Penny Green series Box Set 2

by Emily Organ

  “There was talk of a sister or cousin in Rotherhithe, but I’m not sure which it was. Some of the others told me they had been to the house, but no one had discovered anything there. Mrs Wilkinson and I looked around the wharves near the brewery. There are lots of hiding places in those warehouses.”

  “She can’t hide there forever, though, can she?” I said. “Spending one’s life in a warehouse wouldn’t be much of an existence.”

  “You’re right, Miss Green, which is why we looked around there. The chances are she’s had enough of the place by now and is looking to emerge and make good her escape. She may well choose to do it at night, but they’ve got men with lanterns down there now. Mrs Wilkinson and I came home because neither of us likes the dark much.”

  “I never knew you went in for detective work, Mrs Garnett.”

  “Oh, I don’t. I was just helping with the search.”

  “I’m sure the police in Bermondsey are grateful to you and everyone else who has been keeping a look out for her.”

  “I hope so. Now please keep your cat out of my parlour, Miss Green.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs Garnett.”

  Chapter 8

  “We had a good turnout for the search yesterday evening,” said Inspector Martin as we stood in the parade room of Bermondsey Street police station. “Still no sign of Catherine Curran, though.”

  “My landlady thinks she’s hiding in one of the warehouses down by the river.”

  “She may well be. We’ve had a number of constables staking out the riverside. Meanwhile, we have received an interesting report from a lady who resides on the Old Kent Road. She thinks she may have let a room to Catherine Curran on the night of her husband’s death. We have a sergeant over there speaking to her now.”

  “That’s encouraging news.”

  “And there’s something else you might like to see, Miss Green.” The inspector stepped over to a nearby table and picked up a buff envelope. “At the house on Grande Walk, we found another photograph.”

  He pulled out the piece of card and handed it to me. It bore the image of a couple seated on a chaise longue in a photographer’s studio. The young woman was fair-haired and wore mourning dress. The man leaned rigidly against her and, once again, there was something about his eyes which seemed unnatural.

  I shuddered.

  “Is he?”

  “Deceased?” said Inspector Martin. “Yes, he is.”

  I stared at the photograph and recognised Catherine Curran from the previous photograph I had seen of her.

  “She’s done this before,” I said, feeling nauseous. “It’s exactly the same situation, isn’t it?”

  Inspector Martin gave a firm nod. “We can’t draw any firm conclusions just yet, but it certainly appears that way.”

  There was a border around the photograph, and the embossed gold writing at the bottom of it stated:

  ‘E. Lillywhite. Photographer. Upper Grange Road, Bermondsey.’

  “Have you visited this photographer?” I asked Inspector Martin.

  “Yes, Mr Lillywhite has been quite helpful. It took a little while to jog his memory about the couple, but once he’d consulted his books he was able to tell us that this photograph is of a Mr and Mrs Thomas Burrell, and that it was taken on the eighteenth of May 1882. Two years and three months ago.”

  “Burrell? She was Catherine Burrell?”

  “Yes. They were married at St Mary Magdalen church in Bermondsey on the twenty-second of July 1881. We found them in the parish register. Her maiden name was Peel.”

  “Catherine Peel, Catherine Burrell and then Catherine Curran. She has changed her name at least twice.”

  “She certainly has. We also found the record of her marriage to John Curran in the parish register, and she was listed there as a widow with the surname Burrell, so there is little doubt that it is one and the same woman.”

  “Are we to presume that Thomas Burrell’s death was not considered to be suspicious?”

  “There was no inquest as far as we’re aware. We’ve asked the coroner to check his records.”

  “So the cause of death was considered to have been natural.”

  “It seems that way; however, his body is to be exhumed from St Mary Magdalen’s churchyard at dawn on Monday next.”

  “Oh goodness, really?” I handed the photograph back to the inspector.

  “There’s a lot to write about here, isn’t there, Miss Green?” He gave me a friendly smile.

  “There certainly is. I hardly know where to start. This woman needs to be found! You’re going to tell me now that an insurance policy was taken out against Thomas Burrell’s life, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed it was. So far we’ve found evidence of at least one policy, but there may be more.”

  “Why does she have these photographs taken after her husband’s deaths? I cannot understand it.”

  “Some sort of macabre memento, I suppose. Under ordinary circumstances you could understand why a widow might wish to have a lasting memory of her husband, especially if no photographs had been taken of him during his lifetime. But to do such a thing after she has caused his death is completely unfathomable.”

  “Perhaps she felt it was the expected behaviour of a widow. Perhaps by accompanying her husbands in the photographs anyone who became suspicious would have considered her less likely to have been the poisoner.”

  “It’s possible. The photographs certainly create the impression that she was a loyal, caring wife until the end.”

  “And even afterwards.”

  The inspector gave a dry laugh. “Indeed.”

  “Have you spoken to Thomas Burrell’s family?” I asked.

  “My constables are trying to locate them as we speak.”

  “Let’s hope some of them live in this area. It’s interesting that she remained in Bermondsey after the death of her first husband, isn’t it? She didn’t feel the need to run away after the event.”

  “Presumably because his death was attributed to natural causes. No one suspected her of any wrongdoing.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “She must have felt so pleased that she’d got away with it. I wonder how many other crimes she has pulled off.”

  “I hope there are no further incidents, but the discovery of this photograph means the investigation has been expanded. We’ve had to enlist the help of Scotland Yard.”

  My heart skipped. “Inspector James Blakely?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, and I believe you do too.”

  “I do indeed,” he replied. “We’ve known each other for some time. Blakely will be a great asset to us.”

  “Which number Old Kent Road is Catherine Curran rumoured to have lodged at? I should like to interview the woman who lives there.”

  “Three hundred and fourteen, on the top floor. It’s between the fire station and The Thomas à Becket pub. Ask for Mrs Hardy.”

  I travelled by horse tram along the busy Old Kent Road until the red-and-white-brick fire station came into view. The house where Mrs Hardy dwelt had once been a smart family home, but it had been clumsily divided into apartments and looked rather shabby.

  “She only stayed ’ere fer two nights,” said Mrs Hardy, who came down from her rooms to speak to me on the doorstep. She was a short, elderly lady with an old grey bonnet tied firmly under her chin. “I gets a lot o’ folk stoppin’ wi’ me, but there was summink different about ’er.”

  “In what way?”

  “Summink weren’t right. Whenever there was a door slam or a loud voice she’d jump like a scared kitten.”

  “Did she tell you anything about herself?”

  “Said she were runnin’ from ’er ’usband as ’e were a drunk. She gave me a sovereign, an’ then she gave me five shillin’s for ’er food, an’ then she said she ’ad more coins on ’er, an’ that’s why she couldn’t afford ter be found by ’er ’usband, ’cause ’e were after the money, see.”

  “And did you bel
ieve her story?”

  “Can’t say as I did, she ’ad a bit of a look abaht ’er. ’Er eyes wasn’t matching what she said, like. I felt bad for ’er abaht the drunk ’usband, but when I asked ’er abaht ’im, like where ’e lived and what pub ’e drank in, she ’ad to stop an’ fink abaht it. That’s why I reckoned she were lyin’. I told ’er so an’ all, and next thing I know she’s gone.”

  “She left immediately?”

  “Middle o’ the night. I woke up and ’er room was empty. So I tells Minnie abaht it.”

  “Minnie?”

  “Me daughter, lives over in Astley Street. I tells ’er abaht it and she says she’s ’eard of some woman what’s gone on the run after a poisonin’. ’Er ’usband read abaht it in the paper. She gave me it. I can’t read it, but I still got it.”

  Mrs Hardy shuffled off up to her rooms for a short while before returning with a copy of The Southwark News. It was folded open on the page where the news story appeared. I quickly read through it.

  “Minnie says there’s a ’scription of ’er, an’ she read it out ter me.”

  “I see it now,” I said, reading it out loud so Mrs Hardy could hear it again. “‘Wanted in Bermondsey on suspicion of having caused the death of John Curran by administering arsenic is Catherine Curran, the deceased’s wife. She is about thirty years of age and five feet four inches in height, with a slim build. Mrs Curran has a fresh complexion, dark eyes, fair hair, wears rings on her fingers and was last seen on the seventeenth of August dressed in a black dress, black shawl and bonnet.’”

  “That’s ’er, I’ll swear to it,” said Mrs Hardy. “She told me ’er name was Jane, but she musta been lyin’ abaht that an’ all.”

  “And you went to the police about it?”

  “It was Minnie what done that; I don’t walk too far these days. She told ’em an’ then they come round an’ I told ’em everyfink I know.”

  “I wonder where she is now,” I said.

  Mrs Hardy shrugged. “She weren’t givin’ nuffink away, an’ now I knows why! Wish I coulda kept ’er ’ere fer longer and got ’er harrested. I shouldn’t of haccused ’er o’ lyin’, ’cause I frightened ’er away, didn’t I?”

  “You couldn’t have known she was a fugitive, Mrs Hardy,” I said. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You’ve helped the police as much as you can.”

  Chapter 9

  A hansom cab brought me to St Mary Magdalen church in Bermondsey shortly before sunrise on a mild Monday morning. I paid my fare and tentatively stepped through the gate to the churchyard. To my left, the cream walls of the seventeenth-century church were spectral in the gloom, and around me there were dark, crooked tombstones to mark each silent sleeper.

  I followed the path toward the dim lamplight at the centre of the churchyard. An early morning blackbird sang from a nearby yew tree, the gaiety of its song painfully at odds with the sombre mood of the occasion. As I approached the lamplight I saw a group of shadowy figures standing around the grave of Thomas Burrell. The sound of shovels digging into the earth made me shiver.

  One of the figures detached itself from the group and walked toward me.

  “Penny?”

  It was James, and I could just make out his features in the grey light.

  “I believe this is the second exhumation we’ve attended together,” he said with a wry smile.

  “I hear you’re to help Inspector Martin with this case.” I felt mindful of our uncomfortable conversation on the steps of the British Museum and feared that more tension would inevitably grow between us as his wedding approached.

  “Yes, and we’re beginning to wonder how many lives Catherine Curran has claimed. We’re asking London’s coroners to examine their records for any suspicious poisonings over the past ten years.”

  “That’s even assuming that inquests were held into their deaths,” I replied. “In some instances poison may not have been suspected, as was the case with Thomas Burrell.”

  “Sadly, you’re right, and that’s why we’re digging the unfortunate chap up this morning.”

  “How long do you think it will take to determine the cause of death?”

  “The autopsy will be carried out immediately at the morgue here, but samples of his body tissue will need to be examined by the experts.”

  “Presumably the chemist at the Royal Institution who identified the arsenic in John Curran’s body.”

  “Yes, probably the same chap again. My guess is that it’ll take a few days, and then there’ll be the inquest, of course.”

  “And during that time Catherine Curran will be able to take further steps to avoid capture.”

  “It’s a frustrating business,” said James, “but we’re doing all we can. Today we’ll have men going through all the local parish registers looking for a reference to a Catherine Peel or any other names she may have used in the past. There may be more husbands, and there may even be children. We shall hopefully find out, and perhaps we may be able to trace some of her family members.”

  “I visited the landlady, Mrs Hardy, whom she stayed with on the Old Kent Road,” I said.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She thought Catherine was lying and confronted her about it. She wishes she hadn’t done so now, as her actions frightened Catherine away.”

  “She shouldn’t have any regrets. Everyone has a right to know the truth about a person who is staying under their own roof. She might have notified the police, I suppose, but at that stage she had no idea who Catherine really was. The fact that Catherine took flight when confronted indicates that it was a viable sighting, so we can be reassured about that at least.”

  “And the fact that Catherine is paying for lodgings suggests to me that she doesn’t have any family or friends who might be willing to put her up,” I added.

  “Yes. We’re asking the owners of lodging houses and hotels to be on the lookout for her. It’s a bit of luck that she has already checked in to one of these places. If she had someone hiding her away it would be far easier for her to escape detection.”

  “The Old Kent Road location worries me, though,” I said. “It’s the main route from London to Kent, and ultimately the port of Dover. She could have travelled that way and then stowed herself away on a ship.”

  “She may have. But she could also have stowed away on a ship in the Port of London. If she flees the country there is very little we can do about it. We have to hope that she will stay close by, and the indications are that she hasn’t ventured too far yet.”

  We were distracted by a flurry of activity at the grave site.

  “It looks as though they’re about to lift him out,” said James.

  We moved closer to the grave, which had a freshly dug pile of soil beside it. A man stood inside the grave, examining the coffin.

  “Some o’ the wood’s gone rotten,” he announced. “Dunno ’ow much of ’im we got left in there.”

  I felt my stomach turn.

  “Let’s just lift him out, and get this over and done with,” said Inspector Martin. “Has Dr Grant arrived yet?”

  “He’s waitin’ up in the mort’ry.”

  “Get some ropes strapped around the coffin and lift him out. Every man and his wife will soon be turning up to watch these proceedings if we’re not quick about it.”

  I shuddered as the coffin was hauled up. There seemed something inherently wrong about disturbing the dead. A section of the coffin’s rotten wood splintered off and dropped back down into the grave.

  I looked away, my stomach turning again.

  “I should get back to the newsroom and write up this morning’s sombre events,” I whispered to James.

  “I’ll let you know what the police surgeon finds out,” replied James. “However, I think we can already make an intelligent guess as to what caused this chap’s death.”

  Chapter 10

  “You’re spending quite a bit of time south of the river, Miss Green,” commented Edgar as I unpacked my papers onto my
desk in the newsroom.

  “There’s a lot going on in Bermondsey at the moment,” I replied. “It’ll be interesting to find out how many people this Catherine Curran has poisoned.”

  “I hope I never come across her,” said Edgar.

  “She’s hardly likely to poison you, Fish,” laughed Frederick.

  “I suppose not. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? Perhaps I need to employ the services of a food taster in case Mrs Fish has it in for me. Isn’t that what the great rulers of old did? I believe they had a chap taste their food before they ate it, and if he didn’t die they would happily tuck in.”

  “Perhaps you could ask your housekeeper to undertake the task,” suggested Frederick.

  “I don’t think she’d be amenable. Perhaps I could dose myself with small amounts of poison on a regular basis so that I would become used to it. I’m sure I recall reading about a Persian king who did that.”

  “He poisoned himself before anyone else could?” asked Frederick.

  “Yes, but only with very small amounts so that he became accustomed to it. That way if anyone had tried to poison him they would have failed.”

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  “Do you know what, Miss Green? I have no idea whether his strategy was successful or not.”

  “Mithridatism,” announced Mr Sherman, the door of the newsroom slamming shut behind him as usual.

  “A what, sir?” asked Edgar.

  “Administering poison to oneself. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sir,” said Edgar. “Although I wasn’t aware of that word you used to describe it.”

  “It comes from King Mithridates the sixth, who was terrified of being poisoned.”

  “That’s the chap I was talking about!” said Edgar. “I’m pleased to find that I still remember one thing from my school days.”

  “But did it work?” I asked again.

  “We know that he was successful in building up a tolerance to poison because his actions worked against him in the end,” replied Mr Sherman. “After being defeated by the Romans he attempted to take his own life. Guess how he tried to do it?”