by Emily Organ
“So your attacker was disturbed?”
“Yeah, ’e let go and run off.”
“And do you know in which direction?”
“Down the ’Igh Street.”
“Did you see anything more of what he looked like as he was running away?”
“Black coat. Nuffink else.”
“How long was his coat, would you say?”
“Long.”
“Did you see the colour of his trousers?”
“Nah.”
“And what of his stature? Would you describe him as a tall man? Short man?”
“In between.”
“Large? Thin?”
“Just normal.”
“And strong?”
“Yeah, ’e were strong a’right. But a coward ’cause he done a runner soon as someone else come along.”
“And who was that other person? Did you speak to him or her?”
“Yeah, it were a man what ’elped me up and asked if I was a’right.”
“Did the man tell you his name?”
“Nah.”
“And what did you say to the man?”
“Just told ’im I was a’right and then ’e walked off one way and I walked the other.”
“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”
“Dunno. It were dark. ’E were an Irishman.”
“And where did you go after the attack?”
Sarah shrugged. “I felt a bit faint ’cause o’ the smell on the rag. But I ’ad to get some money, didn’t I?”
I guessed that there was only one way a woman in her position could acquire money on the streets at night.
“Were you injured?” I asked.
“Nah, not much.”
“And do you feel recovered from the attack now, Miss Fisher, or does it still worry you?”
“I’m more scared now. ’Specially wiv all them murders ’appenin’.”
“Do you make sure you’re safely indoors when night falls?”
“I try ter. It ain’t always easy.”
I wished there was something I could do to help keep this young woman off the streets.
“This is where you usually stay, is it?” I gestured toward the lodging house where the sound of drunken singing was drifting up from the basement again. I had struggled to walk around the place for ten minutes and couldn’t imagine how awful it would be if I had to rely on it for shelter.
“When I can pay fer a bed.”
“And what happens when you can’t?”
“There’s doorways, under bridges and carts. That sorta thing.”
“Miss Fisher, what do you suppose your attacker was attempting to do to you?” asked James.
“Murder, for some reason. Dunno why.”
“And he would have persisted, you think, if the Irishman had not come to your aid?”
“Proberly, yeah. I could’ve been dead. I ’ad a lucky escape.”
“You did, Miss Fisher. Indeed, you did.”
After James had bid her goodnight, I slipped a shilling into her hand.
Chapter 19
We left Mercer Street and turned into Long Acre. It was dark, but the night was brightened by pools of gaslight reflected in the snow. There were only a few people about; most had likely been driven indoors by the cold.
“A rag placed over her mouth which smelt bad. It sounds suspiciously like the attacker tried to subdue her with chloroform,” James said.
“It has to be the same man who killed Mr Larcombe, doesn’t it?”
“There’s quite a similarity. She really did have a lucky escape, as she says. If that Irishman hadn’t turned up, she would have been overpowered by the chloroform and the attacker would have surely cut her throat.”
I felt nauseous. “What sort of man does something like that to a defenceless girl like Sarah?”
“She needs to stay off the streets at night.”
“But I think that people should be able to walk about at night without someone trying to murder them. What she needs is somewhere safe to stay and a life which doesn’t force her onto the streets. There are lots of people like Sarah here. They’re easy prey for this monstrous man.” My jaw clenched with anger.
“It’s a shame she didn’t see much of her attacker, as we could do with a decent description of him. I’ll ask E Division to carry out enquiries in and around Clark’s Buildings and see if they can find anyone who saw or heard anything on the night that Sarah was attacked. It would be even better if they could find the Irishman who helped Sarah, as he may be able to give us a more detailed description of the attacker.” James glanced around us. “It looks like the fog has lifted a little. Let me find a cab to take you home.”
“There’s no need. I’ll get on the underground railway at Charing Cross.”
“I don’t like the thought of you travelling home alone in the dark with this monster about. You’ve just heard what he did to Sarah Fisher.”
“It’s not late, and the killer seems set on terrorising only the residents of St Giles. I’ll feel much safer once we’ve left this area.”
“Quick, in here!”
James grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway.
“What?”
“Shush! I think someone might be following us.”
We were hiding in the doorway of a grocer’s shop in deep shadow as the nearest gas lamp was several yards away.
“Who?” I whispered.
My heart began to thud. James was so close by that I could smell his cologne and hear his gentle breathing.
“I don’t know yet.”
He peered out of the doorway and looked back up the street in the direction from which we had just walked.
“I think he’s stopped in a doorway too,” he whispered. “I can’t see him now.”
“When did you catch sight of him?”
“I thought someone was following us after we left the lodging house, and I looked back and saw a figure behind us once we had walked a short stretch.”
“Is it the man in the mask?”
“It’s difficult to see at the moment.”
“The murderer?”
I felt an unpleasant tingling sensation at the back of my neck.
“Don’t worry, Penny. When you’re working on a well-known case, all manner of queer folk will take an interest in what you’re doing. I’m sure the chap means no harm. Let’s walk on and see what happens. Take my arm if it helps you feel safer.”
I did as he suggested and we walked on down Long Acre.
“There’s a shortcut through this way,” said James, suddenly leading me down a dark, covered walkway. “This lane zig-zags somewhat, but it will bring us out on Garrick Street.”
“I can barely see a thing!”
We walked briskly, our feet slipping in the snow. Ahead of us I saw the warm glow of a pub.
“The Lamb and Flag,” said James. “We must have a drink in there one evening. It’s said to be one of Charles Dickens’ favourite pubs, although many other public houses make the same claim.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Is he there?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
We reached Garrick Street and continued to walk as quickly as we could. The snow had made my green woollen skirt damp and heavy.
“If a hansom cab appears now, may I suggest that we hail it, Penny? You need to get home safely.”
I didn’t like the worried tone in James’ voice.
“The man’s still following us, isn’t he?”
“There’s someone behind us still. I don’t know whether it’s the same man or not.”
“What do you think he’ll do if we stop and wait for him?”
“I’m not sure. Shall we try it? I have my revolver with me in case of any trouble.”
We stopped at the top of Bedford Street and turned just in time to see the dark figure disappear into the shadows.
“He’s following us all right, isn’t he?” said James.
I
gripped his arm tighter.
“Let’s see what he does when we walk back towards him,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“What can he do? There are two of us and only one of him. And you have your revolver.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger, Penny. That’s precisely the reason why I suggested that we find you a cab.”
“I want to find out who he is! It may even be that good-for-nothing reporter from The Holborn Gazette, Tom Clifford.”
“Very well, we shall go and see. But let’s be careful.”
We walked back up the street over our smudged footprints in the snow.
“He hasn’t moved yet,” whispered James.
We continued to retrace our steps, drawing nearer to the place where we had last seen him.
“He must be close to the Garrick Club,” said James. “I wonder if he’s a member!” he added with a quiet laugh.
Then I felt him jump. “Look! There he goes! We’ve flushed out the fox!”
The man sprinted out from the shadows a few doorways ahead of us, then ran across the street into a road on the opposite side.
“He’s gone up Hart Street,” said James. “Should we follow?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, let’s see where he goes.”
I let James take my hand as we ran across the road and up towards Hart Street. Ahead of us, the man was still running. He turned sharply to his left.
“There are a number of passageways here which lead up to Long Acre,” said James. “He’s probably heading back to St Giles. Let’s leave him to it. We could be playing this game of cat and mouse all evening.”
“But who is he?” I said.
I felt a shiver run down my spine.
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 20
“That machine makes an infernal racket, Miss Green.”
I paused from my typewriting and stared at Edgar.
“It’s not as loud as the printing presses.”
“No, but they’re in the basement. That contraption you’re typewriting on is merely yards away from me. What’s wrong with the inaudible pen and paper?”
“Have you looked at the notes I compiled for you on the Sudan yet?”
“Yes, and they look fairly comprehensive, thank you. There’s a good deal there that I can use. But I need a little more on Khartoum.”
Frederick snorted. “If I know Miss Green, she’s probably spent most of the weekend in the reading room writing all that down for you. And with her left hand too! You’re an ungrateful oaf.”
“Well said, Frederick!” I added. “Has your father managed to pull any strings yet, Edgar?”
“He’s working on it. Don’t forget that it’s your fault I had my reading ticket confiscated in the first place.”
“It’s my fault you came to blows with Tom Clifford?”
“I think so. I’m just trying to recall the sequence of events now.”
“It takes two to fight.”
The newsroom door slammed shut behind Mr Sherman as he strode in with a copy of The Holborn Gazette and flung it down next to the typewriter.
“Seen this morning’s edition, Miss Green?”
“Not yet.”
“Turn to page three.”
I did as I was told and saw an article about Ernest Larcombe’s murder. Halfway down the column was a headline in a small yet eye-catching font: ‘Interview with the Pawnbroker’s Wife’.
“You spent much of last week down in St Giles, didn’t you? Why the deuce didn’t you speak to Larcombe’s wife?”
“I couldn’t find her. Even the police couldn’t find her on the morning after the murder. Inspector Fenton told us they were trying to establish her whereabouts.”
“Tom Clifford clearly established her whereabouts. Why couldn’t you manage to do so? Especially seeing as you’re constantly on the arm of Inspector Blakely!”
“That’s the problem,” said Edgar.
“What is?” barked Mr Sherman.
“Miss Green being on the schoolboy inspector’s arm. She was too distracted by him to find the wife for an interview.”
“Is that right, Miss Green? Is Blakely too much of a distraction for you?”
“Not at all! On the contrary, we have spoken to a woman who we think was attacked by the killer. He was disturbed by an Irishman and fortunately she escaped from his clutches.”
“That’s capital. Are you working on that now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we have a description of the attacker?”
“Not much of a description, sir.”
“Because The Holborn Gazette has a description.”
“Really? How?”
“Have a read for yourself. There.” Mr Sherman jabbed his forefinger at the second column within the same story.
“An account from a witness by the name of Winston Nicholls,” I said. “No, this is wrong. Winston Nicholls wasn’t a witness. He’s the son of a woman who lives in St Giles and is a rather peculiar man.”
“It says that he witnessed a masked man leaving the pawnbroker’s shop late on the evening of the murder.”
“If he did, then he didn’t mention it to me. I saw him the morning after the murder.”
“Perhaps he mentioned it to the police.”
“Maybe he did, but if so Inspector Blakely is not aware of it. I know that much.”
“Perhaps Blakely needs to be speaking directly to E Division.”
“As far as I’m aware, the two units speak regularly.”
Mr Sherman sighed. “We could waste our time discussing the whys and wherefores this morning, Miss Green, but the fact of the matter is The Holborn Gazette’s coverage of Larcombe’s murder trumps ours. Your work on this is in the suds. I don’t expect to pick up a rival newspaper on a Monday morning to discover that its reporters are a step ahead of my own. The public out there is hungry for information and, with three columns of exclusive news, The Gazette is printing exactly they want to read! I even heard people talking about The Gazette in the Turkish baths yesterday evening.”
“They may be printing what the people want to read, but I’m not sure that a great deal of it is accurate. Winston Nicholls is not a witness. I don’t know how he is claiming to have seen the murderer.”
“Have we any evidence that The Gazette is reporting inaccurate news?”
“Only that Winston Nicholls is not a witness.”
“You know that for sure?”
“I would need to check.”
“You’d need to check. So that means you don’t know for sure.”
“I will check, Mr Sherman, and fully establish the facts.”
“The Holborn Gazette purports to be reporting the facts.”
“I believe their ‘facts’ have been somewhat embellished.”
“Would you indeed?”
“Tom Clifford is not a man I consider to be careful in his reporting.”
“Penny’s right,” said Edgar. “He’s a deplorable fellow.”
“He may be deplorable, but at the present time he is no doubt keeping his editor happy. Tell me more about this woman who was attacked. Can we say for sure that it was the St Giles murderer who assailed her?”
“There’s a strong possibility. It seems the attacker attempted to sedate her with chloroform, the substance also used to overpower Mr Larcombe.”
“Readers aren’t interested in possibilities, Miss Green. They want to know that the same man attacked this poor woman and that she narrowly escaped death at his hands. They want to discover what he looked like and exactly what he did, so they can look out for him themselves. There are many concerned people out there who are desperate to know more, and it’s our job to feed them what they want. That’s what The Gazette is doing. Now, get your story written about the woman who was attacked and give me plenty of time to read it as it will no doubt require some alterations.”
He glanced around the room, scowling. “No sign of Purves y
et? Send him to my office without delay when he arrives.”
Mr Sherman left the room with another slam of the door.
“Tom Clifford lies!” I said to Edgar. “He makes his stories up, doesn’t he? When I was in St Giles there was no sign of the pawnbroker’s wife. For all we know, he’s concocted the interview and no one will question him because he claims to have a piece of exclusive news. And Winston Nicholls is not even a witness!”
“So you have said a few times now.”
I thumped my desk in anger. “I don’t see how I’m supposed to outdo Tom Clifford unless I begin creating stories myself, and I refuse to do that. It’s not how news reporting is supposed to be.”
“You know what your problem is, Miss Green?”
“What?” I hissed.
“You take your job rather too seriously. Sometimes you’re so determined to establish the exact truth that you miss out on interesting opportunities.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gossip, rumour, that sort of thing. You don’t really have an ear to the ground, do you? You’re good at spending your time in learned places, such as the reading room, and you have highly accomplished writing skills, but I suppose the fact that you’re a woman hinders you slightly when it comes to accessing the best sources of news.”
“And where might they be found?”
“In the taverns.”
“I suppose you mean Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?”
“Yes. Frederick owes his living to it, as do I. Tom Clifford certainly does. How about we go there once we’re finished here?”
“I’ve worked with you for seven years, Edgar, and you have never once invited me to join you in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
“There you go, you see. You’re pleasantly surprised now, aren’t you?”
Chapter 21
I sat with Edgar and Frederick at a table in one of the many quaint, wood panelled-rooms on offer in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
“There’s a wide choice on the menu, Miss Green,” said Edgar. “You can choose between the chop or the steak.”
“Sometimes you can get a sausage here,” added Frederick, rubbing his large stomach.
“Occasionally sausage or eggs, but usually chop or steak. Have you got a light, Potter?”