by Emily Organ
“However, there is no denying that some of the morning editions will carry the story tomorrow. They will contain only what their reporters can glean from hanging around Highgate. I should be happy to share far more with you if you were to help me.”
He watched me expectantly.
I knew there was a strong possibility of presenting my exclusive insights to an editor on Fleet Street and negotiating payment over it. But I sought more than that. I wanted to resume my journalistic work on a permanent basis. I was in desperate need of a regular salary.
“I will have to give it some thought. If I were reinstated as a reporter on the Morning Express my decision would be an easy one.”
“I heard about the disagreement with Inspector Cullen over the Doughty Street murders.”
“It was more than a disagreement. I believed that the wrong man had been hanged and wrote an article to that effect.”
“I remember reading it.”
“And did you agree?”
“Time revealed that the wrong man was, indeed, hanged.”
“Jenkins was no angel, but he didn’t deserve to die for something he hadn’t done. Cullen doesn’t like anyone questioning his judgement, does he? Within a day of the article being published he had spoken to Commissioner Dickson, who happens to be a cousin of the paper’s editor. I had no chance of survival then.”
The inspector polished off the remainder of his stout and dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief. I noticed that his collar was perfectly white and starched and I imagined a laundress delivering him a pile of freshly pressed shirts each week. He wore no wedding ring, so I surmised that he lived with his parents. If not, he probably had lodgings somewhere, as I did, only in a smarter location. I pictured him residing in a respectable room in a white-stuccoed townhouse overlooking a neat green square.
I picked up my handbag and umbrella.
“Perhaps I could speak to the governor about remuneration,” said Inspector Blakely.
“You would pay me to help you?”
He nodded.
“No thank you.”
I didn’t want the inspector to think that I could be easily bought. I liked to think I had better principles than that, even though I badly needed the money.
I got to my feet feeling a little unsteady. The shock of Lizzie’s murder had affected me quite deeply. “Thank you for the drink, Inspector.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He also stood. “I don’t particularly wish to say this to you, Miss Green, but as the case progresses there is a possibility that you will be subpoenaed to attend court and give evidence.”
He attempted a weak smile and I said nothing.
“I think it would be far easier if you were to cooperate at this early stage.”
“I appreciate the warning, Inspector Blakely. If I were a salaried news reporter the arrangement you suggest would be most appealing. But sadly, I am not.”
Chapter 2
The fog was so thick by the time I reached Milton Street that I was forced to rely on the noise of the trains pulling in and out of Moorgate Station to guide me the last few yards.
I wondered whether Inspector Blakely had thought me bad-tempered and unreasonable. I wanted to be helpful, but I had felt it necessary to be firm about my position. If Scotland Yard was able to take my job from me, it also had the power to reinstate me.
My lodgings were at the top of Mrs Garnett’s house, close to the railway bridge in Milton Street. I met my landlady on the staircase, her steel-grey curls sprung out from beneath her bonnet and were pale against her dark brown skin. A widow of about fifty, she had come to London from British West Africa as a child. She always wore a fresh white apron.
“I have almost finished my article, Mrs Garnett.”
She scowled at me, her large, dark eyes unblinking.
“I anticipate that I will receive payment for it within the week and I will then pay two weeks' rent. That will leave only one week outstanding.”
“It will be two weeks’ rent outstanding by then.”
“No, just one week I think.”
“You’re forgetting this week. By the time you have paid me for the two weeks, this week will be gone and then there will be another two weeks to pay.”
“I think you could be right.”
“Of course I’m right.” She sucked in her lips disapprovingly.
“Thank you for being so understanding, Mrs Garnett.”
“Let’s see how long I’m prepared to tolerate your arrears before you thank me. You look rather pale. Have you had a shock?”
“A little, yes.”
“How dreadful. What happened?”
“Someone I know has died, but I hadn’t seen her for many years. The news has come as a bit of a surprise.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Green. Your sister called for you this afternoon. She tried to bring her bicycle into the hallway again! She says she cannot leave it in the street in case it is stolen.”
“She is probably right.”
“But she cannot bring it into the house! I don’t want it scraping the walls. The wallpaper went up only two years ago.”
“I will speak to her about that, Mrs Garnett.”
“Tell her not to bring her bicycle into my house. I cannot understand why people want to ride on bicycles. If people must travel on wheels, why don’t they take a cab or an omnibus? People who ride bicycles cannot decide whether they belong on the road or the pavement, and it’s dangerous for themselves and all other travellers. And as for women riding bicycles....” She sucked in her lips again. “It simply isn’t decent. They have to wear breeches under their skirts to preserve their modesty. Everything about it is utterly ridiculous.”
“I have never ridden a bicycle myself, but many people seem to enjoy it.”
“At the expense of others and their own clothes. You should have seen the mud splashes on your sister’s clothing.”
Mrs Garnett tutted and continued down the stairs.
Tiger had pressed herself up against the window by the time I reached my room. I pulled up the sash and she jumped onto my writing desk with a miaow. I stroked her striped coat, which felt damp and cold.
Tiger had found me six years previously. I had looked up from my writing desk one chilly afternoon to find her staring in at me through the window. I had been alarmed to see a cat three storeys from the ground, but I soon learnt that Tiger was an experienced roof cat. She had a broad expanse of gables and smoky chimney stacks to explore. On a good day, she would even catch a pigeon or two out there.
The fog had masked my view of the city, so I pulled the green velveteen curtain across the window to keep some warmth within the room. With Tiger fussing around my skirts, I lit the paraffin lamp and the stove, boiled up some coffee and sat at my desk with a slice of bread and butter.
I knew I needed to finish my article on Germaine de Staël, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Lizzie Dixie. I removed a thick bundle of newspaper cuttings from the bottom drawer of my desk and began to leaf through them. These were all the stories I had written for the Morning Express, and among them was the obituary I had written for her.
We regret to record the death of actress Lizzie Dixie (Mrs Joseph Taylor), who was drowned in the sinking of the Princess Alice on Tuesday 3rd September aged thirty-six. She will be best remembered for her famous performance of Ophelia in Hamlet at The Lyceum Theatre in 1875.
Born in Ireland in 1842, Lizzie Dixie was the daughter of Michael Dixie, a schoolteacher in Dublin. As a young actress, she took the part of Darina in The Caliph of Baghdad at the Adelphi Theatre, under Mr Sebastian Colehill’s management. After touring the provinces, she returned to the London stage as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Olympic Theatre, and then as Ariadne in The Marriage of Bacchus at St James’ Theatre. She opened at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane in Lady Audley’s Secret, in which she gave a dazzling performance as Alicia.
She married the celebrated showman Joseph Taylor in 1873, a union which delighte
d the public and placed the adored couple firmly at the heart of fashionable society. Mr and Mrs Taylor made a popular sight riding around London in their landau, pulled by a pair of zebras.
In 1876, Lizzie appeared at The Lyceum as Lucy in Nobody’s Child, which was not a success. Another tour of the provinces followed and she opened the Royal Princess’s Theatre in Glasgow with a well-received performance as Mrs Seedeep in Observation and Flirtation. Her last performance on the London stage came in July of this year, when she appeared as Cleopatra in The Course of the Nile, which was cut short due to illness.
I knew I had written what Lizzie would have wanted me to. There were many details I had deliberately neglected, such as the birth of her illegitimate daughter and her real name, which had been Hannah Mahoney. Furthermore, her father had never been a schoolteacher; he had, in fact, been imprisoned in Dublin’s Kilmainham Gaol.
I rested the pile of cuttings on my desk and gazed at the drab curtain in front of me. How could Lizzie have died again? It didn’t make sense to me. Someone, somewhere, knew the truth behind this.
Lizzie was already well-known when I first met her in 1875. By this time, she was more famous for her marriage to Joseph Taylor than for her performances. But later that year she received critical acclaim for her role as Ophelia and the public’s interest in her soared.
I met Lizzie at a reception to celebrate the reopening of the Forum Theatre. I had removed my spectacles for the occasion, as my sister had informed me that the frames were ugly and unflattering. The result was that all of the faces were blurred and I had no chance of recognising anyone unless they came up to me and introduced themselves.
Lizzie first appeared as a column of shimmering white, her pale face topped with dark curls. I had been unable to see clearly enough to recognise her, but I sensed she was important on account of her beautiful dress. As she came into focus I could see that her dress was low-cut at the bosom, pulled in tightly at the waist and covered with shiny beads. She wore strings of pearls around her neck and a small hat covered with white flowers was perched on top of her hair. Her face was heart-shaped, with dark kohl accentuating her eyes and deep red stain on her lips. Faint lines around her eyes and mouth suggested she was my senior, possibly by five years, but I couldn’t be certain.
“Miss Penelope Green, I believe?” Her voice had a slight Irish lilt.
“Yes,” I replied. “How do you know my name?”
“Your colleague pointed you out to me.”
She gestured behind her and I recognised the tall, blurred form of Edgar Fish rocking on the balls of his feet while conversing with another guest and pouring a drink down his throat.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Taylor.”
I sipped my champagne nervously, as I had written a rather unflattering review of her most recent performance. I prayed desperately that she hadn’t read it.
“I was interested to read your review of The Marriage of Bacchus.”
I felt a heavy sensation in my chest.
“You didn’t think a great deal of it, did you?”
“I admit that burlesque plays are not to my taste.”
“Perhaps you take them too seriously. Burlesque, after all, is meant to be a little bit of fun. It is mere parody.”
Her green eyes sparkled sharply and I took a sip of champagne as I prepared to politely stand by my words.
“I thought the play bordered on slapstick. It could have been produced with a little more wit.”
“And Lizzie Dixie’s performance of Ariadne reminded you of a clockwork doll?”
“That was a terribly harsh thing to say. I am sorry.”
“It is somewhat easier to write such words than say them in person, isn’t it, Miss Green?”
“It is easier, yes, and I apologise. I make a point of accepting responsibility for everything I write.”
Lizzie nodded and we each sipped our drinks. I desperately hoped someone else would join the conversation and put an end to this awkward situation.
“You were absolutely right, though,” said Lizzie. “The Marriage of Bacchus was a perfect stinker. It only ran for five weeks. You may be a harsh critic, Miss Green, but you are a fair one.”
I placed the cuttings back in the drawer and examined one of the boots I had discarded beneath my desk. The sole of the right boot had a hole in it and there was little chance of getting it repaired before I received payment for my article about Madame de Staël. I found a piece of blotting paper on my desk and folded the thick sheet twice. I placed it inside my boot so it would cover the hole and then pushed my foot in. It was uncomfortable, but I hoped it would at least keep my stocking dry.
Why had Lizzie pretended to be dead?
Questions repeated themselves in my mind as I readied myself for bed. I turned off the lamp, clambered under the counterpane and pulled it up under my chin.
As I lay there with my eyes open wide in the dark, I wondered what information Inspector Blakely had gathered up to this point. Tiger had curled up on my chest, her loud purr filling the silence.
I realised there was nothing to stop me carrying out some investigations of my own on this case. I wanted to find out what had happened to Lizzie. She had once been a friend to me and had made a point of helping me. Now it was my turn to help her, and it was possible that I already knew more about the particulars of her life than Inspector Blakely and his detective friends at Scotland Yard.
Chapter 3
I arrived at the British Museum as it was opening the following morning so that I could visit the newspaper room before it became busy.
I quickly saw that all the papers had run the story of Lizzie Dixie’s murder. I perused the headlines: ‘The Tragic Case of Lizzie Dixie’, ‘The Perplexing Mystery of the Actress Who Died Twice’ and ‘Lizzie Dixie Dies Again’.
The Illustrated Londoner carried a picture of a woman in a graveyard collapsing onto the ground with her arms flung wide and a look of horror on her face. At the extreme right of the picture was the hand of her unknown assassin firing a gun. ‘Shot Dead in the Cemetery!’ shouted the headline.
I read through the stories and was relieved to discover that they included only the most basic information on the case. I could see that an opportunity remained for me to gain exclusive insight if I chose to help Inspector Blakely.
My colleagues in Fleet Street seemed as bewildered as I was about Lizzie’s death. Reading the news stories, I ascertained that there was no common theory and, as yet, no plausible answers. The stories described Lizzie Dixie as ‘much-loved’, ‘accomplished’ and ‘a fine beauty’.
There was much speculation as to why she had chosen to hide after her supposed drowning. Perhaps the actress had ‘fallen into debt’ or ‘suffered a weakness of the brain’, according to one. There was general disbelief with regard to the brutality of the murder.
One newspaper implied that her murderer might have been a disgruntled fan, angry to discover she had pretended to be dead. I felt a shiver run through me as I read the line: ‘If it is not Lizzie Dixie buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, then who is it?’
The newspaper reading room began to fill up with people, bringing with them scents of coffee, tobacco smoke and damp wool. I leafed through a copy of the Morning Express and heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Still reading us then, Miss Green?”
I turned to see my former colleague, Edgar Fish, standing behind me. He was a tall, broad man with heavy features and small, glinting eyes. A thin mousey-brown moustache ran across his top lip and I could smell stale alcohol on his breath. As usual, he had a pencil tucked behind one ear.
“I like to read all the newspapers, Mr Fish.” I felt annoyed that he had discovered me there.
“You’re maintaining the habits of a good journalist, then.”
“Of course.”
I folded the newspaper, picked up my handbag and stood up. I tried to make myself as tall as possible, though in truth I only reached his shoulder. I looked him fir
mly in the eye. “I am still a good journalist.”
“So I hear.” He gave me a patronising smile. “There are plentiful ladies’ journals in need of writers, so I am sure it will be easy for you to find work. The grand ladies of Britain always require advice on which colour hat to wear and how to discipline their maids.”
“I must go, I have a deadline.”
“As do I. The Lizzie Dixie story requires my expertise.”
He rubbed his hands together, as if relishing the idea of the work which lay ahead. I felt a snap of anger in my chest.
Lizzie’s story should have been mine to write.
“I’m not usually up at this hour,” he continued, “but this one’s a Gordian Knot and there is a great deal of work to do. You knew Lizzie well, I recall. I should be asking you for comment. Who the deuce do you think did it?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea, but it is terribly sad. Good luck with the story, Mr Fish.” I made my way towards the main reading room before he could anger me any further.
I worked in the reading room for most of the morning, desperate to get my article finished, but I struggled to concentrate. Propped open on the desk in front of me was a collection of Madame de Staël’s essays and my pen was poised to take down notes. But the words on the pages began to dance before my eyes, and sometime later my sheet of paper bore several blots of ink and little else.
I sat back in my chair and gazed up at the thousands of books that encircled me. The shelves were stacked in three tiers, the highest two accessible via two galleries with brass railings that ran around the perimeter of the circular room. Arched windows sat above the top gallery, and presiding over them was the great dome of the reading room.
High up in the centre of the dome was a round glass window, through which bright sunlight shone, illuminating the blue, white and gold plasterwork above my head. This was the very best light by which to work, yet I was unable to focus my mind at all as thoughts of Lizzie took precedence.