by Emily Organ
“I wonder if Ed Keller was at Mr Larcombe’s funeral,” I said. “He must have been.”
“I’ll find out.”
We held each other’s gaze for a moment and I wanted to apologise to him for my behaviour in the cab. I wanted to reassure him that it would never happen again, but with Edgar and Frederick in the room it was impossible to say anything of the sort.
“Good luck, James.”
Chapter 29
I worked in the reading room that afternoon and asked Mr Edwards for the map of Colombia once again.
“Is your friend missing the library?” he whispered as he unrolled the map across my desk.
“I don’t think so. I’ve had to do some of his work for him, which he’s rather happy about. And he isn’t a personal friend of mine. We just happen to work for the same newspaper.” I felt the need to distance my association with Edgar and the altercation that had happened there a few weeks previously. “Hopefully his reading ticket will be reissued soon.”
“I doubt it,” said Mr Edwards, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “The Head Librarian doesn’t like fighting in the reading room.”
“Do you think La Mesa de Los Santos would be marked on this map?”
We spent a moment looking for it.
“I think it’s near Bucaramanga,” I added.
Mr Edwards wafted his forefinger over the map as he searched it. “There’s Bucaramanga.” He planted his finger on it and I noticed that his nails were neatly manicured.
“Ah yes, it’s a number of miles northeast of Bogota. Quite far from the Tequendama Falls, then, which are just south-west of Bogota. I’m finding it quite difficult to track my father’s movements during his final journey.”
“What was the name of the first place you were looking for? Santos something?”
“La Mesa de Los Santos. Apparently, it’s beautiful there and I should like to know where it is.”
“I should think that much of Colombia is beautiful. The name has such an agreeable sound to it.”
I began to feel reassured that Mr Edwards had forgiven me for associating with the type of men who got themselves into fights in the reading room.
“Would you like me to find out more about Mesa, La Mesa, Santos la Mesa – however it’s said – for you?”
“Let me write it down for you.” I tore a page from my notebook and spelt out the name. “And thank you, Mr Edwards. If you could find a mention of it in any of the books on Colombia that would be extremely helpful. Oh, and the Tequendama Falls. Let me write that name down as well.”
“My pleasure, Miss Green.” He took the piece of paper from me and smiled.
Loud muttering from the other side of the room distracted us and we both turned to see what was happening. Readers were supposed to remain quiet and, although some whispering was sometimes tolerated, any noise above that level was prohibited, as I had already discovered.
I could see people getting up and going over to speak to others. A few people left the room abruptly.
“Something’s happened,” I said.
“I shall go and ask them to lower their voices.”
He walked off and I watched him speaking to the group for a moment. But instead of returning to their desks, a number of people entered into conversation with Mr Edwards. My curiosity got the better of me, so I stood up from my seat and walked over to join them.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Another murder,” said Mr Edwards with a grim expression on his face.
I felt a heavy sensation in my stomach.
“Not again. In St Giles?”
“Not this time. It happened near King’s Cross,” said a man with bushy whiskers and a bald head.
“I must go.” I cried.
I dashed back to my desk, packed away my papers as quickly as I could, left the museum and hailed a cab on Great Russell Street.
“Not ’eard nothin’ abaht a murder,” said the cab driver.
“Can you take me to King’s Cross?”
He nodded and I climbed into the cab. I pulled the collar of my jacket up to keep warm and reminded myself not to be too hasty in making any assumptions about this murder.
Perhaps it had been committed by a separate perpetrator under altogether different circumstances. Perhaps someone had met with an accident which had been mistakenly reported as murder.
I prayed that the man who called himself Adam hadn’t struck again.
The cab made good progress until Gray’s Inn Road, where the traffic was blocked by a brewer’s cart unloading barrels.
I could hear the cab driver hollering at him: “Why don’t yer block up the ’ole road while yer at it?”
The man unloading the barrels replied with a derogatory comment about the cabbie’s parentage and a torrent of profanity was hurled back at him.
All around me, horses, carts and carriages were at standstill. Even the horse-drawn tram couldn’t get through and its driver knew curse words I had never heard before and almost drew a blush from my cheeks. I lifted up the hatch in the roof and handed the cabbie my fare.
“I’ll walk from here.”
I walked up Gray’s Inn Road and it soon became apparent that it wasn’t just the brewer’s cart that was stopping the traffic. Ahead of me, I saw people standing in the road as more impatient drivers tried to make their way round them. People were gathered around the junction with Acton Street and I pushed my way through to see what was happening.
“Press!” I called out, waving my card in the air. “Let me through!”
It made little difference, but it did give me an excuse to push and shove. At the end of Acton Street, I reached a line of bobbies who were trying to keep people back.
“Miss Green from the Morning Express.” I showed one of the constables my card. “Is Inspector Blakely here?”
He turned his nose up, clearly reluctant to allow a reporter through his barricade, but his reaction reassured me that James was already on the scene.
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
The lie allowed me to walk past him and up the hilly street to Percy Circus: a circle of well-to-do townhouses arranged around a pleasant, wooded rotunda. Five streets radiated out from the circus and I could see that each had been blocked off by the police to prevent public access. The rotunda was encircled by railings with a small gap forming an entrance. The presence of a constable at the entrance suggested that the murder had taken place within the wooded rotunda.
I shuddered and took my pencil and notebook from my bag to demonstrate that I was there on press business. A number of constables stood speaking to people in the doorways of their homes and press reporters were busy scribbling away in their notebooks. The sound of sobbing drifted towards me and I saw two women sitting on the steps leading up to a house, one comforting the other.
I walked up to the entrance of the rotunda.
“Can I help you?” asked the young, chubby-faced constable.
“I’m looking for Inspector Blakely.”
“He’s in there.”
I stepped forward, but he blocked my way.
“No, you ain’t goin’ in. Wait for ’im ’ere.”
I tried to peer through the railings and between the trees, but all I could see were a few men in dark coats.
The weak sunshine found its way through the clouds and the street was eerily quiet apart from the sound of the woman’s sobbing.
“Penny.”
I turned to see James walking out from the rotunda. His face was pale and solemn. He passed the constable and joined me.
“How are you?” I asked. I felt no embarrassment seeing him now that there was something far more serious for us to work on.
“I’ve been better. We came here to speak to Mrs Baxter, but it seems someone else got here before us.”
“She’s the victim?” My knees felt weak. “It’s him again, isn’t it?”
“Sadly, yes.” James rubbed his brow. “I should have come here as soon as
I received that letter. I was foolish not to. It was obvious she was to be the next victim, wasn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think it was obvious. There was a strong possibility that the letter might have been a hoax.”
“It wasn’t a hoax though, was it? I should have treated it more seriously.” His face was flushed with colour and he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Don’t blame yourself, James.”
“At the moment I do, I’m afraid. The killer gave us fair warning and now he’s vanished again and we have no hope of finding him.”
“You’ll find him.”
“We had better do so. You don’t want to see what he’s done to that poor woman in there.”
He pointed back at the trees and I felt a lurch of nausea as I thought of Mrs Baxter with her copper-coloured eyes, wearing a colourful feathered hat and talking to the slummers in St Giles.
How could she be dead?
“No one should suffer in that way,” said James.
He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. I reached out and touched his arm. I wanted to reassure and comfort him, but briefly touching his arm was all I could do. I withdrew my hand and readied myself with my notebook and pencil.
“What have you found out so far?”
“Mrs Baxter lived in Holford Place, about fifty yards from here. Her husband says she left the house to go on a shopping trip and was walking down to King’s Cross Road, where she planned to take the tram. It was something she did every Friday. Somehow, our man apprehended her between her home and Percy Circus, and has taken her into the trees, where he has cut her throat. He may have forcibly taken her there, but I’m inclined to think she willingly went with him because no one heard any cries for help.
“The police surgeon has estimated her time of death at between midday and half after one o’clock. She was found by a neighbour, who noticed what she thought was a bundle of clothing left among the trees. The killer has left a bloodstained coat and pair of gloves at the scene, presumably because he didn’t want to be seen wearing them after he left. This is a brazen attack in the middle of a pleasant place such as this, and just around the corner from King’s Cross police station!”
“In daylight. This is the first murder in daylight, isn’t it? He’s taking more chances. Someone must have seen something.”
“They will have. We’re getting as many witness statements as we possibly can.”
“Where did he go? Where is he now?” I shivered.
“Probably as far away from here as he could get.”
I thought about the killer’s most recent letter.
“If he attended Mr Larcombe’s funeral, he might also attend the next one,” I said.
“That’s a good point. I’ll ensure that there’s a good police presence at Mrs Baxter’s funeral in case he decides to put in an appearance. It’s a strange thought that the killer should attend the funeral of his victim, but I suppose we already know we’re dealing with a strange man.”
“It could be Ed Keller, couldn’t it? Someone must have seen the killer around here. If the description of him is even remotely similar to that of Ed then he must be arrested. Did you manage to discover what Winston Nicholls told Tom Clifford about having seen the murderer after Mr Larcombe was killed?”
“I found Tom to be rather nebulous on the matter.”
“Does that mean Winston didn’t see the murderer? One of them must have made the story up. I wonder which.”
“And look who’s approaching now,” said James, looking over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil and he will appear.”
I turned to see Tom Clifford and Winston Nicholls approaching us.
“Nicholls has an unusually keen interest in the case, doesn’t he?” said James. “I’ve lost count of all the letters he’s sent to Scotland Yard.”
Tom strode up and greeted us. “Inspector Blakely and Miss Green. One rarely seen without the other.” He cackled. “And Larcombe’s sister, eh? Someone’s clearly got a grudge against the family.”
“What does this mean for the investigation, Inspector?” asked Winston, the brim of his black felt hat shielding his eyes.
“It means G Division is now involved in the case, along with E Division and the Yard. We have a lot of men working on this now.”
“And still no idea who did it?”
“We’re gathering as much information as we can.”
“I’m convinced enough of one man’s guilt, that’s for sure. What are you doing about Reuben O’Donoghue? I put it in a letter to you detailing his involvement.”
“He was arrested, as you know, Mr Nicholls, but we have witnesses who saw him at the time of Jack Burton’s murder and he cannot have been in two places at the same time.”
“You have witnesses who saw him and yet no witnesses who saw what happened to the boy? It makes no sense to me, Inspector. I think you’re protecting him.”
“I have no interest in protecting Mr O’Donoghue. My only interest is in catching this killer before he strikes again.”
“Clifford tells me you have received letters,” said Winston.
“We have quite a number now, including those from yourself, Mr Nicholls.”
“Letters from the killer as well?”
“Given the nature of what has happened here today, I have no wish to make the contents of the letters public. They form an important part of our investigation.”
“Does she get to see them?” asked Winston, nodding in my direction without actually looking at me.
“I am not prepared to divulge any more, Mr Nicholls.”
“Of course she’s read them!” scoffed Tom. “Inspector Blakely and Miss Green have a close friendship.”
He gave me an unpleasant leer as his jaw worked on a piece of tobacco.
“Please excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to continue with my work. Today is certain to be a long one, as you can imagine.”
“Same goes for us all, Inspector,” said Winston.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m investigating this case myself.”
“Thank you for your offer of assistance, Mr Nicholls, but this is a matter for the police.”
“I’m now working as a private detective.”
“Are you indeed? I thought you were a clerk. Where did you gain your credentials to become a detective?”
Winston removed his hat and prodded a finger into his damp hair. “My credentials are in here. Sleuthing is an innate skill.”
“If you say so, Mr Nicholls.”
On an easier day, James would probably have been amused by the man’s delusions.
“I wish you the best of luck with your detective work,” he continued.
Then his expression turned stormy and he pointed his finger at Winston. “However, let me warn you now that misleading, obstructing or otherwise interfering with a police investigation is a punishable offence. For the benefit of the poor victims, I suggest you leave well alone. And if you, Tom Clifford, print anything else fallacious, such as questionable sightings of the murderer, the Yard will not hesitate to speak directly to the editor of The Holborn Gazette.”
“That’s happened before, hasn’t it, Miss Green? Didn’t the Commissioner of the Yard once have you removed from your job?” goaded Tom.
“That was a long time ago, and he made a mistake,” I replied. “This is different, Tom. James is warning that the pair of you could endanger the investigation.”
“We could endanger it, could we?” Tom laughed. “How nice to have such power! Don’t you agree, Winston?”
I felt my heart pound with anger.
Winston placed his hat back on his head. “I shall keep you informed of my investigations, Inspector.”
“Which is more than the inspector will do in return!” added Tom.
The two men turned and walked away.
Chapter 30
“‘A man of five feet and eleven inches in height with a black moustache, black silk hat, a black coat, an
d speckled trousers,’” read Mr Sherman from a copy of The Holborn Gazette. “‘His eyes were wide, green and unblinking.’”
He paused and glanced at me. “He sounds a tall fellow, and with those eyes you’d think he would be easy for the police to find, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know where Tom Clifford got such a description from,” I replied. “It’s rather different from the ones we’ve published.”
“Tom’s description sounds more intriguing.” He put his pipe in his mouth.
“Of course it does. He’s making up facts to sell newspapers.”
“And he’s working closely with a private detective, I hear.”
“He’s not a private detective,” I scoffed. “It’s Winston Nicholls, son of Martha Nicholls, who lives in St Giles. When I first met him, he claimed to be working as a clerk, but now he says he’s a detective. He’s been sending Inspector Blakely letters about the case.”
“As has the murderer, although frustratingly the Yard won’t let us print them.”
“James is worried in case they cause too much upset. Once people learn that the murderer has attended the funeral of one of his victims and identified the next victim in advance, there’ll be pandemonium. Some people will stay away from the next funeral, fearing for their lives, while many more who had never known Mrs Baxter might descend on it in the hope that they will be able to spot the murderer.”
“That’s understandable, although it’s still rather frustrating that we can’t print them. The letters must give some clue to the murderer’s identity, surely?”
“Not a great deal. He calls himself Adam D.V., but the police don’t yet know what the D and the V stand for. The postmarks on his letters are all from the Chapel Place post office on Oxford Street.”
“So the staff at that post office need to look out for a man who matches the description we’ve published, is that right?”
“Yes. The description we’ve printed is hopefully reliable. It’s based on the statements of the witnesses Inspector Blakely spoke to.”
Mr Sherman picked up a copy of The Morning Express and turned to my article on Mrs Baxter’s murder. “‘Jeanette Barnett, who resides at number twelve Holford Place, says she saw a young man walking with Mrs Baxter at ten minutes to midday. He was respectably dressed and five feet nine inches tall. He wore a black top hat and a dark overcoat. Harry McCarthy, who is a milk delivery boy for Armitage Dairies, says he saw a tall man speaking to Mrs Baxter at midday. The man wore a brown woollen coat and had fair-coloured whiskers.’ We do know that this chap’s called Adam though, don’t we?”