The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  My shabby carpet bag with all my father’s precious letters and diaries in it.

  Chapter 2

  “Someone stop him!” I cried.

  The young boy and the man turned into a narrow street by the Combe & Co cooperage and disappeared from my view.

  “The nice gentleman chasing him will see to it,” said the lady in the fur-trimmed coat. “They move fast those guttersnipes, don’t they? I like to think this street is safe, but I don’t suppose it is being so close to St Giles’ Rookery.”

  I knew that we were standing near to one of London’s most notorious slums, but I had walked this way so often that I was accustomed to giving it little thought. The Rookery’s residents were often out in Drury Lane trying to sell withered pieces of fruit and vegetables, or offering to carry bags in return for coins. I had never had reason to think that they would do me any harm.

  “I need my bag. It has all my father’s letters and diaries in it!”

  “Let’s find a copper,” said the lady, patting my arm in a patronising manner, which irritated me. “The coppers will have that ruffian arrested.”

  “But I need my bag now!”

  “Well, hopefully the nice gentleman who chased after the boy will get it for you. Now, somewhere around here there must be a bobby.”

  As the lady looked around her, I thanked her for her help and slipped away.

  “What about the police?” she called after me as I ran off down the pavement and crossed the road between an omnibus and a cart. A driver cursed at me, but I concentrated on reaching the narrow street next to the cooperage.

  What could the boy possibly want with my father’s papers?

  I hoped he would abandon my bag once he had taken my purse. My boots slipped on the patches of ice and my woollen dress and petticoats felt too heavy to run easily, but I managed as well as I could, stumbling along the dingy street. I could hear hammers in the cooperage, and up ahead of me loomed the walls of St Giles’ workhouse. Shadowy figures lingered in doorways and I felt many pairs of eyes on me as I ran.

  I was soon lost in the labyrinthian streets. An acrid malt smell from the brewery mingled with the stench of sewage and the air had a dirty grey hue. I reached a crossroads, where a couple stood arguing outside a noisy gin shop. Dirt-streaked children clung on to the woman’s colourless dress and a young girl held a mewling baby. Not wishing to linger, I continued on ahead. Paint had splintered off the doorways, and the windows were patched with pieces of timber and rags. Someone had lined up old shoes for sale along a wall and a scrawny dog was chewing at something in the gutter.

  Staircases leading to basements and cellar lights in the pavement hinted at the subterranean world into which the boy might have escaped. I didn’t feel brave enough to venture down into those places and inquire as to whether anyone had seen him. I had heard about the cut-throats who dwelt there.

  A dark gap opened up where a street had once stood. Scaffolding had been erected in order to construct new buildings, but I couldn’t see any workmen nearby.

  I grew breathless. My corset was too tight to allow me to run any further, so I slowed to walking pace. I passed a number of rowdy pubs and tumbledown lodging houses advertising beds for fourpence a night. An old man with a handcart passed me and a sallow-cheeked girl tried to sell me a hare skin. I politely declined and asked her whether she had seen a boy running past with a carpet bag. She shook her head in reply and a heaviness began to descend upon me. The boy could have hidden himself anywhere in this gloomy warren, and I realised I had little hope of finding him.

  My fingers and toes were numb with cold by the time I reached Seven Dials: a place where seven streets converged, as the name suggests. I felt sure that one of the streets would lead me to The Strand, but I couldn’t think which. The gas lamps had been lit and a man was leaning against one of them, drunkenly singing ‘Molly Malone’. A twittering sound came from a shop selling caged birds, and rags and old furniture were piled up for sale outside it. A young woman stepped out from one of the pubs and approached me.

  “What’s a lady such as yerself doin’ down ’ere alone?” She wore a man’s jacket over a long, muddy skirt. Her eyes were sunken and shot with red.

  “I’m trying to find my way to The Strand. A boy took my bag and I followed him here, but now I have no hope of finding him.”

  “It ain’t safe fer a lady like yerself on yer own. Yer need to get yerself outta here. Follow tha’ road.” She pointed towards the narrowest one, which was signposted Little White Lion Street. “Keep goin’ tha’ way and yer’ll get ter Covent Garden. Go careful now.”

  I thanked her and moved away as a man strode over to us. I assumed he knew the young woman, but then he called out to me, “I can’t find ’im! I done me best.”

  It was the man who had chased after the boy. From what I could see of him in the gas light, he had a handsome face with a broad forehead and square jaw. I guessed he was about twenty-five.

  “Thank you for chasing after him,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

  A horrible cold sensation settled in the pit of my stomach.

  All my father’s letters and diaries were gone.

  “You shouldn’t ’ave come ’ere, it ain’t safe. And you’re already ’urt. What’s ’appened to yer arm?” asked the man.

  “Just a fall from a pony; nothing serious. There’s something very important to me in that bag. It’s not valuable and means nothing to anyone else – just some papers belonging to my father – but if you do find the bag, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  “Course I will. Reuben O’Donoghue’s me name. I’ll keep a look out fer it.”

  He grinned and I smiled in return.

  “Thank you, Mr O’Donoghue. I’m Miss Green. Penny Green. I’ll go and find a police constable and report the theft. Bow Street station is probably the nearest, isn’t it? Not that the police will be able to do very much about it.”

  “Let me show yer the right way.”

  “There’s no need, thank you. A lady just told me which way I should go.”

  I looked around for the young woman, but she had moved on.

  “You’ll need someone with yer, it’s almost dark—”

  I was about to reply when a scream pierced the air. My eyes met Reuben’s and a chill gripped me.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What’s that noise?” His eyes grew wide.

  Another scream rang out from a street behind him.

  “Murder!” someone cried out. “Murder! Murder!”

  Chapter 3

  The call rallied everyone around us. Figures emerged from dark corners and the pubs emptied out into the street.

  “Murder!”

  “Where?”

  “Who’s bin murdered?”

  Reuben ran in the direction from which the commotion was coming and I followed closely behind him. Soon we were part of a great throng of people in a narrow street. Some held lanterns, which illuminated a clamour of people around the entrance to a courtyard. Reuben pushed his way to the front of the crowd. His height allowed him to peer over their heads and see what was happening.

  “It’s one o’ Keller’s lads.”

  “‘E ’ad it comin’.”

  I saw Reuben turn and look around, as if he were trying to find me. I pushed through the crowd to reach him.

  “Mr O’Donoghue?”

  “There you are, Miss Green! It’s the boy. The boy what took your bag. It’s ’im what’s bin murdered!”

  “It can’t be him! We only saw him a few moments ago.”

  I was sure that Reuben must be mistaken. The boy who had snatched my bag had been running away only minutes earlier.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” I pressed.

  “Yeah, I know the lad. Jack Burton. Boots, they called ’im. A street-arab.”

  I strained to hear what he was saying as the noisy crowd jostled against me.

  “I kept callin’ out to ’im to stop, but he kep’ on runnin’. If only ’e’d
stopped and then this wouldn’t of ’appened to ’im.” Reuben wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “I done me best.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Mr O’Donoghue. It seems someone wanted to punish him for his actions. He may have stolen my bag, but he didn’t deserve this.”

  “He didn’t. Ain’t no one does.”

  I still felt sure that Reuben was mistaken.

  It had to be a different boy.

  I began to edge my way closer to the courtyard.

  “It’ll upset yer seein’ ’im, Miss Green!” Reuben warned.

  Nevertheless, I wanted to see for myself whether it was the same boy who had taken my bag.

  “Please let me past!” I called out.

  Someone shoved me with an elbow and I stumbled forward into the courtyard, where a number of lanterns sat clustered around a bundle on the ground. I saw the boy’s feet first. One foot was still booted, while the other wore only a tattered sock, the mislaid boot lying close by on the cobbles. The boy was sprawled on his back, one arm resting on his chest. His face was white and the dark gash across his throat made me recoil.

  “He’s so young!” I cried out. “Can we cover him with something?”

  “I’ll use my overcoat,” said a man standing close by.

  “I’ve closed ’is eyes,” said a short woman in a headscarf. “They was wide and starin’. I couldn’t look at ’em no more.”

  The coat was placed over the boy’s body, and it was then that I noticed a dark bundle lying next to his body.

  My carpet bag.

  “He didn’t need to steal from me,” I muttered. “He could have asked me for money and I would’ve given him some. This didn’t need to happen. He didn’t need to be murdered.”

  I stepped forward and picked up my bag. A dark puddle of blood had spread out around the boy’s head and shoulders, and I felt certain that it must have reached my bag, although I couldn’t see any blood on it. My father’s papers and diaries were inside, as was my purse with the coins still in it.

  “Why would someone do this?” I said to the woman in the headscarf. “They didn’t even steal anything. My purse is still in my bag with the money in it! Did they kill him as some form of punishment?”

  The lady looked up at me. In the lantern light, I could see that she was about fifty, with a sagging, lined face and sharp, twinkling eyes. Her ragged headscarf was tightly knotted under her chin.

  “One o’ the gangs might of done it.”

  “Does this sort of thing happen a lot here?”

  “More than it should. I don’t understand who’d ’ave done this ter Boots. ’E were usually a good lad. Nicked yer bag, did he?”

  I nodded.

  “He must’ve been ’ungry. Either that or the Earl told ’im to do it.”

  “The Earl?”

  “Edward Keller, ’im of the Seven Dials Gang. Calls ’imself the Earl o’ York. Boots was in ’is gang.”

  “What about the boy’s mother? Has she been told?”

  “Boots was a horphan.”

  I looked again at the body under the coat and struggled to comprehend that the same boy lying there had taken my bag and run away from me only half an hour previously. I shivered from my head to my toes, unsure whether it was due to the cold or the shock.

  We were startled by a loud whistle.

  “Move on! Hook it!”

  The whistle was blown again.

  “Back to yer ’omes!”

  “I don’t ’ave one,” grumbled someone close by.

  Three constables pushed their way into the courtyard. Two had truncheons in their hands to disperse the crowd, and the third shone his bullseye lantern over the boy’s body. I winced as the dark puddle seeping out beneath the overcoat turned red in the lamplight.

  “Inspector’s on ’is way!” shouted one of the constables. “Who saw what ’appened?”

  “He took my bag,” I said.

  “Who murdered ’im?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t see what ’appened?”

  “No. He took my bag and ran off with it.”

  “Who saw what ’appened?” the constable shouted out across the courtyard.

  “I found ’im,” said the lady in the headscarf.

  “Did you see what ’appened?”

  “No, I jus’ found ’im lyin’ there in the corner. That’s when I’ve went about shoutin’ there’s bin a murder.”

  The constable marched off, presumably in search of more informative witnesses.

  “Why was he called Boots? Was he a bootblack?” I asked the lady in the headscarf.

  “Sometimes ’e were, other times ’e were thievin’. There y’are, Mr ’Awkins! ’Ave you seen what they done ter Boots?”

  A man with grey whiskers joined the woman. He wore a smart, dark suit but no overcoat, and I wondered whether he was the man who had laid his coat over the poor boy’s body.

  “A very sad day indeed, Mrs Nicholls.”

  Mrs Nicholls introduced me to Mr Hugo Hawkins and informed me that he was a missionary.

  “I’m Penny Green,” I said. “A news reporter.”

  “A lady news reporter?” quibbled Mrs Nicholls. “I ain’t never seen one o’ them afore.”

  “There aren’t many of us.”

  “Are yer goin’ ter be puttin’ this murder in the newspapers?”

  “Yes, I’ll write something about it, but I’ll wait to see what the police have to say first.”

  “It’s a terrible business,” said Mr Hawkins, shaking his head. “We should pray for him.”

  Mrs Nicholls and I bowed our heads as he said a short prayer. As we finished praying, a stocky man with a black bag bustled into the courtyard. He stooped over Jack’s body, placed his bag down on the ground and removed the coat. I looked away, not wishing to see Jack’s young face again.

  “Looks like the police surgeon’s here,” said Mr Hawkins.

  Another man in an ulster overcoat and top hat strode into the courtyard and began shouting. I guessed he was the inspector.

  “Search the streets! Find the culprit! Expect him to be armed with a knife!”

  “Who’d of done this?” asked Reuben O’Donoghue, who now stood by my side. “Why’d anyone wanna kill a boy?”

  A number of lanterns were flashing around the yard by this point, the noise and mayhem of the crowd replaced by the busy yet focused activities of the police.

  “I thought Boots ’ad bettered ’imself of late,” said Mrs Nicholls.

  “We managed to keep him coming to chapel for a while,” said another missionary who had joined Mr Hawkins, “but his visits lapsed. Once these boys are in a gang with their friends, they find it impossible to leave. In fact, they often become too scared to leave.”

  I heard a horse and carriage making its way up the street, presumably to take Jack’s body to the mortuary. The police surgeon stood to his feet and called over to the inspector.

  “He passed away within the past hour, which puts the time of death at after a quarter to four.”

  “It was after four o’clock,” I called out, but no one seemed to hear me.

  “Thank you, Dr Anderson,” replied the inspector. “Any sign yet of the murder weapon?” he shouted out to the constables scouring the yard with their lanterns.

  They replied that there wasn’t as the inspector strode over to us. In the dim light, I could see that he had dark, mutton-chop whiskers.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Chief Inspector Fenton of Holborn Division. I understand you saw what happened to the boy?”

  Mrs Nicholls, Reuben and I explained what had occurred earlier that evening. He wrote down the details in a notebook.

  “And I know all of you here apart from you, ma’am.” His eyes were on me. “Name?”

  “Miss Penelope Green.”

  He wrote this down.

  “And who’s that at the back there?” he asked, looking over our heads. I turned to see a shadowy figu
re behind us and a curl of tobacco smoke rising up in the lamplight.

  “Earl of York,” came the gruff reply.

  “Good evening, Mr Keller. Not seen you around for a while.”

  “Been busy, ain’t I?”

  “Any idea what happened to the boy?”

  “Got ’is throat slit. Dunno who dunnit.”

  “I reckon yer got a fair idea,” said Mrs Nicholls angrily.

  “Never laid a finger on ’im. He were one of me best.”

  “And a lot o’ good you did ’im!”

  “That’s enough,” said Inspector Fenton.

  Two constables wrapped a blanket around Jack’s body and carried it out of the courtyard and into the carriage. I averted my eyes from the pool of blood.

  “Mr O’Donoghue, you’re required to report to Bow Street station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “You’d better not go arrestin’ me again,” said Reuben. “I chased the boy, but I never killed ’im.”

  I was surprised to hear that Reuben had been arrested before and wondered what he might have done wrong.

  “Miss Green and Mrs Nicholls, you are also requested to attend Bow Street station at your earliest convenience tomorrow morning. We’ll need to take witness statements from you. Keller, I want to see you tomorrow too. Mr Hawkins and Mr Meares, did you see anything that might be useful in this investigation?”

  “We arrived here shortly after hearing Mrs Nicholls shout that there’d been a murder.”

  “Perhaps you could also come along tomorrow, on the off-chance you saw anything suspicious.”

  The inspector put his notebook away and went to speak to the constables searching the courtyard.

  As a news reporter, I should have been taking notes and asking questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it at that moment. I felt too involved in the tragedy to be able to report on it. Instead, I hugged my bag in the cold, dark courtyard and wondered how a young boy could be so suddenly and violently murdered.

  “Poor lad,” said Mrs Nicholls, sadly.

  “I suppose there is nothing more we can do now, other than report to the police station tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll go and write up the story for the paper. I wish you well, Mrs Nicholls.”