The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “I am a sinner and I feel the need, more than ever, to be someone else now. If only I could be in character all the time. And perhaps I am. Lizzie Dixie is the person everyone sees on stage, and then they see her socialising with the great showman, Joseph Taylor, by her side. As soon as I step out of the limelight I am just plain Hannah. And one day people will realise who I really am. They will hate me.” She puffed out another billow of smoke.

  “That’s not true, Lizzie.”

  “How can you admire a flower when its bloom is fading? That’s what I am now, Penny.”

  “You are feeling sorry for yourself. The performance has tired you out and you need to go home and get some rest.”

  “Perhaps I do, but in the morning I will awake and Lizzie Dixie will be older and less beautiful. She will be closer to the day when people find out who she really is. Can’t you understand, Penny? My time is running out. I envy you.”

  “Envy me? Why?”

  “There is no pretence about you. I wish I had learnt how to use my mind instead of my body. What a different situation I would be in now.”

  “You would not like to be me. I don’t create and entertain in the way that you do. I am just an observer. I watch the world and I write about it.”

  “I am little more than someone’s entertainment for an evening. You are more than that: you help to educate and inform people. You tell them what is taking place in their world. Would you like some gin?”

  I nodded.

  Lizzie put down her pipe and opened the door of the cupboard next to her dressing table. She took out a bottle of gin and two glasses.

  “I don’t like hearing you talk like this,” I said as Lizzie poured my drink and handed me the glass. “You are a talented and much-loved actress. The Course of the Nile has sold out for the next few weeks and there will be even better things to come after this.”

  I raised my glass in a toast and drank back a mouthful of gin, which burned my throat. “Does Joseph know you feel this way?”

  Lizzie laughed. “All that matters to Joseph is his show.”

  “But he cares deeply about you.”

  “I suppose he does, in his own way.” Lizzie drained her glass alarmingly quickly. “Do you think you will ever marry?”

  “I don’t know. I have never found the right man to marry.”

  “But you may yet.”

  “I may. But I am a spinster now and, if the truth be told, I am happy.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  I felt my face freeze as I watched Lizzie wait for my answer.

  “I was in love once.” It was the first time I had admitted it to anyone. “But I am not sure that he loved me. In fact, I know that he didn’t.”

  “Then he was the wrong man.”

  “He was, yes.” I drained my glass and Lizzie refilled it. I never had the chance to tell her anything more.

  I arrived at the Morning Express offices in time for deadline. I handed my article about the British troops withdrawing from Egypt to Miss Welton and went into the news room: a shabby place with piles of paper on every surface and a grimy window looking out onto Fleet Street. Edgar sat with his boots up on his desk, talking to a corpulent, curly-haired reporter called Frederick Potter.

  “It’s not the female mind which is at fault; it is the lack of schooling,” said Edgar as I hung my hat and coat on the cloak stand. “Many women believe the few French phrases and needlework stitches their governesses taught them qualifies them as educated.”

  “And that is my point about the female mind,” said Frederick. “It is unable to form a sensible view on the world. It applies a lightness to everything, which renders women incapable of understanding the important matters in life.”

  “I disagree slightly. I think that, with the correct education, a woman is almost as capable of working effectively as a man,” Edgar replied.

  “On certain tasks, maybe. But don’t get me started on women and grammar. Have you ever picked up one of those fashion periodicals? They are written and edited exclusively by women, and it shows.”

  “Grammar is a skill that only someone with a solid education can master.”

  “And even the solidly educated get it wrong at times.”

  “Indeed,” Edgar agreed.

  “So what hope do women have?”

  “What about Mary Ann Evans?”

  “What of her?”

  “Otherwise known as George Eliot. She mastered the written word.”

  “Garrulous and multiloquent.”

  “Her readers don’t seem to think so,” I interjected.

  “That’s because her readers are all women,” replied Frederick. “I cannot think of a man who would choose to read a George Eliot novel unless he believed that George really was a George!”

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Miss Green,” said Edgar. “Where have you been?”

  “Working, Mr Fish.”

  “With the schoolboy inspector?”

  I nodded in reply, sat down at the desk next to his and took my papers out of my bag. I looked at his long legs stretched out on the desk and his piggy eyes, and felt that I didn’t want to share anything about Lizzie’s case with him, even though his views on women’s writing were vaguely more moderate than Frederick’s.

  “So what have you got for me?” He removed his feet from the desk and rubbed his hands together while trying to peer over my shoulder at my shorthand. I leafed through my papers, wondering what small details I could tell him to keep him satisfied.

  “Lizzie Dixie was interred in Kensal Green Cemetery early yesterday morning.”

  “I know that. I was there, wasn’t I?”

  “Have you been attending the inquest?”

  “Yes, and I can recommend it as the perfect remedy for insomnia.”

  “I believe PC Preston was there today explaining how he discovered Lizzie?”

  “He was, and it was discussed at enormously great length.”

  “We need to put in a request for information about the man who was following us at the cemetery.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Asking if anybody knows who he is. We need to describe him and explain where he was seen and at what time. Hopefully someone may know who he is.”

  “But we didn’t even see his face!”

  “No, but we have a description of the rest of him.”

  “A description of his back as he ran away from us. Even if we had seen his face, finding him in a population of almost five million people is a Sisyphean task.”

  “We need to try. Perhaps we will be lucky.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied doubtfully. “What is Blakely’s next line of investigation?”

  “He is to meet with Joseph Taylor in a few days’ time.”

  Edgar retrieved the pencil from behind his ear and wrote this piece of information down.

  “You need to clarify in anything you write that Joseph Taylor is not a suspect.”

  “The husband? Why not? Does Blakely have any suspects yet?”

  “No.”

  Edgar tutted. “The chap’s taking his time, isn’t he? You would think Scotland Yard would put its best detectives on a case such as this, but this young boy is all over the shop. He needs to have his ears boxed by his schoolmaster.”

  Edgar cackled and Frederick joined in.

  “It is a complicated case.” I felt the need to defend Inspector Blakely.

  “So what else is happening?”

  I looked at my notes. “Y Division is conducting door-to-door enquiries in the area in an attempt to find out where Lizzie Dixie may have been living for the past five years.”

  Edgar nodded and made another note. “And whereabouts are they looking?”

  “In the vicinity of Highgate Cemetery at the present time. Inspector Blakely cannot find a cab driver who took Lizzie to the cemetery that evening, so he thinks she may have walked from her lodgings nearby.”

  “It is a reasonable assumption,” said Edgar
. “But it is hardly foolproof, is it? She may have borrowed a friend’s carriage to get there, or she may have taken a tram to Highgate and walked from there. She might have travelled by train to Highgate and she could also have taken an omnibus to Hampstead and walked.” He turned to Frederick and tutted as if Inspector Blakely had no idea what he was doing.

  “Anything is possible at the moment. I don’t envy the detective having to decide what is and isn’t a priority for his investigation,” I said.

  “Finding out where Lizzie lived is not exactly searching for her killer, is it? The perpetrator is still wandering the streets looking for his next victim.”

  I thought of the man who had been watching us in the cemetery and felt a chill at the back of my neck. “Perhaps there is something in her home that might provide a clue to his identity,” I said.

  Edgar nodded. “It is possible, I suppose. I don’t see why the killer would be leaving clues anywhere. He clearly gave this crime a good deal of thought.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “It’s planned, isn’t it? He knew Lizzie was to be there at that hour. How many people do you know who take a walk in Highgate Cemetery at midnight? None? Exactly. The killer either lured her there or followed her. Now, if he followed her, that still doesn’t explain why she was there in the first place. That is what the schoolboy inspector needs to be finding out.”

  Edgar closed his notebook and placed his pencil on top of it, as if he had it all worked out.

  “I wonder why you are a journalist at all,” I said, “seeing as you are such a good detective.”

  I noticed a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Oh, I could be a detective, all right. But Mr Sherman needs me here.”

  “Of course.” I gathered up my papers and placed them in my bag. “Do let me know when you have identified the suspect.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s the husband, Taylor. It’s always the husband.”

  Chapter 16

  A week after Lizzie’s second funeral, Sebastian Colehill sent a carriage to collect me for dinner. It was a smart brougham, well-polished and with a black buttoned leather interior. There was a woollen blanket on the seat for me to pull over my knees and the windows were clean, so I could see the people thronging the dark, rainy, gas-lit streets.

  We made our way along Oxford Street to Knightsbridge, bumping over the uneven surface of the road and swerving to avoid the omnibuses, which stopped the moment they were hailed. Lights blazed from the many shops, public houses and restaurants.

  The Colehills’ home was one of the newly built terraced houses in Cadogan Square. In the light of the gas lamp, I could see that it was red brick, with ornamental details carved into golden stone around the windows and porch. I counted four storeys, but the upper floors faded into the darkness, so it was difficult to be certain. Thick curtains were pulled across the mullioned windows, and as I was led up the steps to the porch by the groom I peered down at the brightly lit servant quarters in the basement.

  A maid in a white apron and cotton bonnet answered the door and showed me into an impressive tiled hallway, which was lit by an enormous chandelier. Having been relieved of my coat, hat and umbrella, I joined Sebastian and his wife in the drawing room.

  “Good evening, Miss Green!” Sebastian smiled broadly and he had colour in his cheeks, presumably from the warmth of the lively fire in the large fireplace. He wore a deep burgundy frock coat and striped burgundy and blue trousers. There was a red carnation in his buttonhole and his dark hair, streaked with grey, was neatly parted.

  “May I introduce my wife, Mrs Mary Colehill?”

  A slender woman of about my height stepped forward and greeted me. She was handsome, with strong blue eyes and a chin which was a little too square for her to be described as pretty. Her sandy brown hair was neatly curled and pinned on top of her head and decorated with small blue flowers.

  She wore a silk dress, which was turquoise with countless gold buttons down the bodice, and it fitted her so snugly that I marvelled at the tiny size of her waist. A length of gold and blue striped silk draped from each hip and looped into a large elegant bustle at her back. Her sleeves were long and tight, and trimmed with gold silk at the wrist. I wondered if my navy satin dress with the lace collar had been a suitable choice for the evening. Perhaps I should have chosen something more colourful, I reflected silently.

  “Miss Green,” she said with a smile. “How lovely it is to meet you at last. I have read some of your work. I particularly enjoyed your article on orchids in the Domestic Botanicals Journal.”

  I felt my face grow warm at the compliment. “Thank you, Mrs Colehill. I am extremely flattered that you read it. Orchids are very close to my heart; my father had a passion for them.”

  “Please address me as Mary. After dinner, you must take a tour of our conservatory. Sebastian is very fond of hothouse flowers and has built up quite a collection in there.” She turned to smile at her husband.

  “I have indeed,” he added.

  “Do please sit and have a drink. Sebastian tells me you are rather partial to East India sherry.”

  I recalled an occasion when Lizzie had given me a bottle as a gift and we had shared some of it with Sebastian in her dressing room. “I am. Thank you, Mary.”

  She gestured to an occasional chair with a velvet seat. I sat down and my eye was drawn to a large oil painting in a heavy gilt frame, which depicted an ancient stone building.

  “Is that a pyramid?” I asked, my article on Egypt fresh in my mind.

  “The Great Ziggurat of Ur,” replied Sebastian. “An ancient structure which was discovered in 1850. Since putting on The Caliph of Baghdad at the Adelphi, I have developed a keen interest for all things Mesopotamian. In the dining room, you will see a section of frieze which has a sphinx on it, a replica of course, and I have to admit it once served as part of the stage set for the play.”

  “You have a lovely home,” I said.

  Around the painting of the ziggurat were smaller paintings and lithographs, many of them depicting literary or historical scenes. The wallpaper was patterned green and gold, and a large bookcase containing many leather-bound volumes took up a significant section of the room. The heavy velvet drapes were dark green, with an elaborate gold pelmet running across the top of them. A small harpsichord with a tapestry cover and framed photographs atop it sat close to the window. The room also contained a polished writing desk and several glass-topped occasional tables.

  One by one, I was introduced to the Colehill children; there were thirteen in total. The eldest was a girl of seventeen called Rose and the youngest was a baby boy who was carried in by the nursemaid to meet me. The Colehills clearly adored their children. Sebastian told me their names and I tried my best to remember them. Mary told me which school the boys went to and the girls’ governess was even brought in to meet me.

  She regaled me with information on which instruments the children played and a few of them were instructed to practise their French with me and sing a sea shanty. They were polite and well-mannered, but I was relieved that the parlour maid kept my sherry glass topped up. I didn’t dislike children, but moments such as these reminded me of my lack of success in producing a family of my own.

  As I sipped sherry in the well-furnished room in the large house within a fashionable district of London, I couldn’t deny that I had desired this for myself. As a girl, I had always assumed this type of life would find me while I was busy writing. I had even been told that, as the prettier of the two sisters, I would have a wide choice of suitors.

  I realised now the extent of the nonsense my well-meaning relatives had instilled in my mind.

  Sebastian talked about the theatre as we dined, and Mary talked about her friends and acquaintances. We were joined by the seven oldest children. The younger six had already had their supper in the nursery and were being put to bed. We dined on a course of oysters followed by mushroom soup, and then a sole of John Dory followed by a course
of lamb in a curry sauce. We finished off with Bakewell pudding and vanilla custard, then grapes with a goat’s cheese from Kent. Each course was served with a different type of wine, and by the end of the meal my corset felt distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I suppose you must have a lot to write about this terrible murder?” asked Mary.

  “Lizzie Dixie? Yes, although my colleague Edgar Fish has the story. I have been helping the detective on the case, as I knew Lizzie.”

  “And that is how you came to know me, isn’t it, Penny?” said Sebastian.

  “Yes, we met backstage on numerous occasions, didn’t we?”

  “Terribly sad,” said Sebastian in a slightly choked voice. “The whole thing is terribly sad.”

  I noticed his eyes were damp and decided to change the subject. “Mary, I believe you know my sister?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Who is your sister?”

  “Eliza Billington-Grieg.”

  “Is that so?”

  She seemed surprised that I could be related to someone as worthy as Mrs Billington-Grieg.

  “I see the resemblance now that you mention it.” She peered at my face and hair. “Eliza is tall, isn’t she? An intelligent woman by all accounts.”

  “She is.”

  “She has done such good work with the West London Women’s Society, which is why I requested to join. She cares very deeply about the issues in society today.”

  “She does indeed.”

  “And I think it is quite commendable that she rides a bicycle. I must ask Sebastian to buy me one.”

  “You wouldn’t ride on it,” he said.

  “I would.”

  “But you can’t ride a bicycle in normal clothes,” said Sebastian. “If you rode on one wearing that dress your skirts would become hitched up and it would be quite indecent.”

  “Then I should wear breeches!” laughed Mary.

  The children chuckled at this.

  “What a ridiculous notion!” retorted Sebastian. “I am aware that some women are donning all manner of strange apparel to ride bicycles, but not my own wife. I won’t allow it.”