by Emily Organ
“But it’s taking them a while, isn’t it?” said Eliza, gulping back most of her sherry.
“What’s your inspector doing about it?” Mrs Garnett asked me.
“He’s not my inspector.”
I could see Eliza smiling out of the corner of my eye, but I chose not to look at her.
“He was in this room once,” said Mrs Garnett.
“Is that so?” said Eliza.
“That was not a social visit. It was an important meeting about the Lizzie Dixie case,” I retorted. “And the door was kept open all the time, wasn’t it, Mrs Garnett? And you remained close enough to hear our conversation, did you not?”
“But what’s he doing about this murderer?”
“Everything he possibly can: examining the scene of each crime, talking to witnesses, pursuing every new lead, writing reports and all the rest of it.”
“I like a man who works hard,” said Mrs Garnett wistfully. I noticed that her cup was already empty. “Hercules was always inclined towards lethargy.”
“Hercules?” Eliza said.
“My husband. He died twenty years ago and not from overwork, I can assure you. I don’t think the man did twelve labours in his entire lifetime, despite his name!”
She cackled at her own joke and put her cup to her lips, appearing disappointed when she realised there was nothing left in it.
“Would you like a drop more sherry, Mrs Garnett?”
“No, no. That’s quite enough for me.” She stood up slowly. “It’s made me get to thinking about Hercules, and I don’t want to go thinking about him too much.”
She sucked her lip again and walked over to the door. “No visitors after nine o’clock, Miss Green, remember? Goodnight Mrs Billington-Grieg.”
Once Mrs Garnett had left the room, Eliza surveyed the papers on my desk. “I see you’re working on Father’s letters,” she said.
“Yes, I didn’t realise a jaguar could eat a turtle without even opening its shell. In fact, I didn’t realise jaguars ate turtles at all.”
I poured some more sherry into our cups.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“I think I’ve read most of Father’s diaries now and I haven’t yet come across the entries you alluded to.”
“Which ones?”
“The ones which you said weren’t as enchanting as the others. I’m still not sure what you could have meant by that.”
“It’s not worth dwelling on that too much,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’ll know what I’m talking about as soon as you read it. Do you know which publishers you plan to approach?”
“Yes, I’ve drawn up a list. We need a publisher who can print Father’s drawings in full colour plates. Wouldn’t that look good? And some maps would be useful too. I find I often need to refer to a map so that I can picture the routes he took. And to think he was doing all this and we had no idea how fascinating his life was. If only he had taken us with him!”
“If only. It would have been far too dangerous for us, of course.”
“Perhaps not as dangerous as London with a killer wandering the streets.”
“Oh, Penelope, stop frightening me! You said yourself that there was little chance of us falling victim to this man. I should go before it gets too late and I find myself being chased by a strange foreigner with a knife.”
She finished her sherry, stood up and put her jacket on. “This hasn’t dried out at all. Oh well, it will have to do.”
“Ellie, I can’t help thinking that you’re being evasive.”
“About what?”
“About the event I haven’t yet encountered in Father’s diaries.”
She sighed. “I’ve told you to read it for yourself and then tell me what you think about it. If I describe it to you, there’s a danger that I will colour it with my own opinion on the matter. I’d like to find out what you think of it first.”
“Can’t you give me a clue?”
“It’s when he canoes up a river, and I can’t remember which river it is, I’m afraid.”
She put on her gloves.
“Father wasn’t perfect. You realise that, don’t you, Penelope?”
“Of course. No one’s perfect.”
“Good.” She pulled on her bonnet and tied it firmly under her chin. The bow on her bonnet was limp and wet. “Because I have a growing concern that you think he might have been.”
“I think he went on some wonderful adventures, and that he was the first person to bring certain varieties of plant to Britain.”
“Yes, he did some admirable things, but it’s important that we try to remember him for the person he was and not as some idealised individual. When one spends quite a lot of time alone it’s easy to develop a strong attachment to someone.”
“Ellie, he was our father! Of course I have a strong attachment to him!”
“Yes, and so do I. Perhaps I’m not explaining this very well. Father is probably dead. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened and I saw that my sister’s eyes were damp.
“Don’t become too attached to him, Penelope. Remember it’s likely that he spent the best times in his life without us.”
“How can you say that?” My voice cracked and I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek. “We were his daughters. He loved us and Mother very much. Why are you saying such things, Ellie?”
She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at each eye.
“I’m just trying to give some perspective on matters. I’m very happy that you’re writing this book about Father, but while you’re doing so, don’t forget to live in the present. You spend a lot of time on your own. Don’t forget that there are people here with you now to whom you can also be attached.”
She opened the door and looked back at me. Her brown eyes looked just like Mother’s.
“You don’t have to be alone, Penelope.”
Chapter 33
“Turner? I think I’ve ’eard the name round ’ere, but can’t fink who it is,” said Martha.
James and I stood with her in the cold, breezy courtyard, with laundry billowing over our heads.
“Is ’e a suspect?”
“Not necessarily,” replied James. “We believe he was at Mrs Baxter’s funeral. You don’t recall seeing anyone you know as Mr Turner being there?”
She screwed up her face in thought. “I’m gonna ’ave ter think on it. Keep askin’ round ’ere, though. There’ll be someone what knows ’im. Common name ’n’ all. There must be a fair few Turners in these parts.”
“Thank you, Mrs Nicholls.”
James’s reply was curt. I could see the tension in his jaw and his brow was more furrowed than usual. What we hadn’t told Martha was that Mr Turner had been mentioned in the latest letter Adam D.V. had sent to Scotland Yard. James was certain it could only mean one thing: that Mr Turner was to be the next victim.
“What do we do now?” James had asked after showing me the letter. “Tell everyone with the name of Turner to stay in their homes?”
I saw you looking for me when Mrs Baxter was laid to rest. You could have reached her in time, but I think you know that by now. I had a pleasant conversation with Mr Turner, who was polite to me for once.
Adam D.V.
“It’s nice of yer ter visit me, though,” continued Martha. “Hev’ryone’s forgot about St Giles since Mrs Baxter got murdered. We ain’t ’ardly seen no bobbies round ’ere, nor reporters neither. I’m ’opin’ that murderer ain’t botherin’ wiv us no more and ’e’s moved on ter ovver parts o’ London.”
“Did anyone at Mrs Baxter’s funeral look suspicious to you?” I asked.
“Nah, didn’t see no one what looked out o’ place. Apart from all the police and reporters, of course. They proberly started suspecting each other! Hev’ryone else looked normal to me. D’yer think the murderer were there?”
“Anything is possible,” said James.
“Reuben O
’Donoghue were there. P’r’aps it’s ’im? Police ain’t come up with no one better, ’ave they? Yer needs to arrest ’im again, Inspector, and ask ’im some proper questions.”
“We’ll speak to him again, Mrs Nicholls,” said James. “If you can think of anyone who might harbour a grudge against Mr Larcombe and his sister, you’ll let me know, won’t you? Perhaps someone had an argument with them?”
“Oh, lotsa people ’ad arguments wiv ’em alright.”
“Such as who?”
“I’m gonna ’ave ter think on that one ’n’ all.”
“Well please do, Mrs Nicholls, and let me know. Please excuse us, we must continue our search for Mr Turner. If you recall anyone with that name, will you please let a constable know or tell them down at Bow Street station?”
“Will do, Inspector.”
“Do you think Winston might know a Mr Turner?” I asked Martha.
“’E might.”
“Do you know where he is this morning?”
“I dunno. ’E’s doin’ ’is detective work now, ain’t ’e?”
“If you see your son, Mrs Nicholls, please can you ask him to speak to us?” said James. “He may well have come across this Mr Turner in the course of his, er, detective work.”
“Course I will. Oh, I almost forgot.” Martha rummaged in the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small piece of card. “I found this blowin’ across the yard this mornin’.”
She handed the card to James.
“It’s dirty, like someone’s trod on it. But I ain’t got no idea who ’e is. Weren’t the letters from someone called Adam?”
I looked over James’ shoulder at the crumpled card, which read:
Mr Adam de Vries
23 Leinster Gardens
London W2
I felt my heart miss a beat.
“Thank you, Mrs Nicholls,” said James. “This is extremely interesting. Do you know this man?”
“Never ’eard of ’im.”
We left the courtyard and turned into the street which led to Seven Dials.
“It could be him!” I exclaimed in a loud whisper. “Adam D.V.! Adam de Vries!”
“Let’s not leap to conclusions, Penny,” replied James as a broad grin spread across his face, “but this is an encouraging find, indeed. It seems Adam has been rather careless. Oh, look at this.”
Ahead of us, the cobblestones were covered with little rectangles of white card. I stooped to pick one up.
“Here are more of them. He’s accidentally dropped them, hasn’t he?”
James bent down and began to gather them up. “I suspect so. The card case must have fallen out of his pocket, but there’s no sign of it here. It’s likely someone has made off with it, especially if it was a good one and made of silver.”
We continued gathering up the cards.
“Or perhaps the card case was picked from his pocket?”
“Yes! You could be right. The thief could well have taken the case from him and then run along this street emptying the cards as he ran. These ones aren’t particularly muddy or damp, so I shouldn’t think they’ve been on the ground for long. Maybe they were dropped during the night or early this morning. We’re onto him now!”
We got to our feet and James put the cards in his pocket.
“I think we need to get to Leinster Gardens now, don’t we?” he said. “Every police division is searching for people by the name of Turner and if we’re quick we might get to Adam before he can reach him.”
He looked at me, his blue eyes twinkling and his face flushed with excitement. “Are you ready, Penny?”
My heart began to pound faster still. “I think so!”
Chapter 34
“The name Leinster Gardens sounds familiar,” I said as the cab made its way through Leicester Square. “I think it’s near where my sister lives in Bayswater.”
“I should imagine it’s an affluent street,” said James.
He took one of the cards out of his pocket and examined it. “And a man with a card such as this is likely to be well-to-do. I’ve no idea why someone who lives in such a place would be travelling to St Giles and murdering people.”
“Perhaps he’s a slummer.”
“You mean one of those people who likes to visit the slums for the sake of enjoyment?”
“Yes, and Mrs Baxter organised tours of St Giles, didn’t she? Another of the victims, Mrs O’Brien, used to allow the visitors to look inside her home. Mrs Baxter paid her a tuppence for each visit, Martha told me.”
“You think the pastime of slumming could provide an explanation? There might be something in that.”
“Perhaps we can ask Adam de Vries when we see him? I wonder how he’ll receive us.”
“One can never tell. If the rest of the Metropolitan police force wasn’t so busy looking for Mr Turner, I would have asked a few of the constables to accompany us. With a bit of luck, he’ll come quietly down to the police station at Paddington.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Well, we’ve faced a rather sticky situation together before, haven’t we?”
“And we were both shot.”
“Yes, that was rather unfortunate. There’s always a risk when confronting these people, but with a bit of luck there will be house staff present when we call. Possibly even a wife and family. I doubt that he would want to create a scene in front of others. I think it would be best if you were to remain in the cab while I go and see him. I don’t want to put you in danger again.”
“I won’t be in danger if I’m with you.”
“Penny, you were shot last time.”
“The chances of that happening again are rather slim, don’t you think?”
“I wish I knew.”
Regent Street was busy and James was growing impatient. He opened the hatch in the roof and called out to the driver: “We’re in a hurry, can’t you take a shortcut? How about going through Berkeley Square and then Grosvenor Square? You’ll get to Park Lane quicker that way, and then we’ll be at Marble Arch before we know it.”
“You fink I don’t know where I’m goin’?”
“I have every confidence that you know where you’re going, but I’d like to get there a little quicker if possible. This is urgent police business.”
I heard the cab driver grumbling as James shut the hatch. We lurched left into a side street and the horse broke out into a trot.
“Cabmen can’t bear a passenger suggesting another route, can they?” he said. “They always think they know best.”
James sat back in his seat, so that my shoulder was resting just inches away from his upper arm. Sitting with him in a cab again reminded me of the evening when I had embarrassed myself. The current pause in the conversation finally gave me the opportunity to say something I had been wanting to say for the previous two weeks.
“James, I haven’t found the chance to apologise.”
I fixed my eyes on the horse in front of us, too ashamed to look at him. From the corner of my eye, I saw his face turn toward mine.
“For what?”
“That evening. In the cab after we’d been to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
“Oh that!”
He chuckled and I finally turned to look at him.
“What’s so amusing?”
“I saw a different side to you, Penny.”
He smiled and his eyes lingered on my face. I turned my attention back towards the horse.
“You won’t see that side of me again; it was a mistake. It was all a mistake. I want to make that clear.”
“It sounds as though you’ve been worrying about it. Please don’t. You did nothing wrong.”
“Did nothing wrong?” I looked at him again. “Of course I did! My behaviour was unladylike, inconsiderate and inappropriate.”
“I think you’re being rather hard on yourself. You have nothing to apologise for, Penny.”
“You are engaged to be married and I am a spinster. There are rules regarding how a l
ady should behave. In fact, I’m not sure it is wholly appropriate for the two of us to be sharing a cab at this moment.”
“We’re working, Penny!” James laughed. “As I’ve already said, please don’t worry or apologise for your behaviour.”
“So the embarrassing incident is forgotten about?”
“If that’s what you wish.”
The smile left James’ face and I looked back at the horse again.
The hatch in the roof opened and the cabman yelled down to us: “There’s an ’orse down on Grosv’nor Square. We can sit ’ere ’n’ wait, or ’ave you got any wise ideas about another way ter go?”
“You’re the cabbie,” replied James curtly. “Can’t you come up with an alternative route?”
“I would, but I ain’t sure it’s one yer’ll be ’appy with, sir, seein’ as yer know these roads better ’an I do.”
He slammed the hatch shut and James rolled his eyes.
After passing along the edge of Hyde Park, we turned right into Leinster Terrace and James asked the cabman to stop.
“I’ll walk from here up to Leinster Gardens,” he said to me. “I’d like to approach the address quietly on foot. Wait here and ask the driver to continue up to Leinster Gardens in about five minutes or so. That should give me enough time.”
He climbed out of the cab.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, Penny, it’s not safe.”
“But I might know him from St Giles. The name on his card is likely to be false and he might be someone I’ve spoken to before. I can help you.”
James checked his watch and sighed. “I don’t think you should come with me, but I also know that there is no use in my trying to argue with you.”
“Thank you.”
We asked the cabman to wait for us and walked up the street, which was lined with trees and large, cream, stuccoed houses with elaborate porches. A cold wind whipped around us and I heard the rumble and whistle of a train, although I couldn’t see where the railway line was.