by Emily Organ
As I had supposedly ignored the last warning, did the sender plan to carry out his threat? Was he actually going to do something to me, or had it merely been written to frighten me?
If the letter was intended to frighten me, it had worked. I had thought that Taylor had written the first letter, but I was beginning to doubt that now. It might only have been a coincidence that he had used the same phrase: There will be trouble.
I didn’t want to believe that Sebastian Colehill had sent it to me.
Perhaps it was Cullen, I surmised.
I had upset someone but was struggling to think who it might be.
I folded the letter, placed it back in its envelope and tucked it into my handbag.
“An interesting letter for you this morning, Miss Green?” asked Mrs Garnett as she carried a mop and bucket into the hallway.
“Of sorts.” I could feel myself trembling.
“And how is your sister? She hasn’t brought her bicycle here recently.”
“She is well, thank you, Mrs Garnett. In fact, I am meeting her for lunch today.”
“Do send her my regards. Is she still wearing trousers under her dresses?”
“She is wearing divided skirts now.”
Mrs Garnett stared at me and sucked in her bottom lip. “A divided skirt? What is that?”
“I can ask her to visit and give you a demonstration.”
“No, there is no need.” She squeezed out the mop and began to clean the tiled floor. “No need at all. You two sisters are off your chumps.”
“When will Mr Sherman publish your article on the Society?” Eliza asked while we dined in the Refreshment Room at St Pancras Station.
She was due to travel by train that afternoon to visit our newly betrothed cousin, Agatha, in St Albans and had asked me to join her for lunch.
We sat at a small, round table by the steamed-up window. Eliza was proudly wearing her divided skirt with a matching tweed jacket. I chewed on a mouthful of ham and pickled cucumber as I slowly considered how best to reply to her.
“He is taking his time,” added Eliza as she shovelled a forkful of beetroot into her mouth.
“He needs a little more convincing.”
“I thought you had already convinced him?”
“I have almost convinced him.”
“Either you have or you haven’t, surely?” Eliza scowled.
“Mr Sherman isn’t that straightforward.”
“I am sure he isn’t.” She sighed. “Perhaps I should give up on the Morning Express. I have a good friend at The Pall Mall Gazette. I wonder if he could help instead.”
“I will be able to convince the editor,” I said, offended that she would so quickly consider an alternative newspaper. “Just give me a little while longer. He is quite traditional and is always worried about what the proprietor will say. And I must be honest with you, Ellie, I have had to spend a great deal of time on the underground railway bombing story. I haven’t made the society’s news a priority.”
“You’re busy, I understand.” She attacked a tough piece of boiled beef with her knife and fork. “I read that two of the bombing suspects have been named.”
“Yes, the news from Dublin is that a reward is being offered in return for information on the whereabouts of John McCafferty and William O’Riordan.”
“Both criminals, I presume.”
“McCafferty organised the raid on Chester Castle to seize the arms stored there. It failed because of an informant.”
“How are these people allowed to roam free, wreaking havoc in such a manner?”
“If the police knew where they were, they wouldn’t be.” I thought of Lizzie’s brothers and wondered if they had played any part in the conspiracy. I hadn’t heard the surname Mahoney mentioned as yet.
“If they had been locked up the first time they wouldn’t be out there now causing more trouble. Why would bombing the underground railway make anyone sympathetic to their cause? I feel terribly sorry for the famine the Irish endured, but this isn’t the proper way to respond, is it? And as for the Americans, they simply encourage it!”
“A million people died during the famine.”
“I know, I know. It was a dreadful time, and we did very little to help. Ireland is part of the United Kingdom and we allowed it to happen. Can you imagine if something that terrible had happened in Surrey?”
“It wouldn’t.”
“Exactly. It wouldn’t. We wouldn’t allow it, and yet we allowed it to happen in Ireland.”
“This is why the Irish are angry,” I said.
“So you are defending them?”
“I don’t agree with the bombing campaign, but I understand their anger and their desire for independence from a country that has let them down.”
“We could talk about the Irish question all day.” Eliza paused from her boiled beef to sip her tea.
“One of the women in your society,” I said, “Mrs Lennox, I think her name is. The woman with the feathered hat. She told me she knew Lizzie Dixie.”
“Did she?”
“Do you know how she knew her?”
“No idea, I’m afraid.”
I sighed. “Perhaps she is married to a politician?”
“What makes you say that?”
“There seems to be a Westminster connection to Lizzie’s death,” I whispered.
Eliza paused with her cup halfway to her mouth. “Really?”
“But please keep that fact to yourself. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you could find out what Mrs Lennox’s husband does.”
“I don’t think he’s a politician, but I will find out.”
“Thank you, Ellie.”
“I’ve heard that most people suspect Mr Taylor.”
“I don’t think it was him. I visited Annie Taylor in hospital a few days ago and she speaks highly of him, despite acknowledging that he can be bad-tempered. If he was capable of murdering his wife, I think she would have picked up on something.”
“So who then?”
“I don’t know. There are various other possibilities, but I cannot talk about them in a public place.”
I glanced around us and saw that the only person within earshot was an elderly lady eating a slice of cake with a fork. Talking about Lizzie’s case saddened me. I missed being involved in the investigation, and had also found myself missing James.
“Keep on at Mr Sherman, won’t you?” said Eliza, laying down her knife and fork. “I know you have other work to do, but this really is very important. Every piece of coverage we can get in the press makes a difference. It is another step forward in making our case for women’s rights. It is quite a national movement now. I am surprised that Mr Sherman cannot see how newsworthy this is.”
“He is a man in a man’s world. Women’s rights are not very important to him.”
“And you are a woman in a man’s world. You have the opportunity to make something happen.”
I took a sip of tea and felt guilty that I hadn’t done more to help Eliza. The society wasn’t just a hare-brained idea of hers. I knew that people could not continue to ignore the issues of women’s rights. I had been so distracted by Lizzie’s case and my day-to-day work that I hadn’t given proper thought to how I could help my sister. It was people such as Eliza and their relentless campaigning that made a difference.
“I will get something published in the Morning Express, I promise. I will harangue Mr Sherman until he gives in.”
“Thank you.”
Eliza and I said our goodbyes and she left by the door that led into the station while I walked through the door that took me out onto the street. We had agreed to meet next at the new Natural History Museum, where Father’s work would soon be on display. I felt excited about seeing it.
A brisk, cold wind blew up Euston Road. I tied my scarf tighter and walked alongside the curve of the Midland Grand Hotel. Built a decade previously, the exquisite hotel was an elaborate, five-storey, red-brick building with hundreds of arche
d windows. Its tall chimneys and gothic pinnacles soared up into the fog, where they seemed to inhabit another world, like a fairy tale castle. I tried to peer in through its windows as I thought about the next article I had to write about the railway bombings. Then a familiar figure passed me: I recognised at once the broad-shouldered form of Inspector Cullen. His thick grey moustache was prominent between his black top hat and black ulster overcoat. But he didn’t see me. I stopped and stared as he disappeared into the main entrance of the hotel.
I continued walking and prepared to cross Euston Road, but as I waited for a gap in the traffic I couldn’t stop thinking about Inspector Cullen.
Perhaps he was following up some new information on Lizzie’s case. If he was, then he was unlikely to tell me about it.
I had the distinct impression that he was planning to keep me at arm’s length. If I wanted to find out what he was up to, I would need to see for myself, and I was certain that there would be little harm in venturing into the hotel to see whether he was still in the entrance hall. If he saw me, I could pretend to him that my visit was purely coincidental.
Which it almost was.
I turned and quickly followed the detective through the elaborate stone arch and up the steps to a revolving door. Once through the door, I found myself in the entrance hall, with gilded arches supported by pink stone columns. People bustled around me and a porter pushed a trolley with suitcases on it.
There was no sign of the inspector.
I walked on into a curved corridor with an intricately tiled floor and red and gold patterned wainscoting. I could hear the chink of cutlery and china from further down the corridor and wondered whether Inspector Cullen was meeting someone here for lunch. I followed the noise and passed the impressive main staircase, which was flanked by stone columns.
I found the restaurant beyond a glass door and peered inside. It was busy with diners and well-lit, with a row of windows along one side and a large chandelier in the centre of the room. Green and gold flocked wallpaper covered the walls and large oil paintings hung from the picture rail in heavy gilt frames.
Waiters busied about among the tables and I could see that a number of wealthy people sat there wearing gold jewellery and fashionable clothes. Some of the ladies had elaborate hairstyles and stylish little hats decorated with ruffles, bows, feathers and flowers.
There was a man walking away from me, escorted by a waiter, and I could tell by his gait that it was Inspector Cullen, newly relieved of his overcoat and top hat. He approached a table that was occupied by two other men.
One had a balding head and thick grey whiskers and the other was younger with a blond moustache. Just the sight of them made me think of lobster sauce.
Sir Edmund Erskine and Hugh Dowdeswell.
What were they planning to discuss? They would surely discuss Lizzie. Was the inspector questioning them, or were they meeting to plan a cover-up?
I watched them at their table and wished I could get close enough to overhear.
A scuffed footstep on the floor tiles behind me caught my attention. I turned around just in time to see a young man walking away from me. I got the impression that he didn’t want to be seen.
I hadn’t caught sight of his face, but I thought I had caught a glimpse of a pale moustache. His suit was dark and he wore a tweed cap. I recalled a snatch of conversation with James on the rainy Mile End Road.
Slight build, tweed cap and dark clothing.
It was the description of the man who had been seen climbing over the fence of Highgate Cemetery on the night that Lizzie died. The man who had followed us in Kensal Green Cemetery.
The man who was walking away from me now fitted that same description.
Chapter 36
“Excuse me!” I called out to the young man.
If he stopped and wondered what I wanted, I could pretend that I had mistaken him for someone else. But he didn’t stop. Instead, his pace quickened and this roused my suspicions further.
I followed him.
The man disappeared among a group of people gathered at the foot of the main staircase. I made my way to the curved corridor, assuming that he would leave via the main entrance. But just as I passed the staircase, a movement caught my eye and I glanced up to see the feet of someone progressing quickly up the stairs.
He had wanted me to think he had left the hotel, but he hadn’t been quick enough.
I swiftly turned and bumped into a woman, to whom I apologised before making my way up the first part of the staircase, which divided into two elegantly curved staircases beneath an arched window. One led to the left and the other to the right. I was sure the man had taken the staircase to the right, so I lifted my skirts and ran up the flight of stairs as quickly as I could. Once I reached the top, I realised the two staircases converged onto another landing and then divided again to curve round to the next floor.
Where had the man gone?
Three stone archways behind me led to three different corridors on this floor and the walls were decorated with red and gold fleur-de-lis. I heard a noise above me and decided to ascend another flight of stairs. This time I took the staircase on the left. As I climbed, I looked over to the other staircase just in time to see the dark, slender figure reach the top of the stairs.
“Wait!” I called over to the man. “I need to talk to you! Did you send me the letters?”
I reached the next storey, puffing with exertion. I wanted to take deeper breaths but my corset was too tight.
The man was running up to the next storey, I was sure of it.
Why was he running away? What was he trying to hide?
I ran up the next flight of stairs and felt my heavy skirts and petticoats weighing me down. For the first time, I wished I was wearing the practical divided skirt and shoes, as modelled by Mrs Henderson.
Up above me, the ceiling rose into elegant painted vaults, like the interior of a grand church.
I caught sight of the man at the top of the staircase running through one of the stone archways.
I couldn’t let him get away. Not now.
With all the strength I could muster, I launched myself up the last flight of stairs as quickly as possible. My handbag thudded against my legs and my face was hot and damp with perspiration. I could feel my spectacles slipping off my nose.
I ran through the same archway as the man had, and saw him running along a carpeted corridor lit with small lamps. I continued my pursuit and almost bumped into a maid emerging from a room with a chamber pot. She appeared alarmed to see me bowling towards her.
“Is something the matter, ma’am?”
“We need to stop that man,” I said breathlessly as I ran past her.
“Is he a thief?” she called after me.
“I don’t know!” I called back. “But he is something!”
As I ran on, I realised how foolish my words must have sounded.
He turned right at the end of the corridor and I puffed after him. There was a door at the end of it, which he ran through. I followed.
Where could he possibly be going?
As we turned into another corridor, the man glanced to his right and stopped dead, as if he had suddenly noticed something. Then he moved to his right and disappeared, as if he had stepped through an invisible door.
I heard a metallic, wrenching sound and then a slam. As I got to the place where I had last seen him, I saw that he had got into a lift and, with a shaky, rumbling sound, it was heading downwards.
I had heard about lifts and ascending rooms, but had never encountered one before now. It was an iron cage set in the centre of a stairwell with a great, thick cable attached to its roof. As it rumbled downwards, I could just about see the man inside. I ran down the staircase and called out for the lift to stop, but I wasn’t sure if the contraption was capable of stopping on demand. With the loud whirring and clanking noise the lift made, it was unlikely that its occupant would hear me.
I tried to keep up with the lift, but it
was moving faster than me. I was at risk of stumbling and falling down the stairs. The lift shuddered to a jolting halt just below me. With a sense of relief, I leapt down the last few steps and turned the corner to the lift entrance, but to my annoyance I heard the machinery whirr into motion again and the lift began to ascend.
“Stop!” I called out, but I knew there was little use in crying out.
I ran back up the stairs again. My legs ached and I felt light-headed from my shallow breathing. I watched with despair as the lift rose above me.
I heard the lift stop again and scrambled up the last few stairs to reach it, but I knew I would not get there in time.
I reached the top stair and stumbled, twisting my ankle as I tried to reach the lift.
“Are you all right?” asked a concerned lady with a small dog under her arm as I flung myself around the corner towards the lift door.
“Yes,” I replied, gasping for air. I turned to look inside the lift, but it was empty. The concertina lattice door was pulled open and there was a mirror inside the lift which offered only a reflection of my red, perspiring face. I spun round to look about me, but there was no sign of the man.
“The man,” I said to the woman with the dog. “Did you see where he went?”
“What man?” she asked.
It made no sense for him to have vanished in such a way.
I admitted defeat and made my way back down the stairs, mopping my face with my handkerchief.
I found myself at the end of a corridor on the ground floor. I strode along it, my heels clicking against the tiled floor. I passed a number of doorways, hoping to find my way to the restaurant, where I could tell Inspector Cullen about the man who had run away from me. It was likely that the man was still in the building and there was a good chance that he could be found.
I eventually found myself back where the chase had started, by the restaurant. I opened the glass door and stepped inside to be greeted by the hum and chatter of diners and the smell of roasted meat. A waiter in a fitted black jacket, bow tie and white waist apron approached me and I asked him to take me to Inspector Cullen, pointing to the table he was sitting at with Sir Edmund and Hugh Dowdeswell. As we approached them, the men paused from their conversation and frowned at me.