The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “Call me Martha.”

  “I wish you well, Martha, and I hope that the person who did this to poor Jack will be caught very soon.”

  “He ain’t the first,” she replied.

  “This has happened before?”

  I felt astonished not to have heard about it.

  “Yeah,” said Martha. “Jack ain’t the first what’s ’ad ’is throat cut round ’ere.”

  “Regrettably, there have been two others,” added Mr Hawkins.

  “Folks think it’s the ’usband what done Mrs O’Brien in,” said Reuben.

  “I don’t think it’s ’im,” said Martha. “He ain’t been seen for months. I don’t reckon ’e come back and slit Ellen’s throat and then run off again.”

  “Everyone says it’s ’im,” said Reuben.

  “Course they does, ’cause they don’t know who else to say done it.”

  “And there’s Roger Yeomans,” said Reuben.

  “’E’s another one what got ’is throat cut,” said Martha.

  “So two other people living in this area have had their throats cut?” I asked. “Did this happen recently?”

  “Yeah, recent. Were Mrs O’Brien afore or after Christmas?”

  “Boxing Day,” replied Reuben.

  “And then we’ve ’ad Mr Yeomans just recent.”

  “And what have the police done about these crimes?”

  Martha shrugged. “Well, you’ve seen ’em. They come scurryin’ in makin’ a lotta fuss and pretendin’ they’s got it all under control. They picks up the body and leaves us to clean up afterwards. Nothin’ else ’appens after that.”

  “They must do something.”

  “Maybe they does. But I ain’t never known ’em ter do much.”

  Chapter 4

  I reached the Morning Express offices on Fleet Street at half after five o’clock. A boy stood under the gas lamp outside our building, brazenly selling copies of The Holborn Gazette. I glared at him and prepared myself for the explanation I would have to give my editor for missing the deadline.

  The printing presses were roaring in the basement as I climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the newsroom. Before I even pushed open the door I could hear laughter from my colleague, Edgar Fish. His laugh could be irritating, but on this occasion I hoped it would lift my gloomy mood.

  The newsroom was a cluttered place with piles of paper on every surface and a grimy window looking out onto Fleet Street. A fire flickered in the small, black-tiled fireplace. Edgar had his feet on his desk and a notebook in his hand. A curly-haired and corpulent Frederick Potter sat at his desk nearby.

  “Miss Green!” said Edgar. He was a young man with heavy features and small glinting eyes. “Where’ve you been? You’ve missed your deadline and Sherman’s got a rod in pickle for you. What’s the matter? You look bereft.”

  “I have a good deal to tell you,” I replied, removing my gloves and coat. “Am I missing something amusing? I heard you laughing before I walked in.”

  “Yes!” said Edgar. “We’ve been working on anagrams of our names. You may call me A Fresh Dig if you like. Or perhaps Figs Heard if you prefer. And sitting over there is Prettier Frocked!”

  Edgar roared with laughter, while Frederick scowled.

  I took off my bonnet and long, fair waves of hair fell out of their pins. “What can you do with my name?” I asked as I tried to re-pin my hair into a respectable style.

  Edgar pushed his tongue between his lips and scribbled on his notepad. “Not a great deal,” he replied. “Genre Penny?”

  “Not much of an anagram, is it?” I sat down at my desk with little idea as to whether my hair looked decent or not.

  “I’ll keep working on it.”

  “And why is there a boy selling The Holborn Gazette outside our door?”

  I pulled my papers out of my bag and placed them on my desk.

  “It’s all Edgar’s fault,” said Frederick. “It seems the Gazette has a vendetta.”

  “I thought Edgar and Tom Clifford were good friends?”

  “They were,” said Frederick, “until Edgar stole Tom’s story.”

  “I didn’t steal it!” said Edgar, removing his feet from the desk and slamming down his notepad. “I’ve already explained that Tom told me about it indiscreetly.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s the most ridiculous story,” said Frederick.

  “It’s not,” said Edgar. “It’s of great interest to our readers. Tom and I were in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and he told me about a man who sold his fat wife’s corpse to a physician.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “She was in a freak show; she was a giantess. But then she died and a physician wanted to procure her body because of her unusually large size. I didn’t realise it was Tom’s story, so I arranged an interview with the husband before he did.”

  “Why would you want to report on a story such as that?”

  “Readers love stories like that!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course! Once they’ve read about what’s happening in Parliament and the situation in the Sudan, they like to read about men selling the corpses of their fat wives. We need more stories like that, don’t you think, Potter?”

  “I think there are other publications which are better suited to stories of this type,” Frederick replied.

  “You’re meant to be on my side, Prettier Frocked.”

  Edgar tossed a screwed-up ball of paper at him as the newsroom door was flung open. The editor, William Sherman, strode in and the door slammed behind him.

  “Watch out. Here’s Sawmill Hire Man,” said Edgar.

  “What are you talking about, Fish?” barked Mr Sherman through his thick black moustache. He wore a blue waistcoat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His hair was oiled and parted to one side.

  “It’s an anagram of your name, sir.”

  “Have you done anything useful today?” Mr Sherman frowned and his bushy eyebrows met above his nose.

  Edgar looked like a scolded schoolboy. “Yes, I wrote about Mr Barnum’s white elephant travelling en route from Siam to Malta.”

  “Well done. Anyone seen Purves, our parliamentary reporter?”

  We shook our heads and the editor spun round and glared at me.

  “Miss Green! I was expecting your article on the sudden death of Eduard Lasker.”

  “Yes sir, it’s here.” I showed him the piece of paper I had painstakingly typewritten with my left hand.

  “Well it’s no good here, is it? The compositors needed it downstairs an hour ago. It’s too late. I’ve had to fill in with an article about the illness of Sir Arthur Sullivan. This isn’t good enough, Miss Green.”

  “If you could please let me explain, Mr Sherman. I was waylaid in St Giles’ Rookery on my way here.”

  I told the editor about the boy who had taken my bag, and how he had been found murdered. Everyone listened in silence, and by the time I had finished Mr Sherman was leaning against the wall with a sombre expression on his face.

  “Well, Miss Green, I don’t often say this, but you appear to have a suitable excuse for missing your deadline. And after such an ordeal, I think a glass of sherry is in order. It isn’t your favourite East India sherry, I’m afraid.”

  “Any sherry will do well, thank you sir.”

  Mr Sherman withdrew to his office and returned with four glasses and the bottle. “I suppose the men will be wanting some too, not that they’ve done anything of great use today.”

  He poured out our drinks. “Now, we need a story on this poor boy’s murder for tomorrow’s second edition. Can you work on that as quickly as possible, Miss Green?” He looked doubtfully at my right arm in its sling. “On second thoughts, I don’t suppose you can write particularly quickly, can you?”

  “I’ve been managing to typewrite with my left hand, but it’s rather slow going. Might I dictate the story to your secretary, Miss Welton? Do you think she would mind?”


  “That’s not a bad idea, and in fact she could typewrite it. Her fingers move rather swiftly on that machine now. Go and sit with Miss Welton and we’ll get the story written up on the double.”

  I sipped my sherry and enjoyed the feeling of warmth in my chest. “The people I spoke to in St Giles today told me that this is the third murder in recent weeks.”

  “Well there’s a lot of murder in the slums, Miss Green.”

  “But all three victims had their throats cut.”

  “The gangs are vicious in those parts.”

  “I don’t know whether the gangs are involved. A man and a woman were both murdered recently. Did we report on those stories?”

  “Mrs Ellen O’Brien,” Edgar chipped in. “I wrote about that one. The husband is suspected and they’re still looking for him.”

  “But the people I spoke to thought it unlikely that the husband had done it. What about the man who was murdered? Did you write about him?”

  Edgar shook his head. “What was his name?”

  “Yeomans, I think they said.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Forget about this for now, Miss Green, and just write your story about the boy,” said Mr Sherman. “I want to be the first paper to get this news out tomorrow. We need to better The Holborn Gazette whenever and wherever possible.”

  Chapter 5

  I arrived back at my lodgings shortly after nine o’clock that evening.

  “It’s not safe for a lady to be out on her own at this hour,” said my landlady, Mrs Garnett, who was dusting the hallway table. She had a habit of lingering in the hallway whenever I was late home. “You should be accompanied.”

  “I travelled by cab.”

  “You should still be accompanied.”

  “Accompanied by whom?”

  “A husband.” She spoke as if acquiring a husband were as simple as buying one from the local market.

  “A husband wouldn’t like me doing this sort of work.”

  “He certainly wouldn’t. He’d have you enjoying more ladylike pursuits.”

  Mrs Garnett frowned at me, but I could see an affectionate glint in her brown eyes. She enjoyed scolding me, probably because she didn’t have anyone else to scold. A childless widow of about sixty, she had come to London from British West Africa as a child.

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re too old, Miss Green. You may be getting older, but you look younger than your years.” She scrutinised my features.

  “Thank you, Mrs Garnett.”

  “It’s the nose,” she said. “The nose is what spoils a lady’s features as she gets older because it never stops growing. Fortunately for you, your nose is still dainty.”

  “There’s hope for me yet, then. Is that what you mean?”

  “You’re fortunate you don’t have your sister’s nose.”

  “That’s not fair on Eliza, Mrs Garnett.”

  “She has the same brow as you. From the eyes up you look similar. But her nose has lost its shape.”

  “But she does have a husband.”

  “That’s true, and she should count her blessings. You need a husband too, Miss Green. What happened to that detective who used to call round for you?”

  “Inspector James Blakely, you mean? Our discussions were only ever of a professional nature, Mrs Garnett. He’s currently helping with a case in Manchester at present.”

  I hadn’t seen James for many weeks, but I thought about him often.

  “He’s still all the way up there?”

  “Yes... never mind. I must go and have something to eat.”

  “Yes, you must.” She flicked her feather duster at me. “I’ve lit your stove for you.”

  After a hot bowl of soup with bread and butter, I began to feel warm for the first time that day.

  I loosened my stays, unpinned my hair and took a seat at my writing desk with the edition of the Morning Express from Thursday 27th December 1883 laid out before me. I looked for the article Edgar had written about Mrs O’Brien’s death and found that it comprised only a few lines at the bottom of a column on the seventh page.

  As I began to read, Tiger jumped onto my desk and sat on the newspaper. “You always manage to sit on the column I’m reading, don’t you?”

  She purred and I gave her a stroke, before scrunching a piece of blotting paper into a ball and throwing it across the floor for her. She chased it and then patted it under my bed.

  Police are requesting information regarding the whereabouts of the husband of Mrs Ellen O’Brien, a charwoman who was horrifically murdered a few yards from the front door of her home at 36 Nottingham Court yesterday.

  Chief Inspector Fenton reported that the unfortunate woman’s throat had been cut with a knife, and that the murder weapon has not yet been found.

  Neighbours in Nottingham Court spoke of a disturbance between one o’clock and half past one in the morning. Mr Ayres, a fish porter, happened across the dreadful scene as he left for work at half past four.

  Anyone with information on Mr O’Brien’s whereabouts is requested to attend Bow Street police station as a matter of urgency.

  The police clearly considered Mrs O’Brien’s husband to be the culprit, and Martha Nicholls had said that he had been missing for some time. To compound the lack of progress on the case, the murder had occurred on Boxing Day, when many people would have been distracted by the Christmas celebrations.

  Would the police ever consider that Mrs O’Brien might have been murdered by someone other than her husband?

  I wondered what sort of woman she had been.

  Had she been a mother? How were her loved ones faring after such an awful event?

  I closed my eyes and winced as I pictured Jack Burton on the ground of the filthy courtyard. St Giles was a busy place, and the murderer would have had only a matter of minutes to commit his act. I shuddered. It was brazen and barbaric, and I couldn’t understand the mind of someone who would do something like that.

  And what of Mr Yeomans? I had yet to find out anything more about him and his death. The police would be asking me questions the following morning, but I also had some questions for them.

  Were they going to carry out a proper investigation into Jack’s death, or would it be forgotten as the others seemingly had been?

  I climbed into bed that night with some of Father’s letters to read before I went to sleep. I had underestimated how precious his papers were to me, and I realised that it wouldn’t do to be carrying them around in my carpet bag any longer. If I hadn’t managed to retrieve my bag, they would have been lost to me forever.

  I unfolded the last letter he had sent me, the one I had been reading earlier in the British Library reading room, and continued where I had left off.

  The people I encountered in Bogota range from the Indians of the rural areas to the sophisticated men and women of Spanish descent. I have also met with many wealthy Colombian merchants, as well as Germans, French, Dutch, and of course the English. The variety of people is impressive when you consider what a great undertaking it is to travel to this remote city in the Andes.

  In the market, apples, potatoes, strawberries, mangoes, figs, cabbages, yams, bananas and of course the staple food, cassava root, are to be found. I also discovered packages of Morton’s Ham and tins of Peek Freans biscuits. To think they have made the journey to Bogota all the way from Bermondsey!

  Like my father, I felt astonished that an everyday item such as Peek Freans biscuits could be found so far away in the tropics. I was sure that he must have felt a bout of homesickness when he saw them at the market in Bogota. I often wondered how much he had missed his home and family while he was travelling.

  Had he counted down the days until he would see us again?

  Sadly, this letter in my hands was the last communication I had received from him. His last known destination was a distant waterfall, and no one could be certain whether he had ever reached it.

  Tomorrow I plan to ride twenty miles sou
th-west of Bogota to the falls of Tequendama. I have heard much of the orchids and tropical birds there, and am looking forward to the spectacle of the River Funza plunging from a height of five hundred feet. It must be a sight to behold!

  I felt that putting his words together in a book might help me understand what had happened to him. I couldn’t believe that he was still alive, for I felt sure he would have found a way to return to his wife and daughters had he been. But I hoped that if I could recreate his travels on paper I might find a clue to his final resting place.

  And by writing for the Morning Express, I could hopefully tell London what was happening in the miserable slum in which I had found myself that day. If the public discovered that three people had been murdered in St Giles’ Rookery in recent weeks, the police would have to do something about it.

  Chapter 6

  Snow fell during the night, and by the following morning the carriage wheels were churning laboriously through ice and mud. The omnibus eventually reached The Strand, and from there I trudged through the snow up to Bow Street. I had dressed myself in three pairs of stockings and a second woollen dress to provide another layer over my petticoats. Newspaper boys called out the news of Jack’s murder, and it seemed to me that each of them bore an alarming resemblance to him.

  Bow Street police station was an imposing building, clad in stone and adjacent to the new magistrates’ court. Opposite stood the impressive, columned facade of the Royal Opera House, where a constable was trying to rouse a man from sleep in one of its doorways.

  Once inside, I reported to the officer behind the desk and settled on a wooden bench to wait. The smell of tar soap hung in the air as a woman scrubbed at the floorboards.

  Reuben O’Donoghue walked in with snow on his boots a few moments later. Once he had given the desk officer his name, he gave me a wide grin and sat down next to me, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He was clean-shaven and wore a neatly knotted blue neckerchief.