by Emily Organ
“Look at you, Penelope! Your face is all creased up with worry. You’ll start to look older than your years if you’re not careful.”
“I can’t help but worry.”
“Dreadful things are happening in that slum, and it may sound awful to say it, but thank goodness it has been confined to that area alone. I have great confidence that they’ll catch the man. Your friend Inspector Blakely is working on it, isn’t he?”
My stomach flipped uncomfortably at the mention of his name.
“Are you blushing, Penelope?”
“No, I’m just rather warm in this cape.”
“Come, it’s time to take our seats.” Eliza glanced at the piece of paper in her hand. “It’s a miscellaneous programme tonight. I’m so looking forward to the piano recital by Madame von Belloc.”
We took our seats on the green horse-hair benches in the magnificent concert hall inspired by the Moorish palace of Alhambra.
Three violinists and two cellists were seated on the stage. I gazed up at the colourful arches and carved geometric patterns on the ceiling, lost for a moment in their beauty until the leering face of Ed Keller loomed into my mind. I was grateful for the loud applause that interrupted my thoughts as the conductor strode onto the stage and took a short bow.
“String Quintet in B Flat,” whispered Eliza. “One of my favourite Mendelssohn pieces.”
The music was pleasingly light, rising and falling in a smooth rhythm. I found I could listen to it more clearly when I closed my eyes. I imagined it washing away all of the unwelcome thoughts in my head and resolved that I would protect myself from making any further mistakes. Although Mr Sherman had been overjoyed to read my interview with Ed Keller, I wasn’t sure that the risk I had taken was really worth it. Hugo Hawkins and David Meares were the only other people who knew what had happened to me at the hands of Ed Keller, and I had sworn them to secrecy, embarrassed that I had ignored everyone’s warnings so flagrantly. I had behaved foolishly.
Could Ed be the murderer?
The rumours had begun as soon as my interview with him was published. He had admitted to falling out with both Jack and Mr Larcombe, and when I asked him about the other murders, he hadn’t answered my question. Instead, he had attempted to attack me.
Had he tried to silence me?
I wondered whether James had read the interview. I watched the conductor nod, dip and sway on the stage and struggled to imagine how I could ever face James again without a deep sense of shame.
“That was marvellous,” said Eliza as we left the auditorium. “I do enjoy our concerts. I can’t bear to take George with me because he always falls asleep and snores dreadfully. Would you like to join me at the ballad concert in aid of the London Orphan Asylum? I think it’s in May.”
“I’d love to, Ellie.”
“What were we talking about before that pleasant interlude? Ah, yes, the inspector. I noticed you blushing.”
I had hoped she would have forgotten.
“Do you have feelings for him?” she probed.
“No!”
“The vehemence of your reply suggests that my guess was correct.” She surveyed me as if she were a doctor trying to ascertain what was wrong with her patient. “Is he not engaged to be married?”
“Yes, he is. To a lady named Charlotte.”
“Oh Penelope, how awful.”
“Awful? There’s nothing awful about it. I have no romantic feelings toward him. I’ve only been working with him because the boy who snatched my bag fell victim to the St Giles killer.”
Eliza shook her head sadly. “Of all the people you would choose, Penelope. A man who is to be married.”
“I haven’t chosen him,” I hissed. “I don’t care for him at all. In fact, he is rather dull. Police officers often are.”
Eliza laughed, which angered me even further.
“It’s no use pretending to me, Penelope. I’m your sister and I know you too well.”
“Let us suppose for a moment that I do appreciate the inspector’s company. And I’m speaking theoretically, of course.”
My sister gave a solemn nod.
“I would suggest that spending a number of years living alone may sometimes make another person – who would ordinarily be of no consequence at all – seem rather more appealing than they might be under other circumstances.”
“My goodness, Penelope, you don’t half mince your words when talking about your feelings! You’re almost as bad as my husband. You’re lonely and have been for some time, and now a dashing detective has entered your life and you have fallen for him.”
“I’m not lonely and he is not dashing!”
“But you’ve fallen for him?”
“And not that either!”
I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my brow. I refused to believe that I could be attracted to James. For one thing, he was younger than me, and for another he was engaged to be married. The incident in the cab had been nothing but a moment of weakness. Perhaps a moment of loneliness. It would never happen again.
“I must return home now, Ellie. I plan to do some work on Father’s papers this evening.”
“Of course.”
“I bought a tin of Peek Freans biscuits, did I tell you? I’ve eaten all the biscuits, but I keep the tin on my writing desk. It gives me something new to remember him by. This is more than just writing a book, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Each evening I sit down to read something he’s written or look at one of his sketches and I feel closer to him. Closer perhaps than I ever did when he was with us. Reading his words gives me a sense of how much he adored his plants and his travels.”
“I have no doubt that he did. More than his own wife and daughters, I should say.”
“Oh no, I don’t agree. I’m sure he loved us and Mother even more so. But when I read his work I find his enthusiasm and excitement almost enchanting.”
“Have you read everything he wrote Penelope?”
“No, not yet. He wrote so much, didn’t he?”
“Yes indeed. I haven’t read everything yet either, but a few of his diary entries are not quite so enchanting.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Father must have experienced dull days just like the rest of us.”
“That’s not quite what I meant, Penelope.”
“What did you mean?”
“I’ll let you continue with your reading and you will discover it for yourself.”
“To what are you referring, Ellie?”
“Just continue reading, Penelope. Read everything and then tell me what you think.”
Back at my lodgings, I made myself a cup of cocoa, sat by the fire and read some more of my father’s diary entries. I read them more thoroughly this time, searching the words for any clues to what Eliza had alluded to earlier that evening.
I travelled by mule from the Lebrija River to Bucaramanga, and from thence along a pleasant valley of sugar cane, coffee and tobacco to the small town of Piedecuesta, where the local people make cigars and straw hats. I collected some specimens of Epidendrum Atropurpureum, which grows plentifully here, and continued my journey along a narrow mule track up to La Mesa de Los Santos, a plain 6,000 feet above the level of the sea.
Here the mighty condor can be seen, the span of its wings reaching up to ten feet. I observed one soaring without a beat of its wings for the best part of half an hour. Cattleya Mendelii is to be found on the vertiginous rock faces which descend from this great plain. I have heard of orchid hunters dangling natives on ropes over these precipices in order to retrieve the beautiful specimens.
Unwilling to risk the life or limb of myself or any other man, I rode on to Los Santos and then Curiti, where the last portion of my journey was completed on foot. Before long, I came across a profusion of rose-coloured Cattleya Mendelii among the ferns and bromeliads. After constructing a makeshift basket out of twigs, I collected as many plants as I could and prayed that at least a dozen would survive the heat
of the journey back to the river.
I still felt certain that my father’s final visit had been to the falls of Tequendama. His diaries and drawings had been discovered by a search party in a hut not far from the falls.
I would need to return to the reading room and once again examine the map which Mr Edwards had found for me. La Mesa de Los Santos sounded like a magical place to me and I pictured my father there watching the soaring condor. I closed my eyes and wished I could have been there to share the sight with him.
What had Eliza meant? And why had she refused to tell me?
Chapter 28
“We need to continue with our reporting on St Giles’ Rookery.” Mr Sherman strode around the newsroom as he talked. “The interview with the Earl of York – what a wonderful name! – was extremely popular with our readers. The men were even talking about it in the Turkish baths yesterday evening.”
“High praise indeed,” said Edgar.
“I detect a fashion for slum stories,” continued Mr Sherman. “I suppose it began with The Bitter Cry of Outcast London last year, and the public’s appetite for such tales shows no sign of waning. I have heard tell that some journalist is disguising himself as a slum dweller and going to the trouble of spending nights in the dosshouses.”
“Slummers,” piped up Frederick.
“What?”
“That’s what they call people who go sightseeing in the slums. They wear common clothes and mingle with the inhabitants. A rather grimy experience, I suspect.”
“Slummers. So that’s what they call them, eh? There is great interest in these abysmal places these days.”
“I’ve come across a lady who organises tours of St Giles,” I added. “I saw her showing people around and I’m told that she charges quite a bit for the experience.”
“A friend of mine is a regular slummer,” said Frederick. “So much so that he has fathered a child with a gingerbread seller in Whitechapel.”
“Is that so?” Mr Sherman raised an eyebrow.
“A chap from Magdalene College, Cambridge! Who would have thought it? Don’t tell his father.”
“There’s no danger of that, Potter. I have no idea who the chap’s father is.” Mr Sherman turned to face me. “Miss Green, I need an article now which details the daily hell these people are living in. I want to read of dirt, disease and drunkenness. And we need to mention dead infants.”
“Dead infants?”
“Have you read The Bitter Cry? There are tales of numerous families sharing one room and a dead infant lying in the midst of them.”
“And pigs,” added Frederick. “They keep pigs in the rooms as well.”
“Yes, I’ve read it,” I said. “And some of the living conditions described are more horrendous than I could ever have imagined. But I haven’t encountered anything quite as terrible as that in St Giles so far.”
Although articles on conditions in the slums had informed the public about the plight of people living there, I couldn’t help but think there was an element of gleeful exploitation of their misery on the part of some writers.
“Keep on looking, Miss Green. I wouldn’t wish for you to be distressed, of course, but if you can write about something which instils horror in our readers then your article will be all the better for it. Mr Fish, I will need you to work undercover.”
Edgar’s brow furrowed. “Me?”
“Yes. Do what this other chap is doing and disguise yourself. You must drink in some of the public houses there and sleep in some of the lodging houses.”
“I’m not sure that—”
“Mr Fish, as your editor I am ordering you to do so. It needn’t be for long; just long enough to get a good story out of it. See if you can get talking to a gang. I like the sound of this rival gang the Earl of York mentions in his interview. Remind me what they’re called, Miss Green.”
“The Daly Boys.”
Edgar looked at me then back at Mr Sherman, his mouth opening and closing several times. “But I’m not sure I’m suitable—”
“Of course you are, man! You’re a news reporter!”
“But I’m supposed to be working on the General Gordon story.”
“Hand it over to Purves.”
“The gangs are dangerous, Mr Sherman,” I said.
“Well you managed to speak to one of them without any problems, Miss Green. I’m sure Mr Fish can do the same.”
“Ed Keller is unpleasant.”
“I can imagine he is, but you made it out of there alive, didn’t you? You got the story and that’s all that matters.”
Mr Sherman was interrupted by a knock at the newsroom door.
“Come in!” he exclaimed. “Why, Inspector Blakely! What brings you here?”
I hadn’t seen James since the mortifying incident in the cab. My heart began to thud furiously and I bent my head over the typewriter, trying to hide my face as best I could.
“Good morning, Mr Sherman,” said James. “I have more news on the St Giles killer.”
I felt him glance at me and knew that it would be churlish to ignore him. I looked up and gave him a meek smile. He took off his hat and smoothed his hair. He appeared more handsome to me than he ever had before. His suit was grey with a subtle check and he was wearing the star-shaped tie pin once again.
I cursed myself silently and busied myself with pressing the keys on the typewriter.
“Not another murder?” said Mr Sherman.
“No, but a rather odd letter. It mentions someone whom Miss Green may know. Please may I ask her about it?”
“Of course,” Mr Sherman replied.
A messenger boy barged into the room with a telegram and thrust it into the editor’s hand.
“Thank you, boy. My apologies, Inspector, I must deal with this. Please discuss the letter with Miss Green and I shall return shortly.”
As Mr Sherman left the room, James cleared his throat, pulled up a chair next to mine and sat down. The scent of his cologne reminded me of the moment in the cab when I had kissed him. I sat stiffly in my seat and wished I could have been anywhere but there.
“Hello Penny. How are you?”
“I’m very well thank you, Inspector.”
I steeled myself to look at him, then grinned widely, aware that my expression was far from genuine.
“The sling has finally gone!” he said with a smile.
“Yes. Hurrah!”
“I read your interview with Ed Keller. You took a big risk speaking to him, but the article was very insightful. How was he with you?”
I felt my stomach turn. “He relished the idea of being interviewed.”
“I’m sure he did. He thinks rather highly of himself.”
“I think you should treat him as a suspect.”
“Did he let anything slip?”
“Not overtly, but he ignored my questions about Mrs O’Brien and Mr Yeomans. He is adamant that Jack was killed by a rival gang and that Mr Larcombe was killed by a customer with whom he had argued. But by suggesting that other people are responsible, he could be trying to deflect attention from himself.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible. I think it’s extremely likely. He admitted that he’d fallen out with both Jack and Mr Larcombe in the past.”
“Is that a motive, do you think?”
“Of course it is. I’ve given it a lot of thought since I met him and I’m certain he must be responsible for the murders. He’s an objectionable man.” I felt a bitter taste in my mouth.
“He is indeed. I know E Division have had a number of dealings with him. I’ll investigate further.”
“You must! Will you speak to him today?”
I gave him an imploring look and his expression was puzzled, as if he were wondering what I hadn’t told him about Keller.
“I’ll try to. In the meantime, here’s the letter I mentioned.” He unfolded it and smoothed it out on the desk next to the typewriter. “It arrived at Scotland Yard this morning and i
s signed Adam D.V. again.”
What a turnout for the funeral, and all because of me! It’s flattering to finally have everyone’s attention. It is also rather pleasing to see Mrs Baxter learning her lesson.
Adam D.V.
“He was at Mr Larcombe’s funeral?” My heart felt as though it had leapt up into my throat. “But how strange! Why would he do that? That’s peculiar behaviour. Anyone could have seen him. I might have seen him! I didn’t attend the service, but I mingled with the crowds outside the church before Mr Larcombe’s burial at Kensal Green. I didn’t notice anyone acting suspiciously.”
“Why would you? I think our man might be quite adept at blending in with the crowd. And this letter cannot be construed as firm evidence that he attended the funeral. He may have simply heard that many people turned up.”
“The name Mrs Baxter is familiar,” I said.
“She is Mr Larcombe’s sister. Have you come across her?”
“Yes, I think I saw her at the inquest, and she’s the same lady who organises the slum tours, isn’t she?”
I recalled the wide-faced woman with copper eyes whom Martha and I had encountered. “I didn’t realise she was Mr Larcombe’s sister; no one had told me that. What does Adam mean when he says that she’s learning her lesson? Does he feel that she is deserving of her grief?”
“It’s possible. I was hoping that if you knew her you might have some idea. This letter may be a hoax, but I’ll go and show it to Mrs Baxter all the same and find out if she knows who this Adam is. Perhaps she spoke to him at the funeral or can tell us about an argument she’s had with him. He appears to bear some animosity towards her. She lives in Clerkenwell and I’ve already alerted G Division, who are sending officers to her home. I should get over there now. If this letter is from the murderer, it seems that Mrs Baxter is familiar with him. And it’s a fair bet that Mr Larcombe also knew him.”
“Why’s he doing this?”
“I wish I knew.”
James stood up and put his hat on.