a friend of Mr and Mrs Forster, and I think he may have been in possession of some useful information.”
“The Forster family who fell victim to that dreadful burglary and murder business?”
“Yes.”
“It’s horrifying, isn’t it? I cannot understand why they should have been harmed in such a manner.”
“Me neither. And the police haven’t made much progress with the case as yet. I think they should be speaking to the people who knew the Forsters.”
“I’m sure they already are.”
“But not all of them. I spoke to a chap who Inspector Bowles thought was of no consequence at all. I’m not convinced he’s interested in speaking to the man, though I think he may have some valuable information.”
“Is this the man you wish to discover more about?”
“Yes. His name is Charles Mawson, and he told me he was living near the Forsters while he was working for the Indian government. There’s a periodical which summarises news and appointments in India, isn’t there? I’m trying to remember the name of it.”
“The Homeward Mail?”
“Yes! That’s the one, Mr Edwards, thank you. Presumably there are copies held here?”
“There are indeed. Do you intend to search for a mention of this Mawson chap?”
“Yes. There might also be something in there about the Forsters.”
“I believe it’s a weekly publication, Miss Green, which means there would be quite a lot of information to search through. It could take you a long while.”
“Mr Mawson told me he returned about a year ago. Hopefully there are passenger lists in The Homeward Mail.”
“I seem to recall that just about everything is listed in that publication. What is it exactly that you wish to find out?”
“Whatever I can. I should like to find Mawson and ask him what else he knows.”
“I’ll show you where it’s stored, and hopefully something will leap out from its pages for you.”
I followed Mr Edwards, feeling relieved that he had returned to his usual self after witnessing the events of that unforgettable dinner party. After a short walk we reached the newspaper storage area of the British Library, where shelves from floor to ceiling held tall, leather-bound volumes.
“Here we are. The Homeward Mail, July to September 1883,” he said, pointing at a heavy-looking volume. “Do you think this might include a reference to your chap Mr Mawson?”
“He told me he had returned a year ago, so he must be in the passenger lists if nothing else.”
“Let me lift this off the shelf and carry it into the newspaper reading room for you, Miss Green. It’s rather cumbersome.”
We walked to the newspaper reading room where Mr Edwards rested the volume on a rack over one of the desks.
“There you are,” he said with a smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. It seems rather a daunting task.”
“Thank you, Mr Edwards.”
“And do let me know when you need to look through the other volumes, won’t you? They’re rather heavy to be carrying about by yourself.”
“I’ll manage. Thank you, Mr Edwards.”
“I mean it, Miss Green. I wouldn’t wish for you to injure yourself.”
I spent much of the morning leafing through copies of The Homeward Mail hoping to find any mention I could of the Forsters or Mr Mawson.
I skimmed through various articles on the Indian budget, schools, military intelligence, stocks and shares, the cotton trade, shipping intelligence, births, marriages and deaths. I found no mention whatsoever of Mr Mawson in the passenger lists.
I eventually ran out of time. The volume was heavy, as Mr Edwards had warned me, but I managed to return it to the shelves. The time had come to write my article about the prime minister’s recent speech on fruit farming.
Chapter 10
“It fills me with fear that a woman could be murdered in her own home,” said Eliza. “Whenever I think of poor Mrs Forster I shake like a leaf!”
“And now the husband’s dead too,” added her husband George. “It’s a terrible state of affairs.”
I was dining with Eliza and George at their large home in Bayswater. My brother-in-law was a lawyer: a tall man with wavy brown hair swept to one side. He had thick mutton-chop whiskers and the buttons on his waistcoat strained around his generous girth.
“Please don’t worry, Ellie,” I said. “I don’t think Mrs Forster’s death was a case of a burglary gone wrong. I think it’s more likely that she was the intended target.”
“That’s even worse!”
“I know it’s dreadful, but it should be of some reassurance. I’m quite sure nobody wishes to murder you.”
“But how do you know that? Presumably poor Mrs Forster had no idea that someone wished to murder her, yet they did exactly that!”
“And don’t forget about the husband,” said George, sawing away at his lamb cutlet with a blunt knife. “Stabbed to death outside the East India. That’s only a few streets away from my club! It could just as easily have been me stabbed in the back.”
“There’s no denying that it’s horrific,” I said, “but someone must have had a reason to attack Mr Forster. It wasn’t just a man lying in wait for any old gentleman to step outside his club of an evening. Someone had a reason for wanting the Forsters dead.”
“But what could that reason have been?” asked my sister.
“That’s what the police need to find out,” I replied.
“It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if you were trying to find out as well, Penelope,” she said.
“I’m taking an interest in the case. I spoke briefly to a friend of the Forsters, who I’m sure must have some clue about who might wish to murder them. Perhaps it was the chap himself! The trouble is, I don’t know how to find him again.”
“There’s a surprise,” said George. “If he’s the man behind it I expect he’s scarpered. He’s probably escaped to the continent by now. Switzerland. That’s a good place to escape to; nobody bothers a chap in Switzerland.”
“Adjust your serviette, George, or you’ll end up with gravy on your shirt,” scolded Eliza.
Her husband did as he was told.
“But I still don’t understand the motive behind the two murders,” she continued. “What could they ever have done to harm someone to such an extent? They were a respectable married couple living in a respectable home without bothering anyone.”
“And rather wealthy, too,” added George.
“But why murder them?” asked Eliza.
“We don’t know enough of the detail about their lives as yet,” I said. “Perhaps they did harm someone and we don’t know about it.”
“Nonsense, how could they?” said Eliza. “Wealthy people who
live in respectable homes don’t go around harming people, do they George?”
“They most certainly do not.”
“They led a whole life in India which we know nothing about,” I said.
“That makes them even more respectable!” said George. “What did Forster do? Indian government? Military?”
“He worked for a merchant in Calcutta.”
“Eminently respectable,” said George, taking a sip of wine. “We look after the legal affairs of several Indian merchants. You don’t find anyone more respectable than them.”
“I have learned very little about Mr Forster so far,” I said, “but I did hear that he once worked for a merchant who dealt primarily in cotton and opium.”
“The opium trade?” asked Eliza. “Oh dear. How I detest the opium trade. I don’t understand why the government won’t abolish it.”
“Because it makes too much blessed money, that’s why,” said George. “Not as much as it used to, but still a fair amount.”
“But it’s immoral, darling!” protested Eliza. “Have you seen what opium does to people? It turns them into empty, vapid husks of their former selves. Opium addicts become selfish and neglect their families, and eventually they neglect themselves as well. It’s nothing short of a tragedy.”
“But if John Chinaman wishes to smoke opium it’s not our duty to stop him,” replied George.
“But it’s bad for him! It’s bad for China! I feel sorry for all those poor little Chinese babies whose parents show far more interest in their opium pipes than their charges.”
“The Chinaman has smoked opium for hundreds of years,” said George. “And if the British didn’t sell it to them they’d only grow it themselves. In fact they do, and I hear it’s rather poor quality when compared with the opium of Malwa or Bengal. Better that they smoke ours, and that we make some money from it in the meantime. The Chinese government also makes money on it from the import duty! It’s not as if we’re smuggling it any more; it’s all perfectly above board these days.”