by Emily Organ
Mary laughed again.
“We have recently acquired some new parakeets, which you shall see in the conservatory Penny,” said Mary. “Terribly noisome creatures. Do you have any pet animals?”
“I have a cat called Tiger.”
“How lovely. She must keep you company. It cannot be easy to live alone.”
“I enjoy my own company.”
“Of course, you must do. Essential, I suppose, if you are going out to work instead of making time for a family.”
I smiled politely and noticed Mary looking at my ink-stained fingers. I sensed her disapproval about the fact that I had a job.
Chapter 17
I followed Sebastian along a corridor with highly polished wainscoting. Being upright felt much more comfortable after all the food I had eaten. We paused by a doorway, which led into a small library. Sebastian looked behind us and then gestured for me to step inside. There was something secretive about his manner and I found it disconcerting.
The room was lined with books and the only light came from the fire in the small hearth. I remained standing close to the doorway while Sebastian walked over to a writing desk by the fireplace.
“Before I show you the conservatory, there is something I’d like you to look at. I’m hoping it might explain a few things.” He pulled out a drawer in the writing desk and lifted out several small volumes. “Diaries,” he said as he walked back to me. “They belonged to Lizzie. She left them with her belongings in the Theatre Royal dressing room.”
He handed them to me. They were leather-bound and pocket sized. I felt uneasy holding them. They presumably held thoughts that Lizzie had wanted to keep to herself.
“Shouldn’t we give them to her husband?”
“I think she kept them at the theatre because she didn’t want Taylor to read them. You’ll understand once you’ve read them yourself.”
“I’m not sure Lizzie would have wanted me to read her diaries.”
“You said the inspector wanted to know who she was acquainted with shortly before she supposedly drowned. These diaries will help to explain that.”
“Could we give them to Inspector Blakely?”
“Yes, we could. If he’s looking for clues about her disappearance, the diaries will give him a good grounding. It should also stop him pestering us.” He smiled.
I looked at the diaries in my hand and wondered what they contained. “Having read these, do you now understand what happened to Lizzie after the Princess Alice sank?” I asked.
Sebastian scratched the back of his neck, as if growing impatient. “Please read them for yourself, Penny, and then let me know what you think about them. I am going away tomorrow for a few days, and when I return we can discuss them in more detail. There are five years there: from 1873 to the day before we thought she had drowned in 1878. Now let me show you the conservatory as we planned. Will the diaries fit in your handbag?”
I nodded and felt disappointed that he wasn’t willing to tell me anything more. I tucked the diaries inside my bag and followed Sebastian out into the corridor again. He headed towards a doorway with a bead curtain hanging across it.
Sebastian placed his arm through the curtain and parted the beads so I could step into the conservatory. I found myself surrounded by large, broad-leaved plants in a chilly, dimly lit room. I could hear the chirruping of birds from somewhere but it was difficult to discern where they were positioned among the thick foliage. I looked up to see the iron framework of the conservatory above my head and the darkness of night beyond the panes of glass. Behind me, over the doorway, was a classically styled triangular pediment supported by two columns.
“Part of the stage set from The Marriage of Bacchus,” said Sebastian as I regarded it. “I couldn’t bear to dispose of it. It is made completely from papier mâché, yet in this light you could mistake it for the real thing, could you not? Feel it.” I reached out my hand and touched the hardened paper, which had been painted to resemble stone. Sebastian walked on ahead of me. “And here is scuticaria salesiana,” he announced. I turned to see what he was referring to.
“Beautiful,” I said walking over to him and looking at the elegant orchid he held cradled in his hand. It had five green, oval-shaped petals arranged around a large, white, frilly petal marked with crimson dashes.
“I am certain your father would like to see it.”
I felt surprised by his choice of words. “You refer to him as if he were still alive.”
“Do you not believe that he is?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Lizzie did her best to have him found, didn’t she? It is such a shame that the expedition was unsuccessful.”
“And she never knew its outcome,” I replied.
The expedition to find my father had taken place in 1880 and I suddenly realised that Lizzie had still been alive then.
“On second thought, do you think she did?”
Sebastian shrugged sadly. “We shall never know. Come and see the birds.”
He led me around a large banana plant towards an ornate, white-framed aviary.
“Here are my beauties,” he said. “Parakeets, lorikeets, cockatiels and canaries. There is a macaw in here too, do you see him? There is also a pair of white doves.”
We watched the birds hop from branch to branch of a small tree, which was planted in a pot within the aviary. Swinging perches hung from the dome of the cage.
“And you will also notice a collared dove in there. Mary found it in our garden, as the poor thing had been injured by a cat. She has been nursing it back to health again. After a busy day, I often come in here and watch the birds, and when the sun shines through the glass I fancy myself in an exotic location, such as India or Peru.”
“What a lovely place to have within your home.”
“See the red canary there? I call her Lizzie.”
“How lovely.”
I stood and watched the little bird hopping and turning her head in short, staccato movements. As I watched her, I wondered whether I should tell Sebastian that I had visited the place where Lizzie had been found on the night she was murdered. The sad heaviness of the place had remained with me.
“How is the inspector doing?” asked Sebastian. “He seems a pleasant enough chap.”
“He has a complicated job to do, but he seems to be tackling it well so far.”
I turned away from the bird to look at Sebastian. His face was heavily shadowed in the dim light and his cheeks appeared gaunt.
“Taylor’s the likeliest suspect, of course,” he said.
“You think so?”
“The marriage had soured long before the Princess Alice sank. You’ll read about all that in the diaries.”
“Do you think Lizzie falsified her death to escape her marriage?”
“It’s certainly a possibility, isn’t it? Taylor is a loathsome man.”
“Perhaps so, but it doesn’t mean that he killed her.”
“It makes him more likely to have done it, though, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t believe he knew she was still alive.”
“None of us did. Perhaps he found out and killed her in a rage.”
“I am sure it is far too early to speculate, Sebastian. Scotland Yard are doing the investigating and I am certain they will find out who did this in due course. I hope they also find out why she hid herself away from us all.”
“Me too.” Sebastian turned to look at the birds once again and we stood there in silence, watching them chirrup and hop around their cage.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian’s shoulders begin to shake and then he made a small chuckling noise as if he were laughing. I turned to him and was about to ask what he had found funny when I realised he wasn’t laughing.
He was crying.
His cheeks were wet with tears and a watery excretion trickled out of his nose into his moustache.
“Sebastian?” I willed him to wipe his face with his handkerchief, but i
nstead he stood there with his hands hanging limply at his sides, his shoulders shaking and his face wet and creased up.
“Who did this to her?” he asked, his eyes gazing at me imploringly. Strands of spittle stretched between his lips and I took a step back, feeling repulsed.
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know, Sebastian. Do you have a clean handkerchief?”
He looked up at the glass above our heads. I followed his gaze and could see our reflection in it. A look of anguish was fixed on Sebastian’s face, whereas I appeared slightly frightened.
“Why?” he called up at the ceiling. “Why did they do it?”
I became nervous that Mary Colehill or one of the children might enter the conservatory and find him in this state.
“Sebastian, please calm yourself. It is extremely distressing, but you must remain in control of your emotions. I visited Highgate Cemetery and I saw the place where-“
His face suddenly turned towards mine. “You went there? You saw where she died?”
I nodded and swallowed nervously.
“What was it like? What did you see?” His blue eyes were wide, wet and unblinking.
“Nothing. There is nothing there to see. It is just the cemetery. The detective took me there to get a better understanding of what happened.”
“Ohhhh!”
His wail interrupted me and I began to retreat towards the banana plant.
“Thank you very much for the dinner invitation, Sebastian. It is late and I must get home. Can I ask if you would be so kind as to lend me your carriage again? I can make other arrangements if that is preferable.”
Sebastian stood with his back to me. His head was lowered and I felt relieved to see him wipe his face with his handkerchief.
I waited in silence and then he spun round to face me with a grin fixed on his face as if he hadn’t been crying at all.
“Absolutely, Penny. Of course. I will ask the groom to take you home. It is late. Thank you very much for your company this evening.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” I replied.
I tried to smile, but I felt as though I was forcing my face into a grimace.
Chapter 18
I managed to read some of Lizzie’s 1878 diary before retiring for the night, but it was not easy to follow. Her handwriting was illegible in places and she had a habit of using abbreviations and nicknames. I wondered if her earlier diaries explained what some of the abbreviations stood for. It would take me some time to fully decipher what she had written. Her last entry on Monday 2nd September 1878 was brief:
“The Nile better than yesterday, but F still rushing his lines. When lights came on the balcony was only half full. Lunch with D - told me I have choices, but I disagreed. Tired.”
Having been assured by Sebastian that the diaries would help explain what had happened to Lizzie, I felt disappointed with what I had read so far. I knew that I would have to persevere.
‘Mystery Surrounds Actress’s Murder’ read the headline of Edgar’s article the following day. ‘Graveyard Killer Still at Large!’ yelled the headline of The Illustrated Londoner, with a picture of a shadowy figure standing next to a tomb holding a gun in his hand.
There was little progress to report on Lizzie’s case, but public interest remained high. The Morning Express offices received more than two dozen letters each day from members of the public who believed they could solve the murder. I was sure it wouldn’t be long before one of the penny dreadfuls picked up the story and turned it into a sensationalist tale.
Much of my day was spent on the Egypt story, but once I had met the deadline I decided to visit Lizzie’s grave before nightfall. After the fuss of the past few weeks I felt the need to pay my respects to her in a quiet and reflective manner, away from the news stories and the police investigations.
I bought a bunch of lilies, which only left me enough money to travel third-class to Praed Street, and then from Paddington Station out to Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove.
When I reached Kensal Green Cemetery, I felt relieved to see that the sleeping stone angel had been replaced on Lizzie’s tomb. I lay the lilies next to her, bowed my head and prayed that I would be able to do something to catch her killer.
As I stood at the graveside and the fog around me darkened, I thought about the last words Lizzie had said to me as we drank our gin.
“I am not sure why I chose this life. I suppose I had always liked the idea of wearing beautiful clothes and having my hair curled so fashionably. I suppose I wanted people to notice me. Perhaps I thought it would bring me happiness. But I realise now that I was only trying to escape myself. When people tell me they would love a life such as mine, I reply with the words of Shakespeare: ‘All that glitters is not gold.’ ”
“The Merchant of Venice,” I said to the sleeping angel. “In the play those words are written on the scroll in the golden casket.” I had been unable to recall the name of the play the phrase came from when Lizzie had said those words to me; I had only remembered afterwards.
I thought of Sebastian’s tears in the conservatory and shuddered. I hadn’t realised how deeply he had cared for Lizzie.
Had Sebastian’s tears been those of grief? Or tears of remorse from a murderer?
I had always liked Sebastian, but the incident in the conservatory had unnerved me. I couldn’t understand how he had managed to compose himself so quickly after such an outburst. I reasoned that he was an emotional, highly-charged man. He worked in the theatre, so perhaps he was predisposed to bouts of melodrama.
Do please think more about the last time you saw her... What was her frame of mind?
Inspector Blakely’s words ran through my head. There was no doubt that in the summer of 1878, Lizzie had been trapped in a marriage she had felt indifferent about and she had become tired of acting. The critical reviews that had followed the opening night of The Course of the Nile would have wounded her further. Perhaps she hadn’t planned her disappearance, but the opportunity to vanish after the sinking had been too good for her to miss. Her diaries would tell me, I felt sure of that. And once I had understood them I would pass them on to Inspector Blakely.
I took the train back to Paddington station and then made my way to Praed Street, where I waited for an underground Metropolitan Railway train that would take me to Moorgate. It was ten minutes before eight, and when the train arrived it was busy. I managed to find a seat in third-class and flicked through Lizzie’s 1878 diary, looking for something which could help me understand her disappearance. July of that year sounded more interesting:
“D has a plan, says he can save me. I trust D because I love him more than I have ever loved anyone.”
I flicked back a few pages. Did Lizzie explain who D was at any point?
I didn’t get a chance to find out.
The roar in my ears was hot and deafening. Somehow, my seat disappeared and I felt a sudden lurch to the left. Someone’s elbow was in my chest and I was kicked by a pair of heavy boots. Everything went dark and there was a terrible crunching, shattering sound. I felt grit in my eyes and mouth, and then I realised I was lying down. Muffled groans and screams filled the air and I scrambled about, trying to get to my feet. There was a bitter stench of gunpowder.
I had no idea what had happened, but I felt relieved that I seemed to have survived it.
There were flames close by and someone was lying on the ground. I grabbed the person’s coat and tried to pull him away from the fire, fortunately he began to move and someone else managed to stamp out the flames. I tripped over something and realised it was the railway track. We were in the tunnel, and up ahead I could see the lights and platform of the next station. I could also see the rest of the train, but the carriage I had been travelling in was in pieces.
The screams continued and there was also shouting. People had climbed down from the platform and were helping to drag us out of the tunnel.
“Everyone out! It’s a bomb!”
With a renewed
sense of panic, I managed to scramble out of the tunnel into the smoke-filled station at Edgware Road.
I climbed up onto the platform and looked back at the devastation which had been caused to the third-class carriage. The walls had either fallen in or been blown out; I couldn’t tell which. I saw twisted pieces of metal, splintered panels of wood and countless shards of broken glass from windows and lamps. The fragments crunched under my boots and I was jostled on all sides by people with dusty faces, ragged clothes and blood-stained faces and limbs.
There was a burnt taste in my mouth and I saw a young boy pulling on the arm of a woman who was slumped over on the platform. I stumbled towards them to help and saw that the boy had a cut on one cheek. The woman he was holding on to began to sit up of her own accord, and I was relieved to see that she was conscious.
“Let me help you up,” I offered.
My voice sounded far away and the woman was too distressed to allow me near her.
“We must get out of here,” I said. “There may be another.” I looked nervously at the dark mouth of the tunnel beyond the end of the train. Injured people were being dragged out, and hats, bags and umbrellas were scattered over the tracks among the pieces of train debris.
The boy rubbed at his forehead, leaving a smear of blood mixed with dirt.
I pleaded with the woman again. “We must get out of here. Let me help you.”
She was young and was dressed in a dark cotton dress. Her red hair had fallen loose and there was a deep cut on one of her hands. She examined it and began to cry.
The boy was also crying.
“Come on,” I said, bending down and gripping the woman by the arm. “You must get to your feet and take your son away from here. It might not be safe.”
I was terrified that another bomb would detonate and felt vulnerable standing here on the platform.
The woman let me help her up. She looked at me with her dark eyes, her mouth hanging open as if she had no idea where she was.