The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  The Head Librarian announced from the upper gallery that work was being done to restore the electricity, but, should it fail, the reading room would be closed due to poor light.

  “Darn it!” called out the red-whiskered man. “How on earth is one supposed to finish one’s thesis?”

  Jack Burton, Ellen O’Brien and Roger Yeomans.

  I turned the names over in my mind.

  Was anyone in the Holborn police division interested in finding out what had happened to them, or were they simply content to arrest Reuben O’Donoghue and place the blame on him? Did Inspector Fenton know something I didn’t, or was he just being lackadaisical?

  I found a clean sheet of paper and began to write out the reasons why I thought the murders were linked and why they should be considered as part of a single investigation. My plan was to take the paper into Bow Street police station the following day and give it to Inspector Fenton. I wanted to write that I thought the case was a matter for Scotland Yard, but I knew that would anger him.

  The lights flickered back on.

  “Hurrah!” shouted the red-whiskered man.

  “Miss Green,” whispered a familiar voice. I looked up to find Edgar Fish standing next to me in his dark grey frock coat and top hat. “What are you working on?” He stared closely at my notes. “Did Sherman ask you to do that?”

  “No, it’s just something I’m looking into.”

  “The murder in St Giles?”

  “Yes. I think the wrong man has been arrested.”

  “Oh dear.” Edgar shook his head. “The last time you got involved in something like this, you lost your job.”

  “But I was reinstated because I was, in fact, correct.”

  Edgar sighed. “Why not do what I do? Simply work on the stories Sherman tells you to. You always insist on giving yourself additional work to do.”

  “I was there,” I whispered to Edgar. “I saw the boy. He had my bag. Someone killed him after he ran off with my bag. Two other people have also been killed.”

  “I know: Mrs O’Brien and a drunkard. Look, I think you’re creating a tempest in a teacup here. It’s not worth your time. You’ll antagonise people and generally make things rather ticklish for yourself. Again.”

  “Have you visited St Giles recently?”

  “No, and I can’t say that I plan to.”

  “It’s a thoroughly miserable place. There are children in rags running around barefoot in the snow, and I met a lady who was having to burn her own table for firewood.”

  Edgar chuckled.

  “Why is that amusing?” I hissed.

  “It’s not amusing, but you are, Miss Green. You seem to think that by showing an interest in these murders you are somehow helping the people who live there.”

  “It’s not quite like that.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about their situation, Miss Green, other than thank God himself that you’re not living there. The slums have been there for hundreds of years; the people who live there now are the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of slum-dwellers. They are trapped in poverty. It’s a terribly sad fact, and yet we must accept it. The slums will continue to be there long after you and I have had our day.”

  “But does it not seem unfair to you?”

  “Of course it’s unfair. And we must be grateful we are not the ones who have been dealt the bad hand. The churches and chapels can help the poor. I believe the slums are inundated with missions these days. And the police are there to solve the crimes. There is little else for you to do, unless of course you wish to become a philanthropist?”

  “I certainly would if I had the money.”

  “Fish!” came a harsh whisper from behind us. We turned to see Tom Clifford from The Holborn Gazette. His pork pie hat was pushed back on his head and his slack jaw chewed persistently on a piece of tobacco.

  “I don’t often see you in the library, Tom,” whispered Edgar.

  “Don’t often come ’ere, that’s why.” He continued to chew and stare at Edgar.

  “Can I help you, Clifford?” asked Fish.

  I thought it odd to see the two of them confront each other in this manner, as they had once been good friends.

  “I think you should talk outside,” I whispered. “The people around us are trying to work.”

  “Trying being the operative word,” said the red-whiskered man.

  “Nothing much to talk about,” said Tom. “Just exchanging pleasantries. Thieved any more stories recently, Fish?”

  “I don’t steal stories.”

  “No? Then how comes you stole mine?”

  “It wasn’t much of a story, though, was it?” I said.

  “Keep out of it, woman!” Tom jabbed a tobacco-stained finger in my direction.

  “Don’t you dare speak to a lady in that manner!” said Edgar in a raised voice, which made everyone around us look up and stare.

  “I can talk to her however I like!” retorted Tom. “She works for the Morning Express, don’t she? She’s as worthless as you are!”

  “How dare you!”

  Edgar gave Tom a shove on the shoulder. Tom responded by pushing both of Edgar’s shoulders, and Edgar fell back against my chair.

  “Oi!” shouted the red-whiskered man, rising to his feet.

  Edgar raised his fist and lunged at Tom, who ducked out of the way with a laugh.

  “Stop that this instant!” Mr Edwards ran over and stood between them, his sandy hair flopping over his spectacles. “There is to be no fighting in the reading room!”

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes and gave me a glance that suggested he was disappointed to see me consorting with such men. The Head Librarian, a plump, round-faced man, marched over from his desk into the centre of the room.

  Edgar and Tom straightened their jackets and glared at each other.

  The Head Librarian held out his hand. “Reading tickets, please.”

  “You’re expelling us?” said Edgar in dismay. “But we’re journalists!”

  “You could be the Prince Consort for all I care. Reading tickets, please!”

  Edgar and Tom rummaged about in their pockets before handing him their cards.

  “Thank you. You are no longer permitted to visit the reading room. You too, madam.”

  The Head Librarian turned to me and I stared back, open-mouthed.

  “Are you not with these two gentlemen?” he said. “Your reading ticket, please.”

  “No, not Miss Green. She had nothing to do with it,” said Edgar. “She was busy working and I interrupted her and then he interrupted me. Miss Green is blameless.”

  The Head Librarian stared at me, his eyes blue and slightly bulging. “Blameless? Really? Most fights usually take place over some woman or other.”

  “The lady is blameless,” added my pale neighbour. “I witnessed the entire encounter.”

  “Thank you, sir. Miss Green you have a reprieve. Out you go, gentlemen!” He pointed at the door.

  “Thank you,” I said to the pale man, relieved that I hadn’t lost my reading ticket. I looked up at Mr Edwards, but he simply shook his head and walked away.

  Chapter 10

  It was early evening by the time I returned to Bow Street police station. Polished carriages stopped on the opposite side of the street, depositing men in top hats and women in evening gowns at the Royal Opera House. Ahead of me, two constables wrestled a red-faced man in through the door of the station. I followed them and asked at the desk for Inspector Fenton.

  The red-faced man loudly protested his innocence and tried to struggle free from the constables, receiving three truncheon blows for his trouble.

  “Chief Inspector Fenton ain’t ’ere, madam,” said the desk officer.

  “How about Inspector Pilkington?”

  I wanted to hand my papers directly to Fenton, but I supposed that Pilkington would have to do. The bobby nodded and I took a seat on the bench. The red-faced man was bustled through the door beside the desk and Inspe
ctor Pilkington appeared soon afterwards. He wore his overcoat, as if he were about to leave after a day’s work.

  “Miss Green, what can I do for you?”

  He glanced over at the door as though he would rather be on his way home than talking to me. I got to my feet.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Inspector Pilkington.” I opened my carpet bag and pulled out the pages of notes I had written in the reading room. “I have been back to St Giles and spoken with a resident there who told me more about the murders of Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans. I have discovered they knew one another and that Mr Yeomans also knew Jack Burton.”

  Inspector Pilkington gazed down his crooked nose at me. “Is that all, Miss Green?”

  I gritted my teeth and continued. “Inspector, my suggestion is that a single perpetrator murdered these three victims. The manner of death is the same, and each was murdered when it was dark.”

  “There’s a lot of darkness at this time of year, Miss Green.”

  “I realise that, but do you not see the similarities? I find it difficult to believe that three separate people have decided to cut someone’s throat within the same area in the past fortnight. Do you not think it a coincidence?”

  “I can’t deny that it appears to be a coincidence, Miss Green, but stranger things have happened. Especially in St Giles’ Rookery.”

  “I’ve written everything down. Look, I even drew some maps. Can you see how small the area within which the murders were committed is?”

  “Yes, I see. And we have maps here at the station, too.” A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t help but think you’re not taking me seriously, Inspector.”

  “Miss Green you’re a news reporter, not a detective. I have no doubt that you would make a good detective. Your notes are certainly very thorough. But may I suggest that you concentrate on your profession and allow me to concentrate on mine?”

  “Do you not think it unlikely that Mr O’Donoghue could have committed all three murders?”

  “We have further questions to put to Mr O’Donoghue, Miss Green.”

  “You’re going to question him about Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans?”

  “It would not be proper to impart any further information about our investigations, especially not to a news reporter, Miss Green. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m finished for the day.”

  He turned to walk towards the door and I felt a rising sense of frustration.

  “You need to keep looking for the murderer, Inspector! Mr O’Donoghue is innocent, and while you’re concentrating your efforts on him, the man who has committed these three murders is still roaming the streets! Does it not occur to you that he might strike again, Inspector?”

  “That would be most unexpected.” He paused by the door and I hoped that he was considering my words.

  “Are you not at least prepared to entertain the idea? Here, take my notes and please show them to Chief Inspector Fenton.”

  His lip raised in a sneer, but he took the pieces of paper from my hand.

  “Perhaps I am wrong,” I continued, “but surely every possibility should be considered? It would be rather careless detective work, otherwise.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Thank you, and that really is all now, Miss Green. The hour is late and you should be making your way home. The streets around here are no place for a lady wandering about on her own.”

  Chapter 11

  The mercury continued to drop and small icicles hung inside the window of my lodgings. The water pump in Mrs Garnett’s yard had frozen and I had to visit the baths in Ironmonger Row before starting my work for the day. Once again, I wore three pairs of stockings and the extra woollen dress to keep me warm.

  As I walked to the reading room, I couldn’t help thinking about Martha and the residents of St Giles, and how they were managing in this cold with no proper doors and windows, and with little fuel to burn. I made a short detour to buy some tea and hot buttered toast from a stall by the brewery on Castle Street.

  Despite the cold, Martha was in her yard scrubbing at her washing tub when I arrived.

  “Your pump hasn’t frozen?”

  “Nah, and it ain’t gonna freeze neither. Got the rags wrapped round it, ain’t I?”

  She was wearing more coats than the last time I had seen her and had three headscarves knotted under her chin. When I gave her the tea and toast she laughed, sending a large cloud of breath into the freezing air.

  “Yer don’t need ter be bringin’ me breakfast.”

  “But it’s extremely cold.”

  “I seen more winters than just about any of ’em livin’ round ‘ere. I ain’t been carried off by the consumption yet. I’ll give this ter Susan. She needs it more than what I does.”

  Martha took the tea and toast to the sunken-cheeked woman who was once again in the yard sorting furs. I sadly watched her divide the toast among her children before suffering another coughing fit.

  “Does she need to see a doctor?” I asked Martha quietly.

  “Proberly. I’ve told ’er she needs to go over the work’ouse. They got doctors there, see. But she won’t ’ave it; she’s too proud for the work’ouse. She’ll be all right. The missionaries’ll check on ’er, and they’ll ’ave some soup on the go today. Lemme show yer.”

  The mission was on Neal Street, in a red-brick building which looked to have once been a warehouse. It had been turned into a makeshift chapel, with a wooden cross nailed up on the door and a painted sign which read: ‘The Mission of Faith, Hope and Charity. Everyone welcome.’

  About two dozen men, women and children were queuing up alongside a row of trestle tables. They cradled tin bowls in their hands. Steam rose up from the large soup kettles as the missionaries dipped their ladles into them.

  “Told yer,” said Martha. “Already got the soup goin’ on this mis’rable cold mornin’. They looks after us. They tells us we should believe in Jesus, and we all pretends we does so we gets our soup!”

  She cackled and looked over at the small crowd around us. “Seems like just about hev’ryone’s ’ere this mornin’. There’s the Earl o’ York.”

  In the daylight, I could see that he was a short, lean man with a keen, shrew-like face and a thin moustache. A clay pipe was clasped between his lips, and he wore a top hat and a dark blue, velvet overcoat, which was several sizes too large for him. A gold watch chain hung across his cream, brocaded waistcoat.

  “He looks rather well-dressed to be a gang leader,” I muttered.

  “’E fancies ’imself as a swell. Them togs’ll be from the rag shops down Lumber Court. Wiv a bitta work you can get ’em all cleaned up nice.”

  A cold wind whipped down the street, carrying with it stinging flakes of ice.

  “Are you going to have some soup?” I asked Martha.

  “I’ll let some o’ the others ’ave a go first. They needs it more than an old woman like me. The urchins needs it the most.”

  “Mrs Nicholls!” one of the missionaries called out, waving.

  We walked over to him as he continued to serve out the soup.

  “This is Mr ’Ugo ’Awkins,” said Martha. “Remember ’im?”

  “I think so,” I replied. “You were in the yard on the night that Jack died, weren’t you, Mr Hawkins?”

  He nodded solemnly. “I was indeed. Miss Green, isn’t it? Nice to see you in the light of day.”

  He stood slightly shorter than me and was about forty-five, with close-set blue eyes. Large ears protruded from beneath his felt hat and he had thick grey side-whiskers.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Hawkins,” I said. “How good of you to be serving soup on a cold day such as this.”

  “It’s the Christian way, and the very least we can do for the people who are in need of food. If you have any spare coins, Miss Green, the mission is always in need of donations.”

  He gestured towards a plate that had some coins on it and then he filled a bowl held out by a thin g
irl with matted hair.

  “An extra spoonful for you, child,” he said, before turning back to face us. “It was a sad day yesterday, wasn’t it, Mrs Nicholls?”

  I placed a sixpence on the plate.

  “Yeah, we ’ad young Jack’s funeral.”

  “It was his funeral yesterday?” I realised I should have asked when it was. “I should have liked to come.”

  “Yer busy,” said Martha. “Yer one o’ them women what’s got a proper profession. I’d ’ave liked a proper profession if I’d ’ad any brains between me ears. Well, look who it is!”

  She watched as a young, broad-shouldered man with fair whiskers approached us.

  “Winston!”

  Her son wore a grey tweed overcoat and a bowler hat. Martha walked over and gave him a warm embrace.

  “’Ere’s me Winston!” she said proudly, pulling him over by the arm to meet me.

  She introduced us and told Winston what I did for a living.

  “A news reporter, Miss Green? How interesting. A lady news reporter?”

  “There aren’t many of us.”

  “Next to none, I should imagine.”

  Winston struggled to look me in the eye and I noticed that his whiskers had been cultivated to compensate for a receding chin.

  “’Ow comes yer not workin’?” Martha asked her son.

  “Everything’s frozen up, Ma; even the ink in the inkwells. They told us we can have the day off.”

  “A day off! That’s nice, ain’t it?”

  “It would be if they were paying us for it.”

  Another gust of icy wind made Winston clasp his hat tightly.

  “This weather would freeze the tail off a brass monkey. Have you had some soup, Ma?”

  “Not yet, but I will. Look, ’ere’s Mr Meares,” said Martha as another missionary joined us. “Mr Meares was there that night with Mr ’Awkins. You remembers ’im, don’t yer, Miss Green?”