by Emily Organ
“I’m surprised that a man who had shown such promise should have his life ended in such a sad manner.”
“It happens, Miss Green,” replied Inspector Reeves. “Education and wealth aren’t always enough. A man must rely on the strength of his character.”
“True enough,” added Tom Clifford.
“Do you think Mr Holland’s sister would be happy to speak to me?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but you could try calling on her. You’ll have her address from the inquest, no doubt, but be aware that she’s grief-stricken, so don’t go upsetting her.”
“Has she been able to tell you anything useful about what may have led to his murder?”
“No, she knows very little of what he’d been getting up to,” replied the inspector. “He kept his opium-soaked life to himself.”
We crossed the road and walked briskly through a dingy alleyway which ran between two enormous warehouses. The alleyway opened out into Regent’s Canal Dock, where tall sail ships were moored beside rows of coal barges. Heavily loaded carts lumbered past us, seagulls wheeled above our heads and an unpleasant, dank smell rose up from the water, which lapped at the slimy stone walls.
Inspector Reeves strode along the quay beside me with Tom Clifford following closely behind. Beyond the dock stretched the River Thames, its shore lined with warehouses, chimneys and cranes, which were silhouetted against the darkening sky.
Without warning, the inspector turned sharply to his right and into a passageway I would otherwise have walked past without noticing it was there. A putrid odour hit my nose and I felt forced to hold my breath as we walked along the cobblestones. Tom Clifford mumbled a string of curse words relating to the stench.
Inspector Reeves paused beside a door with flaked paint on it. I placed a hand over my nose and mouth in a vain attempt to keep the smell away.
“Mr Tan has permitted us to visit his establishment,” announced Inspector Reeves.
“We’re goin’ to see the gaff where Mr Holland was shot?” asked Tom Clifford.
“We certainly are,” replied the inspector proudly.
Tom eagerly pulled out his notebook and pencil, while I clasped my carpet bag and shivered. The alleyway was so wretched and miserable I wasn’t sure how prepared I was for what lay beyond the door. It reminded me of the misery I had encountered in St Giles’ Rookery during a previous murder investigation.
Inspector Reeves knocked at the door and eventually it opened slightly. He and the occupant exchanged a few words, and then the door opened just wide enough to permit us entry.
“Ladies first,” Tom said with a grin.
“I’ll follow you,” I replied, feeling rather hesitant.
The dingy corridor smelled almost as bad as the alleyway had. I could hardly see where I was going.
“Mind the steps, there are a few missing,” said Inspector Reeves as we clambered up a narrow, greasy staircase.
The hazy figures of Inspector Reeves and Tom Clifford turned right at the top of the stairs. I followed and knocked into the back of Tom, unaware that he had stopped.
“You remember Mr Tan from the inquest, don’t you?” said the inspector.
I couldn’t quite see the man from the doorway that led into a dimly lit room.
“Yes. Evenin’, Mr Tan,” said Tom as he entered breezily.
I remained where I was and simply peered in. My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and I saw that Mr Tan nodded a brief acknowledgement when he saw me.
A thick layer of smoke floated above a dim paraffin lamp. A person lay on a mattress on the floor and two other forms lay prostrate on a bed. A fourth person was sprawled over a mattress lying upon some tea chests. In the gloom I could see that this person was reclining with a long pipe in his hand, the end of which was held over a small flame. A sweet, rich, floral smell mingled with the odour of unwashed bodies.
I had worried at first about what the men in this place would think of a woman visiting, but I realised they were too insensible even to notice my presence. I considered the romantic idea of the opium den portrayed in theatre and art with its colourful wall hangings, silk cushions and paper lanterns. The room I saw now was a truly pitiful place. How dreadful had Mr Holland’s life become that he had needed to seek solace here?
“Show the reporters where the bullet holes are, Mr Tan,” instructed Inspector Reeves.
Mr Tan nodded and walked toward the dishevelled man lying on the tea chests. The man gazed at Mr Tan nonchalantly as the proprietor pointed beyond his shoulder at some marks on the wall.
“Bullet hole,” he said.
I shivered as I pictured Alfred Holland lying in that place and receiving the fatal gunshot to his head. I imagined how loud it would have sounded in this small room. Mr Tan seemed remarkably calm for a man who had been through such an ordeal. I reasoned that the opium had most likely dulled his senses.
“Thank you, Inspector Reeves and Mr Tan,” I said. I was beginning to feel nauseous and craved clean air. “I think I’ve seen enough now.”
“How does the opium pipe work?” asked Tom.
Mr Tan picked up a thick bamboo pipe, which was about the length of his arm. It was etched decoratively and a small silver bowl was attached to one end. Mr Tan proceeded to explain how the opium was placed in the bowl and then heated over the flame.
“I can’t ’ave come all this way up ’ere not to give it a go!” said Tom cheerily.
“But a man died in here,” I said. “Don’t you wish to leave immediately?”
“I should imagine that a good few men have died in here,” said Inspector Reeves.
“I’m going back outside now, Inspector,” I replied, “Thank you for your time.”
My stomach turned as I stumbled down the staircase, and I held my breath until I was safely back at the quayside of Regent’s Canal Dock.
Chapter 16
A light drizzle fell the following morning as I arrived at Drummond Street. The Euston Hotel and a row of terraced houses lined one side, while on the other was Euston station with its enormous, sandstone arch, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in ancient Greece. The word ‘Euston’ was etched into its architrave in gold lettering.
I found number seven: a modest, three-storey terrace. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and hoped Alfred Holland’s sister Emma would be willing to speak to me.
A maid with a black armband answered the door and asked me to wait in the hallway while she took my card to her mistress. I felt relieved when she returned and informed me that Miss Holland was prepared to see me.
I was led into a parlour at the front of the house. The curtains were drawn, the mirror above the fireplace was covered with black crepe and the room was lit by two gas lamps. Miss Holland stood by the fireplace, her face and hands white against the black of her mourning dress. I guessed she was about twenty-three years of age.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Holland,” I said. “Please accept my condolences for your brother’s untimely death.”
She nodded warily and waited for me to continue.
“I realise this must be a difficult time for you,” I said, “and I hope not to detain you for long. I attended the inquest and I should like to find out more about your brother. It seems he led rather an interesting life.”
“Why do you want to discover more about him?” Her eyes were a hard, sharp green.
“To understand why someone might have wished to harm him.”
“But isn’t that the job of the police?”
“It is, yes, and I know that Inspector Reeves is working hard to find your brother’s murderer. But I am interested to find out whether Alfred’s murder might be connected to the death of a couple from Fitzrovia; a Mr and Mrs Forster. They also worked in India. Bengal, to be precise.”
“I read about them in the newspaper, but I don’t think Alfred would have known them. They once lived in Calcutta, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they did.”
“Alf
red was in Ghazipur, which is more than four hundred miles from Calcutta.”
“Yes, I can see how their paths may not have crossed, though Mr Forster worked for a merchant which traded in opium, and Alfred was an opium agent.”
“But a great many people work within the opium trade. I don’t see any reason why the two should have necessarily known each other.”
I sighed. “No, I suppose the chances are rather slim.”
As her eyes remained on me I wondered exactly what I had hoped to achieve. My conviction that Alfred Holland and the Forsters had somehow known one another seemed rather weak, but I couldn’t think of anything else to suggest.
“Would you like some tea, Miss Green?” she asked, her expression softening a little.
“Only if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Holland. Thank you.”
She called for the maid and gestured for me to take a seat on the settee. Once she had asked for some tea to be brought in she seated herself in an easy chair next to the fireplace.
“I haven’t spoken to many people about Alfred,” she said. “He had lost many of his friends, and our parents had disowned him.”
“Because of his opium habit?”
She nodded. “It turned him into a selfish person. He was my brother and I loved him dearly, but I didn’t like the man he became. The past year has been especially difficult. Since his death I have received few condolences, and as for my parents…” she paused as her eyes grew damp “…I can’t tell whether they’re sad or relieved. He brought great shame on them after his return from India.”
“And before he went there?”
Her face brightened. “They were extremely proud of him. He was clever and good-natured. He had lots of friends and enjoyed life. He studied at Cambridge, and when he began working for the Indian government my parents anticipated great things for him. We all did.”
“And he was in India for five years?”
“Yes, how do you know that?”
“You said so at the inquest.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he come home at all during those five years?”
“Once or twice, and he seemed a little more serious than when he had first departed for India, but I suppose that was to be expected. He travelled over as a boy and became a man out there. I suppose it’s only natural for someone to lose their spontaneity and sense of fun in those circumstances.”
“Do you put the change solely down to age, or do you think there was another reason for this new display of maturity?”
“No, just age. And I suppose living and working in a foreign country would change a man, wouldn’t it? Nobody stays the same forever.”
“Was he happy in Ghazipur?”
“Yes, he seemed to be. Mother and Father went out to stay with him for a while, but I didn’t go.”
“So you saw little of him during that time.”
“Yes, and when he returned for good he was quite different.”
The maid brought in the tea.
“When did you find out about the opium?” I asked.
“It was after he’d lost his second job. He worked as a clerk for a tobacco merchant on his return, and then he ran errands for the Metropolitan Board of Works. It wasn’t the usual sort of profession you’d expect a Cambridge graduate to be pursuing. Neither job lasted long and he confessed to me that the only enjoyment he found in life came in the form of opium. He had first tried it in India and subsequently began to make regular use of it. He told me that if he went for any length of time without it he was overcome by sickness. The only way to stop the sickness was to take it again.”
“Presumably he had no idea that he would become so dependent on it.”
“He told me he had first taken it for toothache, and that it had given him a sensation so pleasurable he never found anything else that could compare. Not even love, it seems.”
“Was there ever a chance of marriage for him?”
“He told me there had been a girl in India at one time, but she had brought their courtship to an end. Whether it was her choice or her family’s I cannot tell, but I think he was more upset about that than he was willing to admit.”
“You last saw him at Christmas, is that right?”
“Yes, and it was so dreadful I vowed never to see him again. It transpired that I kept that vow.”
Her eyes grew damp and her hand trembled as she lifted a cup of tea to her lips.
“What happened at Christmas?” I asked.
“He had terrible rows with Mother and Father; with all of us, including my cousin and her husband, with whom I share this home. We all found him detestable.”
“What was the nature of his work in Ghazipur?”
“He weighed the pots of opium when they arrived at the factory. It doesn’t sound like much, but he told me it was quite an important job because opium is as precious a commodity as silver. Forms had to be filled in and certificates signed, and everything was done under lock and key. Apparently, there was tight security to prevent any of the opium falling into the wrong hands.”
“There’s nothing in what you have told me to explain why someone might have wished to kill your brother,” I said.
“No, I cannot understand it. All I can think is that he had a disagreement with someone. Perhaps he owed money to the wrong people. He somehow managed to pay for his opium, though he didn’t have a job.”
“Was there any money from the family?”
“A little from Mother and Father. I can only hope that the police find out who did this to him and why. I realise he probably got himself into some dangerous situations, but I need to understand why this happened, no matter how unpalatable the truth may be.”
Chapter 17
I stepped out of the Morning Express offices and into the rain that evening. I began searching among the traffic on Fleet Street for an omnibus to take me home.
“Penny!”
I turned to see James standing beneath his umbrella outside a stationer’s shop and I felt a flip of excitement in my chest.
“James! What are you doing here?” I hadn’t seen him since the day I had called at his home and accidentally encountered Charlotte and her mother. I had been trying my hardest not to think about him, knowing how close his wedding was, but I felt pleased that he had sought me out.
“Were you waiting here for me?”
“I was just passing your offices and thought you’d probably be finishing for the day about now. I read your article about the opium den.” He gestured for me to join him under his umbrella.
“Oh, did you?”
“What on earth were you doing in an opium den? It’s not a safe place for a lady to be at all.”
“Or for anyone, in fact, especially not after the murder of Alfred Holland.”
“Indeed. Have you the time to take a walk?”
“Of course.”
We walked west in the direction of the Strand.
“I don’t like the thought of you wandering about Limehouse visiting opium dens,” said James.
“Oh, it wasn’t quite like that. Inspector Reeves of K Division took us.”
“Us?”
“Myself and Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette.”
James groaned. “Oh, no! I remember that man from the St Giles investigation.”
“Have you come across Inspector Reeves before?”
“Once or twice. He’s a slippery character. I can’t imagine he took you on a tour of the opium den out of pure goodwill. Did he ask you for money?”
“Yes, three shillings.”
James shook his head.
“We visited the opium den where Alfred Holland was shot.”
“So your article said.”
“I met with Alfred’s sister this morning, and she has no idea who might have wanted to murder him.”
“I can’t imagine Inspector Reeves having much of an idea either,” said James.
“Alfred Holland came from a good family,” I said. “His death seems to ha
ve marked the end of a tragic descent into destitution. He worked in India, did you know that?”
“I didn’t. I’m afraid I’m not terribly familiar with the case.”
“I’ve been trying to find out whether he met the Forsters while he was out there.”
“The odds of that are fairly slim, aren’t they?”
“I realise that, but both Mr Forster and Mr Holland worked within the opium industry.”
“Along with a good many other people.”
I sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever convince anyone to consider the possibility that the murders could be connected.”
We paused beside the lofty arches of the law courts.
“Let’s cross here,” said James.
We darted between the carts and carriages, and turned into Essex Street.
“If the murders are connected we need to find the evidence that links them,” said James. “I’m assisting D Division with Mrs Forster’s case and working on Inspector Paget of C Division to allow me to help with Mr Forster’s case. As for Mr Holland, that’s K Division and I must say that I don’t trust Inspector Reeves one bit. I sometimes wonder who he’s actually working for.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just rumour. But you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? It’s rather difficult to pull all these separate incidents together and try to connect them.”
We passed the Essex Head Tavern and made our way toward a handsome archway at the end of the street.
“But you work for Scotland Yard,” I said. “You’re well placed to work on all these cases and discover the connection.”
“I can’t just march in and demand that I take over these cases, Penny. I’m not senior enough to seize control.”
“But you know there’s little possibility that Inspector Bowles or Paget will consider that a murder in Limehouse could be linked to the murder of the Forsters in Fitzrovia and Mayfair. They’re very different parts of London. What this situation needs is a detective like you to consider the cases side by side.”