by Emily Organ
“It’s unlikely to be his real name. But whoever he is, we can be sure that he knew Mrs Baxter because he identified her in his letter and she seems to have willingly spent time in his company. Not only was she seen talking to him, but she appears to have entered the rotunda in Percy Circus without putting up any resistance. No one reported hearing or seeing signs of an argument or struggle between them.”
Had Mrs Baxter known Ed Keller? Would she have walked into the wooded area alongside him without concern?
I wondered if he had been arrested yet.
Mr Sherman sighed and folded up the newspaper. “I don’t envy the police in this case. It’s a hard nut to crack, but there hasn’t been a great deal of progress, has there? This Adam fellow must be amused by the force’s lacklustre efforts so far.”
“They’re doing their best. Have you read what Winston Nicholls has said about the police in The Holborn Gazette?”
I picked up the newspaper, turned to the article and read out: “‘“Once again, Londoners have been left reeling by another horrific attack,” said private detective, Mr Winston Nicholls. “There is no telling where the killer might strike next and people cannot sleep in their beds at night until this man is caught.” Frustrated by the lack of police progress with the investigation, Mr Nicholls believes he will soon have the killer snared. Perhaps our gratitude will not be due to the Metropolitan Police, but to the singular efforts of one brave man in tracking down this murderous brute.’”
“Oh dear,” said Mr Sherman. “I wonder whether Inspector Blakely has read that yet.”
“I hope not.”
“Good luck to this private detective fellow,” Frederick piped up. “Hopefully he’ll be the next victim!”
“Let’s stop short of ill will against the man, shall we?” said Mr Sherman, puffing out a cloud of pipe smoke. “This article angers me as much as it does you, and Clifford’s only written it because he feels excluded from the investigation. Why else would he team up with a lunatic who, out of nowhere, considers himself an expert sleuth? It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn worrying. We’re losing readers to the Gazette and I’m worried this trickle will become a stream and then a river if we don’t do something about it. Miss Green, I want you to interview the husband, Mr Baxter, about the loss of his wife and brother-in-law.”
“I can’t imagine he will want to speak to me at this time.”
“Of course he won’t, but I need you to be insistent with him, Miss Green! Don’t take no for an answer!”
“He will no doubt be at Mrs Baxter’s funeral. I could try and find a way to speak to him there rather than calling at his home.”
“When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do it tomorrow, then. I know the man is upset, but tell him that a few words from him in our newspaper will remind people to be on the lookout for the killer.”
“As if anyone needs reminding,” said Frederick.
Mr Sherman left the newsroom with a familiar slam of the door.
“By the expression on your face, Miss Green, I’d say you’re less than enamoured with the prospect of interviewing a grieving man at his wife’s funeral!” Frederick laughed.
“Have you heard from Edgar? How’s he finding his undercover work?”
“He’s thoroughly miserable!” Frederick laughed again. “He’s been bitten by rats and fleas, and had to rid himself of an infestation of lice. Those lodging houses are crawling with vermin.”
“Why did we choose this profession, Frederick?”
“I don’t know, Miss Green. I really don’t know.”
Chapter 31
A large crowd gathered for Mrs Baxter’s funeral in foggy Myddelton Square. The tower of St Mark’s Church loomed above us, ghostlike, and I felt uneasy as I walked among the mourners, surveying them through the black veil of my mourning hat.
Could the murderer really be among these people?
It was easy to spot Martha Nicholls among the crowd in her wide-brimmed hat covered with black ribbons and bows. She was accompanied by her son.
“I’ve told Winston that I don’t want none of ’is sleuthing while we’re ’ere. We’re mournin’ Mrs Baxter and that’s it. Once ’e’s got an idea in ’is ’ead, yer can’t stop ’im!”
Martha laughed affectionately, while Winston looked straight past me.
“’E’s chattin’ to all the reporters now. ’Ave you spoke to ’im?”
“I have. We saw each other in Percy Circus.”
“Winston’s workin’ all hours on it, ain’t you Winston?”
He gave a weak smile by way of reply and said nothing.
“’Ow did yer get on with the Earl o’ York?” she asked.
“I managed to interview him.”
“Did yer? Well, I must say I’m impressed. ’E didn’t try nuffink, did ’e?”
“Such as what?”
“Yer know what I mean. ’E tries it on wiv the ladies, or so I’ve ’eard. I tried to warn yer abaht ’im, but yer got outta there alright, so ’e must’ve gone easy on yer.”
“I was fine, thank you Martha.”
My skin prickled and I glanced around at the crowd, worried that Ed might appear among the sea of faces.
Inside the church, I found James standing next to the font. He wore a black suit and had dark circles under his eyes.
“You look tired,” I said.
“I am, rather. This case is consuming such a lot of my time, and unfortunately it’s coincided with my grandfather’s ill health.”
“How is he?”
“Frail. Does anyone here rouse your suspicions?”
I watched the mourners as they took their places in the pews and recognised a number of them from St Giles. They were easy to identify as their clothing was so threadbare.
“Everyone looks rather similar when they’re dressed in mourning clothes don’t they? And it’s difficult to recognise the women when they wear veils over their faces. Is Ed Keller here?”
“No, he’s in the cells at Bow Street.”
“He’s been arrested?” A grin spread across my face.
James smiled in return. “I knew that would please you. E Division are currently holding six men, including Ed Keller, and G Division are holding another four. The Home Secretary is taking a keen interest in our progress now and we’re rounding up anyone with the faintest whiff of suspicion about them.
“Ed Keller’s no stranger to Bow Street station, of course, and they can always find a number of petty charges to hold him on. The crucial business will be finding evidence to connect him to the murders, if there is any. I doubt that he’s literate enough to write the letters.”
“He may have had someone write them for him.”
“It’s possible, but it would be risky to have an accomplice who might betray him. He has a habit of falling out with people.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the fact that Ed Keller was behind bars for the time being.
“So the murderer may not be here at all?”
“He may be, and he may not be.” James stifled a yawn. “All we can do for now is observe and remain vigilant.”
Mrs Baxter was buried in the churchyard of St Mark’s. As the mourners gathered by the graveside, I surveyed the crowd once again, looking for someone who didn’t appear to fit in. I couldn’t see everyone clearly in the fog, and I wasn’t exactly sure who or what I was looking for.
Someone with a strange stare or a sinister way about them? Perhaps someone who didn’t appear particularly upset about Mrs Baxter’s death?
Although my veil obscured my vision slightly, it was a useful means of concealing my prying eyes.
I saw Reuben O’Donoghue standing a head taller than the mourners around him as we listened to the committal. I had forgotten that he was quite handsome, and as I watched him I struggled to believe the stories I had been told about his violent past.
Could Winston Nicholls be right about him?
As the mourners bega
n to depart, I introduced myself to Mr Baxter, a pale-faced, bewildered-looking man with a quivering grey moustache. He didn’t refuse to speak to me; instead, he appeared to be locked in his own grief, indifferent to my presence. He gave brief answers to my questions about his wife and brother-in-law, pausing to wipe his face with a sodden handkerchief a number of times.
“I’m going to stay with my sister in Weymouth,” he said at the end of our conversation. “I need to leave London and I shan’t be sorry if I never return.”
“Let’s ’ope there ain’t no more,” said Martha Nicholls as she came to say goodbye to me, accompanied by her son and the missionaries. “I don’t want there ter be no more.”
“All they need to do is arrest O’Donoghue, Ma,” said Winston. “That’ll put an end to this awful business. It’s an outrage that he’s been allowed to attend his victim’s funeral, and looking so pleased with himself at that. I dread to think what he’s planning to do next.”
“How are you, Miss Green?” asked David Meares.
It was the first I had seen him and Hugo Hawkins since they had rescued me from Ed Keller.
“Very well, thank you.”
I smiled broadly, as if to demonstrate that I was fully recovered from my ordeal.
“That is good news indeed,” said Hugo kindly. I felt relieved that the missionaries were keeping to their word and had not mentioned the attack to anyone else. “Are you ready, Mrs Nicholls? The carriages are waiting out in the square.”
“They brought us out ’ere. Ain’t that kind of ’em?” said Martha. “Saves me shoe leather, that does.”
“We try to help where we can,” said Hugo. “Would you like to join us for prayers in the chapel, Miss Green?”
“Thank you, but I must get back to Fleet Street if I’m to meet my deadline.”
I watched the small group leave and felt worried for Martha returning to her cold, dilapidated home in the slum. She deserved better. They all did.
I was one of the last to leave the churchyard. As I did, I found James standing by the gate smoking a pipe.
“Tobacco?” I said. “A pipe? Doesn’t the future Mrs Blakely abhor pipe smoke?”
“Much needed, I’m afraid,” replied James.
“But doesn’t the odour linger?”
“It can linger all it likes. Quite frankly, the tobacco will help steady the ship.”
“Are you all right, James?”
“No, I’m not all right.” He glowered. “I hoped I would pick up some clues from the funeral today. This is a damned frustrating business. Mrs Baxter shouldn’t have lost her life. I should have stopped him! He sent a letter to the Yard practically telling us what he was about to do! And if he sends another letter saying he was at the funeral today I will find it exceedingly difficult to keep a calm head.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t here. Perhaps he’s one of the men who’s been arrested.”
“I hope so, but what if he isn’t? What if he writes another letter taunting us and then murders again? I don’t like this pattern, not one little bit.” He thumped his gloved fist against the gatepost. “I’m supposed to be stopping him! And yet I am no closer to the man than I was when this sorry business first began!”
Chapter 32
The News of the World was the first newspaper to print Adam’s letters, but the rest of Fleet Street quickly followed suit. I knew James hadn’t wanted the letters published and suspected that CID in E or G Division had shared them with the reporters. The murders had also made the news on the continent and in America. The murder of a middle-class woman in a pleasant district of London had caused many to fear that just about anyone might become the next victim.
I managed to distract myself for an evening by continuing my work on Father’s letters and diaries. The stove in my lodgings was only small, so I wore an old, thick shawl over my shoulders for warmth. Mr Edwards had kindly found me a book in the reading room that contained some information about La Mesa de Los Santos, and I had made brief notes on its environment and topography.
Now Tiger was sitting on them atop my writing desk, next to the empty tin of biscuits. ‘Peek, Frean & Co Biscuits, London’ was written beneath a picture of an elephant frolicking in the jungle with a brightly coloured howdah on its back.
Had the tins my father saw in Bogota carried the same picture? I wondered.
I read a letter which he had written to my mother in March 1875.
The jaguars are a particular nuisance during the month of March, when the turtles lay their eggs. A jaguar can scoop a turtle out from its shell without even opening it! The natives must keep their cattle in enclosures at night, but even then a jaguar has been known to break in and steal a calf or goat. In a village here, I found six well-armed men willing to take a canoe up from the Santo Domingo wetlands in the direction of the San Lucas mountains, where there are great deposits of gold.
I was interrupted by a knock at my door. Tiger dashed under my bed as I opened it to find my sister and Mrs Garnett standing there, deeply engaged in conversation.
“Be on the lookout for foreign gentlemen,” said my landlady to Eliza. “Everyone’s saying that only a foreigner could be capable of such murderous behaviour.”
“What about the man in the mask?”
“He’s what everyone was talking about a week or so ago, but now they’re saying that he’s a foreigner.”
“What sort? From Europe or India or Africa?”
Mrs Garnett shrugged. “I don’t know. He might be a Jew for all we know; perhaps a Polish Jew. Lots of them have a look about them, don’t they? It’s best to avoid any foreign-looking men, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Green? And you would help yourselves, ladies, by not staying out after dark.”
Her dark eyes were wide and fearful.
“But Mrs Baxter was murdered in the middle of the day!” said Eliza. “And I arrived here on my bicycle. No man is likely to accost me while I’m on my bicycle, is he?”
“I should think he would stay well away from your bicycle, Mrs Billington-Grieg.”
Mrs Garnett sucked her lip disapprovingly as she looked down at Eliza’s divided woollen grey skirt.
“Hello Penelope,” said Eliza. “I found myself bicycling along Fore Street and thought I would pay you a quick visit. We were just discussing these terrible murders.”
She removed her bonnet, which, like her jacket, was damp with rain.
“So I heard.”
“Any further news on the culprit? What’s the latest from the Yard?”
“A number of men are under arrest at the moment. Each police department has been rounding up all the petty thieves, drunkards and lunatics in their divisions. I’m sure our streets are safer now than they have been for a long time!”
I smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“A friend of my neighbour knew Mrs Baxter. Isn’t it dreadful?” said Eliza. “Especially when you consider that she could have been saved. The killer actually wrote to the police telling them he was about to murder her next!”
“Disgraceful,” added Mrs Garnett.
“He didn’t quite say that,” I said. “He mentioned her in the letter, but when the police received it they weren’t sure whether it was a hoax or not.”
“One can’t take risks with such a letter. He actually wrote her name down! They knew about her!” said Eliza.
“The police have received a great many letters about the murders,” I replied.
“They’re overwhelmed, aren’t they? They need more constables to cope with it.”
“They have so much to do. James is rather frustrated with the lack of progress at the moment, but he’s working as efficiently as possible.”
“I’m sure he is. But they’re no closer to catching the man, are they? How many people have been killed now? Four? Five?”
“Mrs Baxter was the fifth victim.”
“And a respectable lady, too! It’s extremely frightening,” said Mrs Garnett. “Until now, I’ve always slept well at night, safe
in the knowledge that murder has a higher incidence among the lower classes. But things have changed now! It could be any of us! There, but for the grace of God, goes Mrs Garnett.”
She tucked a steel grey curl under her white, cotton bonnet.
“I wonder whether it’s worth leaving London until he’s caught,” said Eliza.
“I would go at the drop of a hat,” replied my landlady. “But we have to stay here and make a living, don’t we?”
“There’s no need to leave London. He’ll be caught very soon,” I said hopefully. “Would you like some sherry, ladies?”
“I never touch the stuff but I’ll make an exception tonight for medicinal purposes,” said Mrs Garnett, bustling past me into my room.
Eliza followed, removing her damp tweed jacket. “I think that shawl you’re wearing once belonged to Grandmother, Penelope,” she said. “How it’s survived the moths over the years, I’ll never know.”
I retrieved the bottle from beneath my bed and poured a measure of sherry out into three tin cups.
“You haven’t bought yourself any glassware yet?” asked Mrs Garnett, examining a dent in her cup.
Eliza hung her jacket up by the stove and sat in the chair at my writing desk while Mrs Garnett sat on my bed, wiping her brow with her apron. I knew that there were thousands of people like Mrs Garnett in London worrying about the murderer and where he would strike next. I felt a twinge of anger that one man had been the cause of such anxiety for so many.
“The chances of any of us becoming victims are extremely slim,” I said, feeling the need to reassure my visitors, even though I felt worried myself. “And although these deaths are regrettable, we can’t allow ourselves to become hysterical about them. Instead, we must focus on catching the man responsible. That’s what Inspector Blakely is working on, along with many other police officers. We must trust in them to do their job.”