The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “James is simply trying to understand the motive behind Lizzie’s murder,” I said. “It seems so senseless.”

  “I don’t want any detective business in here!” slurred Sir Edmund. “I’m off-duty and so are you, young sir. Meanwhile, these lovely gals are very much on duty.”

  He leant towards Lola and slung an arm across her shoulders, then he looked questioningly at the distance between James and myself.

  “Where did you find this one, then?” Sir Edmund asked James, pointing his cigar at me once again.

  “She is a friend of a friend.”

  James coughed and I smiled benignly, hoping that Sir Edmund and Hugh would believe us.

  A waiter arrived with two bottles of champagne and four glasses on a silver tray. I did not relish the thought of the bubbly liquid swilling around in my over-indulged stomach.

  “Thank you, good man. Pour it out, pour it out!” said Sir Edmund. Then he turned back to James. “A friend of a friend, you say? So you are friends?”

  “Of sorts,” said James. “I couldn’t trouble you for a cigar, could I, Sir Edmund?”

  “Of course!” The politician stood up and fumbled about for his cigar tin once again.

  Hugh stubbed out his cigar and took a glass of champagne from the waiter. He struck me as decidedly more sober than Sir Edmund, and there was something about his calm demeanour which I found unnerving.

  “Damn fine gal, Lizzie. Highly thought of,” said Sir Edmund. “Very highly thought of, especially with the high panjandrums.” He gave James a wink.

  “Is that so?”

  “Even the Grand Old Man took a shine to her.”

  James’ face remained impassive and I made sure that mine matched his. The Grand Old Man Sir Edmund referred to was Gladstone, the Prime Minister. Rumours had abounded in Fleet Street for some time that he visited prostitutes, but nothing had ever been proven. I took a sip of champagne and the bubbles fizzed uncomfortably in my chest.

  “When was that, then?” asked James casually as Sir Edmund handed him a cigar.

  “Edmund,” said Hugh. “There is no need to talk about any of this.”

  “It was before she was drowned,” continued Sir Edmund, ignoring his friend. “Or before we thought she was drowned. I don’t know when that was. Three years ago? Ten years ago? I can’t remember now. I can’t find my matches, old chap.”

  “Here.” Lola handed them to him.

  “You didn’t hear it from me about the Grand Old Man,” continued Sir Edmund. “He is loyal to Catherine, so far as the public is concerned. More than forty years they’ve been married.”

  “He has a reputation to protect,” said James. “If what you say is true, he must worry about people talking.”

  “He doesn’t,” said Hugh coldly.

  “Hugh should know. He is related to the Grand Old Man by marriage on his mother’s side. And no one will ever talk,” added Sir Edmund. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Why? What would happen to them?” asked James.

  Lola looked at James anxiously, realising what he was trying to coerce Sir Edmund into admitting.

  “I don’t know.” Sir Edmund took a gulp of champagne. “They would be silenced one way or another, I suppose.”

  “Nothing would happen,” said Hugh, glowering. “No one would be silenced. You are asking leading questions, Inspector. And I suspect you are trying to put words into Sir Edmund’s mouth.”

  “I wouldn’t let him dare do such a thing!” said Sir Edmund. “Put words into my mouth? What a nonsense. Anyway, forget about all that business. Did you know that Lola here has partied with the Prince of Wales? It’s no secret what that man gets up to. How I envy him!” Sir Edmund chuckled. “Although when I was last in Paris I did manage to get to Le Chabanais. Have you ever been there?”

  James shook his head.

  “If there is one thing Paris does well, it’s brothels.” Sir Edmund laughed again. “Rupert!” he cried out as a young man’s head appeared from behind the curtain.

  “Are you talking about Le Chabanais again, Sir Edmund?”

  “I certainly am, old chap. Come in, come in.”

  He stood up and a young, thin, well-dressed man and a blonde woman in a purple and gold patterned dress stepped into the booth. There was barely room for all seven of us and the alcove was permeated with a sickly-sweet perfume.

  “Detective Inspector James... what is it again?” asked Sir Edmund.

  “Blakely.”

  “A detective?” asked Rupert.

  “Not to worry, old fellow. He knows Cullen and he’s off duty, and he’s turning out to be a fairly decent sort of chap.”

  “Is that so?” said Hugh.

  “This is his companion,” continued Sir Edmund. “I can’t seem to recall her name.”

  “Beth,” said Hugh, glaring at me.

  “This is Rupert Cornwallis-Deedes,” announced Sir Edmund. “He mashes all the girls. His father is an old friend of mine and a bit of a masher too. And who’s this thunderingly fine gal?”

  “Kitty,” replied the blonde girl with a grin.

  “Simply divine. Now, take a seat, won’t you both?” Rupert and Kitty sat on the chaise longue while Sir Edmund remained standing in the centre of the small room. “Now there’s nowhere for my good self to sit! Damn it! Lola’s lap will have to do.”

  Sir Edmund fell back drunkenly on top of Lola and, with the exception of Hugh, everyone seated on the chaise longue laughed.

  I glanced at James and grimaced. He smiled uncomfortably in response.

  “Now, this is cosy,” said Sir Edmund. “All I need do now is rest my feet up like so.”

  He lifted up his legs so that his body reclined backwards and rested across the laps of Lola, Hugh, Rupert and Kitty.

  “Hold on to me! I don’t want to fall off!”

  There was more laughter and Sir Edmund puffed on the stump of his cigar before examining the tip. “Damn thing’s gone out.” He threw it onto the floor. “Kitty, darling, would you care to remove my spats?”

  “Of course, Sir Edmund.”

  “And while you’re at, it you can remove my shoes too. A chap needs to be comfortable.”

  I gave James a frantic glance and he cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Sir Edmund. It is time for us to leave.”

  James got to his feet and I followed suit.

  One of Sir Edmund’s shoes was already off, revealing a red silk sock with a large hole, through which a toe was protruding.

  “Must you? So soon? The evening has only just begun! You’re going to miss all the fun. Could you massage my feet, please, Kitty? There’s a gal.” Sir Edmund give a deep sigh of pleasure as Kitty began kneading his toes. I felt my overfull stomach lurch beneath my corset and could taste the lobster sauce again.

  “Thank you, Sir Edmund. Goodbye!” I said quickly as I headed for the curtain.

  “Why did Lizzie ever have anything to do with that man?” I asked James as we journeyed back to Milton Street in a cab. “He is so repugnant.”

  “Money, I suppose. Why would anyone spend time with him? He has to pay for company as no one would offer it voluntarily.”

  I laughed.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Better now, thank you. It was the toe massage that finished me off.”

  I was relieved that I hadn’t been ill. The horrible lurch in my stomach had made me dash out of the restaurant, to the great concern of the waiters. In the darkness of the street, I had managed to loosen my bodice and corset, and, after a few breaths of outside air, I had begun to recover.

  “It is quite a revelation that Lizzie became so well connected,” said James. “Did you know about Gladstone?”

  “No, she never mentioned him to me. I knew that he had watched her perform at the opening night of Lady Audley’s Secret, but I knew of no connection other than that. We only have Sir Edmund’s word for it, though.”

  “That is true. But thi
s has me wondering. If she had a liaison with Gladstone and then did or said something indiscreet, perhaps that put her life in danger. Perhaps that was why she went into hiding.”

  I stared at the dark, misty road ahead. “I don’t think you can bring the Prime Minister into this. It is completely improbable.”

  “If not him, then possibly someone else,” said James. “There could be any number of men at Westminster who were worried about an indiscretion they had committed with Lizzie.”

  “But why should she be indiscreet?”

  “Perhaps someone treated her unfairly. Perhaps there was something she did not agree with.”

  “But if she had broken her vow of secrecy, she would never have been able to work again.”

  “Exactly, and that might be why she chose to disappear.”

  The theory seemed solid enough.

  “You think that perhaps she got into a situation she couldn’t see a way out of?”

  “Undoubtedly! Why else would she disappear? And she may also have been fearful. Perhaps Taylor found out. Gladstone is a deeply religious man and has been married for a long time,” continued James. “He has several children who are doing well for themselves. You and I both know that rumours about him have been circulating for a good while, but if the public ever found out the truth that would be a different matter. It might be that Gladstone has nothing to do with it, but he may have other men who look after these things for him. Perhaps they take matters into their own hands without his knowledge. If a courtesan happened to be indiscreet and needed to be silenced, there are people out there who would deal with such a matter.”

  “It is a horrible thought. I wish there was no possibility of it being true.”

  “As do I, but we cannot ignore it.”

  Chapter 31

  “I think a few paragraphs on the West London Women’s Society would fit rather well on the features page of the Saturday edition.”

  I had decided to put the idea to Mr Sherman again as he sat at his desk scribbling on proofs. He stopped and frowned at me.

  “And what exactly does the West London Women’s Society do? Don’t tell me, it’s another group of irritable women requesting suffrage.”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Good. Hopefully women will soon realise that politics is not suited to the fairer sex. There is good reason for the House of Commons to exclude female parliamentary reporters. They simply don’t have the heads for it.”

  “I cannot think of anything less interesting than being a parliamentary reporter, Mr Sherman.”

  “Exactly! There you go, you see! You don’t have the head for it.”

  “Oh, I have the head for it, all right, but I would rather work on the stories the public is actually interested in. The West London Women’s Society does believe in campaigning for women’s suffrage.”

  Mr Sherman groaned and Frederick Potter joined us.

  “I call for remark that it is impossible to give women the vote unless they fight in wars,” said Frederick. “How can they be expected to have a recognised opinion on war if they never fight?”

  “Not all men fight,” I replied. “Some are too old or infirm, yet they can still vote. Have you ever fought in a war?”

  “That’s not my point,” replied Frederick haughtily. “Women don’t fight, but they are the wives, mothers, daughters and sisters of men who do. And as women associate war with the loss of their men, they have a biased opinion upon the matter. Ergo, women are not suitable to vote. Allowing them to do so would be an act of folly.”

  “But women pay taxes,” I said. “If they pay taxes to the government, should they not have a say on how the government spends their money?”

  “That is enough!” said Mr Sherman, raising a hand to calm us. “This argument can run for eternity if it is permitted to do so. What else is this women’s society working on, Miss Green?”

  “Dress reform.”

  “Even worse!”

  “My sister rides a bicycle, Mr Sherman.” Frederick sniggered and walked off.

  “Now don’t get me started on bicycle riders!” He wagged a finger at me. “One of them steered his contraption directly into the omnibus I was travelling on last week. It was a miracle no one was hurt and it caused a cursed hullaballoo on Oxford Street, I can tell you.”

  “Don’t you think that some of our readers might be bicycle riders themselves and therefore interested in the practical clothing which is required for riding a bicycle?”

  “A handful of them might be, but not enough to warrant a paragraph in the Saturday features.”

  “Some members of the West London Women’s Society are now wearing divided skirts...”

  “That’s enough.” Mr Sherman held up a hand to stop me. “We had all this a number of years ago with bloomers; those frightful, oversized undergarments from America. I thought they had been long forgotten. Please don’t tell me they are the height of fashion now.”

  “Not bloomers, Mr Sherman. Divided skirts.”

  “Miss Green, may I remind you that our deadline is looming and we haven’t yet finalised the edition for tomorrow morning. I am certain that our fine proprietor, Mr Conway, will not want to see features on bicycles and bloomers, or votes for women, in his newspaper.”

  “Shouldn’t the Morning Express reflect changing public opinion?”

  “Yes, it should, but not the opinion of a few bored housewives in the suburbs. Miss Green, I need a paragraph on the plans for the Suez Canal before the day is out. Do you think you could manage that for me?”

  I nodded and left the editor’s office, aware that I would not make any further progress that day. It would do nothing to stop me trying again, however. I wondered how I could phrase my words more effectively so that I didn’t mention angles that instantly put him off.

  I passed Miss Welton’s desk and noticed that she had neatly typewritten on several pieces of paper. I picked one up.

  “It seems you are mastering the art well.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “I should like to learn myself. Typewriting looks so much better than handwriting, doesn’t it?”

  “It does; I am very pleased with it. I can show you how to do it, if you like?”

  “I would be very grateful if you could. Thank you, Miss Welton.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” I turned to see Edgar swaggering towards me with his hands in his pockets. I hadn’t seen him since the dinner at Le Croquembouche the previous Friday and I did not like the smug smile on his face.

  I placed the piece of paper back on Miss Welton’s desk.

  “What is it, Mr Fish?”

  “Tut, tut, tut.”

  I felt my right fist clench.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Edgar?”

  “The schoolboy inspector’s off the case!” he said with a grin.

  “Inspector Blakely, you mean?”

  “Yes, your friend, the inspector.”

  “Off the case? What are you saying?” My eyes searched his irritating face for meaning.

  “He’s off the case. He was removed over the weekend.” Edgar took his hands out of his pockets and walked back to the news room. I followed him.

  “So who is assigned to it now?” My heart felt heavy in my chest.

  “Cullen,” he replied, sitting down in his chair and removing the pencil from behind his ear. “Finally, the case will be pulled out of the fire!”

  I had disliked Chief Inspector Cullen ever since the wrongful conviction in the Doughty Street case.

  “But Inspector Blakely was making good progress. I don’t understand!”

  “No, he was not.” Edgar laughed scornfully. “He had no suspect when Taylor should have been arrested as soon as it happened.”

  “Taylor may not have done it. Inspector Blakely needs evidence before he can arrest a suspect.”

  “He has evidence! What more does he need?”

  “It is not enough.”

  “Anyway, Cullen will
decide what to do next. I feel relieved that the investigation is in safe hands now.”

  I couldn’t quite comprehend what I was hearing. It made no sense to have James removed from the case. I wondered how he would be feeling at this moment. After all his hard work, he probably felt quite devastated.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Cullen can’t just remove him for not having arrested anyone yet.”

  “No, but I think we both know that it is about something more than that, don’t we?” Edgar leaned back and fixed me with his small, glinting eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I couldn’t for the life of me fathom what he was talking about.

  “A certain beano with Sir Edmund Erskine?” He smiled.

  I felt my stomach turn at the reminder.

  “Plying an honourable gentleman with drink and attempting to force a confession about Lizzie Dixie from him?”

  “That did not happen!”

  “That’s what Sir Edmund and Hugh Dowdeswell claimed when they made an official complaint to Scotland Yard about the schoolboy inspector’s behaviour. If Blakely’s father hadn’t been a chief superintendent, he would have been given the old heave-ho.”

  “Sir Edmund and Mr Dowdeswell are lying!”

  Edgar gave a derisory snort. “Sir Edmund Erskine, a man of the establishment who has been the Member of Parliament for Dorset for more than thirty years, and his esteemed colleague are both lying?”

  “It wasn’t the way they described it. Sir Edmund invited us to have a drink with him and we talked a little, but Sir Edmund was already half-seas-over before that happened. Hugh said very little. I think Sir Edmund is embarrassed that we witnessed his drunken behaviour and is trying to exact some form of revenge. Sir Edmund was mistaken, as is Cullen. By removing Inspector Blakely from the case, he is making a huge blunder!”

  Edgar shrugged. “Go and tell him that yourself if that is your sentiment.”

  “I shall!”

  I turned and walked away, and as I did so I heard Edgar make a comment to Frederick about women and their short tempers. I wanted to walk back and tell him in a loud voice what I thought of his rude, lazy attitude and his condescending demeanour. Instead, I took a deep breath and was ashamed to feel tears pricking my eyes. My throat felt tight as I collected up my handbag, hat, coat and umbrella and left the news room.