The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  “Shocking, isn’t it? You come to expect it in a place like St Giles, but Chelsea?”

  “We need to find out what the connection might have been between Mr Turner and St Giles.”

  “You think there is one?”

  “There has to be. He was specifically targeted by the killer.”

  “But does the link have to be St Giles? The killer may have known him by other means.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. I hope we can interview some of Mr Turner’s servants.”

  “The police may not allow us to.”

  “I’ll ask James.”

  “Ah yes, there’s always your schoolboy inspector.” Edgar smiled.

  We reached Royal Avenue, which was still blocked by a blue line of police constables.

  I asked for Inspector Blakely and Inspector Dunleath.

  “No press allowed down there today,” came the reply.

  “But you let us through yesterday.”

  “Not today.”

  “Why not?”

  “No press today.”

  “Can we see Inspector Blakely from Scotland Yard, please?”

  “No press today.”

  “No press!” came a voice from behind us. I turned to see Tom Clifford grinning, his tobacco-stained teeth on display. “Mr Fish and Miss Green! Looking for a story?”

  “We’re already working on it, thank you.”

  “So am I. I’m assisting the private detective.”

  “Where is he?” I asked, looking around for Winston Nicholls.

  “Not here.”

  “He’s investigating this murder as well, is he?”

  “It’s the same man again, isn’t it? Adam de Vries.”

  “What do you know about Adam de Vries?”

  “Same as you, most probably.”

  “Inspector Blakely only found out his name yesterday.”

  “Did he? Well, Winston Nicholls came across his calling card the day before that.”

  “Perhaps he should have shared his find with the police!”

  “He’s tried a number of times to share information with the police, but they don’t appear to be interested in what he has to say. That’s their loss. Fortunately for him, we print all of his findings in The Holborn Gazette.”

  “And what are his findings?”

  “You mean to tell me you haven’t been reading our superior pages?”

  “I have, but I don’t recall any of his findings leaping out at me.”

  “You wait, Miss Green. Just you wait. Your inspector’s on the back foot. And what a surprise to see you here, Fish. Finally out and about on a story?”

  “Out of our way, Clifford, we’ve work to do.”

  “Well, that’s a first!” Tom laughed again.

  “Where can we find Winston Nicholls?” I asked.

  “What do you want with him? Finally beginning to believe he’s onto something, are you?”

  “I’m keeping my mind open.”

  “There you go, you are indeed! Given up on the inspector now?”

  “Where’s Nicholls?”

  “How do I know? Try his home or his mother. You know his mother, don’t you? Go and find him yourself.”

  Tom sauntered off and Edgar sighed.

  “I regret stealing his story. Tom and I used to be such good friends.”

  “I don’t think that friendship is any great loss.”

  “It helps to be able to work together. We used to share a good deal of information. Oh well, I suppose the best thing to do now is make my way down to The Coopers Arms. Heard of it? You can get a nice drop of porter in there.”

  “I suppose a public house could be a good source of news. You’re likely to find someone in there who might be able to tell us more about Mr Turner.”

  “I get most of my stories from pubs, as you well know. Care to join me?”

  “The last time I went to the pub with you, Edgar, I suffered a bout of intemperance.”

  He laughed.

  “I’ll knock on some doors instead and try to find some witnesses that way,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “A masked man running through the streets of Chelsea shortly after Mr Turner’s murder?” said Mr Sherman with delight. “What a capital story!”

  He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “What sort of mask was he wearing?”

  “A coal porter in The Coopers Arms told me it was a dark mask which covered the upper part of his face; certainly his eyes and nose,” said Edgar. “The landlord of the pub told me that a number of customers had seen the same man running away from Royal Avenue.”

  “It has to be the murderer! Don’t you agree, Miss Green?”

  “He matches the description of the masked man seen in St Giles around the times of Jack and Mr Larcombe’s murders,” I said.

  “He went into Mr Turner’s home, cut his throat and ran off in disguise! The masked man is back!” said Mr Sherman, clapping his hands together with glee. “Have any of the other reporters got hold of this news?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Edgar.

  “Good, good. Get it all written down as quickly as you can, but ensure that I can read your handwriting, Fish. Did you come across any witnesses who saw the masked man, Miss Green?”

  “I didn’t, sir. I was trying to find someone who could enlighten me in regard to Mr Turner’s connection with St Giles. I found out that he considered himself a philanthropist and liked to help fallen women in the slums.”

  “Did you find anyone who saw the murderer?”

  “No. I’m waiting to speak to one of Mr Turner’s servants about that.”

  “Good, and when will you do that?”

  “When I can persuade Inspector Blakely to permit me to do so.”

  “You didn’t manage to do that today?”

  My editor’s expression had swiftly changed from one of jubilance to one of exasperation.

  “No, the police wouldn’t allow us anywhere near the crime scene.”

  “Shame.”

  Mr Sherman turned away and I felt a sinking sense of disappointment. The large grin on Edgar’s face did nothing to improve my mood.

  However, there was something I had gleaned from my interviews that day which I hoped would prove useful. Neighbours of Mr Turner had told me he had been a short man with greying-orange hair and a thick moustache. The description matched the appearance of the man with whom I had seen Reuben O’Donoghue arguing on the foggy day when I had ventured to speak to Ed Keller accompanied by the missionaries.

  Had Mr Turner and Reuben argued? If so, what about?

  I felt certain that an important clue lay within their conversation, but I didn’t know how to discover it.

  Chapter 38

  My room felt cold that evening and my mood was rather despondent. After a day in Chelsea, Edgar had managed to find the best story about Mr Turner’s murder and my efforts had afforded me very little. I put on an old overcoat of my sister’s and cuddled Tiger on my lap as I sat by the little stove and sipped a cup of cocoa.

  I had discovered that Mr Turner had visited St Giles as a philanthropist and I had seen him arguing with Reuben O’Donoghue, but this did not help to explain why the man who called himself Adam de Vries had killed him.

  Could Reuben be Adam de Vries?

  With little more than wild theories in my mind, I put Tiger on the floor, stood up from my chair and went over to my writing desk. I had almost finished reading Father’s diaries. I opened the one from 1875.

  Fallen trees are making our navigation of the Opon troublesome and my companions and I have been obliged to lift our canoe out of the water at regular intervals as we try to scramble our way along the riverbank, carrying it above our heads.

  I call it a canoe, but it is little more than a hollowed-out tree trunk. Notwithstanding, it is a capacious tree trunk and accommodates six men reasonably comfortably. I have collected a number of pretty oncidiums from the banks, and their sprays of profuse blooms are quite a sight to behold.
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br />   Despite the beauty of this land, its dangers are not to be underestimated. We regularly encounter alligators enjoying their repose on sandbanks, and the deadly coral snake and the colossal boa are enough to petrify the hardiest of natives. At night, we camp on the sandbanks and take turns to keep watch, our firearms loaded and poised.

  The most concerning source of danger is the red men who inhabit the forests here. Twice today, arrows have whistled across the river, just narrowly missing our heads. The vegetation on the riverbank is so thick and luxuriant that I have yet to catch sight of our foes hiding among it.

  Mrs Garnett hammered on my door and startled me.

  “The inspector is here to see you, Miss Green!”

  I jumped out of my chair, removed my sister’s overcoat and tried to re-pin my hair and smooth out my burgundy print dress as I walked over to my door. I prayed that James wasn’t visiting me to bring news of yet another murder.

  “He’s waiting for you in the hallway,” said my landlady.

  I followed her down the narrow wooden staircase, then descended the wide carpeted stairs.

  “James! Is everything all right?”

  He stood in the hallway with his hat in his hand.

  “Everything is very well, thank you, Penny.”

  We exchanged a smile and James glanced over my shoulder at Mrs Garnett, who had decided to remain in the hallway with us, dusting the table vigorously as a pretext for her lingering.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “I was just passing.”

  He glanced at Mrs Garnett again and she hummed a tuneless song as if she wasn’t listening to our conversation.

  “You’ve heard about the man in the mask seen running away from Mr Turner’s house?” I asked.

  “I have. It’s extremely interesting.”

  He fidgeted with the brim of his hat.

  “A neighbour told me he was a philanthropist in St Giles.”

  “It’s good to establish the connection, isn’t it? I’ve heard he discovered the place on one of Mrs Baxter’s slum tours and subsequently visited the pubs in the area and enjoyed the company of...” He paused to clear his throat. “The company of certain ladies,” he added quietly.

  I could sense Mrs Garnett behind me still, almost leaning in to hear more.

  “Now it’s beginning to make sense,” I said.

  “Do you think so?” said James. “I’m finding it all rather baffling.”

  “I meant Mr Turner’s connection with St Giles.”

  “Ah yes, I see what you mean. Yes, it’s a useful development.”

  He scratched the back of his neck and I guessed that this topic of conversation had not been what James had come to talk about.

  “I shall go to St Giles tomorrow and found out more about what Mr Turner did there,” I said.

  “Good idea. You’ll let me know what you discover?”

  “Of course.”

  “And have you seen Winston Nicholls recently?”

  “No. Edgar and I saw Tom Clifford in Chelsea today, but he refused to tell us where Winston was.”

  “Ah. E Division have been on the lookout for him for a couple of days now and there has been no sign of the fellow anywhere.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “He’s one of the men they would like to speak to.”

  “I’ll ask Martha where Winston is.”

  “Thank you. Be careful how you go about it, though. If you drop a hint that the police wish to speak to him, she’s unlikely to tell you his whereabouts.”

  “I’ll try to be as tactful as possible.”

  “Well, it’s late and I should be going,” announced James loudly, looking over at Mrs Garnett.

  His brief visit felt rather unfulfilling with the presence of my landlady constraining our conversation. I opened the front door for him and he went out but paused on the top step.

  “I wish to apologise for my short temper yesterday,” he whispered. “I was rather angry about that trick de Vries had played on us. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way.”

  “Please don’t worry. You have a lot of work to do and it’s only normal that you should feel the strain of it sometimes.”

  “And I don’t want you to feel embarrassed,” he whispered even more softly.

  “About what?”

  “We didn’t manage to finish our conversation in the cab on the way to Bayswater, did we?”

  “Oh that.” I glanced back at Mrs Garnett, who was dusting the picture above the hallway table and looking over at me.

  I turned back to James. “I’m no longer embarrassed about it,” I whispered. “I’ve forgotten about the whole incident.”

  “Of course.” He put his hat on and scratched his chin. I heard the faint sound of stubble rubbing against his fingernails. “It’s probably inappropriate for me to say this, but I haven’t.”

  “Haven’t?” I felt puzzled. “You’re telling me you haven’t forgotten about it?”

  “Indeed I haven’t. I am happy to remember it.”

  He smiled and I felt a skip of excitement in my chest.

  “But I shouldn’t say any more than that. Goodnight, Penny.”

  He disappeared down the steps and into the darkness before I had the chance to bid him goodnight in return.

  Chapter 39

  I drank some coffee at a stall in Long Acre the following morning in the hope that it would clear my head. Weak sunlight emerged between the grey clouds and I watched a shopkeeper open his draper’s store for the day. I had slept little that night; instead, I had repeated the conversation with James in my mind so frequently that I felt perplexed.

  If I had understood him correctly, he had told me that he was happy to remember the incident in the cab. It would have been a flattering comment to hear if he wasn’t engaged to be married, and I felt sure that his future wife would not approve if she knew he had said it.

  His words had both buoyed and saddened me at the same time. And I also felt angry. Why would he say such a thing when he knew that nothing could ever develop between us? It was almost irresponsible. A word from him explaining that he held no affection for me would have been hurtful, but it would have been preferable because it might have removed the what if? question from my mind. What if James had never met his fiancée? I disliked myself for thinking it, but I wished that he had never met her. I returned my coffee cup to the stall and walked up Langley Street, between the looming brewery buildings.

  “I’d say spring’s in the air,” said Martha, looking up at the blue patch of sky above the courtyard. “What are we now? Middle of Feb’ry?”

  “Hopefully it won’t be long before the weather warms up,” I said as Martha pegged a shirt onto the washing line.

  “So ’e’s got ’imself another one. And in Chelsea this time,” said Martha. “Mr Turner. I’ve bin reminded on who ’e was now. I couldn’t think of ’im when the inspector was ’ere askin’ after ’im the other day.”

  “I heard he was a philanthropist.”

  “That’s a fancy name for drinkin’ down the pub, is it?”

  “I heard he liked to help fallen women.”

  Martha laughed. “That’s ’ow yer describes it, is it?”

  “And somehow he upset the man who calls himself Adam. Did Mr Turner know Mr Larcombe and Mrs Baxter?”

  “Yeah, I think ’e first started comin’ down ’ere on one o’ them toff tours what Mrs Baxter arranged.” Martha picked up the end of a rope that was coiled up on the ground and pulled on it to winch the line of laundry high up over our heads.

  “It seems that each of the victims knew at least one of the other victims,” I said loudly over the squeaking of pulleys.

  “That’s what you gets round ’ere.”

  “But neither Mrs Baxter or Mr Turner lived here, and both had good reason to come here. I’m sure that reason is linked to their murders somehow, but I can’t understand how exactly.”

  “It ain’t yer job to understand it. Leave t
hat ter the police. They bin makin’ a nuisance of themselves.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “One o’ the bobbies went and started askin’ Winston about Mrs Baxter. They was askin’ ’im as if ’e done it!”

  She looped the end of the rope around a large iron peg on the wall.

  “I’m sure they don’t think that he could have done anything to Mrs Baxter. They’re asking all the men in this area about the murders.”

  “But ’e don’t even live ’ere. ’E lives in Red Lion Square! Why’d they wanna go askin’ ’im questions?”

  “I suppose everyone’s a suspect at the moment because they have no idea who’s behind the murders.”

  “My son ain’t a murderer!”

  “Of course not, Martha.” I realised it was going to be difficult for me to ask her where Winston was without antagonising her.

  “I haven’t seen Winston for a few days,” I said tentatively, avoiding any eye contact.

  “Yeah, well, if truth be told ’e’s lyin’ low.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Stayin’ wiv a friend.”

  “Where though?”

  “I ain’t at liberty ter say. ’E’s sworn me ter secrecy.”

  “But if he’s innocent, then surely he has nothing to hide?”

  “Of course ’e’s innocent! What are yer tryin’ ter suggest?” Martha put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Martha. What I mean is that he’s an innocent man, so there’s no need for him to hide. Besides, that might look like he’s guilty after all.”

  “’E just wants to be left alone.”

  “Left alone where?”

  “Why yer so keen to know where ’e is? It ain’t nothin’ ter you, is it?” She gave me a sharp look.

  “Martha, please don’t be angry. Winston is most definitely innocent, as you say, but by hiding away he’s likely to make the police suspicious. I know Inspector Blakely is interested in talking to him about the investigation work he’s been doing. He may have come across something which the inspector has missed.”

  “That’s more ’an likely.”