by Emily Organ
Another carriage had pulled up alongside us.
“Penelope?” said a familiar voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“George!” I gave my brother-in-law a broad smile. His dinner suit was a fraction too tight.
“You know Mr Billington-Grieg?” asked Mr Sheridan.
“Yes, he’s my brother-in-law.”
“What a marvellous coincidence!” Mr Sheridan smiled. “Good evening, sir. How are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you, Mr Sheridan. I do apologise if my sister-in-law has been troubling you.”
“Not at all! I’m enjoying our conversation. She’s been writing about old Forster for the Morning Express.”
George gave me a look which suggested he had seen enough of me for one day.
“Allow Mr Sheridan to enjoy his evening now, Penelope. He doesn’t wish to be pestered by the press during his important engagement.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” replied Mr Sheridan. “I think it quite charming that this young lady is showing such concern for the fellow. I really do find it worrying that something so barbaric could happen to a couple as pleasant as the Forsters. Doesn’t it bother you, Mr Billington-Grieg?”
“Yes, it does. I think it bothers many of us. I, for one, won’t feel safe until the culprits are apprehended.”
“Mr Alfred Holland,” I interjected. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr Sheridan?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Holland? Alfred? No. Why?”
“He was shot dead in an opium den.”
“No, I don’t recall hearing anything about him. What a terrible way to go.”
“He had also worked in India as an opium agent in Ghazipur.”
“Really?” Mr Sheridan cocked his head to one side with interest.
“But you have heard nothing about him? I’m trying to find out whether he and Mr Forster knew each other.”
“No, I don’t recognise the name. In an opium den, you say? And he was an opium agent in India? It sounds as though he jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Penelope, Mr Sheridan and I must go and enjoy our evening now,” said George. “Do please excuse us.”
He rested a hand on Mr Sheridan’s shoulder and guided him toward the door of the Burlington Hotel.
“Thank you very much for speaking to me, Mr Sheridan!” I called after them.
He raised a hand in acknowledgement and then they were gone.
Chapter 33
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Penny, but you look rather pale this morning. Is everything all right?” whispered Mr Edwards.
“Oh, I’m just a little tired. Thank you for asking, Francis.”
In truth, I had slept badly the previous night. Every time I had closed my eyes the image of a severed finger had swum before them. I had never felt so concerned for James before. Someone who was willing to cut off another person’s finger had to be extremely barbaric. How could James, or any police officer, defend himself against something so inhuman?
“Are you sure it’s just tiredness?” asked Francis. “You seem worried about something.”
“It’s these murders. They’re so dreadful.” I shuddered.
Francis sighed. “I wonder if there might be some merit in you writing for a different type of publication,” he said.
“A different one? No, I couldn’t possibly. I like writing for the Morning Express.”
“But it means you have to encounter such gruesome stories, Penny. Meanwhile, there are many excellent periodicals you could write far more pleasant stories for. The Ladies’ Scholarly Repository magazine, for example.”
“I wrote articles for them during my brief hiatus in employment at the paper last year.”
“I don’t recall that. What happened?”
“It was before we were acquainted with one another. I criticised the work of Chief Inspector Cullen on a case and he complained to the commissioner, who just happens to be the cousin of my editor, Mr Sherman.”
“Oh dear.”
“I won’t go into the detail now, but suffice to say that Chief Inspector Cullen and I have never worked well together. I have had some experience writing for other publications, but I found them all rather dull, I’m afraid.”
“But surely dull is preferable to gruesome?”
“If you think about it sensibly I suppose it should be, but there’s a little more excitement with the gruesome stores, isn’t there?”
“Excitement, but also danger.”
I sighed. “Yes, there is danger, but I feel I can do something with these stories. When I think about the cases I’ve reported on, and particularly the ones I’ve worked on with Inspector Blakely, I feel that I’ve helped in bringing the perpetrators to justice. There’s no chance of doing that when you’re writing about French authors for the Ladies’ Scholarly Repository. I know that because I’ve already done it.”
“You have your father’s sense of adventure,” said Francis with a smile.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“But you must also be careful.”
“I’m always careful, Francis.”
“Your visit to the opium den worried me.”
“It mustn’t; I was absolutely fine. If there’s anyone we should be concerned about it’s Inspector Blakely.”
“Why him?” Francis frowned.
“It seems he has some particularly nasty people to deal with at the moment. I’m worried for him.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t worry about him. He can look after himself.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s not unusual for the police to put themselves at risk in the course of their work. And don’t forget that they’re accustomed to dealing with nasty people.”
“I know. And I know that I shouldn’t be concerned.”
“So why are you?” There was something unusually sharp in his tone.
“He’s an acquaintance I’ve worked with for some time, and it’s natural for me to worry about the people I know and care about. I would be just as concerned about my sister, and about you.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, though your work isn’t quite as dangerous as the work James does, unless a particularly heavy tome were to slip off a shelf and fall on your head!”
I had intended this comment to be light-hearted, but Francis’ expression darkened.
“I shall go and see if any readers are at the desk awaiting assistance,” he said.
“Is something wrong, Francis?”
“No, not at all. I’ll leave you to your work, Penny.”
Chapter 34
“So Inspector Blakely had you doing a spot of work for him, did he?” asked Edgar. “I heard about your meeting with Mr Chakravarty.”
“I’m not sure what it achieved,” I replied. “In fact, Mr Chakravarty is probably wondering why he hasn’t heard from me about his mortgage offer.”
“I wonder why Blakely didn’t ask me,” said Edgar. “I’m the one who’s writing about the Forster murders.”
Frederick chuckled. “That chap wouldn’t have been fooled by you for a moment, Fish. There’s no subtlety in you whatsoever.”
“You don’t mince your words, do you, Potter?” retorted Edgar. “I’d have been a darn sight more convincing than you. Your only attempt at undercover work was as a customer at a pie shop.”
“And I played the part well.”
“Not too difficult given your generous girth.”
“Better a wide girth than a sheep’s head.”
“Oh, I have a sheep’s head, do I? Well, I think you should go and boil your head, and —”
“Edgar! Frederick!” I interrupted. “There is no need to argue like schoolboys.”
“He started it!” said Edgar.
“What’s all this noise about?” asked Mr Sherman as he marched into the newsroom, leaving the door to slam behind him once again.
“Fish told me to boil my head, sir!” protested Frederick.
/> “Not a bad idea,” replied Mr Sherman. “Where have you got to with the Forster story, Fish?”
“It’s going reasonably well, though for some reason Blakely of the Yard asked Miss Green to do some work for him on it.”
“Is that so?” asked Mr Sherman, turning to me.
I explained what had happened at the mortgage interview with Mr Chakravarty.
“I can’t say that I like Blakely dragging you off on a whim to undertake investigations for him,” said Mr Sherman with a scowl.
“I wasn’t doing his work for him, I was merely assisting with a task he was unable to carry out himself.”
“But you’re not even working on the Forster story. I object to his using my staff in this manner; it’s akin to my asking a detective from Scotland Yard to report on a news story.”
“You should do that, sir,” said Edgar.
“I’m sorry?”
“You should ask a police officer to write a news story for the Morning Express.”
“What a ridiculous suggestion, Fish. It’s difficult enough getting my own staff to do what they’re supposed to.”
Edgar’s face coloured.
“What’s your update on the Forsters?”
“The police are looking for the gang which broke into their home.”
“That’s the same update we had yesterday. Anything else?”
“It’ll take a while for them to find the culprits, sir.”
“I’m sure it will. Why don’t you get down to D or C Division, or the Yard, and start asking more questions? I’m tired of you resting on your laurels in the newsroom. Police officers and the like need harassing. Miss Green may be guilty of carrying out work that is not strictly her own, but there’s no denying she’s out there giving chaps a difficult time until they answer her questions.”
“That sort of thing comes more naturally to the fairer sex,” replied Edgar.
“No more excuses, Fish. Get out of my sight and bring back something worth printing. Now, where have you got to on the Franchise Bill story, Miss Green?”
I was just about to reply when I heard a tentative knock at the door.
“Come in!” barked Mr Sherman.
The door opened slightly and in stepped Emma Holland.
“Can I help you, young lady?” asked the editor.
“My apologies for interrupting, sir, but I’d like to speak to Miss Green if I may.”
“Is it regarding a story she’s working on?”
“It is, sir,” I replied, standing to my feet. “This is Emma Holland, the sister of Alfred Holland.”
“The chap from the opium den? Please accept my condolences, Miss Holland.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have long, Miss Green. I need a thousand words on Lord Salisbury and the Franchise Bill by deadline today.”
Mr Sherman left the room and I moved some papers to make space for Emma to sit down. I introduced her to Edgar and Frederick, who greeted the young woman and then regarded her in respectful silence.
“Do you mind talking here in the newsroom?” I asked. “Or would you rather chat somewhere more private?”
Emma looked around. “Here should be fine.”
“Don’t worry,” said Edgar, “I’m just on my way out. I was ordered away by the editor.”
“I’ll be on my way too,” said Frederick. “I get nervous whenever I find myself outnumbered by women.”
Once the two men had left the room Emma pulled out a book from the bag she had been carrying.
“I didn’t intend to frighten your colleagues away, Penny.”
“Don’t worry about them. They have work to be getting on with.”
“This is Alfred’s diary from last year,” said Emma, laying it on the table. I could see that she had marked several passages with pieces of scarlet ribbon. She turned to one of them.
“Alfred describes how he caught one of his colleagues stealing opium.”
“What happened?”
“Do you recall me telling you that his job was to weigh the pots of opium when they arrived at the Ghazipur factory?”
I nodded in reply.
“As I said before, it was considered to be an important job because opium is so precious. The natives were keen to get their hands on it and had to be regularly checked to make sure they weren’t stealing the product. Apparently, even fragments of storage pots were highly sought-after in the hope that there might be opium residue on them.”
She turned the pages and pointed to a diary entry written in May of the previous year. “Alfred writes here that he discovered some of the papers were being altered. The opium was weighed in each district after it was harvested and then again on arrival at the factory. Alfred noticed that one of his colleagues was altering numbers on the form. It was quite a subtle change, with a single number being written on top of the original, but over the course of a few weeks he noticed these occasional corrections and the colleague’s behaviour became suspicious at times.”
“Did Alfred explain how?”
“It seems there was a nervousness about him. And on one occasion a bunch of keys went missing, only for this man to find them again. Alfred suspected he was behind the disappearance all along. You’re welcome to read about it here; he documents the whole affair.”
“Does he mention whether he reported his concerns to anyone?”
“Oh yes, he did. In the end he told someone senior and his colleague was dismissed.”
“I imagine his colleague would have been quite angry about that.”
“He probably was, but he was sent back to Britain so it’s unlikely that Alfred ever saw him again.”
“Did he name the colleague in his diaries?”
“He did, but I would need to look it up again as I can’t quite remember it.” She leafed through the pages. “Oh, here we are. Mawson. Charles Mawson.”
Chapter 35
“I recall a particularly difficult Atlantic crossing in 1880 when the sea was boiling with foam,” said Mr Fox-Stirling as we dined on roast chicken at Eliza’s home. My sister had invited the plant-hunter and his wife for dinner to discuss the arrangements for his search.
“While one side of the ship was down in the water the other was thirty feet up in the air,” he continued. “And then the side which had been thirty feet up in the air would swiftly descend and the water would sweep across the upper decks with a great splash and a roar.”
Mr Fox-Stirling was a stocky, fair-haired man of about fifty. He had dominated the evening’s conversation with his tales of adventure.
“Gosh, how terrifying,” said Francis.
Mr Fox-Stirling shrugged nonchalantly. “One grows perfectly accustomed to it after five days and five nights.”
George was present but had barely acknowledged my presence. I detected some sulkiness on his part for my appearance outside the Burlington Hotel.
“You must have suffered terrible seasickness, Mr Fox-Stirling,” said Eliza.
“The secret to overcoming seasickness is to maintain a full stomach. I ate like a horse throughout the storm and suffered no ill-effects whatsoever.”
“But how on earth can you even sit down to dinner when the ship is pitching about like that?” asked his silver-haired wife Margaret.
“There are ways and means, my dear. Batons are screwed onto the table, between which dinner plates are wedged with the assistance of rolled-up napkins. And the chairs are screwed to the floor. With such preparations a chap can enjoy a perfectly decent meal. My only complaint is that we had to endure pea soup three times a week.”
“I think the chef did well to serve any soup at all,” commented Eliza.
“Once the storm had passed the ocean was a thing of pure beauty,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “I sat on the deck smoking and watching the flying fish as the sun set.”
“Flying fish?” said George. “Do they have wings?”
“Yes.”
“How ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculo
us, George,” said Eliza, embarrassed by her husband’s outburst.
“They’re not wings as such,” said Francis. “They’re wing-like fins that enable the fish to glide through the air for about a hundred yards, perhaps even two hundred. They propel themselves out of the water with their tails.”
“How fascinating,” said Eliza. “I might have guessed you would know all about them, Francis.” She gave him a warm smile. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“There must be plenty of things, I’m sure,” George said gruffly.
I had been nodding at certain intervals in the conversation to feign interest, but I couldn’t stop my mind dwelling on what Emma Holland had told me earlier that day. Why had Charles Mawson failed to tell me about his time in Ghazipur? I had asked whether he knew Alfred Holland and he had denied it. Was he trying to hide something, or was this an innocent misunderstanding?
“Storms threatened again as we arrived in Bridgetown on the island of Barbados,” continued Mr Fox-Stirling. “However, we were safely ashore by the time they arrived. Delightful little pink houses they have there, and everyone was pestering me to buy their wares: interesting pieces of coral, lacework, jewellery and ornaments made from tortoiseshell.”
I stifled a yawn and picked at the food on my plate, considering how resentful Charles Mawson must have been when Alfred Holland reported him. Or was it possible that Charles Mawson hadn’t known who had done so? I realised I should have asked Emma for a loan of her brother’s diary so I could read the account for myself. I made a note to visit her and ask if that would be possible.
“That was a first-rate piece of chicken,” said Francis as he laid his knife and fork down neatly on his plate.
“Thank you, Francis!” replied my sister with a wide smile.
“It’s what Napoleon had for breakfast every morning,” said Mr Fox-Stirling. “Did you know that?”
We all shook our heads.
“There’s a wonderful story behind it,” he said. “Apparently, Napoleon would rise at any time between eight and eleven in the morning. By all accounts he wasn’t a man of strict routine. He enjoyed roast chicken for breakfast each day, and this set him off thinking. He summoned his cook and asked, ‘Why is it that no matter what time I breakfast the chicken is always perfectly roasted?’ The cook replied, ‘It’s quite easy, sire. I simply put a chicken on to roast every quarter of an hour, and then there is always one which is perfectly cooked for you!’” Mr Fox-Stirling slapped the table with great mirth and there was laughter all around.