by Emily Organ
“I need a thousand words on the proposed rescue of General Gordon from Khartoum,” said the editor. “Sink your teeth into that.”
The speaking tube beside his desk whistled, and Mr Sherman answered it gruffly.
I returned to the newsroom happy that I could continue with the Forster and Holland stories uninterrupted. I had hoped a telegram from James would have arrived while I was in Mr Sherman’s office, but when I went to the telegraph room and asked the messenger boy if anything had turned up he replied that it had not.
I returned to my desk and wondered what could have detained James. I thought of our meeting with Mr Mawson and struggled to believe the man had arranged the three murders. No one else was linked to them all as he was. Surely he had played a part in it. Had Mawson sent James the severed finger?
I was interrupted by a visitor to the newsroom, but it wasn’t the boy from the telegraph room, as I had hoped. It was Emma Holland, and she appeared flustered.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to guide her toward a chair.
She shrugged me off, glancing warily at Frederick and Edgar.
“Shall we speak outside in the corridor?” I suggested.
She nodded.
“We’ve been robbed,” she said breathlessly as soon as we were out of earshot. “I’ve just returned from a friend’s house in Hertfordshire having spent the night away from home. Someone has robbed us in the night!”
I immediately thought of the gang that had targeted the Forsters’ home.
“I hope nobody has been hurt,” I said.
“The servants slept through it, but the burglar ransacked my room. I don’t know what would have happened had I been there!” Her hands trembled and fidgeted as she spoke.
“It’s lucky you weren’t. What has been taken?”
“Nothing valuable, that’s the strange thing. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for.”
“What was that?”
“Alfred’s papers! His diaries and letters are all gone!”
“Oh no, Emma, that’s terrible!”
I thought of Mr Mawson. Had James or I mentioned to him that Alfred’s sister had the diaries? I couldn’t recall doing so. James had been keen to coax an admission of guilt from Mr Mawson without giving away too much information.
“Who knew that you had them?” I asked Emma.
“That’s the odd thing; hardly anyone!”
“What about your cousin and her husband?”
“I mentioned it to them, but only in passing. I hadn’t told my parents.”
“So your cousin and her husband are the only people you’ve told.”
“Apart from you, yes!” She wiped a trembling hand across her brow.
“Would you like to sit down, Emma?”
“No, I don’t need to sit! Have you told anyone about my brother’s diaries?”
“Only Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard. We found a connection between your brother and Mr and Mrs Forster, who were murdered a few weeks ago. We called on you yesterday to discuss it.”
“Yes, Doris told me.”
“Inspector Blakely was keen to see the diaries for himself.”
“What’s the connection between Alfred and the Forsters?”
“It’s Mr Mawson, the man your brother reported in Ghazipur for altering the forms. Remember?”
“He knew all three of them?”
I nodded. “Inspector Blakely and I met him yesterday and he confirmed to us that he had worked with your brother in Ghazipur, and that Alfred had reported him for his misdemeanour.”
“Then he has to be the one who has taken the diaries!”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? However, I’m certain that neither Inspector Blakely nor myself mentioned them to him. That’s what’s so puzzling. I don’t think I’ve mentioned them to anyone apart from Inspector Blakely, and having worked on a few cases with him I trust the man implicitly. Perhaps he let slip to someone about the diaries, but I can’t think who.”
“It must have been Mr Mawson,” said Emma.
“He’s the only person I can think of who had a motive for the theft, but I don’t understand how Mr Mawson could have found out about the diaries unless Inspector Blakely went to see him again. That would be highly unlikely. Inspector Blakely had planned to visit you again this morning, Emma; in fact, we had both planned to do so. I’ve been waiting on a telegram from him to confirm a time but I’ve received nothing at all from him, which is highly unusual.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I’m sure we can retrieve the diaries. Have you called the police?”
“Yes, a constable from Holborn Division visited and took down the particulars, though I can’t say that he’s treating it as a great emergency seeing as my jewellery and other valuables were left undisturbed. He didn’t appear to think the theft of a few diaries was anything to worry about!”
“Whoever took them must be trying to suppress their contents,” I said.
“It could be the same person who wished to silence Alfred!”
“It could well be.”
Emma gave a shiver and began to pace the floor. “It frightens me to think that the man who killed Alfred may have been in my house! As soon as I discovered the burglary this morning I went out and bought a revolver. I have no wish to be murdered in my home like Mrs Forster. If anyone breaks into my house again they’ll pay for it with their life!”
“Please be careful, Emma,” I said. The thought of her wielding a gun while in a heightened emotional state worried me. “You need to make the police at Holborn aware of how significant this burglary is. They need to speak to the detectives working on the case across the different divisions. Better still, they need to speak to Inspector Blakely. I’ll send him a telegram right away.”
Chapter 43
I tried to work in the reading room that afternoon but found it difficult to concentrate. Who had stolen Alfred Holland’s diaries? And why had I heard nothing from James? Emma had gone to Tottenham Court Road police station to explain to the inspector there about the possible connection between the theft and her brother’s murder.
There was something meek and reserved about Francis’ manner as he approached, as if he felt embarrassed about our conversation in the cab a few evenings previously. I fixed a smile on my face and tried to pretend that it hadn’t occurred.
“I wonder if I’ve been a bit uncharitable about Mr Fox-Stirling,” he whispered to me. “Although I’m keen to do what I can in the search for your father I understand, on reflection, why he might see my enthusiasm as interference. The old dog is rather set in his ways, I suppose.”
He brushed his sandy hair away from his spectacles and the heated conversation with Eliza came back to my mind. Was it possible that I could ever find Francis attractive enough to marry him? I pushed the thought away and concentrated on the conversation.
“I don’t think you’ve been at all uncharitable,” I replied. “I think your anger was quite justified. Eliza isn’t particularly happy with him either, but until we can find someone more suitable I suppose we’re stuck with the chap.”
Francis sighed. “Yes, I suppose we are for now. Perhaps all explorers are difficult to work with. They’re accustomed to relying on their own resources and abilities without much help from others, and they’re accustomed to making their own decisions.”
“Perhaps my father was equally cantankerous to work with,” I suggested.
“Surely not.”
“I cannot pretend that he was perfect, Francis. These men have difficult decisions to make when they’re on their adventures.”
I thought of the massacre Father had been caught up in when he had been forced to defend himself. I had read about the event in his diaries and it still made me uncomfortable; so uncomfortable, in fact, that the only person I’d discussed it with was Eliza.
I glanced toward the door, hoping James might suddenly make an appearance as he had so often done in the past.
“Is something bothering you, Penny?” Francis asked. He was quite astute in noticing when something was troubling me.
“Do you remember researching a man named Mr Mawson for me?” I asked.
He nodded in reply.
“I think he may be a murderer.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’ve discovered that he had a grievance with Alfred Holland, the poor chap who was shot in Limehouse. And he also knew the Forsters. He was the man I saw hanging about after Mrs Forster’s death. And now Alfred Holland’s diaries have gone missing.”
“From where?”
“They were stolen from the house of his sister, Emma Holland. She was trying to find out who might have borne him a grudge, and we discovered that Mr Mawson received a mention. I shall have to explain it all to you in detail at a later date. Suffice to say that after Inspector Blakely spoke to Mr Mawson the diaries were stolen. To make matters more frustrating the Holborn police aren’t treating the theft as a serious crime because they’re not fully aware of the circumstances. I’ve been trying to contact James but I’ve heard nothing from him. I may need to march down to Scotland Yard to find him.”
I noticed Francis’ face darken at the mention of James.
“Presumably he’s busy working on the case.”
“I suppose he must be. He was meeting yesterday with suspected gang members who were arrested on suspicion of burgling the Forsters’ home. The trouble is, he received something horribly threatening and macabre in a package and I cannot help but worry about him.”
“I’m sure there’s no need to worry about Blakely. He can look after himself.”
“But why have I not heard from him?”
“Why should you have heard from him? He’s clearly busy with his detective work, and something unexpected must have cropped up. Isn’t that what happens with detectives? There’s always something unexpected.”
“I suppose that’s the nature of his work.”
“Perhaps he has arrested Mr Mawson.”
“Yes, that’s a good point, perhaps he has. Something needs to be done about the man. He’s clearly more dangerous than he first appeared.”
Discussing the matter with Francis had convinced me that Mawson was behind the murders, and that the theft of Alfred Holland’s diaries was an attempt to cover up any further revelations.
“Might your conversation be carried out elsewhere?” a man with large ears sitting nearby whispered. “I’d have thought a clerk of the reading room would know better than to chatter away and disturb the work of others.”
Ordinarily, Francis would have apologised to the man, but instead he glared at him. “I hope to see you again soon, Penny,” he said before returning to his work.
I also glared at the man, then looked down at my notes, but my mind refused to concentrate. I knew Francis was probably right in saying that James hadn’t been in touch because he was so busy with the case, but I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening. Had Mawson been arrested? Had the Holborn police recognised the significance of the burglary at Emma Holland’s home?
I gave up trying to work and packed the papers into my carpet bag. It was no use trying to stay away; I would have to go down to Scotland Yard. My mind would find no rest until I knew exactly what was taking place.
I hailed a cab on Great Russell Street. It was a brisk twenty-minute walk down Charing Cross Road to Whitehall, but a cab could manage the journey in ten. When we reached Trafalgar Square the traffic became heavier and I could hear my cab driver hollering to those around him, a sure sign that they were getting in one another’s way.
As the cab tried to push its way through Trafalgar Square I began to feel sorry for the poor horse being urged to barge its way into the narrow gaps between vehicles. After a few minutes it shook its head and refused to budge, causing the cabman to lose his temper.
I pushed open the hatch in the roof. “I’ll walk from here!” I called up to him.
Once I had paid my fare I stepped out of the cab and tried my best to avoid the mass of hooves and wheels as I scampered toward Northumberland Avenue. The traffic wasn’t usually so bad and I began to wonder whether something had occurred. Was this why James had yet to make contact with me?
I was about to walk down Northumberland Avenue to Scotland Yard when I saw a group of people in earnest discussion outside the bank on the corner. By this stage I had a strong sense that something wasn’t quite right.
“Excuse me,” I said to a man in a top hat, “has something happened? It seems unusually busy around here.”
“I heard there’s been a murder,” he replied.
I felt a lurch in my chest. “Where?”
“Down that way, apparently,” he said, pointing in the direction of Whitehall. “I hope it’s nobody important; all the government buildings are down there. It might have been an assassination!”
“I shall go and find out,” I said.
The traffic stood still at the top of Whitehall and crowds filled the pavement. I pushed my way through, shouting out that I was a press reporter. James was somewhere within the crowd, I felt sure of it.
Then a terrible thought struck me and the image of a severed finger came to mind. Could James have been the victim of a fatal attack?
Chapter 44
I pushed through the Whitehall crowds with a renewed sense of urgency. I felt nauseous and tried to slow my quick, shallow breathing as I reassured myself that James could not have come to any harm. The crowds were even thicker around Downing Street, where enterprising street hawkers were trying to sell watercress, apples and song sheets. I was pushed and shoved in all directions.
“Let me through!” I shouted. “Press!”
Most people moved aside when I asked, though a few were upset by my shouting in their ears.
Just beyond Downing Street were the enormous stone buildings housing the Colonial Office, Foreign Office, Home Office and India Office, but before I could reach them a line of police constables blocked my way.
“Miss Green, Morning Express!” I called to them, brandishing my card. “I need to speak to Inspector Blakely of Scotland Yard!” I had learned that offering constables a specific name was more likely to give me a passage through, but on this occasion I received only blank expressions in reply.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
There was no response from the constables.
“Someone’s been murdered!” a woman said to me.
“But who?” I asked.
She shrugged.
I managed to shove my way along the police line, hoping I might find a constable who was more receptive. This time I decided to shout out the name of a more senior officer.
“I’m here to see Chief Inspector Cullen!” I shouted at a constable, thrusting my card at him. To my surprise, he let me straight through.
There was an eerie lull beyond the police cordon. The government buildings loomed in front of me and I realised I had no idea where I was going. I strode purposefully along Charles Street, wary that if I appeared vague in my intentions I would be asked to leave.
Where was Chief Inspector Cullen? And more importantly, where was James?
As I walked toward the side entrance to the building I grew increasingly convinced that this incident had something to do with Mr Mawson. Had something gone wrong when James attempted to arrest him? I shuddered at the thought. My breath felt shaky as I reached the entrance.
The constable standing guard had clearly decided there was no need to trouble me as I had already been allowed through the cordon. I explained who I was, regardless, and he nodded me on through the archway which led to the quadrant at the centre of the building. As I emerged from the archway I saw a group of figures in the middle of the sunlit, gravelled courtyard.
I stopped sharply when I saw a dark blanket covering something on the ground.
Where was James? My heart thudded heavily in my chest. I glanced at each man in turn but there was no sign of him. I looked again
at the bundle on the ground. I felt sure it was the body of a man. But it couldn’t be James. Surely it wasn’t James.
A sudden panic seized me, and I struggled to breathe. I wanted to run over to them shouting for him. Was he dead? Why had no one noticed me?
A dreadful sickening sensation rose up from my stomach and I began to feel faint. For a moment I felt doomed to stand there for the rest of my days just watching and waiting, never quite certain whether the most unimaginable tragedy had struck or not.
“James!” His name left my lips before I had time to think about what I was saying. The men turned to stare at me, but James’ face wasn’t among them. A man began walking toward me, and I could see from the thick grey moustache and spectacles that it was Chief Inspector Cullen.
“Miss Green.” His voice seemed distant.
My eyes were drawn to the bundle again.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as he reached my side. “How did you even get in here?”
“I came to see James,” I said, still staring at the dreadful tableau in front of me.
“He’s not here,” he replied.
I turned to look at him, not yet able to feel relief.
“It’s your chap Mawson beneath that blanket,” he said.
“And James?”
“He’s not here, Miss Green! But Mawson is dead; someone’s taken a knife to him. Such a messy business.”
He seemed bemused by my confused state. “Get your notebook out and write down the details. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
I nodded and did as he suggested.
Chapter 45
“There isn’t much I can say about the assailant,” said the uniformed man who usually guarded the door at the India Office. His name was Mr Finch, and Mr Mawson’s attacker had spoken to him shortly before the stabbing.
“He was a young, smart-looking man wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat,” he continued. “He was presentable and reasonably well-spoken. I had no idea he was carrying a weapon; none at all! If only I’d known I could have stopped him. We check for weapons when it’s someone important they come to see, but on this occasion there was nothing to rouse my suspicions. To think I could have done something to prevent this!”