Penny Green series Box Set 2

by Emily Organ

  “Hangin’s too good for Sally Chadwick,” he fumed.

  “If we can be sure she was responsible, that is,” I said. “It seems there is another poisoner at work.”

  William’s dark eyes bored into mine. “Who?”

  I told him about the death of Benjamin Taylor, and while I was still speaking Florence Burrell joined us.

  “Benjamin Taylor’s dead?” she asked, her eyes wide behind her thick-lensed spectacles.

  “Yes,” I replied, trying hard to stop my eyes being drawn to the angry red scar. “The police think he was also poisoned, though we must wait for the results of the autopsy to be certain.”

  “I feel sad for him,” said Florence. “He said he’d been poisoned by his wife, didn’t he?”

  “And he was telling the truth,” I added. “I confirmed it with a doctor who treated him at the time.”

  “’E were married to Caffrine, weren’t ’e?” said William. “’E said as Caffrine ’ad poisoned ’im. Although ’e called ’er a different name, didn’t ’e?”

  “Jane,” I replied. “And she has just been arrested in Kent.”

  “So they’ve got ’er?”

  I nodded.

  “But she ain’t done nuffink wrong, ’as she?”

  “We don’t know,” I replied. “She faces a charge of bigamy at the very least.”

  “But Taylor’s dead now,” said William. “It can’t be bigamy no more. All ’er ’usbands are dead. They should leave ’er alone.”

  “She could have helped herself by not running away,” I said. “She was found close to Chislehurst Caves, which suggests that she was planning to hide herself there. Her behaviour is rather suspicious.”

  “Surely she couldn’t have been planning to hide in the caves?” said Florence. “How long was she going to stay there?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “She’s up to something, and I can only hope the police solve this case very soon. Inspector Martin’s death is a terrible tragedy, and with Mr Taylor also dying in suspicious circumstances I’m extremely worried that we shall have another death on our hands before long.”

  Chapter 36

  Benjamin Taylor’s inquest was held at The Crown Tavern, a four-storey public house which sat on Albert Embankment between the railway lines and the River Thames. Autumn seemed to be on its way as a brisk wind blew leaves and spots of rain along the street.

  I fastened a few more buttons on my jacket and looked out over the river as I waited for the inquest to begin. Cranes rose from the wharves further downstream, and across the water lay the grey, forbidding walls of Millbank Prison. I thought about Catherine Curran and hoped she had been brought to London by now. I also hoped there would somehow be an opportunity for me to be present during her questioning, as I desperately wanted to hear what she had to say for herself. I was intrigued to meet the woman I knew only from the three oddly posed photographs with her deceased husbands.

  I turned back toward the Crown and saw Inspector Austen arriving with his freckle-faced sergeant. I bid them good morning, then followed them into the pub and climbed a wooden staircase to an upstairs room.

  The Lambeth coroner began the proceedings and I looked around for James, assuming I had missed him as he entered the room. There was no sign of him. I took out my notebook and prepared myself to make detailed notes.

  Benjamin Taylor’s landlady spoke first and described, through stifled sobs, how she had found him dead in his bed on the Saturday morning. During the night she had heard him go out to the lavatory in the yard a few times but had otherwise noticed nothing unusual.

  Next to speak was the other lodger. The coroner asked him to introduce himself.

  “I’m George Goodin’ and I lives at an ’undred an’ twenny-seven Tyers Street, Lambeth. I works at Doulton’s.”

  “You lodged at the same address as the deceased, Mr Gooding?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when did you last see Mr Taylor?”

  “Friday ev’nin’.”

  “And where was he when you saw him on the Friday evening?”

  “At ’ome.”

  “At one hundred and twenty-seven Tyers Street?”

  “Yeah, that’s me ’ome.”

  “And at what time did you see him?”

  “I seen ’im twice. I seen ’im at ’alf past six, then ’e wen’ out and I saw ’im again at ten o’clock.”

  “And do you know where he went?”

  “Proberly the Vauxhall Tavern.”

  “The Royal Vauxhall Tavern close to Vauxhall Station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know for certain that he went there?”

  “’E always did, so I reckons ’e musta done.”

  “But you can’t be completely certain?”

  “’E wouldn’t of gone nowhere else.”

  The coroner gave a slight grimace of exasperation. “Did the deceased seem to be in a state of inebriation when he returned home?”

  “A what now?”

  “Do you think that Mr Taylor may have been drunk when he returned home?”

  “Oh no, ’e never got too bad wiv the drink. ’E’d ’ave ’ad a few, but ’e never got bad wiv it.”

  “By use of the word bad, do you mean drunk?”

  “Yes, sir. ’E weren’t drunk.”

  “But you suspect that he had consumed a quantity of alcohol on Friday evening?”

  “Yes, sir, on account of ’e’d been to The Vauxhall Tavern.”

  “Did you have a conversation with Mr Taylor on his return?”

  “Not much. Jus’ the usual.”

  “What is the usual?”

  “Just ’ello an’ that. An’ ’e said he was goin’ up ter get some kip.”

  “Did he tell you anything about his evening?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he mention anyone he had met with or spoken to that evening?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And he went up to his room shortly after arriving home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he mention that he felt unwell at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he seem unwell to you?”

  “No, but ’e looked a bit pale. ’E never usually looked pale.”

  “Did that observation lead you to suspect that he was feeling unwell?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t know ’e was sick or nuffink. It was only when I thought of it later that I thought as ’e’d looked pale.”

  “In summary, then, you last saw the deceased at about ten o’clock on Friday evening just before he retired for the night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The next witness was the landlord of The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. I recognised him from several months earlier when James had spoken to him about the murder of Elizabeth Wiggins. He was a broad man and he wore a tight-fitting jacket.

  “Me name’s Gerald Smith and I’m the landlord of The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.”

  “Did you see the deceased at your public house on the evening of Friday the fifth of September?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes, sir. He said ’ello.”

  “Did he seem his usual self to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He didn’t seem unwell at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you recall what he drank?”

  “Beer. Just ’is usual, sir.”

  “Can you recall how many mugs of beer he consumed?”

  “Difficult ter say. I must’ve served ’im two or three, and ’e proberly ’ad one or two more than that, like ’e usually did. ’E was proberly served ’em by Forbes, who works behind the bar with me.”

  “Can you tell us who Mr Taylor was with?”

  “Yes, sir. He was with the regulars.”

  “And who are they?”

  “Friends of ’is.”

  “Do you know these men well?”

  “I’ve known ’em all fo
r years.”

  Once Mr Smith had finished speaking a succession of Benjamin Taylor’s friends appeared as witnesses. Each of them deposed that they had drunk with him at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern that evening, and that he had seemed his usual self.

  Everyone gathered at the inquest suddenly became more attentive when two of Taylor’s friends mentioned that a woman had approached him toward the end of his time there. Neither was able to identify this woman, but she was described as slightly built with dark hair, and both men reported that Taylor seemed to know her. After conversing with her in a corner, they had left the pub together at about half past eight.

  Once the last of Taylor’s friends had finished giving his testimony, the police surgeon was summoned. He described how he had carried out an autopsy on Benjamin Taylor. The room collectively held its breath as he described what he had found.

  “I examined tissue samples from the stomach and intestine, and I found them to be ulcerated and inflamed.”

  “Which is an indicator of what?”

  “That the deceased consumed a large volume of irritant.”

  “Poison?”

  The police surgeon ignored the gasps. “Yes, poison could certainly cause this sort of damage.”

  “I must bear in mind the recent incidence of poisonings in this area as I ask the next question,” said the coroner. “Might arsenic have caused the sort of ulceration and inflammation you have witnessed?”

  “It would indeed, sir. I suspect arsenic poisoning to be the cause of death, and to that end I have sent samples of the viscera off for chemical analysis.”

  I sighed. This inquest was remarkably similar to the others I had reported on in recent weeks. But who was the woman Benjamin Taylor had left the pub with? I would have assumed that it was Catherine Curran had she not been arrested twelve miles away in Chislehurst at around the same time.

  Inspector Austen took the witness stand and the coroner asked him whether he had succeeded in finding the woman who Taylor had left the pub with that evening.

  “None yet, sir. L Division is working day and night to track her down.”

  “Have you any idea as to her identity?”

  “None whatsoever, sir.”

  “Do you suspect that she may have had a hand in his poisoning?”

  “On the face of it, sir, I would say that any of the people Mr Taylor spent his last evening with could have had a hand in his poisoning. However, my suspicions rest on the anonymous woman because Mr Taylor claimed that his wife had once attempted to poison him.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Six years ago, sir.”

  “And Mr Taylor was estranged from his wife?”

  “Yes, sir. They separated six years ago but remained legally married.”

  “Had he seen her since their separation?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Could his wife have been the woman he left the public house with on Friday evening?”

  “It could have been her. However, I hear that the lady in question, who goes by the name of Catherine Curran these days, was arrested in Chislehurst, Kent, the very same evening. So it seems unlikely.”

  “Why was his wife arrested?”

  “I understand that a charge of bigamy is to be brought against her, sir. I would also like to add, though the relevance cannot fully be determined yet, that Catherine Curran’s three other husbands died from poisoning.”

  “Another woman has already confessed to those poisonings, has she not?”

  “Yes. And while there is no conclusive evidence that Catherine Curran was involved in the poisonings, the fact that her husband Benjamin Taylor also appears to have died of arsenic poisoning cannot be ignored.”

  “I am aware of the Bermondsey poisoner case, and also of the suspected poisoning of the respected serving police officer, Inspector Martin,” said the coroner. “I understand that Scotland Yard is involved with what has become an increasingly complex investigation, and the unfortunate death of Mr Taylor may form part of that. Is there a Scotland Yard detective present this morning?”

  “Detective Inspector James Blakely of the Yard was due to attend this morning, sir, but he has been taken unwell,” replied Inspector Austen.

  I felt my heart leap into my throat. I had never known James to be unwell.

  “I suggest an adjournment of this inquest for a period of two weeks,” said the coroner. “That will allow time for chemical analysis to confirm the cause of death in this case, and hopefully Inspector Blakely will have recovered by then and will update us on Scotland Yard’s investigation into the poisonings. In the meantime, Inspector Austen, I’m quite sure that you don’t need me to tell you to find the woman who was with Mr Taylor on the night he died as a matter of extreme urgency.”

  Chapter 37

  With the inquest adjourned I decided to go and find James. I needed to reassure myself that he hadn’t been taken seriously ill the way that Inspector Martin had.

  He lived in St John’s Wood, which lay on the north-west side of London. It would be a long, frustrating journey from Lambeth. I took a horse tram down to Vauxhall Bridge and crossed the bridge on foot. From there I took another horse tram to Victoria Station, where I was able to take the underground railway to Baker Street station. From Baker Street I travelled by the Metropolitan Railway to St John’s Wood Road. I managed to find time during the tram and train rides to draft my report on Benjamin Taylor’s inquest.

  James lived at Henstridge Place. One side of the street was lined with large stuccoed buildings, and his home was one of the smart terraced houses on the opposite side.

  I hammered at the door, hoping James would be well enough to answer. It was opened a short way by a fair, broad-faced woman with blue eyes.

  Charlotte.

  I smiled as best I could and greeted her politely. Her expression was cool.

  “I heard that James is unwell,” I said. “How is he?”

  “He’s quite weak, but in good spirits.”

  “Has a doctor examined him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you intend to send for one? I think it’s quite important. I’m worried it may be linked to the other poisonings.”

  Charlotte gave a dry laugh. “James hasn’t been poisoned!”

  “How do you know? Arsenic poisoning presents with common gastric problems, meaning that people often put the symptoms down to other causes.”

  Charlotte frowned. “How do you know that James has been poisoned by arsenic?”

  “I don’t, but I’m worried that he might have been, especially after the poisoning of his friend Inspector Martin.”

  Charlotte’s face fell even further. “Yes, that was terribly sad. But James couldn’t have been poisoned. No one would have done that to him.”

  “I hope they haven’t, but I feel worried just the same.”

  “Oh dear, I do too now. He won’t let a doctor anywhere near him. He says that it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That sounds typical of James, putting on a brave face. Is he well enough to receive visitors?”

  “No.” Charlotte pushed against the door so that it was almost closed. “He needs to rest,” she said through the gap between the door and the frame. “He needs to recover in time for our wedding. Doesn’t life play mean tricks? I have never known James to be unwell in all the time I’ve known him, then five days before we’re due to be married he’s laid up in bed. I’ve a good mind to ensure that he stays there until the morning of the wedding! Hopefully he’ll be well recovered before then, but I think he could do with a proper rest. This job is simply too much for him.”

  “No, it’s not. He loves his work.”

  “He has an obsession with his work, and as we see now it’s not good for his health. You should see the state he’s in.”

  “You will make sure that a doctor examines him to rule out poisoning, won’t you?”

  “I’ll ask him first. I don’t know how on earth he would have managed to get hi
mself poisoned. That would be even worse, wouldn’t it? Poisoned just days before his marriage!”

  I began to wish that someone would poison Charlotte. Just the sight of her before me made my teeth clench with anger.

  “You’ll let him know I called, won’t you?” I said. “Could you tell him that I attended the inquest into Benjamin Taylor’s death this morning, and that arsenic poisoning is suspected?”

  “I shan’t bother him with work matters at the moment. It’s important that he devotes his energies to making a full recovery.”

  “Indeed. Well, I’m certain your tender-hearted nursing skills will ensure that he makes a quick recovery, Charlotte.” I wondered if she had noticed the tone of irony in my voice as I forced a smile.

  I bid her farewell and descended the steps of James’ home with a heavy heart. I prayed fervently that he hadn’t been poisoned and that he would soon be better again. I also prayed that he wouldn’t permit Charlotte to keep him prisoner in his own home until the day of their marriage. I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him again until after they were married.

  Our conversation in the Tower Subway had not been fully resolved, and the only comfort I had was that he had kissed me again.

  I called in at the newsroom on my way to Bermondsey.

  “Fifteen percent now, Miss Green,” said Edgar, rubbing his hands together with glee.

  “That’s how much the circulation figures have fallen?” I asked.

  “Exactly right! You’re sharp-minded. Isn’t Miss Green sharp-minded, Potter?”

  “Extremely sharp-minded,” agreed Frederick.

  “Blimpy’s not going to get away with a fifteen percent drop,” continued Edgar. “It’s bound to set Uncle Conway on the war path.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “My father frequents the same gentleman’s club as Mr Conway,” said Edgar. “I’ve asked him to have a quiet word in the proprietor’s ear.”

  “He’s influential enough, is he?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you exactly what my father does, but whatever it is he’s a master at string-pulling. Do you remember when he had my reading ticket reinstated at the British Library?”