by Emily Organ
“He may have joked with you that he was being poisoned.”
“Really? Can you describe him to me?”
He would have been a young man; about twenty-three or twenty-four at the time. Tall, with red hair and whiskers. He previously worked as a builder and is now employed at the Doulton Pottery.”
“I see. Poisoned, you say?”
“That’s what he now believes.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with this Bermondsey poisoner business, does it?”
“It might do. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
The doctor closed his eyes in concentration, as if trying to recall a patient named Benjamin Taylor.
“I think I do remember a chap who was quite fearfully unwell. Red hair. Pleasant wife, who was extremely attentive.”
I smiled. “Jane?”
“Was that her name?”
“It’s what she called herself at the time.”
“It might have been Jane, but I don’t remember. However, I’m sure I recall a young, fit man who was most distressed by his debilitating symptoms. I would have suggested milk and lime water, along with castor oil. I’d also have told him to remain in bed. I wish I could remember what time of year it happened.” The doctor continued leafing through his diary.
“What did you suspect was the cause of his symptoms?” I asked.
“It was difficult to suspect anything, really,” he replied. “The reasons for vomiting and diarrhoea are many and varied. It could be something carried in the air or in food which disagrees with a person. It could be an indicator of another disease one is suffering from. Fortunately, he doesn’t appear to have been too seriously affected as he has made a full recovery. Otherwise he would have been unable to tell you all about it.”
“You didn’t suspect that he had been poisoned?”
“No, I can’t say that it would have crossed my mind in this case, given that there were many other more likely causes. And different poisons affect the body in different ways. Some symptoms provide quite an obvious sign of poisoning, while others provide none at all.”
“How about arsenic poisoning?”
“Arsenic poisoning causes gastrointestinal upset, and that may have been the cause of Mr Taylor’s symptoms. However, I still think it highly unlikely.”
“Unless he was married to the Bermondsey poisoner, that is.”
Dr Townley gave a hearty laugh. “Indeed! In which case I suppose you might consider it. Reporters are always looking for an interesting angle on a story.” He laughed again and then stopped when he noticed that I did not share his mirth. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Miss Green?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You think that pretty young woman he was married to was poisoning him?”
“That’s what he thinks. But seeing as it was more than six years ago, few people are prepared to listen to him.”
“I see.”
Dr Townley began leafing through his diary more earnestly. “Let’s just confirm that I saw this same chap and am not mistakenly thinking of someone else.”
I waited patiently.
“Here we are,” he said eventually. “Monday the eighteenth of March. I attended to a Mr Benjamin Taylor at twenty-one Lollard Street. Does that sound right to you?”
“It does.” I smiled. “Thank you, Dr Townley.”
“And I made a note of his symptoms here. Lethargy… abdominal pain… vomiting… Yes, this ties in with what we’ve been discussing.”
“Thank you, Dr Townley. I think Scotland Yard will be very interested to hear of your visit to Mr Taylor.”
“The Yard?” The doctor’s face fell. “I don’t have anything to tell the police, Miss Green. I visited Mr Taylor when he was unwell, but I certainly couldn’t confirm whether he was poisoned or not. I couldn’t even speculate on it all these years later. I have a vague recollection of his illness and a record in my diary that I visited him. However, I refuse to be dragged through the courts and—”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. My conversation with you serves to confirm Mr Taylor’s story, and that’s the only important matter here. Up to this moment we only had his word for it, but now we have evidence that he was seriously unwell, as he has claimed.”
“But we cannot surmise that it was due to arsenic poisoning. I must make that abundantly clear.”
“No, I realise that. You have made yourself clear, Doctor.”
“Miss Green, I really would prefer not to have the Yard sniffing around here if possible. I’ve been dragged into police investigations before and it isn’t something I enjoy. What’s important is that Mr Taylor is alive and well today. He has survived his ordeal.”
“His account, and perhaps also yours, implies a pattern of behaviour which Jane Taylor, as she was called back then, began to adopt. Thank you for your time, Doctor, and I hope not to have to bother you again. I will simply inform the Yard that you have confirmed Mr Taylor’s claim that he consulted you regarding his illness.”
Dr Townley closed his diary. “Very well, but I refuse to be drawn on any speculation whatsoever. Please inform the Yard of that.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Chapter 29
“That was not a particularly satisfactory hearing,” said James as we left The Five Bells pub, where the inquest into Inspector Martin’s death had been swiftly opened and adjourned by the coroner, Mr Osborne. “It raised more questions than it answered.”
“The adjournment gives you two weeks to find sufficient evidence to prove that Sally Chadwick poisoned Inspector Martin,” I said.
“I have less time than that, Penny. Sally is only being held on remand for that charge until next Wednesday. I have six days, and if I can’t provide the evidence in time she will face trial for three murders instead of four. I can’t understand it. Bermondsey Street police station has been thoroughly searched three times over and there is still no sign of the poison she used in Inspector Martin’s murder.”
We walked up Bermondsey Street toward the police station. The warm drizzle which had begun the day before continued to fall. I surveyed the heavy grey above our heads and wondered whether we had seen the last of the summer.
“Did you check Sally Chadwick’s clothing for any sign of the poison she used?” I asked.
“We did, but only once she had become a suspect, which wasn’t until Monday evening. Inspector Martin was poisoned last Thursday, which means she had almost four days to dispose of the bottle. That sounds like a long time, but given that she was in the cell for most of it she had rather limited opportunity to dispose of anything.”
“Perhaps she consumed the rest,” I suggested.
“She shows no signs of having poisoned herself.”
“Perhaps there was very little poison left and she had been practising Mithridatism?”
“Practising what now?” James gave a slight laugh.
“Consuming small amounts of poison on a regular basis, which builds a greater tolerance to it.”
“Perhaps she had.” He gave me a sceptical look. “Though Miss Chadwick doesn’t seem the sort to practise something of that kind, does she?”
“She doesn’t seem the sort to plan and execute the deaths of four men either.”
“You think she’s innocent, don’t you? Despite the overwhelming evidence against her.”
“I don’t know whether she is innocent or not, but I think she has been coerced.”
“How might you explain Charles Martin’s death, in that case?”
“She must have done it, there’s no doubt about that. But I still believe it was carried out on someone else’s orders. And perhaps she used up all of the remaining poison when she did it?”
“Then where is the bottle?”
“It has to be somewhere. Or perhaps there wasn’t one.”
“What would the poison have been stored in, then?”
“I don’t know. How else can arsenic be obtained?”
“I’
m not sure, but I know that it is obtained with great difficulty. Its availability has been well regulated for more than thirty years.”
“She must have found an inventive way of storing and administering it. Perhaps she used a packet of rat poison.”
“In which case you’d think we would have found the packet somewhere, but we have found nothing. Nothing at all.”
James’ brow had worn a perpetual scowl ever since he had told me the news of Inspector Martin’s death. I didn’t like to see him so dejected.
Was he giving his impending wedding much thought? I wondered. Had Charlotte been of any comfort to him during this difficult time?
These were questions I wished to ask him but didn’t dare to as I knew he already had so much on his mind.
“There appear to have been some genuine sightings of the elusive Catherine Curran in Orpington,” he said. “Some constables from M Division are working alongside the local constabulary to find her. Hopefully we shall soon receive the good news that she has been apprehended.”
“She must have been pleased to hear that Sally Chadwick has been arrested. She’s probably hoping that no one will come looking for her now.”
“Which is where she’s quite wrong. We still need to speak to her, regardless of whether she’s innocent or not. And there is also a charge of bigamy for her to answer to.”
“Don’t you feel that you could do with some rest, James?” I asked.
He stopped and stared at me, his bowler hat sparkling with spots of drizzle.
“What on earth are you talking about, Penny? Some rest? We’re in the middle of an important investigation!”
“You have just lost your friend,” I said. “Perhaps you need to take a quiet moment and give yourself a chance to accustom yourself to this tragic event.”
“I shan’t ever accustom myself to it, no matter how much rest I have. I will only rest when those responsible are brought to justice. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
“Yes, it does. It’s just that…”
“Just what?”
“I don’t like seeing you so down, James.”
His face softened and he gave a sigh. “I don’t like being so down,” he said quietly. “It’s been a dreadful week, but I must get on with my job.”
I nodded. “I understand that.”
“Of course you do. You’re as bad as I am for getting embroiled in a case and working relentlessly until a satisfactory conclusion is reached.” He held my gaze, then added with a smile, “We’re like two peas in a pod, you and I.”
“I don’t recall asking you to write about another supposed poisoning victim, Miss Green,” said Mr Childers. “Where’s your article on the purchase of Raphael’s Ansidei Madonna for the National Gallery?”
“It’s here, Mr Childers, and I have typewritten it for you,” I replied, handing the article to him.
“Good. I am very much looking forward to seeing the painting once it’s in situ. I should imagine the great and good of Fleet Street will be invited to the preview.”
“Sir, would you please print the interview with Benjamin Taylor?” I asked. “It’s important because it suggests that the Bermondsey poisoner attempted her first murder six years ago.”
“Is it the same woman who has confessed?”
“No, that’s Sally Chadwick, who is currently awaiting trial.”
“Then who is the Bermondsey poisoner?”
“Some believe it is Sally Chadwick, though others suspect Catherine Curran, who was once called Jane Taylor.”
“So there are two Bermondsey poisoners?”
“Two suspects,” I said.
“Or even three,” Edgar piped up.
“Three?” I questioned.
“Sally Chadwick, Catherine Curran and Jane Taylor.”
“Catherine Curran and Jane Taylor are one and the same person,” I corrected. “She was forced to change her name because she had committed bigamy.”
“Goodness, what a confusing case,” said Edgar. “I’m relieved not to be the one who is working on it.”
“You will publish Benjamin Taylor’s interview, won’t you?” I urged Mr Childers.
“How do you know this Taylor chap is telling the truth?” he asked.
“Because the doctor who treated him confirmed his story to me. The article is currently four hundred words, sir. I can shorten it a little if you are struggling to find space in tomorrow’s edition.”
“Even if you shortened it to ten words I’m not sure there would be any space, Miss Green. We’re already catering for the prime minister’s visit to Scotland and important developments in Egypt and Sudan. Those are the stories our readers wish to read, and my uncle is rather concerned about our circulation figures at the present time.”
“Please, Mr Childers,” I continued. “This is a complicated case, which has taken an even more tragic turn with the death of a police officer in Bermondsey. I’m certain that our readers will be most interested to read this interview with Mr Taylor, which will not be printed in any other newspaper. It’s an exclusive story.”
The editor held out a limp hand for the interview script and I passed it to him.
“I’ll find out where the compositors have got to and see what I can do.”
I watched him leave the room, then walked over to the typewriter.
“Have you heard the good news about our circulation figures, Miss Green?” asked Edgar.
“No, what of them?”
“They’ve fallen by ten percent.”
“Well, that’s just awful. Why on earth should that be good news?”
“Because it means Blimpy’s on his way out. Conway won’t stand for it. You know how important circulation figures are to him.”
“Blimpy is his nephew. Mr Conway would never dismiss him.”
“He’d better do, otherwise Potter and I are leaving.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t do that. I don’t want to have to face Blimpy all on my own!”
“Then we must all pray that he gets the old heave-ho.”
Chapter 30
“I think it’s downright dreadful what she did to him,” said Mrs Garnett as she removed her reading glasses and handed back my copy of the Morning Express.
I felt rather pleased that Mr Childers had decided to print my interview with Benjamin Taylor.
“I don’t know how she wasn’t arrested at the time,” my landlady added.
“I don’t think he suspected that it was a poisoning at the time,” I replied. “I don’t think anyone did.”
We were seated in my room. Mrs Garnett had made herself comfortable at my desk, while I perched on the edge of my bed. Tiger had been patting a balled-up piece of paper along the floor, but she was now eyeing my landlady warily from the top of my chest of drawers.
“And the woman who tried to poison him is the same woman Mrs Wilkinson and I were looking for?”
“I believe so. It’s thought that she’s in Orpington as she has family there.”
“In Kent?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a nice place, Kent. Hercules and I used to take the train from Charing Cross down to Margate. Terribly sad that the Assembly Rooms burnt down. We used to take tea there on a Thursday and listen to the band play on a Sunday. The Oriental Music Hall was another favourite of ours, and the Royal Theatre too. And then there’s the sea air, of course. In fact, it makes me wonder why I’m living in London instead of there. Why am I living here, Miss Green?”
“Because you’re a Londoner?”
“I feel like a Londoner, though I was born in Africa. But I think I could happily be a Margater. I hear there’s good money to be made in the hotel business there.”
“I should think there is. Hopefully Catherine Curran hasn’t made it as far as Margate and will soon be found in Orpington.”
“But she’s not the poisoner, is she? It was that other woman who’s admitted to it.”
“I don’t think anyone is entirely sure just yet.”
“It probably happens no more frequently than in the past, only these days we find it easier to prove through autopsies and chemical analysis.”
“I don’t want to hear that word.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not repeating it. The one where they do things to folk after they’re dead.”
“An autopsy is sometimes necessary to establish the cause of death.”
“It’s ungodly.”
“But necessary.”
“Says who?”
“The legal and medical professions. An autopsy confirmed that Thomas Burrell’s death was caused by poisoning. It would otherwise have been assumed that he died of a natural illness, and that no one was to blame for it. But by exhuming—”
“That’s enough!” Mrs Garnett flung her hands over her ears. “I won’t hear any more of it!”
“Let’s change the subject, Mrs Garnett.”
“Thank you.” She removed her hands from her ears and glanced over at Tiger. “That cat has only been in my parlour once this week.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“She hates lemons. I cut two lemons open and put them both in saucers. I put one by the window and one by the door, and now she has no desire to come in.”
“Poor Tiger.”
“You don’t feel sorry for me with my sneezing?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a sad situation for both of you, Mrs Garnett. If only cat and landlady could get along.”
“Life’s not always so simple, Miss Green. She’s not a bad cat. I quite like her, in fact. But it’s the sneezing that’s the problem. How’s that lovesick librarian doing on his boat to South America, by the way?”
“Mr Edwards, you mean? I should hope he has arrived there by now. He’s not a librarian any more, and I shouldn’t think he’s lovesick either. He never really was.”
“Oh, he was.” A wide grin spread across Mrs Garnett’s face. “I remember him coming to the door here under some pretence, using any excuse he could come up with to visit you. I miss him, poor man.”